Hundred's Place

100! Yes. that's what this entry is. It's my 100th blog entry.

71, 534 words total.

406, 106 characters in all.

1, 123 paragraphs and 6, 155 lines since my first ever blog entry.

So much has passed. So much said. So many people met--whether in person or through the cyber world. So much more left to say.

Here's to 100 more. :)

Me and My Construction Worker Fantasy

delayed posting from November 27, 2006, 7:25PM

Some time in July or August 2005, I clocked out early (read: "early" would mean exactly 530pm, as I would normally kill time at the office and leave at 6 or 7pm) to go to the gym. After all, the early bird does get to use the locker of his choice and hog all the hangers he could get his claws on. And although summer was over—ergo, the "seasonal" gym rats would have already laid low on the supersets-to-get-buffed-for-the-beach and thus were elsewhere—I still thought arriving early at Gold's would give me a head start on all the other "regulars" like me (I use "regular" loosely, not to mean as if I was regularly [or daily] working out, but to mean I was one of those "regular" and not Lou Ferrignoish gym freaks [oh, shut your twat. YOU know who Lou Ferrigno is!]). So after shutting down and double-checking that I had all my requisite gym stuff—padlock, heavy-duty Old Navy backpack, freshly-uploaded House mp3s in my Creative (I don't dig iPod as much as you do), and all my gym clothes inside the damned bag (trust me, you wouldn't wanna have gone through the hassle of walking all the way to Ayala Center, surviving all three bag-checks at every mall entranceway, finding just the right locker, unpacking everything and cramming them into the really tight locker space...only to realize you forgot your gym shorts or a pair of white socks)—I headed out the door.

The night was breezy, lots of people were partying that early at the promenade area of Greenbelt 2 (that's where I normally pass through to get to the gym)...and all of a sudden I had an urge to just call my friends from the Makati area and ask 'em out to drink. I let the momentary feeling sit for a while, and then I continued walking. When I got to the walkway escalator, I had a feeling of being followed. When I looked back, a man in his 30's seemed to be rushing and making his way through the crowd to get to me. I *knew* he was targetting me because we locked gazes and he did that wait-up -for-me gesture, and I was the only person within his eyesight's range. I made a really quick mental calculation, an "experiential scan" if I may, to be absolutely sure who this fast-approaching man was in my life. A former officemate? A classmate? A student from one of the hundreds of seminars I've conducted? Or was he one of those goons with a modus operandi of faking their identities and either robbing or murdering people? I opted for the last profile. It was, after all, better to keep my guard up rather than let myself be an easy prey. So, I casually continued my stride, pretending I didn't really see or recognize him and then slowly made my way to the general direction of the entrance, where there were two guards. The man, however, was fast and caught up with me. He was almost catching his breath when he got to be face to face with me. He seemed to look me from head to foot and back again. I was a tad insulted, so I gave him my classic nonchalant, "yes?"

What Mark (that was his name, by the way) said totally made me crack up. "Hi. I was wondering, do you already have an agent?" I replied, "Agent?" And he said, "Yeah, an agent...as a commercial model." I replied in my half-funny, half-sarcastic tone, "You're kidding, aren't you??" And he goes, "No, I'm inviting you to come to our office, take a VTR, do a file, and sign as our talent. My boss and I spotted you from Havana, and we thought you’d make a good model." I was one-third stunned, one-third struck with hilarity, and one-third Twilight Zone-meets-Punk'd. Still a little bit dazed and cracked up, I went ahead (after he had convinced me to give him my phone number) and went to the gym. I was half-smiling and shaking my head as I walked through to Landmark. And the day has ended there for me.

A few days later, an unknown number was flashing in my mobile phone. It could be one of the many dates my friends have been setting up with me. I picked up using my oh-so-sexy modulated voice. It was another guy's voice on the other end. Hmmmm. It was Mark, following up when I was going to their office to do my VTR file. I decided to go that same afternoon, considering I had nothing pending in the office...and to get this over and done with. Was I ready to go back to the showbizzy lifestyle that I turned my back on after the dreaded pox hit me in college? I dunno. Maybe. Maybe not. Or just maybe.

It was one VTR after another after that. Project toothpaste, project fast food, project seasoning, project beer, project paint, project realty, project canned good, project bank, project shampoo, project etc etc etc...but never have I gotten any. Yes. Almost two years of going to countless VTRs, sometimes making “footloose” (that’s an old term I picked up in the Mariana Islands to mean “takas”) from the office for a couple of minutes to an hour. From being the no-frills, no-arte person that I was (with my face that is, considering ‘twas already “damaged”, and I didn’t give a rat’s ass about the “beautification”), I got into the “requisite model regimen”—facials (which I totally dreaded, especially the pricking and shit part), moisturizers and sun blocks in the morning, cold creams at night, and of course, the magic “bulag” tool: the 3-in-1 concealer stick, or the mousse-type foundation cake...all for the darned VTR, with the hopes that one of us hundreds of hundreds of men in the cattle would land the coveted lead or supporting role in one of those commercials.

Perhaps, I have said my name, age and height, my last commercial done (duh, none), my hobbies, sports, thing I do for a living, and all those other stuff, endless times. Add to that, my acting—ahem—prowess had been put to the test for countless audition dramatics and workshops. I have likewise been paired with a great number of women (as their “husband”), men (as their “kuya”, “son”, or buddy), and children (as their “dad”). I’ve been on “stand-by” and “final casting” and “for fitting” and “for consideration” and “for presentation” forever…yet I got nothing. The worst was always the “stand by for final selection by client” which would get your hopes high, make you hold your breath, hang on a string and freeze-frame your entire life…only to be told last minute that you did not quite make the cut. Bummer.

It was nowhere but downhill for me. No commercials, no print ads (with the exception of that almost hardly non-gratis photo shoot for Earth + Style's real estate magazine ad, which was to appear in the June 2005 edition of MyHome magazine, it was really NADA for my so-called print ad career), no voice overs (except for that one "barya-barya" VO job I did for a pharmaceutical distribution firm, which consisted of almost nothing but "Win Your Battle, Win Your War"...and thus using my sexy, bedroom voice to be a commanding general to the "army" of the sales force), and no other even remotely showbizzy rakets in sight.

Somewhere in the middle of all the VTRs and auditions, my agent Mark met Floyd through me. I gave his number to Mark so that he (Mark) wouldn’t have to bother me when he needed Floyd for a VTR of sorts (which the latter hardly attends). I told him, “Hey, I’m not his manager. Go contact the goddamned guy, and talk to him yourself.” After some prodding (Mark is REALLY good with being pesky, lemme tell you that), he then asked him to file a tape for presentation to their clients, which he did. You must know at this point that Floyd has never done these things, and so is really new to the craft. But let me tell you this…not even six months later, he landed a big-ass budget print ad for Coca Cola Bottlers. And he hardly went to VTRs! I was like, “what the fuck?” Where the hell is my luck? How come everyone else gets something and I get nothing??!

I was in this state of thinking when I got another “stand by for final selection" from a VTR of some food seasoning. I made a little agreement with myself. I said, if this oh-I-can-feel-it-in-my-bones-it’s-my-upcoming-TVC-now goes out the door, I’m definitely gonna park it. And when I received a “Sorry, Ben, someone else got it” SMS from Mark—yet again—I decided showbiz was not for me (or must I say, not AGAIN). And so I quit…not that it had been my career anyway.

Some weeks later, Floyd’s very first newspaper (and later on magazine) ad came out. More than him, our friends and me, it was Nanay Yolanda (his mother who’s based in Bicol) who was overjoyed…replete with a framed version of the newspaper clipping hung on their living room. I, however, was in a reflective mood. I got to thinking: I’ve been doing this VTR and auditioning for almost two freaking years while Floyd’s done it not even half a year, and yet he seemed to have all the luck. Yes, at the time, I was a little jealous. But more than just that feeling, I was consumed by a strong feeling of dejection. I was mad at someone…something that caused all this. Why was Fate being so generous with him (and other people, for that matter) but with me, was being so parsimonious?! I retreated to my shell—the true blue Cancerian that I was—and refused to talk about anything related to my now defunct (AGAIN) career: I stopped replying to text messages from all my five agents from different casting agencies, and stopped going to VTRs altogether. Talk about absolute denial. I was Freud’s and Jung’s biggest nightmare in sheep’s clothing.

That episode lasted for quite some time and I was doing “well”…or at least a rejection-free existence. What was better than that? Absofuckinglutely nothing.

Some time in October, our agent Cheng SMS’d both Floyd and I for “Project Telecoms”. It was a weekend, the DVD marathons were on a hiatus at the moment, and I was bent on going out to get some fresh air…and some sanity from claustrophobia. Floyd soft-soaped me into going with him, and after some convincing and pleading and reassuring that we were just gonna do it to kill time and do fashion policing with the auditioners, I yielded. Thirty minutes later, we were queued up in one of the casting agencies at Citiland Towers—together with about 50 or so other men…all to just fill a lousy 3-male roles requirement of the client. I rolled my eyes as I sat to wait for my turn to VTR yet again.

An hour and a half later, I heaved a really bitter sigh and headed for the door. I’ve REALLY had it with these pointless VTRs. That was when the caster called out our names. WTF? It was almost literally in the nick of time. So we stayed on for a few more minutes. Ten minutes later, our VTR was finished. I knew I sucked big time, but then again, who the hell cares? I wasn’t interested anymore, and I couldn’t care less if some other model wannabe got the role.

Four days later, I got an SMS from Cheng. It was the “Stand by” text I was getting oh-so-weary of already. I didn’t even bother replying. By the end of the day, I received a “final selection” text from her, saying that there were just two of us being pitted against each other. My sister, who happened to be staying in my condo at the time was excited, and told me that that was a good thing. I just gave her a grunt, and texted Cheng a curt “OK”. An hour later, my heart froze at Cheng’s message, “Congrats. You got the role. You’re gonna love me for the TF, kuya. Let’s just say it’s A LOT. Fitting and workshop three days from now. Regalo ko ha!” My whole world spun for at least 30 seconds, and it took the doorbell (Floyd just arrived home) to snap me out of my disorientation. I told them about the good—no, GREAT—news and we were all excited all of a sudden. I was finally getting my big break.

I still couldn’t believe my new fate…until I was already signing the contract with my name, and—YES—the several-digit figure for the talent fee. I was still in disbelief while the PA’s were fitting me with my jailhouse orange construction worker overalls and Doc Martens safety boots. I kept half-expecting the director to shout “Cut!” and then I’d wake up on the same seat Floyd and I were seated while miserably waiting for our name to be called for that Godforsaken Project Telecoms at Citiland Towers. But it was all real. My time has, indeed, come.

After almost 11 hours of taping and makeup and costume changes and re-fitting and dubbing and eating (you would not believe the catered food!) and chitchatting with the co-models (did I just say “model”??? Yeah…I did!), I packed up, left the rest of the co-models (there I go again!) who were yet to finish their TVC shoot, and headed for home. Two weeks later, the photo shoot session was scheduled. The pictorial for the print ad took shorter than the TV commercial shoot. Way shorter.

December 9 was when the print ad and the TV commercial were supposed to simultaneously launch. Because of that, I mass-texted everybody and their mothers in my phonebook on December 8, and told them to grab the Sunday edition of the Philippine Star and wait for the primetime screening of the TVC. December 9 came and no TVC came out. I was advised the morning of the 9th that, apparently, editing took much longer than they anticipated, and their reels are still in Bangkok, where the editing was being done. The print ad was, however, where they were supposed to be. The funny part was, my shot was so tiny (read: barely 2.5 inches, in relation to the whole spread of the paper), one can hardly recognize me as me. Even my sister couldn’t make out my face. But I didn’t care. After all, I knew that that guy in the orange overalls superimposed on the majestic Burj Al Arab background was, indeed, me. A week later, the TVC finally did its debut. My sister and practically the whole world have seen it, but I have yet to see it…after two days still. Like the print ad, I was hard to make out. But again, at that point, I couldn’t care less. What matters was that I finally made it. And, yeah, yeah, the moolah was more than what I bargained for. So, no complaining there.

Two weeks later, the people of Globe and their agency re-edited the layout of the ad, conspicuously removed me from the whole collage of OFWs calling their loved ones in the Philippines. But before I could raise a WTF?? to my agent, a full spread of me, myself and I—ALONE—was in the Sunday paper, now plucked out of the Dubai role and placed as the requisite construction worker cum engineer of Oman, Qatar, and Saudi Arabia. With this new layout, where I was about almost one foot, in relation to the spread of the paper, you have got to be fucking blind to not recognize my face.

Two new, additional contracts were drawn by the agencies to have me sign again. More moolah, on top of the first contract, was consequently on the way. Luck (or blessing or good fortune or God knows what it’s called), after all, was just taking its sweet, sweet time. All I needed to do was wait…and it would be given to me…in my own time.

Yes, Lord. I know I failed You in the Patience test. And I apologize for that. But I am deeply beholden by your graciousness…of still giving me my reward despite how restless I have become. And for that, I promise to be more patient. I may still fail, but I will do my best not to fail you again. Amen.

Eeeeeeeeeekkk...EK!

delayed posting from November 21, 2006, 7:37 PM


I hate surprises. Yeah, I do. It’s just one of those things that make it high on my pet peeve list. If you don’t believe me, read my old blog entry “Bushwhackers”. Yeah, call me a retard, but I just really don’t see the point of almost literally pulling the rug under my feet, and while at it, marvel at the sight of my bewilderment and/or frenzy. And for what??? I scoff at the idea.

Having said that, I’d like to point out, however, that I hate being on the receiving side of the surprises. But if I am the one doing it, it’s perfectly OK. Hehehehehehe. In my defense, I hardly do surprise “attacks”. I just happen to have very sporadic attacks of pulling tricks—or in this case, surprises—off my sleeves. And when I do try and pull one off, boy, I tell you…it’s one hell of a production number.

Cut to next scene…some months ago at an Astrokids gimmick (not sure if it was the Tagaytay adventure, the Batangas getaway [wait a minute…why the hell haven’t I blogged about that???? Hmmm…I guess I’m making one shortly] or one of the Starbucks sessions). We were planning where we were going next—yes, that’s how and what we are: we live for the “lakwatsa”—when the idea of going to Enchanted Kingdom (EK) popped up. If I remember correctly, it was Carissa who blurted that out…because she hasn’t gone there. Ever. So while we “frequent visitors” raised our judgmental-but-not-necessarily-shaved-or-plucked eyebrows, Carissa insisted. What boggled us even more was that she wasn’t alone in wanting the next destination to be EK. Turned out, the other peeps who haven’t been—ever—to EK were Indy, Bong, and Floyd! These people have literally been around either the country or the world…and yet haven’t—ever (I dare say it again)—been seduced by the Sta. Rosa Exit attraction that is EK.

For some reason, the plan to head for EK had been botched not once, but twice (waiiiit a minute…that eerily made me feel like Susan Roces). Either someone’s child was sick (Indy and Bong are both fathers), or one had to go out of town—up North instead of in the South where they could just hook up with us at EK after their gig, or one couldn’t go because of budgetary constraints, or simply because the weather was really bad. Not that we were planning to have the entire Astrokids completed…but we all thought: if these four can’t join us at EK, then, why even bother? That was months ago.

Last Saturday, after carefully planning with Sheila, Neil, Jon and the kids a surprise Wala-Lang-Let’s-Head-For-EK-Day, one of the four Astrokids finally graduated from the EK Virgin category: Floyd. For like three weeks, I have secretly teamed up with wives or boyfriends of the four of them EK Virgins so that we could "distract" them into thinking that we were planning to go some place else. But what with the busy and conflicting schedules of almost all of them, I ended up concocting our "evil plan" only for Floyd. After all, he's the one who's so ultra-super-dying to get to EK like 'twas THE place to be. Poor baby. So we decided, he's the chosen one.

It was Sheila, her kids, her boyfriend, her brother Jonathan and I who masterfully crafted the whole thing: she texted Floyd and deluded him into thinking that they were passing by the condo with the kids on their way to the mall, and that we should feel free to join them malling. I also faked a "mild" migraine to cancel our earlier plan of going on an out of town trip. So a couple of hours beforer they arrived (we were already exchanging SMS and telling her to forbid her kids to even mention the words Enchanted, Kingdom, and Surprise to their Tito Floyd). I have prepared a seemingly light messenger bag for "malling"—but what was inside were a change of clothes (for possibly getting wet in one of the rides), water, and my ever-dependable (and strong!) Hawaiian Tropics SPF 75 sunblock lotion.

When Sheila and the rest of the gang arrived downstairs, we boarded her brand-spanking new car (Jonathan was driving), we did our customary kids-screaming-TitoBenTitoFloyd-at-the-top-of-their-lungs-as-they-are-hugging-us routine, and got introduced for the first time to her boyfriend. After that, we almost in unison declared "Let's hit the mall!" Everything was going according to plan!

Upon reaching Pasong Tamo, Sheila asked where we could find a BPI ATM facility, and Jonathan casually replied, "E di sa Enchanted na lang". Doggammit. We have successfully brainwashed the kids to block the existence of EK in that day's event, but conveniently forgot to tell Jonathan that it was a surprise thingee. Great.

Having blurted that, the surprise was already botched. And after having heard the word Enchanted, Floyd all of a sudden stopped talking (he was animatedly telling some story about his work), kept quiet for about five seconds, and upon apparently getting hit by the realization that we weren't really going to the mall and instead going to his ultraspecialsuperdooperovermegablockbustertothemaximum special place-to-be, and blurted out in his sheepish boylike demeanor, "Pupunta tayo sa Enchanted???"...and started crying. Lemme tell you...Sheila, the kids and I started cracking up. Although prematurely revealed, I'd say, the plan was a success. ;-)

About an hour later, after deciding--rather gripingly--not to pass by the Nike Outlets, we found ourselves traversing the Sta. Rosa Exit pathway to EK. A couple more minutes later, we were looking—a tad desperately—for parking. After settling for an undesirably remote spot, we began slathering ourselves with SPF70 sun block lotion, armed ourselves with a digital camera, hand towel, water bottle and trusty shades, and started our journey inside the enchanted kingdom.

Floyd was ecstatic...but Sheila, Neil, the kids and I were mesmerized by the sight of a first-timer—a virtual virgin, that is—who's enthralled with the sight, sound, and the experience. But aside from that, I was likewise busy scouring the EK horizon for the official mascot, the wizard. Why? Let’s just say that a good friend—who we will call ”Erick”—once told me that he has had some wild sexual activity with the Enchanted Kingdom Wizard. Whether they canoodled while Mr. Wizard still had his mascot costume on or not was something I really wouldn’t care to know anymore. But for that moment, I just wished to see him (the mascot, not Erick) in his full mascot glory, look him straight in the eye, grin my evil grin, say ”Hi”...and then tell him Erick sends his regards. I swear I will never look at mascots the same way again.

The kids were having lots of fun, but not as much as Floyd was. I gave them all the ultimate challenge: ride the Space Shuttle, which is by far the only really thrilling ride in that park. I got a no from everyone except for Floyd. Aaah. Brave boy. I guess we’d see about that later. So upon realizing that the queue (which snaked about 50 feet from the starting line up to where we were standing) was going to take more than a hop, skip and a giggle, we bid goodbye to Sheila, Neil and the kids and told them that we’ll meet them in an hour at the Food Court/Stage area. How we killed the more than one hour wait at the queue is something I can’t seem to imagine down to this day...but miraculously, I kept my cool, held a ”nice” stance, and made it to the railing next to the roller coasters. I could already feel the rush of the centrifugal force—nyehehehe...I know that wasn’t the term to use. I just felt like using some old Physics term. LOL—er the wind literally slapping my face and throwing my hair back and away from my scalp (wait, did I have bangs then? Damn right I did!!!). Floyd was pale and smiley and God-knows-what-other-emotions-he-had. We made it to the coasters, sitting at the second car, missing the front row seats by three seconds to those jologs ripe-guava-smelling kids from some school having an ”educational field trip” at EK. Two minutes later, the thrill of the ride was over. And so was the light of day. The Goddamned ride ate about an hour and a half of our schedule. Bummer.

After a couple more rides, a fireworks display later, a boring Grand Carousel time-waster, and a wild spin at the Rio Grande Rapids, we headed for home. At the South Luzon Expressway, Paolo cried out that he was hungry and that he was craving for some Pancake House food. We ended up stopping at the nearest rest stop/gas station. After ordering takeout food at KFC, we decided to hop to Starbucks and bless my 2007 Starbucks planner sticker card with not one, not two, not three, but FOUR Christmas-themed drink stickers. After all, I have once and for all succumbed to the gaga over Starbucks planner fever, which I have successfully shunned for the last two years of its promo. Hah. Nothing like a good smell of genuine leather and the feel of brown recycled paper in my planner. Once we’ve ordered our four steaming hot cups of Tall and Small and Venti and Grande caffeines, we settled in on one of the tables outside of Starbucks to have our coffees and eat our KFCs. We barely opened our KFC bags when the guard—in all his I’m-so-powerful-I’ll-whack-you-with-my-batuta glory and stance—reprimanded us and told us that we were prohibited to eat ”non-Starbucks food” on their tables. Putangina. That’s when I snapped. But being too exhausted to even bother giving in to the guard's delusions of grandeur, I let Floyd and Neil deal with the poor scum of the Earth. First things first: there was NO signage saying that bringing in of food—from a nearby resto, which by the way belonged in the same compound as where their establishment was—was prohibited. Secondly, I bought four freaking overpriced cups of coffee from them...and if my lack of Mathematical expertise wouldn’t influence my mental calculations, I’ve spent double what I spent for my fricking burger and soup from KFC...which means that my Starbucks purchase automatically trumps my KFC receipts. Thirdly, it wasn’t as if we were eating sinigang na bangus belly or inadobong pusit at halaan...ergo, we were not going to mess up their charming and prissy tables. Finally, they belonged to a fucking rest area/stop...and they were right beside at least four fast food chains. Why on Earth wouldn’t they anticipate that this was going to be a non-avoidable given? Mother of God. And to make matters worse, some other personnel from Starbucks—when asked why we were being shooed like basang sisiws—gave us a canned response, saying it was in compliance with Starbucks worldwide campaign of standardizing their look. Bullshit. I teach Customer Service, and I say standardizing never works...that you, as a foreign establishment in a [local] country need to adjust your ”standards” to the local branch’s quirks—in this case, the Filipinos’ love of food (mind you, we don’t just eat pastries and overpriced pastrami). The store supervisor came at the right time, i.e. barely two and a half seconds before I really gave those bullies an earful, which would definitely be heard by everyone else and their mothers having coffee outside, and told us that they will allow us to eat. My Lord. As if our basang sisiw at nauulul na sa gutom looks didn’t help us at all to effortlessly appeal for sympathy. I guess argumentum ad misericordiam never works anymore. Sad. Remind me to try bringing food at Starbucks Greenbelt next time...and see if this same routine holds.

EK down. Baguio to go. Ask Floyd why.

Auld Lang Syne

Oh bummer. Two frickin' months of no entries? C'mon.

OK. I'm back. And I've got a basketful of goodies to upload soon.

But remember: patience is a virtue. (Loosely translated: move along, go on with your life, read someone else's blogs for now...until my laptop stops flashing those fucked up "dumping physical memory" blue screen thingees and I am able to reconstruct my corrupted blog drafts--which may take a while...a REALLY long while still.)

Oh, happy new year. Oink oink.

Cable Paralysis

After Sky Cable (or whatever cable company) did an audit of the entire condo block and found out "glitches" in subscription (read: a helluva lot of illegal connections in our building), they decided to cut everyone's lines...and reconnect each and every one after "investigations" and "confirmations". As our subscription's just about done, with another month's worth forthcoming, me being broke, and my roommates on some extended hiatus from the house, I realized I wouldn't need another renewed cable TV subscription--considering I myself don't watch much TV; and I found it distasteful that I'm paying so much on cable subscriptions while the others aren't, yet still enjoys the same (or hell, more of!) channels that I paid for. So, I just ignored the notice for reconnection/renewal, spliced an old antenna wire, plugged one end of it into the back of the TV, thrusted an old fork at the other end of the wire, and hung the dratted thing on top of the blinds' tension rod. Voila, a makeshift TV antenna that receives local channels...and clear, too!

With this cable paralysis, it dawned on me: what about the Special Features, Movies of the Night, Feature Presentations, etc. etc. etc. of HBO, Cinemax, Starworld and AXN? Well, we have a trusty DVD player (THREE players, to be exact...including my notebook). That should quench our thirst for a motion picture. And with Makati Cinema Square being barely 20 minutes away, and 8-in-1 DVDs costing under a hundred, I'd say fuck the HBO specials and pop in a new, DVD- (or cinema-, whatever) copy disc, and we're in business.

Bless these movie pirates for coming up with these 8-in-1's (which come in boxes and boxes of 'em!), I wouldn't have to shell out lotsa bucks just to watch a new movie, nor would I need to pay lotsa moolah via Pay-Per-View for some classics of other box office hits that I missed in the big screen. (Oh, c'mon. Stop giving me that self-righteous, judgmental stare as if you yourself haven't purchased a contraband DVD!)

Got the Charlie's Angels collection. Loved the remake of the classic, but found the Matrix-y treatment rather over the top. Also bought the Miss Congeniality anthology. Snorted like Sandra in both parts. Played the Mission Impossible series. Tell me again, why I fell asleep watching the movie? Ooohhh...Tom Cruise. And, there was the Harry Potter collection: from the Sorcerer's Stone down to the Goblet of Fire. JK Rowling had me hooked and in anticipation of the next installment. Also watched the non-anthologies, i.e. the "solo" movies, mostly new, others ancient. And here's a "mini-review":

The Sound of Music. Oh yeah. THAT The Sound of Music (wait...I don't think there was ever a remake). I just figured, I've watched it one million years ago, it's time to kill some more hours doing nothing in the condo, with cable paralysis. Funny, Floyd and Jun-jun (er, Ronald) have NEVER EVER watched the film, and thus made me and Arvin feel ancient. Whatever. So-do-la-fa-mi-do-reeeee.....

The Lake House. WTF? Inconsistencies, sappiness, loopholes, predictability. And did I mention implausible? Geesh. Talk about The Twilight Zone (which I'm still searching to date).

Closer. WTF x2. I felt like I watched Pride and Prejudice AGAIN...which is SO unlikely. Sorry, Maits, but I just don't dig stories about women preparing themselves to be wives. I guess I've broken bread with way too many feminists.

Mga Pusang Gala. More than anything, it's the quotable quotes: "Even a goldfish has a heart...blahblahblah...because a body without a heart is just a carcasssssss". Yeah. Bring it on. So reminiscent of Temptation Island, with killer quotes like: "Rub-a-dub-dub, two bitches in a tub" or "That's a lot of shit (pronounced SHEEEET)". Note to self: gotta stock up on more of those kitschy movies...

Yours, Mine, Ours. Cheaper By the Dozen 1 and 2. Oh god. I failed to check who the script writer was for each movie. Wait a minute. Maybe it's one and the same. Go figure.

And as the single title CDs came pouring in, I found myself lurking by my suki DVD stall and looking at boxed sets of seasons-by-seasons of TV series. Could I handle the marathon? Would I have the will power to cut a season/series four-, five episodes short of the ending when sheer exhaustion would creep in? Should I choose X over Y or over Z? Decisions, decisions...

I ended up with my pioneer TV series: WB's Smallville. For 500 bucks, I got all five seasons...in five DVD-9 discs. I remember watching the first episode of Smallville on a legit dvd of Season 1 while I was staying with my friend Willard in Vegas, by Sahara and Nellis. I started watching, and before I knew it, I was already on episode five. I was hooked. But sadly, 'twas time for me to get going back home, so I never got to watching it. So, with this boxed set, I was able to catch up and make up. And boy, did it get me, Floyd, Ron, and Daniel hooked. Thanks to Smallville, we all got insomniac and would blabber about characters and storylines for hours. Superpowers? Damn. I'd patiently lay on cornfields waiting for falling asteroids if I could get just one of 'em powers. But seriously, Lana Lang's just overstaying. I think the network should just axe her. Now that hottie Lois is in the picture, I say get her and Clark doing some REAL HOT action (OK, OK, sorry, I got carried away). With Zod finally getting released and Clark being banished into the Phantom Zone as the season finale of Season 5, I find myself these last couple of days downloading episodes one to five of Season 6. Thank God for DivX, a nifty filesharing forum, and high-speed cable.

After getting Kryptonized with Smallville, we called for a two-, three-day marathon hiatus. And then me and the girls from the office footloosed to my suki DVD stall again. Maits got Supernatural, Sex and the City (ALL SIX seasons) and Bones, Ella got Friends (ALL TEN seasons) and I think The OC, Grace got some Koreanovela boxed set, and I ended up with Dora the Explorer pack (well, that one's for Jasmine!) and 24.

The same night, Jack Bauer was introduced to us in my condo and the first 4 of the 24 hours unfolded so fast our dirty dishes already crusted in the sink as we sat watching. 24's all four seasons (that's 96 hours or episodes!) came in five discs and cost me 450 bucks. Night after night, Jack Bauer and the whole of CTU would be with us in our living room. I realized at some point that it was bad for my health--not just because I couldn't seem to press Stop/Eject on the remote because I'd get too giddy to get on to the next episode despite the ungodly hour of 2 or 3 in the morning, but because I find myself vicariously watching how the story unfolds. And I'd feel very much involved in the story--the deceptions, the treachery, the greed, the pure evil. I'd catch myself cussing and yelling at a character, or worse, hyperventilating and getting REALLY angry at a character. How's that for empathetic?! We followed Jack from an abduction, to a virus, to an assassination plot, to a sacrificial plane crash, to a terrorist bombing, to a nuclear bomb, and to a consequential arrest-and-shipment to China. And now, yes, I am awaiting its season premiere on January. In the mean time, I'm contenting myself with watching the previews for Season 5. So now, I'm holding my breath...as I use the CTU telephone ring as my mobile phone's message alert tone.

In an interim from one boxed set series to another, I came across the trailer of a now defunct, "one-hit wonder" pilot episode of Aquaman from the WB/CW network merger. I struggled to download the DivX rip of the one and only episode via my trusty Limewire Pro, and managed to complete the whole AVI file after nights on end of downloading and/or staying on queue to get the download ticket running. I wondered...why did the network axe the life and the subsequent episodes of Aquaman (who, incidentally, plays The Green Arrow on Season 6 of Smallville, and is a love interest of Lois Lane. Two hot people on to each other. Yum) to make way for Veronica Mars? Like, duh?

While going through the DVD marathon break, Alet swapped dvds with me--my Smallville for her 2 seasons of Desperate Housewives. Maits, likewise, loaned me her Supernatural DVD. So I guess that should break the hiatus.

Floyd and Arvin started with their Desperate Housewives marathon. But since DH is actually considered a rerun to me (I've watched some episodes back in the US already, then watched both seasons on my computer via DivX downloads courtesy of Yayie-gurl), I started watching Charmed. I got all eight seasons for just about 600 bucks. And while I'm at it, I'm also downloading seasons 3 episodes of DH, which have already started showing in the US. So far, I've downloaded and watched episodes 1 to 4. I've also finished downloading all episodes of season 3 of the 4400, which we've already started watching, too. And as soon as I'm done with Charmed and 4400, I'm heading back to Makati Cinema Square to get The Dead Zone, CSI: NY/Miami, House, and Grey's Anatomy. Unless someone's already got 'em and would loan 'em to me for a couple of days.

God. What the hell am I going to do with all these boxed sets that I've watched already? Hmmm....ebay USA? Yeah, right...and see me go to prison for infringement of the copyright laws. Yaiks. So I guess it'll be my own personal mini-library then. Reruns ain't too bad, are they?

Now if you'd excuse me, I'm queueing downloads of The Last Temptation of Christ, and Como Agua Para Chocolate...and Phoebe's starting to show skin in Charmed. So, THE END.

Kneel Before Me

I thought getting incapacitated, movement-wise at least, would yield me more time to blog. I guess I was wrong. But I'm back, I've got a couple of drafts in my Blog Dashboard, and I'm planning to finish and post at least one or two. So stop whining already.

As part of my company's work-life balance program (which, to this date still has to be formally launched), me and my cohorts from the Training Department banded together to make a fitness program take off. After all, the Bonds and Legal Department have already joined forces and came up with their own Tae-bo class every Thursdays. Taking that as our cue, we reserved the executive lounge on a Monday after work (and all subsequent Mondays, until the Christmas give-aways arrive for stacking, that is) and organized a yoga class with none other than me, myself and I as the appointed yogi. Well, I was qualified: although I lack formal yoga lessons, I've had substantial involvement and attendance to yoga classes back in Marianas, the US, and Guam, and not to mention a stack of books on yoga and pilates, and videos of the same type. So, with our CD player and makeshift yoga mats/towels in tow, we marched off to the lounge and perspired the hour away, capping the session with a five-minute advanced abdominal exercises.

A couple of days after session one, the sides of my left quadriceps (I believe that's thighs to non-anatomy lingo folks like us) started hurting, some sort of a burning pain as if I was stretching it overextensively. I dismissed it as a natural reaction to the stretching, and I went on with my daily routine--including regular every-other-day workouts at the gym. Little did I know that that almost-negligible pain was going to do a maximum overdrive weeks later.

I was sleeping on my bed, and the kinetic, rootless me unconsciously moved into a fetal position and thus bent my knee. It snapped. Or at least that's what I thought I heard that snapped, which woke me up in the first place, next to the excruciating pain on my left leg, that is. It took a while to get my knee straightened up, and as soon as I did, it wouldn't bend back. I came to work the next day limping, with every step seemingly causing more pain than the first. I decided all the Ben-Gay (yeah, yeah, laugh at that, you ass) and Alaxan Gel and Salonpas and Advils/Ponstan ain't gonna cut it for me anymore, so I headed to Makati Med.

Doctor Number 1 told me that I should have an MRI done because she couldn't quite figure out what was wrong with my knee. And since an MRI test wasn't covered under my company's health care package, I decided to ask for a second opinion. I went to Doctor Number 2, an orthopedic surgeon, in St. Camilus Polyclinic in San Antonio Vill, Makati. After a one thousand bucks X-ray and a quick peek at the plates, I was told by Doctor Number 2 that I had a case called Patellar Subluxation. Patel... Subluxwhat? Patellar Sublaxation. That's the technomedical way of saying my kneecap (patella) is fucked up and is a crazy fidgety bone that wouldn't stay in its axis. Apparently, this was either due to trauma (for a while there, I thought it was emotional trauma...but then after all the operations and trips to the hospitals I've had in just less than a year, trauma doesn't seem to be such an alien word) or is a congenital condition. Nothing major or serious...it's just that any maladies with the word "genital" scares the bejeezus out of me, that's all.

Doctor Number 2, after saying that I need to immobilize my knee for three months, gave me two options: buy a knee immobilizer and use it as long as I can, or have my left knee cemented with plaster of paris. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the hassle I went through the last time I had a finger on my right hand cemented, and I decided to choose the former option. The next day, I was headed to Bambang, Sta. Cruz to purchase the damned knee immobilizer, as medical supplies are generally cheaper in that area. About an hour later, I was onboard the LRT wearing the knee immobilizer and having such a miserable time descending the flight of stairs (tell me again, why doesn't LRT1 have any fucking elevators???!). Even hopping in and out of a cab was such a tormenting experience. My only consolation was that I get to remove this contraption everytime I had to take a dump and take a shower.

After some time of wearing it almost 24 hours a day (and going to work while in the process...what a fucking loser), I had this strange feeling of calcification in that area directly behind my knee. I could just imagine how painful my subsequent therapy was going to be if it hardened any further. So I decided to visit Doctor Number 3, a sports therapist recommended by Chrissie, who happened to be her therapist for her acute scoliosis.

After showing and orienting Doctor Number 3 on my condition, he casually but seriously told me that the immobilizer must go, and that I should go forward with my therapy. Fuck the almost two grand I spent for the immobilizer, but it had to go. So I went to my scheduled therapy, thrice a week and shelling out 1200+ per set (three sessions, that is); underwent mild electrocution of the knee, hot compress, and a series of painful exercises. Even bought ankle weights from Toby's so I could do the exercises myself at home. After two weeks of no improvement, I was advised to have a steroidal shot directly on my knee. I said I'd give it some thought...and I ran to Doctor Number 4 at Makati Med.

Doctor Number 4, after being briefed of my now pretty much memorized spiel on my condition, advised me to go directly to an orthopedic surgeon at Makati Med and talk about the possibility of going under the knife. Yaiiiks. So went to friends, contacts, nurses, relatives and other concerned people, looking for advice. I was finally referred to Doctor Number 5 at St. Luke's.

Doctor Number 5, apparently, is a renowned sports therapist and is the surgeon/therapist of the Professional Basketball Association players. More than the fear of a painful operation and therapy, it was the possibly exorbitant professional fees I was terrified of. Double yaiiiks. After having given him an abridged version of my patellar spiel and having shown him my X-ray plates, I was told to not worry about surgery...just yet. He gave me some sets of exercises (which are EXTREMELY and EXCRUCIATINGLY painful, mind you) which I can do at home for the next three weeks. I have to do it religiously lest I might really go under the knife.

It's been two weeks, give or take, and so far I've seen some improvements. It still hurts like hell when the temperature/weather gets cold (yeah, yeah, arthritis/rheumatism my ass), and it refuses to unlock at times, but at best, I'd say I'm better. At least now, I don't have to lug with me my four-footed steel cane or wear the fashion faux pas of a knee immobilizer. I can walk better, but still can't run or kneel or sit well. In time...in time. But for now, I'd have to settle with the improvements, no matter how minute or negligible. One thing I know for sure: I am doing this self-therapy religiously rather than do surgery. In a couple of days, I'm scheduled to go back to the gym after two months of rest. I bet Gold's Gym hasn't changed a bit...

A Mélange of Q&As

More of the slightly more mature version of the grade school and high school autograph book questions... Feel free to cut and paste, change the answers, and email/YM 'em to me.

* Your guilty pleasure.
Eating sinfully sweet ice-cream and/or (how about AND, not or?!) cake while being a couch potato.

* Cat or dog?
Neither. I can't have 'em in my condo anyway. Bummer. But if I really had to choose, I'd say dog. Specifically? Siberian Husky.

* One gadget you cannot live without.
Make that three: My Palm LifeDrive, my Creative Zen mp3 player, and my Sony Ericsson W810i phone.

* One person you can't stand.
Kris Aquino...and occasionally, Regine Velasquez.

* Most risqué thing you've ever done.
Have sex in a public beach, and also sex at the UP Lagoon. Hehehehe

* Most important person in your life.
I'd have to say personS: my family.

* One place you'd rather live other than where you are right now.
Italy or Greece.

* CD playing in your CD changer.
You mean in my mp3 player? I'm on random mode, but right now, it's Kenny Lattimore's For You.

* You cook?
You bet your brown arse, I do. My specialty? Grilled Black Tiger Prawn Vietnamese Wraps.

* A movie/song that would immortalize your life.
Movie: Mr. Holland's Opus
Song: Bagay Ba Sa Kin Ang Kulot (NYAHAHAHAHA); I'd say Stronger

* Biggest fear.
Terrified of spiders and cemeteries. Fear of getting caught doing something bad.

* Sexual fantasy.
Threesome, in a public place. Yeeeeaaaaah.

* Biggest frustration that you'd want to do something about. Soon.
Not being a pilot. I'm seriously considering doing laser surgery of the eyes to achieve 20/20 vision, and then enrolling in a flying school.

* One decision/act you wish you could undo.
Having stayed in the US longer than I should have.

* One thing you don't have anymore that you wish you could have again.
My ME time, where I didn't have to worry about anything or anyone...where I can just read a book or surf for hours or sleep till 3pm cuz of a hangover.

* Your fashion sense.
I'd say I have a pretty good fashion sense. I'm more a street to casual to formal getup.

* Most fun thing you've ever done so far.
Whitewater raft in Cagayan de Oro.

* One thing that grosses you out the most.
Sight of exposed feet and open toilet doors while eating.

* Your biggest talent.
I'm a performer--I dance, I sing, I entertain.

* Biggest turnoff.
Physical: Bad breath and body odor.
Attitude: Incorrigible liar.

* Worst habit.
Depression shopping.

* Part of your body you wish looked better.
My flabs, my skin, and my teeth.

* Career/business you want with all your heart.
Career: I am doing it already--Training...just hoping for a bigger pay and greater employment package (sigh)
Business: I have a foodcart right now. I'm planning to become a supplier of gourmet food to a restaurant, or join ownership of an espresso bar.

* One thing that ticks you off.
I have really low tolerance for incompetent and dull people.

* Type with the right fingers on the keyboard?
Oh yeah. FINGERING's my thing. LOL

* Idea of a perfect date.
A walk by the beach, barefoot, either sunset/sundown or nighttime under the stars. Champagne or martini would be nice. And maybe cap it off with making love right there.

* Current hair color.
Dyed it Thai Tamarind.

* Pairs of shoes that you own.
Including the ones that I left in the US, I'd say 40-50 pairs. The Kenneth Cole's my favorite.

* Do your own laundry or bring it to the cleaners?
Cleaners. Don't have time to do it myself.

* Signature clothes or generic brands?
Signature and a handful of generic. Hell. As long as they're comfy.

* On a scale of 1-10, how evil are you? (1-Satan's distant cousin ten-times removed; and 10-devil incarnate/anti-Christ)
I'd have to say 6. BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAH

* Vanity or necessity?
Vanity. Ehehehehehe

* Ever taken drugs? What kind?
I've tried doobies and E. Only once, though. And I'm not an addict! Hah.

* How much you love your job.
Scale of one to ten, nine and three quarters. But I'm not talking about the company.

* Single store you've ever maxed out your credit card(s).
That would be Banana Rep, or the Gap... but then again, eBay always maxes me out. LOL

* Obsessive-compulsive?
Hell yeah.

Idol Country

It was back in Marianas when I first had a taste of American Idol. No, not the first season but the second one: the one where Reuben Studdard took the title. It was the season where "non-Idol materials" (e.g. fat, nerdy, unpopular, and bordering on ugly) such as him and Clay Aiken first appeared...and actually won. It was also the season where almost everyone had talent. Well, almost; close, but not quite.

Year after year, season after season, American Idol has got us all glued in front of our cable TVs and downloading and listening to scores of mp3s from all seasons. I even remember voting via phone and SMS for both Camille Velasco and Jasmine Trias, just to show my support for the Filipino talent...though Jasmine didn't exactly own up her obviously Filipino lineage. I was in San Antonio TX that times when I actually TiVo'd the first two episodes of AI3 so I'd be able to replay it again and again 'til my ears bled. And then there was season 4, and it was almost the same thing for a whole lot of us. And don't forget the "localized" Idol competitions like--in my company's case--Pioneer Idol (where there were "two seasons"...the second being Pioneer Idol DUETS), or the PhilAmLife Idol, or Earth&Style Idol, blahblahblahIdol. Give me a company with a singing competition, and you've got yourself a "mini" Idol franchise. Ah. Freemantle Production's really got us big time.

And then, with all the Idol franchises sprouting in practically every corner of the globe (Freemantle's really "we're in the money" [remember that John and Marsha quip???]), a new franchise emerged. Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for ABC5's official franchise of Freemantle Production's Philippine Idol. And we're not talking a "cloned" Idol production here, or anything on the league of Pinoy Pop Superstar (with a Regine-ish ear-shattering accent on POP) or Star in a Million. This is THE American (er, Philippine) Idol at its most original...or so we anticipated--replete with the "'official' stage", the requisite state- (er, nation-) wide search, the three judges, the supposedly-snazzy host, and of course, the long--no, LOOOOOOONG--queues to get an audition.

The talks about the auditions finally surfaced after about one gazillion "Philippine Idol: Malapit na!" teasers were flashed on TV and even print. Apparently, there will be an audition in Luzon (which is THE main audition), Vizayas and Mindanao...and you can actually have a "Fast Track" pass to these auditions: that is, by pre-auditioning at any SM malls. Supposedly, if you passed these "Fast Tracks", you're entitled to a priority number which would make you a demi-god, and not have to queue up for the main auditions to be held at the Cultural Center of the Philippines. Made me reminiscent of the miseries of enlisting to a single friggin' subject--usually elective and communications classes--back in college at UP: the queues (or the REALLY early morning [try 4 fucking AM] queues/camping that would rival the pre-1800 number scheduling with the US Visa interviews), the bullheaded enlisters/registration committee members, and of course, the "enlistment priority number". You'd come in REALLY early, literally camped in AS building, #4 in the queue, only to be told five hours of waiting later that the EPN to be used were "last three digits"; and since your student number's XX-08379, you're fucked up big time because the asses that arrived ten minutes before that EPN announcement was made were lucky bastards because their studenent numbers--all six of them--end with a 012, 009, and 035. Fuck Fast Track.

As if the "palengke" approach to the auditions (if you don't get that, picture this: SM mall, you onstage, 500 other wannabees listening in, together with about a few thousand passersby who are either shopping or just killing time, your voice blaring in the mobile system, and a couple of non-professional judges) wasn't enough, the auditions' requirements themselves were hysterical. Among many other over-the-top specifications such as copies of birth certificates, police clearance, and the works, the age requirement was what killed my hey-I'm-almost-REALLY-feeling-this-fever excitement: they had an incredible age limit of 28...as if talent ends on that age. Dammit. I'm two years overaged.

My officemate friend Chrissie, amidst all this Idol Fever, came up to me and told me that I should join the Philippine Idol...not just because of my talent, but also because she's dead sure that I'll be getting lots of votes from: (a) friends, (b) officemates, (c) then-dates, (d) students, and (e) "fans". I just laughed and told her that I knew I may have the chance of getting into the finals, but that my age was going to be a major hindrance. My voice lessons teacher Agnes likewise told me that I was "seasoned" enough to join this supposedly-prestigious talent and popularity contest. When I told her about the darned age requirement, she just snorted, told me to fake my birth certificate, and proceeded with choosing my audition song as if I was actually going to push on with falsifying my official documents just to wedge my way in this contest. Wow. I bet other people wouldn't think twice.

As I sulked in the office corner of my bedroom, connected to the net, I visited a forum related to the Philippine Idol competition (how desperate was that?!). Apparently, there were other "oldies" like me that share the same sentiments about the restrictive age limit. Upon reading further in the forum, someone--bless her naiveté--tried to console us oldies by saying, and i quote, "It's OK, [username], American Idol naman started with the same age limit with the batch of Justin and Kelly. Every year naman, tinataasan nila ang age limit by one year. Tingnan mo this year, the AI winner Taylor Hicks is already 30 years old! So, just hang on...darating din ang time mo." I almost had a coronary. I couldn't help it; I dropped her a note. I said, "[username], sweetie, I'm 30 years old now. Two years from now, when the age limit has been raised to 30, I will be 32...which makes me STILL overaged."

Sigh. OK, fine. You children enjoy the limelight. You'll turn 30 soon. And when you do, I'll be doing my Celia Rodriguez laughter. But until then, I'll be holding my breath...and rolling on the floor laughing my ass off with the William Hung equivalents.

Tagaytay Chronicles

Take a group of college friends and their boy/girlfriends, husbands, kids, yayas, relatives and mix 'em up with 4AM pickup points, sunrise hunting, boat riding, volcano hiking, burnt clutch and brakes, a jamming session, pigging out, pictorial sessions, and hot coffee all in one day, and what have you got? A riot.

First things first. A background on the group "Astrokids".

Astrokids is a misnomer for a non-astrological group of friends from UP Diliman's College of Public Administration batch 1997. Or, OK, maybe just a *teenie bit* astrological. It all started with PA 132 under Haidee Arandia, where me and my friends would sprint out of that 530-7pm class just to catch the last few segments of the then-familiar telenovelas of Thalia. Right after we catch it on RPN9 in a half-colored, half-black and white TV in my boarding house in Pook Dagohoy, we would all convoy to one of the fishball vendors over at Vinzon's Hall (or around the area) where we would devour scores of fishballs, kikiam and squidballs, and gulp bottles of Mountain Dew and Pepsi. 'Twas in one of these street foodfests where Nolet blurted out her now immortal quip, "Sarap 'to ah!", which now pretty much describes how "delicious" and enjoyable our youths were...college days to be exact. Right after these foodtrips, we'd most often head up to the UP Observatory right by the outskirts of the Narra Dormitory. In here, where we'd most likely be the lone group, we'd just hang out, look at the stars, pretend to "own" or "represent" one (mine's actually the brightest one, "Sirius"!!!), and whine and talk, and just be ourselves...a couple of college kids trying to make a difference in our--and other people's--lives...all but tiny specks of dusts under the vast universe of that evening sky above us. So, why Astrokids? Oh, c'mon. If you still haven't figured that out by now, I don't even know why I'd bother explaining.

It's been so long--way too long--since the Kids were complete in any get-together. If my memory serves me correctly, it had been during the Yuletide season when we were all together as one big riotous family. And in-between, there had been sporadic dinners or meetings or impromptu gatherings...but never the whole group in one crazy bunch.

With this in perspective, and what with the impending arrival of her cock-a-doodle-doo boyfriend Ed--who we all love to tears, mind you!--Carissa (aka Ogis/Manuk) organized a "drop everything, we're going to Tagaytay this Saturday" get-together some time Monday or Tuesday of the very same week we were going. And knowing how most--if not all--of our long-planned and carefully-organized get-togethers were botched at almost the last minute, I had an almost certain feeling that this one *was* going to push through. And, of course, my blog entry titled Baguio or Bust is but a testimony to the Astrokids' knack for spontaneity (or notoriety for planning way ahead of time and cancelling a day or two before the planned event ever materializes). So, a long and seemingly-unending email and SMS exchange later, we have finalized our itinerary: meet up at 5am with our respective rides (in three convenient-for-all locations, mind you), catch a glimpse of the Tagaytay sunrise at 545am, have *really* early breakfast at Breakfast@Antonio's, go swimming/boating/hiking to Taal Volcano via the Tagaytay Yacht Club, have late lunch (must I say *feast*) at the Olaes residence, do a tour of Tagaytay Highlands, go to Bag of Beans, buy pasalubong, and then head for home by 8pm.

At 9pm Friday, while watching Smallville DVDs in the condo, Floyd and I were busy stuffing 30 one-peso pandesals with corned beef hash for my family recipe, paradadas (aka corned beef hash french toast). After coating all 30 with egg and dry-frying 'em all, I carefully laid every single piece in a large Tupperware container lined with 2-ply papertowels, and got ready for bed. At 420am, I was up preparing breakfast and getting ready to leave. By 445, I panicked about being late, so I called Carissa. I was relieved...turned out, Alet was late, so they can't leave her house yet to pick us up at Starbucks-Waltermart. So we took our sweet time. When we got to the pickup point, we still stayed for a good 10-15minutes before the caravan arrived. A few pleasantries and kantiyawans later, we were rolling off to South Super Highway...with the sun already rising on the horizon. Now that's two X-marks on our To-do checklist.

By 630am, we were rummaging through shelves of the Treats convenience store by SLEX. We all sat outside to have a quick caffeine-rush, do some readjustments in our itinerary, freshen up, and smoke. I brought out my paradadas Tupperware and offered it to the seven others to munch on. Now, you better believe me when I say that all 28 corned beef hash-filled pandesals were gone faster than I can finish reciting the ingredients to it...and 'twas only onions, tomatoes, corned beef and potatoes that I had to say, and not my secret seasonings. What's funnier was that we found out that Alet and the people in the other car brought corned beef for food as well. No wonder Libby's, Palm, Argentina, and Purefoods are getting wealthier.

We arrived at Antonio's around 8am. Guess what one of their specialties is. Yep. Corned beef hash. It was hilarious I had laughing fits for ten full minutes...which was even aggravated by an incident with the head waiter regarding the playing of an audio CD (read: I was asking him if I could play my Bossanova CD [that time Sitti Navarro] on their CD player, considering it was just our group and another small yuppie-looking group. He responded by saying that they don't have fresh ones at the moment, and that only the dried variety was available. Turns out, he thought I was asking for SILI. Anggandaaaaah [borrowing Ricky Reyes' "twang" to say that]). 'Twas my very first time to eat at Antonio's. I've tried the other restaurants that belong to their chain, but in my honest opinion, Breakfast@Antonio's doesn't really measure up to all the hype. I mean, the waiters don't exactly make you feel comfortable and important, the food isn't exactly tasty (I'd trade Jolly Jeep any day for a warmer smile from Manang), and the price is just ridiculous. Well, yeah, there's the ambience: the breath-taking view of Taal. OK. Fine. I wouldn't mind shelling out some extra moolah for the fresh and inviting breeze of Nature's breath, which one never gets in the Makati CBD.

Dozens of photos later, we headed to Tagaytay Yacht Club. En route to it, Loony blurted out the quotable quote of the millennium, "Coco Lumber...Hhhmmmmm (as if it were the most juicy delicacy)". She's famous for that: unexpected quips and hirits (like, "Yuck, Ben, wala kang puwet!!!" [and now that my ass is nicer, thanks to the Jessica Simpson lunges, who's laughing now, Loony?? Hahaha]). And with Brownman Revival on the CD changer, we traversed the zigzaggy road down to Taal. Merely 10 minutes of driving to go, we got a frantic SMS (wait a minute...how can an SMS be frantic???!) from Twix saying that the brakes of their then-downhill van don't seem to be working...and their van's the one with all the kids as passengers! We had to come back for them, helped them park at the far corner of the curb and set up a pseudo-camp in the very same location. Seeing that the only answer to the brakes problem was to wait for the mechanic that they called in, we stepped out of the van/car, found our corners and shades, and started doing our thing--reading, texting, direthe works. But after a while, Floyd pulled out his guitar and the trusty 1001 song/chord book...and then we all started singing--from Carpenters to Lilet to Mike Hanopol to Kenny Loggins to Cyndi Lauper to Sampaguita to APO Hiking, we sang it....for the next one and a half hour that is. By the time the mobile mechanic arrived and finished the repair job, it was already past 10. Crab, a couple of days later, was apologetic that she caused this unplanned delay/detour and prevented us from going to Taal earlier. Big baloney. I think, in retrospect, the highlight of the "fun" part was concentrated on that almost two hour detour. We bonded, kid around, laughed a lot, sang like crazy. Wasn't that what we wanted to achieve anyway? So, Crab, no apologies.

We wasted no time when we got to the Yacht Club. In less than 30 minutes, we managed to park, change clothing, grab our gears, rent a boat and head off to the foot of the famous Taal Volcano. The ride along was awesome, what with the unsalty water (it's a lake, remember?) splashing violently on our faces--and the heavy splashes menacingly following Alet whichever side of the boat she sat (and needless to say, wetting her immaculately clean denims)--and the postcard-worthy scenery (oh, wait a minute, those ARE in postcards!). When we got to the bay of the foot of the volcano, we were literally swarmed by the locals, i.e. to peddle their services with horseback riding up to the top of the mountain. But at 600 bucks just for a lousy 40-minute ride, we all decided to trek the dirt road going up the mountain...but that didn't stop the peddlers to walk ahead, around and behind us to keep offerring their horsies, and in the process demoralizing us that the road ahead, no matter how long we've taken, was so long and winding we weren't even an *eighth* of the way! Bastards. Just when I thought all the sales-/psycho-talk weren't going to cut it, I--being the tail scout of the group, making sure everyone's well accounted for in the trek--noticed Alet huffing and puffing and not looking at all good; and then I remembered: she has a heart condition! Without even waiting for her to think about it, I bargained with the nicer manongs for a one-way horse ride for her up the mountain; and up she went, leaving me nothing but a great view of the horse's ass. On the way up, the Yacht Club caretaker caught up with me, and we talked a bit. Apparently, it had been more than 40 years since Taal last erupted. "Great," I thought, "now would be a perfect time for it to resume its active status, with me and all my friends and the rest of the perhaps-50 other visitors at the summit". I shuddered a bit, inspite of the scorching sun. After a while, I realized that I was on Tretinoin treatment...which means absofuckinglutely NO sun for me. So I took off my shirt--exposing my glorious body of flabs and pox marks--and made a ninja-like mask of it for my face. We reached the top barely 30 minutes since we started walking, beating the "normal" trek time of 40-45. We were delighted, if not relieved, to just see the cottage at the top...especially the bottles of mineral water that were sweating of its own dew. After fifteen minutes of resting, bitching, drinking, laughing, storytelling, and of course picture-taking, we started with our descent. In less than 45 minutes, we were back at the beach front, and later on at the other side of the lake where the Yacht Club was.

We headed to the Olaes place immediately, most of us itching to just shower and change into fresh clothes. Few minutes later, we were eating like pigs unleashed in a muddy pen filled with corn husk...only in this case, there was no mud, and instead of corn husks, there were loads of great home-cooked meals. To this day, I still wonder how and why my gastrointestinal tract survived my "kasibaan" with nilaga, corn on the cob, fried fish, ripe mangoes, nuts, more corned beef, and fresh buko juice. But, hey, even if my stomach did haul up (or down, whichever is less graphic) my many orifices, I'd still eat those foodies anyday. Burp.

Not wasting any more of the remaining daylight, we ran off to our respective cars for our convoy up to Tagaytay Highlands...but not without grabbing some more of those yummilicious corn on the cob that were freshly boiled as our baon. Our first stop was the chapel ('twas Sunday and we all realized that we weren't able to hear mass), and then walked to the clubhouse. And of course, with every single step and with every little movement, one of us would grab his/her digital camera and/or camera phone (as was in my case) and take snapshots of us to keep those beautiful memories remembered.

It was a riot--as always--in Tagaytay Highlands...especially the pictorial sessions with the whole group. At a certain point, I cringed at the idea that we were such photo hogs...and then dismissed the thought as silly, as we hardly do these bonding activities together anyway. With our camera's memory sticks almost full, we called it a day/night, and headed back to the Olaes residence to grab a quick dinner, reshuffle the car assignments, and then headed back to Manila. But before we did that, of course, I did another helping of the kasibaan foodies. Ehehehehe. And then we parted ways with some of the Kids who have kids as they still have work the following day. The rest of us still went to Bag of Beans to visit Ed's cousin who, apparently, owns or manages the place. It was getting cold, and we were mostly tired and sleepy, but we still enjoyed a cup or two of their famous coffee and hot chocolate (for me). And, of course, took pictures...again. ;)

When we headed home, I rested my head on the neck rest of the car and closed my eyes. When I opened them, thinking I just closed 'em to rest my tired eyes, we were already traversing Roxas Boulevard! Holy smokes, I slept the entire trip home. I was REALLY exhausted. But it was well worth it.

I was on half-day the next day due to a bitch of a migraine...and the dreaded diarrhea. Need you ask why?

Eat Me.

As far as I know, sex is the greatest "invention" ever known to man (or the helicopter position, to be exact!). In my book, nothing beats raw, animalistic, screamfest, nail-scratching, fluid spewing, sweat-drenched, and thrown-across-the-room orgasmic sex...except maybe the knife cuts, boiling oil splatters, and onion-induced tears when I am cooking. Ah, the orgasms--er, JOYS--of cooking. I'd trade it any day for sex.

I started coking when I was in the US Pacific back in 2003. Prior to that, the extent of my cooking skills was limited to reheating and seasoning pre-cooked foods. Back in '89 when my sister and I were plucked out of the comforts of our house in Bataan to go study in Manila and live in a hell-hole of a studio-type apartment in Sampaloc, my Mom would prepare Tupperwares and Tupperwares of home-cooked meals that would last us for weeks. And even though she made meals that would give Kamayan or Via Mare a run for their money, I had to season it and add extenders...in an effort to stretch any meal further by a couple of days, just so I'd enjoy Mom's home-cooked meals longer. That was how I perfected my "seasoning skills", thanks also to the countless years where I was the official "tagatikim" and food critic during town fiestas when my Mom and Aunt Solly would whip up a banquet of excellent food. On top of my "seasoning skills", there were really no other feathers on my cooking hat...save for some occasional messed up Sunny Side Ups, half-burnt corned beef, and a couple of disintegrated fried tilapias. That, until I stayed in Marianas and Guam.

At first, I foolhardily convinced myself that, like dem Americans (aka Haoles) I was then canoodling with, I could subsist on a diet courtesy of McDonald's, Long John Silver, Taco Bell and 3-Minute Microwave Meals. Boy, was I terribly wrong. Don't get me wrong; l do love these food chains...but not on a 7-day, 3 square meals rotation.

I believe it was the day after Thanksgiving when I realized I had enough burritos and McNuggets to eat. Snatching the keys of my Scion, I drove to the nearest Payless Supermarket and prayed to a Pinoy God that there was an Oriental Food section in one of the aisles. I was blessed. There were actually TWO freakin' aisles. With a vivid recollection of the tastes of my Mom and Aunt's feasts (and not to mention my Mom's incorrigible habit of recycling food), I mentally calculated how the food I was going to make would taste even half as good...and then started dunking ingredients into my cart.

With leftover turkey that could feed the Desert Storm US troops, and with really no on-hand recipe but simply a recollection of the sensations to the taste buds, I whipped up an impromptu version of Lechong Paksiw...with the help of the bottles of Sarsa ni Mang Tomas that I got from Payless. Lechong Paksiw ala Thanksgiving. How's that for East Meets West? The bunch that ate it (who, if I may add, has very discriminating taste...which makes you wonder where 'twas coming from, considering their staple food was bought over the counter!) gave it dozens of thumbs up, raving about how good my "teriyaki" was. Teriyaki my ass.

From "teriyaki" to sinigang to kare-kare to tempura to pancakes and omelette royales, I jumped from food taster to full-fledged unofficial chef. But no thanks to that, I am no longer the unexacting food critic. Ever since I've learned how to cook, eating out has become a taste and quality test of sorts: is it bland, too salty, overpowering cayenne or cilantro or turmeric, a bit soggy or crusty? Similarly, I would be on a constant "autopsy" of every new and interesting food that I'd be eating--discovering and experimenting how to replicate its taste, texture and presentation. So far, I've been successful.

So upon moving in a new condo, I made it a point that it had a kitchen, for obvious reasons. So when I found a nice condo with a spiffy kitchen but with no stove exhaust, I was devastated. I signed the contract and had the contractor drilling and piping for a brand-new, albeit makeshift, exhaust fan. And in no time, the exhaust was up and running. And although it took me five months to finally complete the kitchen/cooking ensemble, in retrospect, the wait was well worth it.

The very first meal cooked on the brand-spanking new single burner--whose LPG was courtesy of Maita and Chrissie--their belated birthday gift to me!--and everything else new (from the pans to the knives to the chopping board to the wooden ladle, name it, they're all newly-bought hours before the first dish was ever cooked) was my very own version of my mother's sopas. Having scoured the Fresh aisles of the supermarket earlier for hours, dunking ingredients into my shopping cart, I have cut and sliced every conceivable vegetable and spice to mix in my sopas. I even threw in a couple of broken spaghetti to add to the elbow macaroni to give it the Charry (my mom) touch. Yes, I guess I could get Oedipal when it comes to my mother's cooking.

The sopas was just the start of an almost daily ceremonial cook fest. The main room of the condo, despite the strong exhaust fan in the kitchen, would inevitably smell like either a Chinese takeout resto or a Mediterranean al fresco cafe. And that's not to say that it smells awfully good. ;)

To date, I've cooked paradadas (it's my family's specialty: imagine French Toast but without the milk and sugar, and corned beef hash stuffed in pandesal [which I cooked for a trip with the Astrokids to Tagaytay...and was gobbled up--all 30 pieces of it--by them in a record-breaking time of 10minutes!]), tempura, crispy kangkong, hoisin stir-fry, mixed veggies with oyster sauce, siomai/dumplings, quail eggs wraps, pancakes, spring rolls, chicken breast with olives, afritada, chicken with cream of mushroom, garlic mashed potatoes, spicy tomato sardine soup, garlic eggplant salsa vinaigrette, beef puttanesca spaghetti, and even chocolate coffee gelo. My friends are still waiting for my hoisin-marmalade Vietnamese prawn wraps. Stay tuned now, will ya.

So far, the only idiosyncrasy I've had was the automatic photo op of every meal cooked. And yes, in saying that, I have the pictures of my foods to prove that I ain't just blabbering.

I am aware that it is so much cheaper to just eat out (spending about 400 to 600 pesos PER meal/cooking doesn't exactly spell out c-h-e-a-p, ya know), but when I'm in the kitchen, I feel like a different person...and I am totally in control. I don't get that all the time. Especially with takeout. And not even with sex.