Sunken Garden in the summer

My first Diliman summer is annoyingly warm, but more importantly, very pretty.

At the fair

It was the last night of the UP Fair on Saturday. Katz and I went, along with her sister Sanse and Sanse's boyfriend. We chose Saturday because that's when all the big bands were scheduled to perform (including Parokya ni Edgar with an "exclusive performance," whatever that means).

There were more rides and games this year than last. We spent a lot of time trying our luck in the shooting games. Katz won a ginger doll, which she named Barry. I won a Winnie the Pooh phone dangler. It wasn't even the bear's entire body, just his head. So I named him Paulo. (Pooh-ulo? Get it? K.)

Katz thought we should try the rusty Flying Fiesta ride (I'm not sure what it's really called but that's the name of the similar ride at Enchanted Kingdom). I was hesitant at first—the ride at EK made me woozy—but Katz was game, so I didn't object.

At the end of the ride, I looked at Katz. She was nauseated, and had her head buried in her arm.

We bought snow cones (apparently, cold food after a dizzying ride is supposed to make you feel better) and stood around as Up Dharma Down played their set. I'd hoped that once she'd rested we could squeeze ourselves into the crowd like we did last year, and hopefully catch Moonstar88 play Panalangin (the only OPM song I've LSS'd on in four years). After a while, though, Katz decided she was too dizzy. We left at a little past 11 and hung out on the Main Library steps.

All in all, though, it was still a fun night. The most exciting part happened before we even got in: Katz and I had four extra tickets, so we scalped 'em for P150 each, P250 for two, P400 for four (we bought them at P90 apiece). Apparently, I was yelling too loudly, and I caught the attention of a couple of the fratmen manning the grounds.

One of them asked how much I was selling my tickets for, and I smiled and said, "Oh, P90."

"P90? I heard P150."

"No, no, just P90," I said, nonchalant.

They asked to see the tickets and, after verifying their authenticity, let me go but stayed close behind us. I continued to hawk the tickets at the original P90 price, and a few guys asked for a discount. "P70 nalang, presyong kaibigan."

The fratmen, still behind us, said, "Hindi pwedeng ibenta ng P50, P90 lang talaga."

In the end, we sold all four of our tickets. It was a great night.

So, the 365 thing isn't for me.

This probably won't earn me many points in the "ability to carry things through" department, but I'm cutting short my Project 365. It's supposed to give people the confidence of knowing they can be consistent enough to do one thing everyday for an entire year, but it just isn't the type of self-growth project for me.

Instead, starting in March I'll be embarking on monthly projects—things I'll strive to accomplish from the first to the last day of every month in an effort to better my life. I got the inspiration from Matt Cutts, head of Google's webspam team, who did monthly 30-day challenges last year. Hopefully, these projects will be more fulfilling and have more purpose than Project 365. I already have quite a few project ideas in mind for March.

Like, WTF.

Recently I realized just how absurd our lives have become on the Internet.

When I eat out, the first thing I do is check into the restaurant or whatever on Foursquare. Then I take a picture of the moment and record it on Path. Some people might bring up Facebook Places or Google+. And then I can eat. But afterwards, I have to Oink what I eat to my friends.

It's absurd. It's the new order.

Forgotten Photo 05: Magic Pops

We may all grow old, but we can always go back to these little bits of childhood in a package.

I passed the Bar!

Literally.

Ever wonder why they're called the bar exams? The part of the courtroom from the seats for the legal counsels up to the judge's bench is separated from the rest of the room by a partition called the bar. Only lawyers are allowed to pass the bar from the seating area for spectating citizens, thus the term.

It's not every day you get a chance to cross the bar in a normal courtroom, much less the en banc session hall of the Supreme Court of the Philippines. So when my Journalism class went there on Wednesday to learn about court reporting, I jumped at the chance.

We also got to ask Midas Marquez, spokesperson of the Supreme Court, a few questions. Apparently the Philippines is one of the few highest courts in the world that have a public information arm. Unlike the two other branches of government, the judiciary is supposed to be very reclusive and silent, perhaps to prevent accusations of prejudice and bias.

Photos of me at the podium that counsels use during hearings:

For as long as I remember I've always wanted to become a lawyer, and that's what my dad wants for me, too. Is it weird to be what your father wants you to be? I reckon it is, but then again, my knowledge of the matter is informed mostly by Hollywood movies and TV series whose plots revolve around the son struggling to succeed in life as his dad hounds him by saying, "You should have listened to me and gone into this or that; you would have been better off then."

One day, middle seat, one day.

September 14, 2011: one more reason to hate Manila

Manila is a mess. It's a poetic thing to say in a literature or creative writing class, but not so much when you're stewing in traffic on Padre Faura at 245pm when you should have been in the lobby of the Supreme Court for a class field trip at 155pm.

At 115pm I was in a taxi on Katipunan, on the way to the LRT station. At 125pm I was on the platform. While waiting for the train I called my classmate Elle to confirm the instructions I'd received earlier (train to Recto, transfer to Line One, train to UN Avenue). She handed the phone over to Angge, who told me I should have taken the MRT to save time. The taxi driver had told me the same thing, but we were already more than halfway to the Katipunan station and I wasn't about to tell him to go to Quezon Avenue instead.

Angge said I could get off at the Cubao station and board the MRT from there. When I got to the MRT there was a hellish line to get tickets—I've never seen a working MRT ticket machine in my life, and apparently they don't sell stored-value tickets—and I decided I might as well fall in, seeing as how I was already there.

While I was in line, a woman came up to my left and walked alongside me as the queue progressed, apparently trying to cut in front of me. I'm generally nice, but I have little tolerance for people who cut lines. I don't care if you're in a hurry or are running late for something. Unless you need immediate medical attention, the back of the line's that way.

So anyway, this woman, she was walking alongside me, and we started to play this silent queue game. I started to position my body to block any attempts she might make to step in front of me. She must have noticed, but she tried hard to stay nonchalant about the whole thing, keeping her gaze squarely on the ticket counter, pretending to crane her neck worriedly and wiping her neck with a piece of tissue. In the end, though, I got to buy my ticket to Taft before she did. Victory.

Or so I thought. The MRT is almost always very crowded, and I had to squeeze in and stand all the way from Cubao to Taft. (It's not as bad as Line 1, which requires passengers to inhale all manner of human stenches, but not as nice as Line 2, which, even during rush hour, is peaceful and roomy.) At Taft I flagged down a taxi and told the driver I needed to get to the Supreme Court.

"Sa Padre Faura 'yun, diba?" he asked.

A tentative "opo" was all I could manage, because back in Diliman I only have to know which color goes where to know I won't get lost. On Roxas Boulevard the driver confirmed directions with me, and I, finally surrendering to my geographical ineptitude, consulted Google Maps.

Google Maps, by the way, for all its amazing features, wasn't able to give me driving, transit or pedestrian directions from Roxas Boulevard to the Supreme Court. It was able to tell me that the Supreme Court was indeed on Padre Faura, though. "Oo nga po, sa Faura nga po," I told the driver confidently.

The next thing I know we're in Robinson's Manila, waiting to turn left onto a one-way street when I had a really strong hunch the gate I was looking for was the other way. But because I really can't find my way around Manila, I trusted my driver.

Just two corners later we were stuck in traffic again, this time on the street fronting the Philam Life building. By this time the taxi meter was at P110, and my now-agitated driver said he would turn right to UN Avenue, but go no further. It must have been around 240pm by then, and I was running out of options, so I paid him and walked out of the taxi and into the clogged street. I remember thinking, "This is so like those Hollywood movies where the protagonist is running late and the window of opportunity he's been waiting for the entire movie is about to close."

So, not long after that, I went all the way with the Hollywood metaphor and broke into a sprint. I presented my ID to the guards at the first Supreme Court gate I saw. They told me I should go to the other gate. I said "okay" and continued my sprint, but, after seeing that I was now running along the fence of the UP Manila College of Arts and Sciences, went back to clarify that we hadn't misunderstood each other. We hadn't indeed, and I ran again. Past the UP Manila fence I finally saw the Supreme Court building, presented my ID to the partly confused dude at the guardhouse—he looked like an intern to me—who waved me off without fussing.

At 255pm I was in one of the smaller courtrooms in the building (the ones where division hearings are held), panting and perspiring, my ass sweat staining the upholstered pews of the highest court in the country.

Gawd, I hate Manila.

I went to Divisoria

But all you'll get are boring shots of stalls and ware. I was going to pull out my phone on the sidewalk to take pictures but Katz advised against it ("Gusto mo ba manakaw ang phone mo?").

That's alright, though, because really, the horror vacui of Divi is better experienced in person.

It's a universal conspiracy that's keeping me thin!

This was lunch:

Three cups of rice and two dishes: chicken adobo and a beef-and-onions thing whose exact name I don't know.

Decisively demolished.

Afterwards I bought two apples from the fruit stall at the Shopping Center and a bag of corn bits at the Coop.

The rampage continued at dinner, which consisted of two deathly crispy pieces of Chickenjoy (no other product is more aptly named), two cups of rice and a glass of Coke Zero. Annihilated.

Before I went home I bought a McFlurry Oreo to eat on the jeep ride home.

All of which begs the question, why the hell aren't I fat? It's a conspiracy, and I won't stop until I get to the bottom of it.

The Internet is trying to kill me.

Lose 10 pounds? All I have is ten pounds.

I don't even know why I get these coupon emails from sites other than Groupon.

Frivolous Academic Oval photo 02

I've said it before: the Academic Oval is criminally easy to photograph.

gpoyitmotao (Gratuitous photo of yourself in the middle of the academic oval)

General Reference

I know the General Reference section of the Main Library is open until midnight, but I didn't think this many people cared to stay there past five.

Getting Malteser-deflowered

Until last Tuesday I had never eaten a Malteser in my life.

Katz the reluctant Malteser model.

Screencaps of video of me tasting the magical Maltesers for the first time.

Opening the package. It took a while.

LE MALTESER

Evaluating taste. These are some nice-tasting chocolates.

See, this is how dictatorships start.

Transcribed, for the sake of those subsisting on slow connections:

Reminders. Bawal tayo gumamit ng papel sa pagpunas ng pwit natin. Magbabara ang CR. Thanks.

And translated, for the sake of non-Filipino readers:

Reminders. We are not allowed to use [toilet] paper to wipe our asses. The toilets clog up. Thanks.

I'm pretty sure this is how Gadhafi's regime started. Today they tell us how to keep our butts clean. Tomorrow they'll pledge allegiance to Kim Jong Il.

Dental hygiene Monday

Off to the dentist nuninuninu

LOL happy face, even as I faced an impending—DUN DUN DUN—enamel filling.

Celebrate fixed molar with Tropical Hut, yay! (This is only my second trip to Tropical Hut, which I hear was in the Philippines way before Jollibee or McDonald's. No photo of first trip, but it was to the same branch.)

I could tell you what I did on Sunday night, but I won't.

loljk here are photos.

Dinner: a McDonald's cheeseburger and medium fries and Coke. The lady at the counter gave me a regular and not the Zero I asked for, but I was feeling really humanitarian and so didn't decide to ask the gods to curse her. You're welcome.

I instead asked the gods to curse whoever said it was okay to call it a "chizbuger."

Almost cheated on Ronald with that Bee on the next block, but decided against it. Bought this lowly (BUT VERY DELICIOUS) pack of butter coconut biscuits in Mercury Drug instead.

Pretty moon!

Forgotten Photo 02: Kuma-crime story

We went to the Batasan Police Station last year to find a crime worth writing a story on for my Intro to Journ class. Upperclassmen had suggested Batasan to us, as they said that was where all the action was. Getting our stories wasn't so hard, but we did have to wait for the red tape to do its thing, and it took a letterhead to give us access to records that are supposed to be public in the first place.

This year we had to do another crime story, this time for our News Reporting class. We went to the UP Diliman Police, and the kind officer at the desk allowed us to look at the blotter (mostly just thefts and vehicular accidents) without fussing.

I've finally been to Eastwood.

Angry Birds piggy banks. That's all you'll get because it was all I was able to take.

About Eastwood, though. Sure, it's nice and fancy. When you think about it, if you had the money you could move into one of the many swanky units in one of the many towering buildings in the "city." But even I wouldn't want to live and raise a family there. All the innocent cobbled walks, the quaint (but expensive) al fresco restaurants—my kids would live too detached from the real world.

When I raise a kid who can't care about his country and all the suffering people in it is when I officially fail as a parent. I want my kid to yearn to go to UP and serve the people, not go to Eastwood and be served by people.

Yuck.

ALLOW ME A MOMENT OF ROMANTIC GUILT, however, to say that if there's one reason for me to go back to Eastwood, it would be for that nice little stall (I forget exactly where it is and what it's called) that sells writing instruments. They had a Lamy display case out front. Surely they must have a few reams of stationery, too. Oh, God. Must. Go. Back.

Susyaling empanada

Ken you beleb et? An empanada, a bottle of water and a bottle of Nestea = P70!

Maskom bathroom light switch is shocked!

Professional training for our security forces

At Timezone in SM Mall of Asia. In fairness, may Powercard talaga si Mr. Security Guard.