This video hit 12.5 million views in 11 days.   And it isn't even porn.

I love it.  It's such sheer, honest celebration of the happiest moment of their lives.  It's such an exuberant explosion of the joy shining out of their faces that you can't help but smile as you watch.  

You haven't clicked on it yet, have you?  Watch it.  It's worth every minute, I promise.  The video is of the bridal party's procession down the aisle, done in a most unusual way.  No more spoilers.  Make sure to have sound on.

All I can say is that the bride and groom's friends obviously love them a LOT.  

*Edit: Telegraph.co.uk has an article on it here.

Baaaah

 I think part of the reason I've been so lazy about updating this journal is that I'm very deeply immersed in the gaming world--both at the office and at home--to the extent that it's taken over almost all aspects of my life. 

I rarely discuss gaming with non-gamers, because simple terminology like "noob" goes over their heads.  Yes, you're being insulted.  

But I digress.

Non-gamers will have to lump it.  It's what I breathe 24/7, so it's all I know to post about. 

GM Fired

Something I came across today, although it's relatively old news, is this.

Apparently an Age of Conan GM (game master) decided to engage in intimacies (read: cyber sex) with a player online.  During his shift.  Unfortunately for him, the player was setting him up, and took screen shots aplenty. 

GM ended up fired.  I don't know, stupidity of that magnitude certainly deserves it.  Although I'd have liked for something to happen to the player, too, but we can't have everything.

Sam Raimi To Direct Warcraft Movie

Sam Raimi, a. k. a. Spiderman director, is going to be directing the Warcraft movie.  Official press release here.

Sadly, Blizzard has already said it won't be about King Varian, who is extremely badass.  (For some background on him, this is worth reading, and this game patch trailer video has him in it.)  I'm guessing it will be based on the quests in Warcraft that detail the lore. 

 It saddens me whenever I see this music video.

Charlotte Church and Billy Gilman were child prodigies and had incredible voices.  They were 14 and 12 respectively, I believe, when they sang this duet.  I still listen to the albums they made at those ages.  (One of my favorite songs seems to have been used as an OST in at least two movies)

They didn't 'stay gold', though... as all good things, it came to an end, and somewhat early at that.  

Gilman now sings somewhat country-sounding songs and his voice, to be honest, isn't any different from all the other country singers out there.  David Archuleta outsings him note for note now that Gilman's voice has broken.

Church has gone the way of Cristina Aguilera, Mariah Carey, and all the other singers who started out with powerful voices and good songs.  I'm sure they increased sales that way, but she's just one of the run-of-the-mill pop singers now.  

Oh, well.

Now that Christmas break is here, people are all busily watching DVDs and catching up.

Do try watching The Guild at watchtheguild.com or YouTube (actually I recommend YouTube as they seem to have changed their site layout to make it more confusing). It's awesome, I promise.  Each episode is only about 3 or 5 minutes long, it has only 10 episodes for season 1, and it's the most successful online sitcom.   

Felicia Day (from Buffy the Vampire and I forget what else) writes the script and directs it, and of course also stars in it.  The cast is made up of professional actors as well.  

The plot is based on a guild in World of Warcraft, and... well, I can't say anymore without it being a spoiler.

Twilight

Twilight sucks balls.  I know this is probably sending sharp knives through the hearts of all the fans, but damn.  I want my P350 back.  

Bought the book out of curiosity, as it was always prominently displayed in Fully Booked, and was hyped up.  

I read it slower and slower each day, until I finally tossed it aside in disgust halfway through.  Twilight is like a major sugar overdose; only teenagers and pre-teens would seriously enjoy it.  The premise is okay, the plot is okay, but the writing itself brings new meaning to the word terrible. 

If Stephenie Meyer (author) didn't have her picture on the book cover and have a little blurb saying how she's married and all that, I'd think she was a 16-year-old never-been-kissed type who releases all her pent-up romantic yearnings by gushing throughout the book.  

She seems to identify a little too much with her heroine to the point of falling for her own imaginary hero, and seizes every possible opportunity to describe his physical attributes in glowing detail.  By the time the heroine and the vampire get hooked up together, every other paragraph (and sometimes, every paragraph) contains hymns of praise for the vampire's beauty, overinundated with gems such as "his melodic voice", "his seraphic lips", and "his sweet smell" (yes, apparently the dude gives off his own scent, like some sort of mutant sampaguita).  Eventually it gets really good, with wince-inducing dialogue like:

First it was one guy, then another, and another.  All leading us down to sin.

At first only one guy at work got it.  Then a girl got it, too.  Then another girl at work got it.  And another is about to get it.

I'm now seriously considering getting it, too.

Check it out.

Apparently they consider it a really good buy at P30k. 

I'm not really an expert on such matters, but of course they all have stars in their eyes now and I'm envious.  And my Christmas pay is sitting there winking at me. 

Hmmmm.

 So I decided to swing by Park Square and pick up a gooseneck microphone for my computer.

Commuting during rush hour is cruel and unusual punishment.  And so is trying to cross the damn street along Ayala.  But I digress.

I pass by a secondhand bookstore at the overpass, pick up some books, pass by another bookstore at Park Square and pick up some more books.  By the time I'm done it feels like I'm lugging about a hundred pounds and my arms have elongated to the point where my hands are level with my knees.

So I finally reach Octagon a few minutes before they close, and tell the salesman I want a mic for my computer. 

What brand, he says.

I don't know, I say.  Something good quality, like Plantronics or Logitech. 

Ah, we have those, he says, but the mics come with headsets.  Very good quality.

No, I say.  I have come determined to get a mic and only a mic, because wearing headsets for extended periods of time give me headaches.  Although I give the headsets a good eyeballing, and some of them look really sexy.  Like this one.  (I can't swear on my life that was the exact headset, but that was certainly the brand and was certainly a humongous gaming headset of some sort; bigger than my entire head.)

He points me towards a bunch of microphones, the brands of which I have never heard of until a split second ago.  I finally pick one at random, basing my decision on the fact that it can be bent and it has impressive-looking techie stuff on the back, such as "Impedance: Maximum 2.2k" and "S/N Ratio: More than 60 dB".

It takes me a long, long walk down the entirety of Ayala before I finally get a ride, due to bypassing every underpass as these were creepily unlit and unpopulated; and it is an hour from midnight when I get home.

The first thing that strikes me, after eagerly plugging in my microphone and testing it, is that it makes me sound like a chipmunk with a lisp.

This is not good.  Nobody wants to listen to chipmunks for extended periods of time, and particularly not ones with lisps. 

So I think another day I will have to brave Makati again for one of those humongous headsets.  I bet the gigantic ones that cover up your ears will get gross and sweaty after a while.  What a price we pay for quality.

* * *

My bank account looks so fabulous with the Christmas pay sitting in there.   I am tempted to make multiple visits each day just to gaze at it and gloat, and make sure it's still there. 

I need female GMs for my game.

Come to me, hot female GMs.

Not that I'm interested in them in that way, mind you.

It's just that 98% of the online gamer population (at least here in the Philippines) is male, and most of them are testosterone-overloaded teenage boys with too much interest in girls.  What am I saying?  All of them are interested in girls, regardless of their age.  (You should hear the discussions that go on among the guys in our team.  Or maybe you shouldn't.)

Amazingly, only three out of tons of applicants were female, and two of them were internal applications.

What's up with that?  Where are all the girls who want to be game masters?  I know you're out there somewhere. 

*  * *

Hmm.

Seems Sony is looking for female gamers, too.  Although not precisely in the same way I am.

Incredibly busy.

I meant to blog about things happening so far, but have to keep it very short.

GONG! is up! Yay!

Tell all your families and friends to play it.  Please.

* * *

We had a booth at the Toy Con over the weekend.

Some pics here.

Really juicy pics (like the one of Hard Gay doing, er, something to someone) aren't in there, of course. Kiddies would be shocked.

More pics here, mainly of cosplayers (who are admittedly the only interesting thing about these conventions anyway, aside from free stuff).

* * *

Incidentally, see that transformer guy under Cosplayers here.

We asked him if he could transform, and he did, slowly and carefully, until he became this.

Hahahahaha.

Our company is now hiring GSS and GMs.

Anyone interested can send their resume to jobs-at-mobius-dot-ph, and cite "imo" as your referrer.  Yes, I get a cookie for everyone I refer.

Game Support Specialist Job Description:

 
PRIMARY FUNCTION

 The G-Rep provides excellent customer service to our players and customers by giving appropriate and accurate responses to inquiries while meeting established quality, productivity and schedule adherence performance standards.

 RESPONSIBILITIES

§          Provide customer support for the following touchpoints specific to a game:

o         Voice

o         Chat

o         Email

§          Provide general customer for mobiusonline account management.

§          Will help identify areas for improvement for the game based on issues documented and categorized through customer interaction.

 KEY RESULT AREAS
 

 
 QUALIFICATIONS

 §          Education:

o         Bachelor’s degree or equivalent

§          Experience:

o         Must have at least 1-year call center or customer service experience

§          Competencies (Knowledge, Skills, Abilities):

o         Excellent English and Tagalog communication skills (reading, writing, speaking)

o         Good listening skills

o         Solid analytical and problem solving skills

o         Great interpersonal and customer service skills

o         Good coordination and collaborative skills

o         Computer and Internet proficiency

o         Must be a team player and have the ability to work well in a dynamic team environment

o         Ability to multi-task, adapt to change, and achieve results with accuracy and precision

§          Others

o         Passion for playing online games

o         Willingness to work graveyard shift when required

o         Experience or keen interest in sales, closing orders, and/ or telemarketing is a plus

 PRIMARY FUNCTION

 The Game Master is the subject matter expert for a particular game and is responsible for managing and building the game’s community.

 RESPONSIBILITIES

§          Player acquisition

o         Develop, implement and manage player acquisition and retention programs to effectively increase and maintain concurrent user numbers

§          Player retention and management

o         Documents and reports feedback given by players for continuous improvement of game and game's processes and procedures

o         Answer inquiries related to the game only and will defer account-related questions (and/or hack reports) to Game Support

o         Guild management

o         Manage effective communication between mobiusgames and the gaming community through different avenues including in-game messaging and gaming forums

§          Player database documentation and maintenance

§          Player consumption (and retention)

o         Develop, implement and help manage creative programs and features, such as auctions and competitions, to increase revenue

§          Participation in outdoor/offline events specific to the game

§          Game testing

o         Bug hunting during game launch implementation and for patch releases

o         Hack testing to ensure a hack-free game

 KEY RESULT AREAS
 

 
QUALIFICATIONS

 §          Education:

o         Bachelor’s Degree or equivalent

§          Experience:

o         Previous experience in Online/Web activities

o         Online gaming working experience, preferably MMORPG’s 

§          Competencies (Knowledge, Skills, Abilities):

o         Excellent communication and written skills

o         A strong motivation and high level of commitment

o         Excellent teamwork skills

o         Autonomy and rigor are requested skills

o         Knowledge of community tools (IRC, forums, etc.)

 §          Others

o         Passion for playing online games

§          Community-management experience in the gaming industry is a plus

o         Meticulous and inquisitive

o         Determined, level-headed and fair-minded

o       Ethical, fair, and methodical in thinking (not emotional)

o       Dedicated to customer satisfaction

o       Willingness to work graveyard shift when required

Okay, so I have this magnificent gaming PC just sitting there waiting to be used.

And no internet.

So I've started playing Neverwinter Nights 2.

It's pretty awesome.

Our company outing was both better and worse than I thought it would be.

Better since it was just so damn funny.

Worse because I hate hot places, and it was the beach.

*  *  *

Quick summary.

We were randomly grouped into 4 teams:  red, yellow, blue, and green.

Teams competed against each other in the following events:

1. Egg relay race:  people did a relay race toting an egg on a spoon in their mouths, running out to a buoy in the shallows on the beach and back

2. Water relay race:  same as the egg relay, except that people had to trot along with a dipper of water on their heads.  Some people, in their hurry, fell face-first into the water while racing around the buoy. 

3. Sack race:  we had surprisingly small sacks, so that the sack race was limited to girls only.  Sack racers seem to fall into two categories.  The first type takes great leaping hops and aren't afraid to fall on their face.  They lean forward and swing their legs forward together in big thumping oomphs, and cover a lot of ground fast.  The second type is the cautious type.  They don't so hop along so much as vibrate along.  They jitterbug their way forward, taking millions of tiny little hops, and leave a nice smooth paved path behind them in the sand like little bulldozers.  However, they tend to be slower than the first type.

4. Kayak relay race:  Two people per kayak.  People who have never been in a kayak before, much less rowed one.  So the kayaks pretty much ended up going sideways, and going on leisurely tours around the bay while the rowers frantically tried to adjust their rowing and wondered why the hell the kayak was heading directly for the cliff side. 

5. Tug of war:  Very.  Very.  Intense.  Suffice to say my arms still feel loose in their sockets, and many people have rope burns along their arms.  And I never realized that people actually make strategies for tug of war.  "Okay, anchor when they pull, then when they stop pulling, PULL!  Then give a little, then..."

*  *  *

People uploaded their pictures to the public folder shared by the company. 

Looking through them, I noted with interest that some pictures were just crying out to be used as sports ads.  The intensity in their faces, the poetry in motion captured by the camera, etc. 

So I did.

It would be funnier, I'm sure, if you actually knew these people, but oh, well...

Someone sent me a YM message.  Tempted as I am to pass it on to everyone in YM, many of those on my list are at work, so...

MAGIC #1
An Indian found that nobody can create a FOLDER anywhere on the Computer which can be named as "CON". This is something funny and inexplicable… At Microsoft the whole Team, couldn't answer why this happened!
TRY IT NOW, IT WILL NOT CREATE A "CON" FOLDER

MAGIC #2
For those of you using Windows, do the following:
1.) Open an empty notepad file
2.) Type "Bush hid the facts" (without the quotes)
3.) Save it as whatever you want.
4.) Close it, and re-open it.
Noticed the weird bug? No one can explain!

MAGIC #3
Again this is something funny and can't be explained… At Microsoft the whole Team, including Bill Gates, couldn't answer why this happened!
It was discovered by a Brazilian. Try it out yourself…
Open Microsoft Word and type
=rand (200, 99) and then press enter

I am broke.

I bought a computer on Saturday, taking my computer whiz friend Jen along to Gilmore.



Windows XP (legal) and MS Office CDs obtained from same computer guru friend.

Showed my receipts around to friends at the office.  They drooled and were inspired to upgrade/ purchase new PCs, too.

Now I just need to get internet hooked up at my dorm and I'm set.

I noticed just the other day that some of the people on my list deleted their blogs a while back.  To use livejournal's term, their blogs have been "purged". 

That's kind of sad.  I hope they're still blogging, somewhere, and I'll find them eventually.  They were blogging with me way  back in college, and it feels like someone moved away where you can't reach them. 

Their names are still on my friend list.  Sentimentality and all that.

* * *

This will be interesting to my colleagues in the gaming industry, and perhaps to gamers.

* * *

Ugh... I had a long and what I thought was a funny entry on strange stuff going on here at the office.  Edited this post, decided to make it a locked entry by itself, and for some reason it didn't post and I only noticed it now, when I closed the browser hours ago.

Oh, well.  Bye, bye, long post.  I don't feel like typing you again.


*edit:  Aha, it was recovered.  Posted and locked it now.

Exasperated at my ignorance of anything on TV, a friend burned some episodes of American Idol onto some CDs and lent them to me.

Having watched the "Top 12 Males" and "Top 12 Females" episodes, I now feel qualified to discuss American Idol whenever the topic comes up.

"Say, can you pass me that stapler?"

"Sure, and by the way, have you seen American Idol?"

There are now only 3 of them left, from what the site says.

The contender I like best is David Archuleta, who has quite an amazing voice, with the plus factor of being only 17 and a sweetheart.  Jason Castro was another favorite, but he got eliminated just a few days ago (boo).

If you do click on those links, which are YouTube videos, by the way, be very sure not to read the comments underneath.  I innocently browsed through some American Idol videos a week or so ago, and glanced at the comments. 

I was rewarded with unforgettable pearls such as "OMG David I don't want to watch this anymore, you're making me lose my concentration in my exams" and "Jason you are so adorable, I'm going to marry you!!!!!!!"

And let's not forget the high-browed debates that go on between rabid fans of rival contenders:  "David sucks! He's a sissy! Jason is better!"  "No, Jason is better, you're stupid!"

So which one are you rooting for?

Bye, bye, Blogger, after spending my college years faithfully blogging there.

I'm still discovering, even to this day, that there were many people who knew about my blog and secretly read it.  I don't mind this, but... hell, yeah, I do.  It seems sneaky to read about yourself in someone's blog.  Yes, I know that's illogical, but just picture your prof reading about himself in your blog...  (Not to mention a certain unnamed old harridan at a place I used to work, who found my blog, read it, and then proceeded to give me a sermon on confidentiality and tell me to delete so and so entries from my blog.)

Anyway, that is why i think it's time to switch.  I want to be able to lock entries.

Not to mention that feature of being able to view all your friends' new posts in one page is awesome if you're lazy or have no time to open a zillion blogs (I'm both).

Now that I think about it, the whole world should be on Livejournal.

Issues of Integrity

As in other companies in other fields, gaming companies have their share of unscrupulous employees.  With banks it's credit card numbers at stake.  With gaming companies, it's something more intangible, and perhaps incomprehensible to non-gamers.  Game items.

In MMORPGs, you have to understand that items give bonuses to character stats, or perhaps boosts their killing speed, maximum life, etc.  Players grind and farm and generally dedicate a huge portion of their everyday existence towards attaining better in-game items. 

The gaming company, of course, has a game management tool that allows you to edit and create game items, among other things, for the purpose of awarding prizes in events, restoring bugged items, and so on.

And the relevant employees have access to the tool.

Unfortunately, it seems that a black market often springs up for MMORPGs (check out the game items being sold in eBay) in any part of the world, and the Philippines is no exception.  We therefore have players selling their items (illegally, I might add) to other players for large amounts of money (a normal, high-level bow will sell for P2,000 in one of the MMORPGs we're currently publishing). 

Note that I say normal.  What would an abnormal item be?  Using the game management tool, you can create godlike items with ALL the stats and ALL the boosts possible, that a player would never ever be able to obtain through normal playing even if he handed his character down for ten generations and they spend their whole lives farming the game.

An unscrupulous employee can sell such an item for anywhere from P30,000 to P70,000.  Some hot new items (recently introduced into the game) raised to the highest level possible, will be traded for cars.  Really.

The financial rewards are large enough to lure some from the straight and narrow, and in many cases, crime does pay.

* * *

The gaming world in the Philippines is not that big.  There are about 4 or 5 major gaming companies, and that's it.  Everyone knows each other, and word gets around fast about things happening in other places.

Or so I thought.

A certain guy, who will remain unnamed, went AWOL last year after he was caught creating game items and selling them for private monetary gain.   He never came back.

I ran into him--inevitable since, as I said, the gaming world is small--at a competitor's gaming conference (yes, I was there spying). 

"Hey."

"Hey."

"How've you been?"

More chitchat.  Kind of surreal since we were both standing there pretending that all that hullabaloo had never happened last year, and that he was just someone who had left the company normally.

"So what're you doing now?"

"Oh, I'm a Community Manager for..."  He names one of the 5 major gaming companies. 

Ugh.  So the guy essentially trafficks black market items for a cool P30k a pop for who knows how long he'd been doing it, takes off, and lands on his feet in a nice cushy job in another major company.

What's up with that?

My friend commented that perhaps he'd pulled the old you-can't-contact-my-previous-employer-because-my-boss-had-it-in-for-me ploy that's apparently quite a popular fallback in the States.

* * *

And I couid go on with countless stories.

The problem, as I see it, is that we let them get away with it.

There are no cyber laws in the Philippines, and for some reason the company never does take legal action against these people.

So they sneak around and they profit and they make off with their ill-gotten wealth.

* * *

A Korean coworker was chatting with us.

"In Korea," he said, "there are game item auction sites.  They work like eBay, except that it is all virtual items from various games.  The company that first came up with the idea was a small one.  After they created the first auction site, they made enough to build a twenty-story headquarters."

"Wow," we said, appropriately impressed.

"So what's stopping people from scamming each other in these sites?" we ask.

"Each person in Korea has a registered number," the coworker says.  "You are required to enter this number when bidding or auctioning an item on the site.  There are very strict cyber laws, so anyone who tries to scam someone else will definitely be caught and prosecuted."

Interestingly, he goes on to say that account hackers--the plague of any game--are also prosecuted, as this is covered by their laws.  This is why there are no hackers in Korea, he says.  It's not worth going to jail for.

Sadly, I honestly doubt we will have such laws anytime soon in the Philippines.

So the Filipino players (a disproportionately huge amount compared to the number of Filipinos who actually have computers at home, thanks to internet cafes) go on indiscriminately hacking each other.

* * *

If it's illegal to sell in-game items to another player, why then are these Korean players able to sell their items on auction sites without repercussions?

It's illegal by most gaming companies' EULAs (only one company in Korea sanctions this), but not by cyber law.  So the most a company can do is try to track down the accounts involved, and ban them--a tall order since registered account information does not have to be genuine.

Sobering Thoughts

After reading an old post of Marcelle's, I did some research on it because I couldn't understand how things could have gotten so far from something so bizarre. 

This is quite a well-written encapsulation of the whole thing, and the writer did his research and genuinely thought it out.

Reading that led me to also look this up, which was also troubling.

A very dear friend of mine has been consistently (and persistently) offering me a job that earns P60k a month. 

Once upon a time I would have leaped so fast to take his offer there would have been hurricanes in my wake.

But--as a favorite author of mine titled one of her books-- that was then, this is now.

I'm surprised, myself, that I'm not grabbing the offer.   What's holding me back?

I'm currently working as a PM (product manager) for a new game into which I've already put my heart and soul.  The offer is also as PM for another game at another company, a well-known one.

Let's see:

1. As I said, I've put my heart and soul into getting this game ready for its launch.  If I take off now, that's like only reading the first 29 chapters of a 30-chapter book.  So many plans and so much effort and time and labor and--ugh--thinking have gone into this.  You wouldn't believe all you have to go through to launch a game.

2. I don't like the game I'd have to manage in that job offer (it's an FPS shooty game).

3. I don't like what I've heard about the company I'd be working in.  It's big, it's famous, and it doesn't treat its employees well.

4. I want to stay here and get my full 2 (or possibly 1) years' experience in the company I've grown in, taking care of the game I've been hatching. 

5. I like the company I'm in.  It's treated me well, accelerating my career growth by a lot.  I like the people in it, including my boss, and I like the atmosphere.  It's fun, it's laid-back but hectic, it's like nowhere else I've worked.

So this is where I bid a fond farewell to 60 thou.  And perhaps to the mercenariness (is there such a word? --checks dictionary.com--yeah, there is) that I thought was ingrained in me.

Whoops

Looking back over past entries, it embarrasses me to see intermittent, lonely posts for each year, declaring that I am back, and then silence until the next year, where I do it again.

Ugh.

I will content myself with just posting now, and not making any more MacArthurian declarations.

I think, anyway.

I've missed blogging and missed my blogging friends.  I think I've grown whinier and crankier as a result of having no outlet for the past couple of years.

Went back to my new-old blog and hid almost all of the old posts, since I wanted to start over fresh without losing my old writings. 

So my blog has a grand total of three posts, as of today. 

Missed you guys.

Come visit me.

I'm now back blogging.

New blog.

I missed everyone.

*Note: New blog URL changed.

Okay, guys, this is my secondary blog. I only update this one

a) when I remember it; or

b) when Blogger's down.

My main blog has colors more interesting than this one's.

Visit me sometime. ;)

After nearly two years of plodding through mountains of philosophical books and other related crap, I have decided that I am as much of an expert as a semi-interested student can get on the subject.

Take advantage, therefore, of my reviews below of the following philosophers, if you ever get the urge to read them.

1. Aristotle: Writes quite clearly; probably the most straightforward of all the philosophers. He is also an elitist snob; he teaches you how to be good and happy only if you're rich and good already. Snob.

2. Michel Foucault: Tells lots of stories that are historically inaccurate (interesting, though). He has the French sickness of talking too much. (My apologies to French people who might be reading this. It's only a sickness when applied to philosophers, I assure you. Otherwise, it's a most delightful trait.) It's not enough for him to say, "The ruler judges." He has to say, "The ruler, holder of life and death, executioner, judge, hands out the death penalty, deals out the consequence, punishes, etcetera." He should get a job as a thesaurus.

3. Gabriel Marcel: Stupid, annoying man. Everyone who has ever read him hates him, with the exception of a few blind philosophy teachers. Even Father David concedes that Marcel "has a tendency to ramble". That is the understatement of the year. He's like this guy who's trying to find out where his dog went, and the next second he's suddenly ironing a skirt. Something like that.

4. Descartes: Has quite some interesting thoughts. All the philosophers after him built on what he started, then dissed him because they saw loopholes in what he did. Poor guy. Ungrateful pigs. He also rambles, though. And he made the Cartesian plane in math. Ugh.

5. Hannah Arendt: Great thoughts on power and violence. Was in a concentration camp during the Holocaust, and survived. Read her. She's still alive, in the States today.

6. Heidegger: Was Arendt's lover before WWII, then he became a Nazi (isn't that rich?). Pretty lucid writing, although he does like to pepper his works with lots of German phrases (probably because he's German) that you then have to remember the meaning of throughout the book. Selfish Nazi pig.

7. Plato: Boring. Revolutionary, though. He could afford to be because he was from one of the reigning families in Greece. The antithesis, more or less, of his ultra-conservative student (erratum fixed, thanks to Marcelle) Aristotle.

8. All the other Hellenistic philosophers: Weird people. Their thoughts were extreme, even for today. For instance, the Skeptics didn't want to believe in anything at all, except in the belief that you shouldn't believe in anything at all. The Stoics advocated self-centeredness, and the Epicureans were Freud-clones. Liked to write everything in poetry and drama. Weirdos.

9. St. Thomas Aquinas: Now I don't want to say bad things about a saint, but I don't think anyone ever taught him the rules of sentence structure. For instance, a sentence is supposed to consist of maybe one independent clause, with one hang-on clause. Aquinas's sentences have ten independent clauses, and five hang-on clauses, all in the most unintelligible words he could find, of course, in his pocket dictionary. Ass.

Those are just the more prominent philosophers we have the misfortune (for the most part) to keep encountering in this life. Avoid them (except Arendt).

Class dismissed.

No, it isn't what you're thinking.

My mom's not a dirty old lady, you pervert, you.

I don't know if it was something she ate, but she suddenly started pestering me with a list of her friends' sons whom I should meet. This guy, she said, is twenty-four, cute, and a graduate of La Salle. That guy's a computer engineer, he's twenty-six, etcetera.

She must've thrown six guys in my face over the break.

Not that I actually met them, mind. I used all the tact and diplomacy Nature has gifted me with, and said, quite eloquently, "NO."

My friend told me, "You're crazy. Go meet them. At least they're cute."

I rolled my eyes and said, "No way. If we met, the whole time we'd be thinking, 'Man, we were set up by our mothers.' Jeez."

As I said, my mom's getting weird. Maybe it's an onset of the oh-my-god-i'm-getting-old-and-my-kids-haven't-given-me-grandchildren crisis yet. At least, I hope it is, and not a my-kid-is-a-loser-who-probably-won't-get-married-before-i'm-dead-so-i'm-gonna-fix-her-up case.

In any case, I'll do the finding, and thanks anyway, Mom.

Psycho Philo Prof

(Say that title ten times fast.)

We're sitting in class, and the bell rang five minutes ago, but as usual, Father David's talking on, and taking a while to wind it up. He's a terrific speaker, but I've been sitting listening to philosophy for an hour and a half already, so I'm in a semi-daze.

Suddenly, his voice level changes, and he begins yelling.

Apparently someone in the far corner of the room let out an audible yawn, and Father David was mortally offended.

"I know you'll be too cowardly to tell me who you are," he snarls, glaring in the general direction of where the sound came from, "and what you just did is stupid! If you can't keep your yawns to yourself, why don't you just leave the class? Your classmates are sitting here trying to learn, and here you are disturbing them!" Etcetera.

And then comes the punch line.

"Whoever you are," he says, in his extremely cultured and well-modulated voice, "why don't you just take it and shove it up your ass!"

(Keeping in mind that he is a Jesuit priest.)

For some reason, this suddenly struck me as extremely funny, and I nearly burst out giggling inanely right there. (And then the papers would have read Student Strangled By Philosophy Professor, or maybe Professor Has Conniption, Dies. Something tragic, anyhow.)

I managed to restrain myself until he finally dismissed us (terribly late for my next class, sigh), and then started howling outside (out of earshot, of course).

My friend shook his head, not finding it funny at all, and asked me, "Don't you think that--well, maybe he's just a bit psycho?"

Well, now that you mention it, I do think he's not just a bit nuts, but a whole lot. But heck, he's brilliant, too, and I'm learning. Toss the coin.

* * * * *

Father David told us the other day that the profs are required to have a kind of bell-curve when giving grades. Like, there should be some top marks, some bottom ones, and most of the people get mediocre grades. If you don't conform to this, you get called in by the chair (that's what he said, anyhow. I'm picturing a real impressive-looking armchair, with real leather and no flowery patterns, you know?) and they start pestering you about why you don't have a bell-curve in your grading system.

Father David gives extremely good grades for the most part (except if you're late or dumb), but the chair doesn't call him in anymore.

"They're scared of me," said Father David.

Apparently, the few times they called him in, he got mad and began yelling at them.

(Being yelled at by Father David, of course, is no joke. Not only does he have impressive lung power, he's also never at a loss for words and cutting expressions.)

So now he gives out all the good grades he wants, and nobody bothers him.

Whoopee.

Several times along Katipunan Avenue, and a couple of times near my old high school, I've been accosted by strange characters. They can actually be classified into two categories (dang, I sound like a science teacher here).

The first kind is the two-women-with-a-child /one-woman-with-two-children kind (which looks exactly the way it sounds). It usually goes like this: The women and children stand on a corner, or on the sidewalk, with two or three large travel bags around their feet, until some likely-looking idiot (like me) comes by. Then one woman approaches me while the children look hungry and pathetic in the background. And the woman says (in Filipino), "Excuse me, Miss, but we're stranded here and we're trying to get back to the province. We don't have enough money. Could you give us some?"

I think I fell for this twice before I got suspicious. The first time was near our high school parish, and, as I said, the women-and-children team came up to me and my friend and went into their song and dance. My friend and I were startled, to say the least, as it was our first experience with anything like that.

Finally I dug into my pocket, discovered I had no money, and said to my friend, "Give her twenty pesos."

He did, and the women and children thanked us and went away.

Then we had a conversation that went something like this:

Mark: Why did you tell me to give her money?

Me: Because I don't have any.

Mark: (exasperated) No, I mean, for all you know, they could be panhandlers or something.

Me: Oh. But, well, wouldn't you rather have lost your money to a panhandler than to take the chance of turning down someone genuinely in need?

Mark: (digesting this) Hmm. Okay.

Me: Wait. If you thought they were panhandlers, then why did you give them the money in the first place?

Mark: Because you said so.

That last part wasn't really relevant, but it was funny, anyway. The next incident was when I was walking along Katipunan Avenue, near the turn for Aurora.

Another woman-and-children team came up to me and gave me the same story. Now, I'm not a complete idiot, and I thought there was something funny about there being two sets of women and children, all stuck in different parts of the city, and resorting to the same begging business to get back home. But I thought, heck, maybe there's been a province-to-city migration thing recently, or something, so I'll give them the benefit of the doubt.

So I said, "Okay," and drew out a twenty-peso bill.

The woman said, politely enough, "Er, that wouldn't be enough."

I said, rather surprised (I mean, do you tell the giver that what he's giving isn't enough?), "So how much would be 'enough'?"

She said, "Maybe a hundred pesos."

My eyebrows shot up at that, and I said, "I'm sorry, but that's all I've got," and left them with the twenty pesos.

* * * * *

That was the last time I fell for anything like that. Since then, I've been accosted several times, and each time, I've told them politely that I'm just a student, and don't have money either. Perhaps some of them may have been the real thing, and may just have been there, along Katipunan, where there are no conceivable jobs or stations for newly-arrived-from-the-province people, by coincidence. Along Katipunan, where rich and gullible students from privileged universities hang out. And perhaps I'm really a doughnut in disguise.

I remember what I said to my friend, about preferring to have lost money to a panhandler than miss out on a chance of helping someone genuinely in need, and I find that, somewhere along the way, I have lost that ideal, and gained cynicism.

Aristotle says that we must give wisely, and not indiscriminately, and I do not have money to throw away on swindlers.

And on the off-chance that some of them really are from the province and are stuck here and don't have money to get back home, well, tough. They oughta have thought of that before coming here.

I used up all my compassion long ago, ain't that sad.

* * * * *

The second type of panhandler is the guy who hangs around with little religious ceramic figures or cheap God 'hearts' you stickers no one in their right mind would stick anywhere. Yeah, you know the guy I mean.

He accosts everyone who passes by and pesters them to donate money to his church, and in return they get a cheap figurine/ cheap sticker.

I encountered his type, too, near our high school parish (yes, it's a school for the Chinese, and therefore, thought to be for the rich--which is probably why it's a prime target).

I was walking with a friend (different guy), and this dark fellow comes up to us and starts blathering on about how we should give to our fellow brothers and help the church, etcetera. Mostly to shut him up, my friend took out his wallet and donated fifty pesos, and the guy had us sign his list. (Why? I don't know. Maybe to hit us up for more money next time?) And then he gave my friend a little plaster figurine which was so ugly my friend threw it down a gutter later on.

Some time after this, I was walking in the same area, and a guy comes up to me, giving me the same pitch. I don't know if it was the same guy--can't remember the face. Anyway, he gave me the same ooga-booga stuff, and was practically forcing the figurine into my hand and asking for donations in return.

I said, "Are you selling this figurine?"

He said, "No, it's free. A token from our church."

I said, "So I'm not getting this in exchange for money?"

He said, "No. It's free."

So I said, "Okay, I don't have any money," and turned away with the figurine.

He promptly snatched it back and went away.

(I was of two minds as to whether I should start debating logistics with him, and on the disparity between what he just said and what he just did, but decided I might actually win and end up with the ugly figurine. Yech.)

* * * * *

Now, along Katipunan, there's another money-for-the-church clone, extorting money from the rich students passing by. He irritates me because each time I pass, he blocks my way and pesters me to give money, and wastes my time. If he doesn't watch it, I'm going to take up kickboxing and boot his ass back to his church.

About that church. Do you think it really exists?

I don't. Or if it does, it's a pretty pathetic excuse for a church. I'm not going to argue dogma or religious practice here, but there seems to be something wrong about a church that sends out people to harass other people (who aren't even members of their church) to 'donate' money.

I know the Salvation Army sends out Santa Clauses to stand on corners ringing bells, with empty kettles beside them, to wait for donations from people. But that happens once a year, and the Santa Clauses are cute, and they don't run around harassing people either.

* * * * *

Somebody kick these panhandlers outta here already.

I don't know why, but I haven't been in the mood to blog lately. Nothing much seems blog-worthy, and when something interesting does happen, it seems like too much trouble to write it down.

Ah, well.

Philosophy Terror

Conversation I've had a number of times:

Friend: Hey! So who're you taking for Philo 104?

Imo: Father David.

Friend: (eyes bulging) Father David???

Imo: Yup.

Friend: Why, were you late for reg or something?

Imo: No, I took him on purpose. Wait, listen, it's because--

Friend: Hahahahahahahahaha! HaHAAAAAAAAA!

And he runs off to tell everyone about the idiot who took Fr. David on purpose.

(For those who don't know: Fr. David is this brilliant but extremely demanding Jesuit prof of philosophy who just about kills you when you're late or absent at all. The accumulated readings he gives out over the course of the sem reach to your knee. I kid you not.)

Since no one ever stays around to hear why I took Fr. David, I'm going to let it out of my system here.

Actually, it had to do with the schedule. There were only two English Philo 104 classes that fit into my sched--Father David's and some anonymous new guy. Better the devil you know than the devil you don't, as the old saying goes.

But hey, there are a lot of perks that come with this class. Listen, and drool.

First of all, we're finishing a month in advance--January 26 instead of late February (standard end of classes for seniors). Apparently Fr. David has to go to Boston to lecture there or something, so we're having one-and-a-half-hour classes MWF, instead of the standard one hour.

Second, we don't have any quizzes, long tests, or projects. We don't even have finals! Or orals! (I'll elaborate on that later.) All we have are two humongous papers and a symposium.

The papers have a minimum length of 12 and 14 pages respectively, 1-inch margin on all sides, 1.5 spacing and size 10 font. You can just imagine how long they're gonna be. And they have to be heavily researched and footnoted and all that--sorta like a baby philosophy thesis, I guess. Sigh.

The symposium's at the end of the sem., and what happens is that selected students will present their 2nd papers and argue them. Those not presenting anything have to attend anyway, and there'll be food. And it's going to be open to the public.

People who want to be included in the symposium have to pass their 2nd paper 2 weeks in advance, and argue them or something.

So why would anyone want the extra hassle of doing a paper early and presenting at the symposium?

Well, Father David practically guaranteed that anyone who presented at the symposium would get a final course grade of A.

Holy cheese!

Unexcited as I am at the thought of doing that tiresome paper early and arguing it in front of a couple hundred people, that almost-guaranteed A is a carrot I can't resist.

Ah.

* * * * *

Fr. David looks like a dignified old chauffeur. Gray-white hair, maybe late forties or fifties, tall, strongly built. And it's a positive treat to hear him lecture.

You can always tell how good a teacher is by the number of heads turning to look when a door opens or closes.

No one even blinks when a door opens in our classroom--everyone's too busy staring spellbound at him, hanging on to every word.

Fr. David has a voice like an American lecturer, a mind like a philosophical encyclopedia, and the eloquence to imprint his thoughts on your mind.

I am so glad I'm taking him.

* * * * *

Fr. David is also obsessed about punctuality. Anyone who comes in late--well, let's just say it's better not to come in at all.

But being absent isn't that much better. Anyone who cuts a class has to submit a one-page summary the next meeting of the discussion he missed, and Fr. David calls on him about 20 million times during class to recite. And not with questions like, "How did you feel when your dog died?" either.

There was this girl Audrey who cut a class of Father's. She knew his system of repeatedly calling on the absentee the next meeting, so she spent the whole day (before the class) studying and studying and studying.

Come class time. Father David quotes a line of Aristotle, turns to Audrey, and says, "And where can you find that line?"

Without missing a beat, Audrey looks at him and answers, "In Nicomachean Ethics, Book 4, Chapter 2, page 68, Father."

Father David paused for a few moments in shock, then went on with the lesson.

And he didn't call on her for the rest of the session.

* * * * *

He's also mad about passing papers on time. Everyone must be in his proper seat when the bell rings, and must have passed his paper by then. All late papers automatically get an F.

There was this time when the students were assigned a paper that was 30 percent of their final grades. So, when the day came for the papers to be passed, everyone was in his seat, paper passed. Except for one guy, who hadn't arrived yet.

The bell rang. Father took out the class list and began calling the roll, his voice the only thing you could hear in the room. Everyone maintained total silence and order in Father David's class.

"Abadia, Ang, Baylon, Ching, Concepcion, Cruz--"

The door banged open abruptly, and a dishevelled guy barged in, bellowing, "Father, I'm here!"

Then he charged down the aisle, with everyone's eyes following him, and placed his paper on the teacher's desk. Then he said, "Father, can I be excused?"

Father David said, "Why?"

The guy answered, embarrassed, "Well, uh, you see, Father, I hit another car just now, and left and ran here to pass my paper first. I've got to go back and talk to the other guy now."

Father David said, "All right," and the guy rushed away.

Then Father David picked up the guy's paper, and placed it in the other stack.

A student in the front row, unable to restrain herself, said, "Father, how come his paper's in the other stack?"

Father David answered, "It doesn't matter if you're 30 seconds or 30 minutes late. You're still late."

* * * * *

Poor guy.

But hey, I wonder what the guy in the car he hit thought. I mean, here you are, driving along, when suddenly you collide with another car. And instead of climbing out and coming over to discuss the accident with you, the other guy springs out and rushes off in the opposite, madly waving a bunch of papers. And probably leaving the door open and the engine running. And the guy's probably screaming, "Father David! Father David!" as he runs.

No wonder we're all mad.

A Cut-And-Dropped Story

While we're on the subject of lateness, I might as well add another story here, although it doesn't fit in the Fr. David category.

There's this history prof named Dr. Rodriguez, and she told this story herself.

She had a student who exceeded the maximum allowed number of cuts (nine for MWF classes) and was dropped from the class.

The next sem, she was surprised to see the same student sitting in her class again, smiling at her. "Hi, Ma'am," he said. "I know I can pass your class! I'm not going to overcut anymore!"

"Okay," she said, amused. "Just make sure you don't, because I don't bend the rules."

The guy cut class exactly nine times.

Then, one day, his car broke down on the way to school, and he was late to class.

Dropped again.

Then the next sem, Dr. Rodriguez called the class to order and found the same student sitting in her class again. He said, "Ma'am, I know I can make it this time. Just wait and see."

Dr. Rodriguez said, "Okay, but don't overcut again."

The guy limited his cuts to exactly nine again, and made it all the way to the last day without incident.

On the last day of classes, however, this guy was walking at Xavier when the first bell rang. (Meaning he had ten minutes to get his butt to Bellarmine (a.k.a. Bel), where the class was held. Maybe the length of a football field and a quarter.)

He began hurrying to class, when he suddenly tripped and fell.

Upon getting up, he discovered that he'd wrenched his ankle, and couldn't put much weight on it.

So he dragged his lame leg all the way to Bel.

And up the four flights of steps to the 3rd floor, and to the classroom.

But he was late--getting there a few minutes after the 2nd bell had rung, and was dropped again.

He didn't take Dr. Rodriguez again.

* * * * *

I know it's kinda pathetic--the guy and his situation, I mean, but it's so darned funny! Hahaha! I laughed for ten minutes when I first heard the ridiculous thing!

And the "Father, I'm here!" story ain't half-bad either.

Hahaha!

I've got nothing much to post at the moment, so I'll put in here a funny email I got. Apparently Arnold Schwarzenegger is running for, is already, or is being kidded about being, the governor of California. Anyway, check it out.

The new California governor has just announced an agreement whereby English will be the official language of the state, rather than German, which was the other possibility.

As part of the negotiations, The Terminator's government conceded that English spelling had some room for improvement and has accepted a 5-year phase-in plan that would become known as "Austro-English" (or, perhaps even better, "Austrionics".)

In the first year, "s" will replace the soft "c". Sertainly, this will make the sivil servants jump with joy. The hard "c" will be dropped in favour of the "k". This should klear up konfusion, and keyboards kan have one less letter.

There will be growing publik enthusiasm in the sekond year when the troublesome "ph" will be replaced with the "f". This will make words like fotograf 20% shorter.

In the 3rd year, publik akseptanse of the new spelling kan be expekted to reach the stage where more komplikated changes are possible.

Governments will enkourage the removal of double letters which have always ben a deterent to akurate speling. Also, al wil agre that the horibl mes of the silent "e" in the languag is disgrasful and it should go away.

By the 4th yer peopl wil be reseptiv to steps such as replasing "th" with "z" and "w" with "v".

During ze fifz yer, ze unesesary "o" kan be dropd from vords kontaining "ou" and after ziz fifz yer, ve vil hav a reil sensibl riten styl.

Zer vil be no mor trubl or difikultis and evrivun vil find it ezi tu understand ech oza. Ze drem of a united urop vil finali kum tru.

The Secret Of Love

I found this beautiful essay by Max Lucado in a book. I hope I'm not infringing any copyright jazz by putting it here, but as this is a personal blog with no profit whatsoever anyway, it probably doesn't matter.

Read it slowly. It's worth it.

These words are ancient jewels mined from the quarry of life. Read them only if you dare treasure them. For it would be better to never know than to know and not obey.

The hand that writes them is now old, wrinkled from the sun and labor. But the hand that guides them is wise--wise from years, wise from failures, wise from heartache.

I travel from city to city. I buy jewels from the diggers in one land and sell them to the buyers in another. I have weathered nights on stormy waters. I have walked days through desert heat. My hands have held the finest rubies and stroked the deepest furs. But I would trade it all for the one jewel I never knew.

It was not for lack of opportunity that I never held it. It was a for lack of wisdom. The jewel was in my hand, but I exchanged it for an imitation.

I have never known true love.

I have known embraces. I have seen beauty. But I have never known love. If only I'd learned to recognize love as I have learned to recognize stones.

My father taught me about stones. He was a jewel cutter. He would seat me at a table before a dozen emeralds.

"One is true," he would tell me. "the others are false. Find the true jewel."

I would ponder--studying each one after the other. Finally, I would choose. I was always wrong.

"The secret," he would say, "is not on the surface of the stone; it is inside the stone. A true jewel has a glow. Deep within the gem there is a flame. The surface can always be polished to shine, but with time the sparkle fades. However, the stone that shines from within will never fade."

With years, my eyes learned to spot true stones. I am never fooled. I have learned to see the light within.

If only I'd learned the same about love.

But I've spent my life in places I shouldn't have been, looking only for someone with beautiful hair, a dazzling smile, and fancy clothes. I've searched for a woman with outer beauty but no true value. And now I am left with emptiness.

Once I almost found her. Many years ago in Madrid I met the daughter of a farmer. Her ways were simple. Her love was pure. Her eyes were honest. But her looks were plain. She would have loved me. She would have held me through every season. Within her was a glow of devotion the likes o0f which I've never seen since.

But I continued looking for someone whose beauty would outshine the rest.

How many times since have I longed for that farm girl's kind heart? If only I'd known that true beauty is found inside, not outside. If only I'd known, how many tears would I have saved?

True love grows from within and grows stronger with the passage of time.

Heed my caution. Look for teh purest gem. Look deep within the heart to find the greatest beauty of all. And when you find the gem, hold onto her and never let her go.

For in her you have been granted a treasure worth far more than rubies.

Seek beauty and miss love.

But seek love and find both.

Food For Thought

The average male checks out a woman in the following order: legs, face, breasts (face and breasts interchangeable).

The average female checks out another woman (not in that way!) in the following order: hair, shoes, bag.

We use, on the average, 10 percent of our brains. Albert Einstein used 70% of his. Other than that, scientists have found absolutely no difference between Einstein's brain and that of the average individual.

The eagle is the only living sighted creature who can look at the sun without blinking.

It has suddenly dawned on me that a lot of my friends are running for Latin honors. (As in, cum laude, magna cum laude, etcetera.)

They have been maintaining disgusting GPAs of 3.5, 3.7, and so on (with 4.0 being the highest).

(I, on the other hand, intermittently land on the lower segment of the Dean's List, more or less by luck; and that is the extent of my academic achievements. Last semester I wound up with 3.33. The cutoff point for the Dean's List is 3.35. Such is my life.)

This means that either the whole world is getting Latin honors, or I am a peasant associating with academic aristocrats.

Either thought is depressing.

Not that I hold it against them--I think they're Wonderful People for getting *choke* Latin honors, probably beavering away all along while I was reading cheap novels and eating Ruffles, and I hope they get a medal so big they trip on it.

Just kidding.

No, really, what gets to me, I guess, is that I could've gotten better grades. I've coasted along in college, doing last-minute papers, forgetting to study for tests, forgetting there was a test, falling into a coma in class, maximizing my cuts. I've only listened and taken notes when I really liked and respected the teacher (2 Philosophy profs, 1 Eco, 2 Comm), and winged the rest.

I wish I'd worked harder.

As it is, my cumulative GPA is somewhere in the boring neighborhood of 3.20 or so. I think. The hiring executives are not going to take one look at my transcripts and say, "Wow! Where have you been hiding, you Einstein, you?"

For my swan song, I've decided to obtain a 4.0 this sem. Just so I know I can do it. (Highest I ever got was 3.8, I think. Pretty far.)

Unfortunately, I'm still a slacker at heart, and have to prod myself to study. (The spirit is willing, but the flesh is dead.)

So if you see me slipping, give me a prod, will you?

"Oh, You're Only Comm"

A friend and I are talking. I say, "Hey, did you hear so-and-so is running for cum laude?"

He says, "Yeah, but she's only Comm."

And several other similar incidents, all ending with the same punch line.

"She's only Comm/ IS/ Humanities/ etcetera."

I'd like to know where these people get off belittling other people's courses.

Oh, I know they don't mean it in a spiteful way, and some even say it jokingly, but all throughout there is a definite and pervasive air of superiority toward these courses.

I've met a lot of people in BS courses (which means Bull Shit--no, I'm kidding--they're courses with math) like Management and Computer Science and Information Systems, and, without exception, they all carry the belief that most, if not all, AB courses are much easier than theirs.

And they toss their heads and say, "Comm lang yan" when they hear about someone with a superlative GPA.

I don't know much about the IS (Interdisciplinary Studies) and Humanities and other AB courses, so I'll stick to Comm (Communications).

Quite a lot of these people have never taken a single Comm class in their lives. They carry a vague picture in their heads of Comm majors as people who go around singing and dancing through classes, making films and maybe passing a paper once in a while.

Just as bad are the people who have taken a Fr. Nic class (film classes famous for being easy A's--watch films, write papers, and that's it), and think they know the Comm curriculum already. "Man, all their classes must be like that," they say. "How easy."

And they say, "Big deal. If I were a Comm major, I could get a 3.9, too."

If I had a stun gun, I'd give them all a collective zap. Just for fun. Zap and zap and ZAP!

But we're digressing.

What these people don't take into consideration is the fact that, of the 136 or so units that Comm majors carry, only 36 of these are Comm subjects. The rest are Philosophy, Theology. History, Economics, and all the other classes everyone is required to take. Comm students don't get easier core classes because they're Comm. They get the same classes as Management Honors majors do, and the grades from those classes make up 75 percent of their GPA.

Quite a few of the Comm classes--like Comm Research, Comm Theory, Media Law and Ethics--are just as hard, if not harder, than the Marketing classes Management people are so proud of. (You'll excuse the personally aimed attack on Management--it's just that all the denigrators I've heard from so far are from Management.) There are loads and loads and LOADS of readings, exams, and boring lectures to get through, and the Comm teachers' weird personalities do not preclude their having high standards. (One Comm teacher, for example, says that a C+ is already "above average".)

And I have a problem with this view of Comm classes being "easy". Yes, a lot of them are fun. Comm people have fun in their classes, because that's what they love to do, and that's why they're majoring in Comm. People who hate their Management classes and remain in Management...well, if you compare them with Comm people who are in Comm and love it--well, let's just say I don't think the Comm people would come out as the dumber group.

But fun does not equal "easy". Comm classes require a tremendous amount of creativity and productivity--reports and projects and papers are major factors, and yes, surprise, surprise, there are also tests and finals and orals. There are readings and notes, same as always.

The Management people are forever holding out their Accounting and Finance classes as shining examples of how hard their course is. Then they look at compare Comm classes like Fr. Nic's to their Accounting, and conclude patronizingly that Comm majors have it so easy.

This is akin to a Comm major looking at the Marketing classes of Management people, wherein they create products and devise ways to sell them, and saying, "Hah! That's all you do? Management is so easy!"

On this Accounting and Finance topic. The Comm people went into Comm because they love Comm, and it's what they're good at. Communications majors are good at communicating--through print, graphics, art, film, and in person. They are usually already skilled at it when they enter the course, and their skills are honed to a sharp edge by their training.

The non-Communications people who look at the Comm people's achievements and conclude that they could just hop in anytime and do the same with their hands tied behind their backs ARE IDIOTS. Read my lips.

The Management people are--or should be good in Accounting and Finance because it's what they're being trained in. And it's what they voluntarily chose to take, when they decided to go into Management.

There is nothing especially wonderful or magnificent about the fact that Comm majors have Research class and Management majors don't. And there is nothing especially wonderful or magnificent, either, about the fact that Management majors have Accounting class and Comm majors don't.

And I suppose what I'm really trying to say is, Comm classes are not easy--don't kid yourself, buster. Comm people who get good grades work for them. And the belittlers should do the same instead of whining about their Accounting and smugly denigrating Comm people's efforts.

And the next ignorant so-and-so who tells me I'm "only Comm" is gonna get a punch right in the kisser.

(Note: To any Management person who never said, "You're only Comm," to me--you're excluded from the general term 'Management people' when I talk about them. I use the term for convenience, but it is not intended as a generalization or a stereotype.)

And I'm not being sarcastic.

Bullshitting, according to the official slang dictionary that I shall shortly publish, is an art that has been honed to perfection over the centuries by that strange creature known as the Atenean. This peculiar activity involves the creature in question going off to an oral exam, or to its written essay exam, and finding that the test involves topics which it has never seen before in its life. (Due either to its not having studied or the teacher having a sadistic complex. Or both.)

The Atenean then, in a flurry of desperation, resorts to the extreme measures taught to it in the cradle of its freshman year--namely, bullshitting.

This does not involve, as the name implies, expurgating bodily wastes on a bovine of the male species. Rather, it is a term by which the Atenean draws on all the accumulated philosophical, theological, historical, economical and other interesting pieces of knowledge it has acquired in the course of its years in its natural habitat (the Ateneo); and proceeds to weave these bits of stock knowledge together and reel them off in an oratorical manner worthy of Desthemones himself.

Or, in the case of the written essay, the Atenean puts the paper together in his most floridly Shakespearean style, hoping that the beauty of his quotes, trivia, and sentence structure will blind the professor to the fact that the 1986 Revolution has nothing to do with the present-day advent of the shopping mall.

And many times, it works.

Not always, because the professor, the natural predator of the helpless Atenean, is naturally suspicious of any attempt on the latter's part to ingratiate itself with its natural enemy. Furthermore, the more experienced professors are alert to the Atenean's dangerously distracting tactic, and immediately nip it in the bud.

However, quite a few professors are unaware of this tactic, and would buy a car heater in the middle of the Sahara desert, if the seller were eloquent enough. These, then, are the more gullible of the predators, and may be induced to believe that the Atenean bullshitting is actually true, and will give the Atenean an A.

And then there are the professors who are aware of the bullshitting going on, but are open-minded enough to listen to it anyway, both for entertainment value and on the chance that the prey may actually come up with a brand-new twist to the topic. These are the mellowed-out predators, who are amused by their prey, and, amused sufficiently, may even cough up a B+. If the Atenean, in its wild mental gyrations of the moment, succeeds in thinking of something the professor had not, the latter may even award an A.

This practice has induced many Ateneans to neglect their natural habits of studying and doing research, and have staked their existence as Ateneans on the sheer strength of their bullshitting techniques.

Success depends, to a large degree, on the type of predator-professor involved, the amount of stock knowledge the Atenean has stored up, and on the degree to which it has polished its bullshitting tactics.

Shameless Self-flattery (But What The Heck, It's True)

I took a Creativity class last year, and the professor suddenly made us each take five minutes in front to talk about whatever topic he'd give us, then and there. He gave me 'green', and I rambled on about how green has always been there, nature, etcetera, and then dredged up some trivia I carry around in my head. (Example: green light will make plants grow faster.) We were videotaped, and he called us each later to talk about it.

He said, "Imo, you are a true Atenean and a champion bullshitter, and that you can have a splendid career in law if you choose."

Hah. I was flattered.

But I think I'll pass on the law.

* * * * *

This bullshitting, better known as pambobola, or, in Atenean dialect, making bola, has saved my life countless times.

I am the laziest person I know, but am also paranoidly afraid of shirking responsibility, or of failing. Bullshitting has therefore been the most wonderful tool for me--in class presentations, orals, papers, essays, and the like. My undiscriminating taste in all books under the sun except astrophysics has supplied me with a little knowledge or quotes about everything, and I always jam it in so that the prof is astonished and says, "Wow! You researched!" and gives me an A, or at least a B+.

Seriously.

* * * * *

I had my Theo orals yesterday, and just finished my History exam a while ago. The first thesis question was something I knew, but the second was something I'd forgotten. The History exam essay questions covered readings I had not finished reading (I think I was reading at a rate of around a hundred pages an hour at midnight already, and there were tons of readings!), so I just wrote a lot of rhetoric and worked in stuff I did know and connected it to the topic.

Yes, it wouldn't work with some profs, but fortunately it always works with these two (based on experience).

Thank God for bullshitting.

Like A Bad Penny

Yes, I know I said I wouldn't have time to post, but I'm waiting for 3 o'clock to come so we can have our mock defense with our adviser.

So, faced with a choice between sitting around twiddling my thumbs or blogging...

(And I forgot to bring my notes for tomorrow's exam. Grrr.)

Speaking of defense--as of now our only panelist is still the Great Terrifying Mrs. D. If we sink with her, there's no hope.

Agh.

Okay, for all those who asked.

Jax got an email from Zonkboard saying they're going to start charging for their boards anytime now, so I decided to revert to my old board at Tag-board.

Tag-board holds shorter messages (up to 200 characters only), but has smilies. There was a time when it went down for a few weeks, and everyone switched to Zonkboard. Now, however, they're up again, and seem to have better service (well...that's what they said).

You can change the colors and stuff when you sign in and go to the heading 'Style'.

(Dang, I sound like some great webbie god.)

Off To La-La Land

It's our finals week now, and I probably won't have time anymore to post after this. Also, our semestral break will commence from Oct. 18 to around Nov. 11. During that time I probably won't be able to post much--maybe just once a week or something, because it's only at school that we get free internet. Ah, well.

I'll probably go into blogging withdrawal, taken away from my near-daily fix--oh, well, think of me when you blog.

If you guys miss me, you can read my archives. Haha. (Nothing like a little self-promotion.)

Miss you guys.

For those who don't know, our reg numbers for next sem are out.

I'm number 216, out of the 656 students in the Social Sciences. Last sem I was 248. Ah, well. Not bad, and not good.

Ego-Soothing Linkers

Occasionally I check my referrers down on the bottom right of this page, and sometimes I find that someone I don't know has linked me.

Not in the usual sense of dropping by the tagboard and saying, "Hey, I like your post, etcetera," and I'll go to his blog and we trade comments back and forth and eventually link each other.

This is just a case of my checking out the linkers, and finding someone I've never met has quietly linked me.

Being the utter personification of shallowness, I am flattered.

Imagine! I'm like Dave Barry, or a Harry Potter fan site, or maybe even a half-way decent porn site. (I'm kidding, I'm kidding.) People just link me because--well, I presume because they like reading what I write, and not because they like the colors or whatever.

I suppose it makes me happy because, when I find a really good blog by someone who I somehow don't want to talk to--like, they're from another world, or are older, or are somehow intimidating--but I love what they write...well, that's what I do. Just link them quietly and check back once in a while to enjoy myself.

And I also found you can search for linkers here.

(Hey, I didn't sit around searching for linkers, okay? I was looking for an alternative message board, and stumbled on this one. I'm not that ego-hungry.)

Snapshots

I'm walking to my next class along the library walkway and meet a friend.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle," he says.

"Hey, Ron," I say. "Where ya going?"

He gives me an answer that sounds like he's got a frog in his throat. Okay, so he wants to talk to me in French today. French is not one of my languages, so I continue talking to him in English like everything's normal.

"So who's your teacher? How's she?"

"Mademoiselle Evelyn, la le...[foreign mumbo-jumbo]."

He answers in French, and I just barely get his meaning from context clues (like, Evelyn is still Evelyn in any language).

He's probably taking up French for his foreign language class this year. Duh.

"Hey," I say, as my building looms up, "remember the French students we had last year? You should've talked to them! Get a real feel for it, and all."

"Non le...[French stuff].." he hesitates, then resorts to English, "at the time. Don't know the French term for 'that time'," he explains.

I laugh, and leave him scratching his head and opening his French book to check.

* * * * *

Seven different-colored plastic drinking straws sprouting up from the soil in SEC A.

A small, thin bit of wood stands grandly among them, and scribbled on it in faint pencil marks is: Do not touch! These plants are a project for Dr...[indecipherable].

Plants?

* * * * *

A guy passes me carrying a huge wooden box under his arm, with a bow wrapped around it. He has flowers in his other hand.

Wonder who the lucky girl is?

Somehow I don't think they're for another guy.

* * * * *

Tough-looking guy in black T-shirt, sitting on a computer chair. He suddenly twirls around, and then coasts his chair down the aisle and back. The wheels make a whirring noise on the floor, and everyone looks up and stares.

He looks back nonchalantly, as if nothing had happened.

* * * * *

Plump, gray tortoiseshell cat patrolling the area in front of De La Costa. He escorts passersby in and out, and trots along beside them, face turned up appealingly.

He's probably hungry, but I don't have any food.

Next time, kitty.

* * * * *

Email from Philo teacher. Our weird orals (off-the-wall topics that never came out in the mile-long readings) were given points out of 20.

The highest is 16.

I get a 12.

Oh, well.

Am I going batty? Didn't we lose the championship to FEU?

Why is there a huge banner on Ateneo's gates saying, Ateneo Blue Eagles UAAP Champions 2003?

Me, Myself, And The Deadly D's

There's this terrifying teacher in the Comm Dept whom fellow Comm students will recognize immediately when I say that her name begins with a D and she's the only Advertising teacher who stays for more than a sem.

Mrs. D has a reputation for being arrogant, bitchy, demanding, unreasonable, and unpredictable. All of which are true. She tests us on her weekly columns, gives sudden projects and papers and orals due the next day, and asks impossible things. She can slice you to pieces with her tongue if she thinks you haven't prepared enough for whatever it is you're presenting, even if you have.

On the up side, though, she's mellowed out lately and she always tells the most interesting stories from the ad industry, because she used to be a big cheese at J. Walter before she retired. She's funny and gives practical tips, and I find I actually enjoy her classes.

Mrs. D likes students who are articulate, write well, and submit stuff with real research backing it up. Which means she likes me, more or less, which is a relief.

* * * * *

As of now, we have the dubious distinction of being the only thesis group for whom Mrs. D has signed up as a panelist.

(Mrs. D on our big D--defense! Haha, get it? Two D's! I think I'm going nuts.)

On the last day of our Ad Industry class, she told us to come into the room one by one (read off a list of names), and she spent 10-15 minutes with each of us, just talking.

She pulled out our old exam papers, and questioned us closely about our answers, asked why we hadn't answered more completely on number 2, etcetera. (She liked mine, thankfully, and just said, "Oh, good thorough paper." I couldn't remember a thing I'd said two months ago.) Then she said, "Oh, you write good papers, huh? And you were never absent? And you participate well in the discussions..."

Okay, let's count eggs before they hatch. I figure I've got at least one A now this sem.

Then more talk about what could be done to improve the class (we basically took the prototype version--guinea pigs, in effect), and then we started talking about career plans (I said I wanted to be a copywriter, and she was nodding happily).

Then, inevitably, she started asking about our thesis, and was really interested when I said it's on pro bono advertising. She asked for the sched, flipped open her organizer, and wrote it down.

"Sign me up for your panel," she said, "and give me a copy of your thesis."

* * * * *

We've got a guerrilla-style panelist now for our defense, and I think it's my fault. Sorry, dude.

I'm torn between being flattered and terrified.

I need a cookie.

On The Cute Guy

Okay, since you asked--yeah, he did miscall.

(By the way, it just occurred to me--does everyone know what miscall means? Is it a colloquial Philippine term? Anyway, it's when you call up a cellphone and hang up before the person answers, so that your number registers under 1 missed call.)

And no, I didn't text him or anything. Just saved the number, that's all.

Hmm, should I have called him? Or sent him a polite little text message saying thanks, etcetera?

Nah, waste of credits.

Anyway, I'm still too embarrassed. And he'd think it really was a set-up.

And yeah, Sinta, he's really a cutie. (Sorta the poetic type--lean and tanned with big, pretty eyes and great cheekbones.)

Be still, my heart. Haha.

Question And A Plug

First, is it true that zonkboard's going to start charging now?

Second, check out Ricebowl Journals, it's interesting.

I went to church with my family Sunday night.

After the service was over, we were standing in the activities hall and eating little finger foodies. My mother was going around and socializing noisily.

My brother and I were stuffing our faces with simply fabulous home-baked choco chip cookies when my mom called me over.

"Look," she said, "he's also a writer!"

There was a cute Fil-Am guy standing with her. I recognized him.

He'd played a lead role in a church play (not a corny one, our church gives great plays on Easter and stuff) and I'd been impressed because he could sing and act really well. My mom, who knows everything about everyone, told me afterwards that he was here from New York, studying literature at La Salle. (No, I don't know why he didn't stay in New York. Family stuff, I'd guess.)

Our conversation went something like this:

Guy: Hi, my name's Blake. (holds out hand to shake)
Me: (hurriedly dusts off cookie crumbs and shake it) Hi, I'm--
Mom: He's a writer! Like you! A writer!
Blake: (politely interested) Oh, you write?
Me: Yes--
Mom: He's writing a play! He wrote some before already! For pay!
Blake: (smiles) Oh, yes, I'm writing one for this Christmas--
Mom: You should exchange numbers! Cellphone numbers! So that you have contacts!
Me: (hissing) Ma...
Mom: Cellphone numbers! Cellphone numbers! (turns abruptly away to talk to someone else so I can't throttle her)
Blake: (politely) (looking amused) Okay, let's exchange numbers then...(takes out his phone)
Me: (embarrassed to death) Ah...well..okay.

I gave him my number, then just told him to miscall me, as I hadn't brought my phone. We made small talk for a while.

Me: (smiles) Hey, I saw you act in that play last Easter.
Blake: (thinks back) Oh...that one? (rolls his eyes sheepishly and grins) Oh, man, that was embarrassing! (we laugh) So, what do you write?
Me: Oh..I just write for..um, do you know Chalk and BusinessWorld Online? Just magazines...(neglects to mention that I haven't written anything this entire sem)
Blake: (smiles) Oh, magazines are great! How'd you get to work there? Just send in your resume?
Me: (watching Mom say something to my brother, then start off for the door, brother trailing after) Oh, well, actually, a friend of mine who used to write for BusinessWorld Online told me about it, and so I applied. And the same thing...(trails off as Mom and brother disappear out the door)
Blake: (following my gaze) Oh, you're leaving! Okay, I'll just miscall you, alright?
Me: (already starting for the door because I'm being left behind) Yes, thanks! See ya!

* * * * *

It turned out we weren't leaving yet, because Mom was just escorting a family friend out. We left in a short while anyway, and I harangued my mom in the car.

Me: How could you say that? That was so embarrassing!
Mom: What? It's important to have contacts!
Me: In writing? Besides, you don't just exchange numbers immediately! You're supposed to talk a while and then--
Mom: Nonsense! He's a foreigner! He won't know!
Me: What? I said--
Mom: It's important to have contacts!
Me: But--
Mom: (happily) Contacts! Contacts!

I sat and sulked for a while, then we started talking about something else.

* * * * *

I have the sneaking suspicion the guy thought my mother was trying to set us up, and what makes it even worse is that she wasn't. That's just the way she is.

It was made even more embarrassing because, once she started in about exchanging numbers, neither of us could politely refuse without offending the other. So we stood about exchanging numbers, like we were ever going to be calling on each other for help. ("Let's see now, I need help writing a play for my thesis defense..who should I call? Hmm...oh, yes, Blake's the man!")

I think I'll lie low around church for a while.

We did our separate editing parts and now we're putting the whole thing together. I'm the format-and-edit queen, so I'm doing it all now. (Marcelle's the bullshit king, as in, he can make pages and pages and pages of nice, high-falutin' bullshit that the profs fall for.)

Today's our deadliest deadline for the thesis. (Turned out Monday was the semi-deadline, so he could read it, give it back, and give some final pointers. Sheesh.) I've gotta go print out the stuff and photocopy 5 copies (2 extra, one for each of us to study for defense), and have them all ringbound.

This thesis is costing megabucks. Do you know how much ringbinding costs? Good, because I don't, but I have a hunch it isn't cheap. And then printing costs 3 pesos a page, and nice photocopies (well, they gotta be nice, defense copies, you know) are about 70 centavos a page. We've got about 63 pages at the moment.

That'd be...erm, I hate math...P409.50, without the binding yet. (And at estimated photocopying prices and page numbers, at that.)

Argh! I'll never become rich at this state! All the money I'm saving up is going to my stupid thesis!

I'll end up starving and SARS-ridden in some filthy gutter, probably, see if I don't.

Give me a few pennies when you see me.

The Call of the Wild

Of late, I have found myself becoming increasingly disillusioned with school.

At present, I am carrying 18 units, only 6 of which have any bearing at all on my course. The rest is unadulterated rubbish that we're required by law to study.

When I graduate, I will have finished 134 units (including physical education--heck, we pay for it and have to spend time on it, so why shouldn't the units counted as normal class units?) and only 36 of those are core curriculum.

I thought I was here in college to learn how to do the job I've chosen to do when I graduate, but instead, I find myself being bombarded by Philosophy, Theology, Economics, Political Science, History, Math, English, Filipino, Social Anthropology, Psychology, Science, and even 3 units of foreign languages.

Yes, the idea of being a well-rounded individual is very nice and all that, and we certainly wouldn't want to graduate knowing nothing about the world, but don't you think the time for that was in high school? We spent (well, at least at Saint Jude) 13 years of our lives learning about generalities and hyperbolas and gerunds and how Bonifacio died, all of which I will never use in life.

(I really honestly doubt that one day when I'm doing an ad, a client will suddenly rush in and demand to know the permutations of whatever, and I'll say, "Thank God we took that up 15 years ago in Statistics, I still remember it.")

* * * * *

I met an Ateneo alumnus at a gathering, and we began talking about all the subjects at school.

I said I couldn't see the point and resented wasting time on all those subjects.

He smiled condescendingly and said, "That's because you haven't been out in the real world yet. I was thankful for Philosophy and Theology, it taught me so much. You'll see, when you're older."

I punched him in the eye and went home.

No, just kidding. I nodded politely and said, "Oh, really?" then went to talk to someone else.

* * * * *

When I was doing my internship, I made friends with the people working in the creative department. My personal supervisor--a very nice senior copywriter named Arnie--had also graduated from the Ateneo, and she told me that she actually hadn't learned anything worthwhile in school. All the knowledge and experience she had in advertising had been gained on the job.

I heard the same thing from an art director at my other internship place (I did two).

* * * * *

As I said, all this well-rounded stuff is very nice and all, but, to quote Robert Fulghum, "all I really need to know I learned in kindergarten." Or learned it myself, in life.

Those people who are so keen on being well-rounded--let them take all those extra units of Math and Chemistry and History that they'll never put to use (at least when you're an advertising major).

Me, I'd fill up the 98 units with advertising-related classes, and some hands-on, too, so that I'll be a bit more prepared for when I enter the working world.

If I were being operated on, I wouldn't choose a surgeon who knew 80 percent medicine and 20 percent religious philosophy. (Although in my case, it's 27 percent advertising and 73 percent amalgamated crap.) I'd choose a surgeon who knew 100 percent medicine and wouldn't care if he'd never heard of Socrates.

Yes, I know it's possible for to know 100 percent medicine and 100 percent philosophy, but how many people do you find like that? And the way our education is going now, the balance has tilted so far that we're learning all this well-rounded rubbish at the expense of what we're really supposed to be studying.

* * * * *

My friend Leo is taking up architecture in the United Kingdom. His classes can be divided into three categories: math, physics, and art. All directly related to architecture. No useless crap.

They are free to take up extra electives if they wish, but are not forced to do so, and will, in all probability, graduate with a more complete knowledge of architecture than if they had studied in the Philippines.

* * * * *

If I were rich, I'd study abroad, too. But I'm not. (Leo's yearly tuition is one million pesos. I kid you not.)

If I were irresponsible, or weren't the eldest in the family, I'd drop out. But I'm not.

So I guess I have to stick it out for a few more months, and then I'm never going back to school.

At least here in the Philippines.

The Ateneo is littered with what seems to be hundreds of benches all over the campus, but you can't sit just anywhere, as you might think.

Groups of students usually adopt a particular bench as their own, and hang out on it at all possible times. They eat on it, sleep on it, talk on it, study on it, and in fact, do everything except pee on it. (And even that, actually, with the conio benches, but that's another story.)

It's usually okay if you sit on someone else's bench for a short while, or just once in a while; like to rest or fix your shoe or something. (Although there are some groups who, if you're sitting on their bench when they get out of class...well, they shoo you away.)

The trouble starts when a group tries to appropriate a bench that's already owned by another group. The group trying to swipe the bench is known as "squatters", because in the world of bench-owners, the first group to use a vacant bench "owns" it.

(Benches are vacated when the owners graduate.)

* * * * *

I passed my sister on the way here, and she was sitting on their bench in the sun.

I said, "Why are you sitting in the sun?"

She said, "I'm watching our bench."

Apparently, their block has been lucky enough (freshmen generally don't get benches) to snag a bench of their own. (We'll call this Block A.) One of them, however, invited a friend to sit with them sometime, and after that, the friend brought her whole block (Block B) with her. These days, Block B is always sitting there, so that Block A, the original owners, can't sit on it anymore.

The situation's kinda sticky, as Blocks A and B haven't declared outright war yet. They're nice to each other outwardly. The block A people, of course, fume inwardly when they see Block B sitting on their bench, and it isn't helped by the fact that Block B brazenly waves at them or sometimes ignores them, and continues sitting on the bench.

The Block A people don't know whether the Block B people are stupid enough to be oblivious to the fact that Block A does want to use the bench during those times, or whether Block B is already trying to steal the bench from them.

I told my sister, "Just tell them already, 'Get off our bench.' Or you could be nice and say, 'Get off our bench, please.'"

But confrontations are seldom pleasant, and of course, another unspoken taboo in the bench world.

* * * * *

I remember a friend of mine who told me (when I was a freshman--she was a year ahead) about the bench wars. There are always benchless groups trying to snag other groups' benches, so the bench owners always have to have at least one person there, guarding the bench.

See, a group will seldom come to sit on a bench that isn't theirs if someone's already sitting on it.

But of course, groups can't always have someone sitting on their bench, and that's when it's open for swiping.

If the invader group (for want of a better term) always sits on the bench, thus preventing the original owners from sitting there (there are some who will, as I said, chase away squatters; but most are nauseatingly polite, even when they're battling for the bench already)--well, after a while the bench becomes the squatters' property, because, after all, proof of ownership is the constant usage of the bench.

* * * * *

My original block (I'm a shiftee)--the Philosophy block--was lucky enough to get a bench in our first year. They tore up all the benches along EDSa walk and Kostka, etc., and rearranged everything, so the benches were up for grabs when they were replaced. What happened was that a benchless space was left in the far corner nearest the vending machine, bathroom, and drinking fountain. (Premium bench real estate because of these features)

One of our blockmates was a reporter for the school newspaper, and she interviewed the assistant dean for student affairs about something. Then, as they were chatting afterwards, the AD said, "So, does your block have a bench already?"

The girl said, "No, we weren't able to get one. I guess we'll have to wait a while..."

The AD said, "Oh, wait, you know that space in Kostka near the vending machine? We're having a bench placed there--your group can have that."

So we received the bench, in effect, like a gift from the hands of the gods themselves. Haha!

Anyway, so we got that bench. For a while, there were other groups trying to snag it for themselves, which annoyed us to death as it was ours--we were the first, and the AD had practically given it to us (well, from our point of view then, anyway).

We prevailed. It's definitely the Philo block's bench now, no contest. (They've had it for four years.)

Mel, Saria, and I shifted out after our second year, and we spend most of our time at the Comm Dept now. We don't get to hang out at our old block's bench anymore.

But we know that we can hang out there if we want, and we'll be welcome. And perhaps that's really what having a bench is all about.

* * * * *

On a more serious note, however, when you think about it, it's not really right that some groups should reserve the right to these benches, when all the students are paying the same tuition to access all the facilities on campus.

Ah, well. Since when has the world been fair?

Ack

I wasn't able to post yesterday because it was the submission of the Terrible T (thesis, for those who don't have to do it yet and therefore don't get what I'm talking about).

My stupid computer acted up and I lost all the stuff I'd typed (about ten pages) late Sunday night, so I stayed up the whole night redoing that and finishing up my part as well.

Around 3AM I started having hallucinations. As in, really. I was typing with my eyes closed, and would drift off into lala-land every few moments.

After a while I forced my eyes open and read what I'd typed. I'd written, "A greater number of case studies is recommended, in order to brbjgihts cookie sskkkkkjd...."

Three guesses as to what I was dreaming about.

Gawd, I hate doing a thesis!

Killer Tree

I was standing under Batibot tree (gigantic tree near parking lot) just after the rain had stopped, around lunchtime, when suddenly I felt a whoosh past my face and heard an almighty crash.

A huge branch had broken off and fallen right beside me. The force of its landing literally exploded it into little pieces, and tiny bits of bark covered my clothes.

If I'd been standing a few inches to the left...

I can just see the headlines. Killer Tree Nails Girl, Who Was Stupid Enough To Stand Under It...

School Spirit

I am in the CTC101 computer lab as I type this, and am currently being deafened by the screams and bellows of the crowd here. Someone has set up a huge TV/Powerpoint/slide thing, and there's a mob in here watching the Ateneo-La Salle game.

All over CTC and SEC are television sets with huge crowds seated around them, alternately watching in silence or exploding into bloodcurdling screams. Even the security guards are watching.

In here, the lights have been dimmed, so that the TV/Powerpoint thing looks like a movie screen, and it's eerie hearing the cheers in the dark.

The notorious Ateneo apathy is held at bay, at least, when it comes to basketball. Or, more precisely, basketball games versus La Salle. No other school could rouse such school spirit in us. (Like caribou, we flock together to stand against a common enemy.)

* * * * *

We've won! Hahahahaha! Take that, Gaco and all the jerk DLSU players who picked a fight with us! (No offense to La Sallians, but the zoom-in replay shows Gaco really antagonizing Tenorio. And my sis was there, she saw it.)

And pie in the face to all the people who said we couldn't win without Tenorio. Hahahaha!

* * * * *

This game was more exciting than the finals will be, I bet. Because it won't be against La Salle.

Mel, Nikki and I are walking down the EDSA walkway (what else can you do on a walkway but walk, har har), when they suddenly dart behind me and hide.

"What? What's going on?" I look around to see if we're suddenly being invaded by Afghanistan terrorists, or perhaps Columbine students.

"Sssh," Mel hisses, "There's a guard."

The security guard, wearing his neat dark blue uniform, is casually patrolling the far end of the walkway, and we watch, Nikki and Mel cowering out of sight, until he disappears around the corner.

I open my mouth to ask, then close it because, duh, there's only one reason you'd hide from a guard around here, if you're a student.

"We don't have our IDs," Nikki says, and we hurry along to where we're going, darting nervous glances around for more guards on the prowl.

* * * * *

A while back, there was a rash of thefts and holdups on campus--bags would disappear, cellphones were stolen, even books were taken (for Pete's sake); and near Gate 3, students walking by themselves would be approached by two shadowy figures announcing, "Pare, hold-up 'to." ("This is a hold-up, pal.")

The Ateneo then implemented the ID-wearing rule. This was how the students would be separated from the outsiders, because the thefts and robberies, they determined, was the work of an outside gang.

Anyone caught not wearing an ID has his name taken down and the list is sent to the Administration Office. Three warnings and you get some really heavy punishment, I forget what.

(I always wondered, though; what's to stop you from giving the guard a fake name, since you don't have your ID to disprove it, anyway?)

So far they've caught about 5 outsiders this way (there were 2 using stolen IDs, I think), and thefts have gone down 30%.

They're really proud of that.

* * * * *

Not to be a whiner, but why only thirty percent? What's so great about that?

If outsiders are generally being caught and kicked out already, and thefts have only gone down 30%, that means the other 70%, in all likelihood, stems from Ateneans.

Not a nice thought.

* * * * *

And even though the guards at Gate 2 may check your ID before you can enter, those at Gate 1 don't always do so, and those at Gate 3 don't do so at all. They're far too busy monitoring the traffic.

Also, anyone can get in and out without by taking a tricycle onto the campus. Duh.

* * * * *

Of course, this isn't to demean all that the administration and Student Council and everybody else has done. Thieves are annoying (actually, I think they're disgusting), and the steps being taken are working. They just need to patch up the loopholes.

* * * * *

It strikes me, though, that we're beginning to resemble the Soviet Union at the height of its Mother Russia thing. Guards patrolled the streets, pouncing on random citizens and demanding to see their papers (documents that proved they were citizens who weren't wanted by the KGB, and weren't spies, either). Anyone caught without papers were taken to the headquarters and tortured to find out what he was doing there.

Anyone without papers must be a spy, they said. Or a criminal.

It hasn't reached that stage, of course, in the Ateneo, as I said; but it makes you think.

School Theft

So far I've had just one item stolen on campus--back when I was in first year, and left a plastic bag with my new slippers in them in the gym. I went to the washroom, and when I got back they'd disappeared.

I was disgusted, to say the least (my word for the day).

They're stealing slippers? For Pete's sake.

Even if they were new, they're still rubber slippers.

I wish I'd had athlete's foot or some gross foot disease to transfer to the thieves.

* * * * *

I don't know if she'll appreciate me saying this, but Mel has had her cellphone stolen on campus about--uh, was it five times, Mel?

In at least one of those instances, it was certain that an Atenean was the thief. Because only Ateneans wearing an ID can enter the library (I somehow don't think it likely the outsiders with stolen IDs would dare try to enter--the guards really scrutinize you here).

Mel was sitting with her bag slung over her chair, and someone just passed by behind and must have thrust his/her hand into it to steal her phone. (It was an 8250, really pricey at the time.)

(Yes, what utter gall.)

I could tell a million other cellphone-theft stories on campus--apparently, the "men and women for others" maxim doesn't apply when it comes to cellphones.

But there are some nice ones, too.

I was leaving the washroom one morning when a girl--the only other one in there with me--came chasing after me. "You left your phone!" she said, holding it out.

"Oh," I said, "but it isn't mine."

It was a 6210--pricey at the time, too--and she said she'd bring it to the Lost and Found area, then.

Yes, she could have presumably just said that, and then gone off to keep it, but...I don't think so.

The good thing about having a name like Imo is that no one has ever heard anything like it before.

The bad thing about having a name like Imo is that no one has ever heard anything like it before.

"What's that?" they say. "Imok? Timon?"

And I spell it out for them. "Eye-Em-Oh. Imo."

"Oh," they say. And their eyes say, "How strange."

* * * * *

My friends back in high school all pronounced it the same. I-mo, with the i just a short one, emphasis on the second syllable. The o is pronounced the same way as 'hot', only it's cut off at the end, as if you suddenly choked off your air supply.

When I came to college, though, and introduced myself that way, people invariably misheard it. (Is it something with my tongue, or pronunciation, maybe? Or maybe I say it too fast?)

My college friends pronounce it all differently, anyway. Mel says it the way I first described it. Cliff calls me, "Eye-moe", presumably because he has nothing else to do. Mike says, "Eeeeeee-mow," and some other people, who are too many to mention, just say either "imo" like the original pronunciation but without cutting it off at the end, while others say "ee-moe", with a nice accent.

I answer to all, anyway--I don't care.

After a while, I got tired of having to repeat my name and spell it out for people, and started introducing myself as "ee-moe", and for some reason, people get that pretty fast. Maybe they just want to hear things with an accent.

* * * * *

Of course, now that it's "ee-moe", people come up to me and say, "Ee-moe. Hahahaha! That's like Nemo! Ee-moe, Nee-moe, get it? Hahaha!"

Sheesh.

I'd rather be Crush.

("Grab shell, dude!")

Site Problems

My site is taking an infernally long time to load. What's more, when it finally loads, it comes without the comments box.

Annoying site. Or maybe annoying Blogger. Or annoying server--really slow today.

Heck, they're all annoying.

Ah, well, all things come to those who wait.

I'll wait, even if it kills me.

I come across some terrific anecdotes every now and then, and I record them all in a little red book I have, and refer to them when I need to do a paper or something. (Thought I was going to have it published, didn't you?)

This is a nice one recorded by David Hocking.

* * * * *

Cyrus, King of Persia, was one of the most attractive and handsome monarches of ancient history, with his good looks and eloquence well-documented. When he walked into a room, his presence took it over.

After one of the battles in which Cyrus had achieved a great victory, he gave audience to a young prince he had captured, along with the prince's wife and children. He brought them into his tent, as was customary, to go over the terms of what was going to happen in light of the battle's outcome.

Cyrus looked at the prince, his wife, and his children, and said, "What will you give me if I set you free?"

The prince replied, "I would give you half of everything I own."

Cyrus thought for a moment and said, "What would you give me if I set your children free?"

The prince replied, "I would give you all that I possess."

Finally Cyrus looked at the prince's beautiful wife and asked, "What will you give me if I set your wife free?"

The prince answered, "Sir, if you will only set my wife free, you can kill me."

It is recorded that Cyrus was so touched by this show of devotion and sacrifice that he set the prince, his wife, and his children free and required nothing from him.

Later that same night as the prince was alone with his wife, he said, "Did you not think that Cyrus was an extremely handsome and articulate man?"

His wife looked lovingly at him and replied, "I did not notice. I had eyes only for the one who said he would give his life for me."

So, If You're Chinese, Tell Me...

I'm not sure what the population of pure Chinese living in the Philippines is, but we're definitely not on the verge of extinction.

However, from the way people act, you'd think we were.

"Really?" they gasp, eyes bulging. "You're pure? As in a hundred percent? Walang halo?"

(Uh, don't all those things mean basically the same thing?)

"Yeah," I say. "Why?"

They don't have any reason, they're just shocked. It's like they've been wanting to see a pink kangaroo all their lives, and suddenly I'm it. Whoop-de-doo. Always glad to oblige.

* * * * *

There was this obnoxious guy--a friend of Stagen's (who later on admitted to me that he didn't really like the guy either, sheesh)--who kept asking us, "Are you sure? Maybe there's a small percentage of Filipino blood or something? You're really pure?"

He did this several times, even after we'd assured him that yes, we were pure.

What, did we look so dumb that we wouldn't know our own ancestry? Like maybe we're really partly descended from giraffes or something?

Finally I got tired of it and asked him, "What about you, are you pure Filipino?"

He was startled for a moment, then quickly recovered and started talking about his partly Spanish blood. sheesh.

* * * * *

It doesn't stop there. It's gotten so I'd stake a million dollars on what's coming out of their mouths next.

They always say, "Is it true that you can only marry another pure Chinese?"

This is very interesting, I'm sure, but why the peculiar obsession with this particular aspect of our culture? Do they have plans to marry me? Do they plan to have a blood transfusion and turn themselves into pure Chinese?

I asked some, "Why? Are you dating anyone Chinese? Or have plans for dating one?"

"No," they say. And some don't even know anyone Chinese.

I'm usually tempted to say, as the zookeeper said to the woman who asked if the hippopotamus was a male, "Madam, that is a question that should be of interest only to another hippopotamus." But of course they'd probably be affronted if I said, "That should be of interest only to another Chinese."

So I take time to explain that it varies according to how traditional your family is, and what cultural background the other comes from (like, if he's Filipino but has been brought up in a Chinese household), etcetera.

Sigh.

I guess it's not the question itself, but the boring regularity with which it comes up.

Maybe I should print out 10-page essays and start handing them out...?

* * * * *

And then there're the common misconceptions that all Chinese are rich, all Chinese are good in math, all of them will either take over the family business or start up their own, and all of them should be in BS Management (or something similar).

And they're utterly shocked and disappointed to find out that I'm so not rich, I stink at math, we don't have any family business for me to take over, I have no plans (at least right now) to start up a business because that requires capital that I don't have, and that I'm in AB Communications.

Well, tough.

Sometimes I get tired of people trying to box me into their neat little stereotypes, and being surprised when I don't fit.

And they have the nerve to get mad when foreigners from abroad, whose only Filipino acquaintances are maids and ladies of doubtful repute, treat them accordingly.

People in glass houses and all that.

Tutorial Job

By the way, to anyone who's looking for a job, you might want to apply at Ahead Tutorial Center along Katipunan. Their office is somewhere between National Bookstore and Little Caesar's--sorry I can't be more exact, but I never notice landmarks.

The pay's by the hour, and pretty good--we're not allowed to tell, so I guess you'll find out when you're hired.

They accept applications all year round--just pass your resume and ID pic, and they'll call you to take a tutor's exam. If you pass that, there's a demo tutorial, and then an interview and finally a contract signing. And then you're home free.

Part-time tutors--like me--are texted job offers (like, Are you free next Monday and Wednesday to tutor a Grade 6 kid 3-5PM?), and you can accept them or turn them down. It's up to you.

So anyway, go for it! All tutors are young--either students from UP, AdMU, a few other schools, or they're pretty new graduates. The oldest, I think, is 27--the rest are around my age, more or less.

Ideal Guy

This is a follow-up of my post yesterday.

I remember Rex asking me some time ago what girls look for in a guy. (Obviously, he wanted to make himself over or something. Or pat himself on the back, if he already had what was needed.)

* * * * *

Me: Well, he has to be cute. Or at least attractive to the girl.
Rex: (preens) Yes...?
Me: *coughs* And he has to be a gentleman. You know, opening doors, etc.
Rex: (frowns intently) Mhm...
Me: And, uh, well, girls always like guys to be romantic and sweet. Flowers, chocolates and stuff.
Rex: (throws his hands up) Wala akong pera!
(We laugh. End of discussion.)

* * * * *

The money part wasn't the point I was trying to make, although, now that we've touched on it, it is kinda sad that guys who are short on cash probably have a much harder life trying to court girls.

* * * * *

So what's the ideal guy?

I can't speak for the entire female population, of course, so I think I'll just rhapsodize over what I want.

* * * * *

I want the guy I love to be crazy. That's a must. I've got a weird sense of humor--sometimes quirky, sometimes sarcastic, and sometimes slapstick. He has to be able to laugh with me--there's a different feeling around your heart when the one you love laughs with you.

He'll know me better than I do, and he'll know when tell me what I need to hear, when I need it, and when to keep it to himself, because it would destroy me. He'll know exactly how to fire me up with righteous fury, then reduce me to laughter in a few moments. He'd weep with me when I do, embarrassed but strong enough for both of us, anyway.

He has to be well-read and intellectual and capable of enjoying the shallowest things. He'll read Solzhenitsyn and debate the merits of Communism with me, and then laugh at himself when he falls into a mud puddle.

I'd like him to be neat, organized, tidy. Keep our house in order, because he'll have nesting instincts, even if I don't. He'll bake cookies and pay the milkman and take in the mail, and I'd earn money. He can earn money, too, if he wants, but he's gotta make a home. (I know this is a complete turnaround, but why shouldn't it work? And I bite the noses off any chauvinist pigs I meet, so watch it.)

He'll do what he has to do, and treat everyone the same, be they kings or slaves. He'll get along with everyone if he goes to a party, but he'll be a bit uncomfortable without me. He'll be sweet and annoying and bossy and capable, and he'll insist on helping me with whatever I'm doing, whether I want it or not. He'll open doors and pay the bills and fix the plumbing, and let me climb up trees to dream when it's raining, and greet me with a blanket and no scoldings after. He'll build his dreams and chase his stars, because he'll be both a dreamer and a doer, and he'll prod me into action, because I'm more of a dreamer than anything else.

* * * * *

Sigh. I don't think such a guy exists.

* * * * *

Dear Catherine,

I'm sorry I haven't talked to you in so long. I feel I've been lost. No bearings, no compass. I kept crashing into things, a little crazy I guess. I've never been lost before. You were my true north. I could always steer for home when you were my home. Forgive me for being so angry when you left.

I still think some mistake's been made and I'm waiting for God to take it back. But I'm doing better now. The work helps me. Most of all, you help me.

You came into my dream last night with that smile of yours that always held me like a lover, rocked me like a child. All I remember from the dream is a feeling of peace. I woke up with that feeling and tried to keep it alive as long as I could.

I'm writing to tell you that I'm on a journey toward that peace. And to tell you I'm sorry about so many things. I'm sorry I didn't take better care of you so that you never spent one minute being cold or scared or sick. I'm sorry I didn't try harder to find the words to tell you what I was feeling. I'm sorry I never fixed the screen door. I fixed it now.

I'm sorry I ever fought with you. I'm sorry I didn't apologize more. I was too proud. I'm sorry I didn't bring you more compliments on everything you wore and every way you fixed your hair. I'm sorry I didn't hold on to you with so much strength that even God couldn't pull you away.

All my love. G.

--Message In A Bottle

Half-Naked Guy

Sheesh, I'm on Friendster right now, looking through the gallery, and this pic of a nearly naked guy came up. He's wearing only these really short shorts, and nothing else, and posing in a He-man muscle-flexing position.

Well, to do him justice, he does have quite a few muscles to flex, but...well, jeez!

My prudish senses are affronted.

I Love Anything Related To Fantasy And Medieval Stuff!


You're a gryphon. You're very powerful without
needing to brag about it. Creativity is one of
your strong suits. Your outward personality may
change drastically according to your mood,
which is not always a good thing. You're a
loyal guardian when you choose to be and you're
aligned towards *good*.


What mythical beast are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Current Mood: loved

Love Is In The Air

Quite a few people I know through the blogging world are in love. Or are being plagued with thoughts of love, which is basically the same thing, haha.

Some have their feelings returned, some don't.

But why all this, anyway? It isn't spring yet, as far as I know. ("When a young man's thoughts turn lightly to love...")

Then again, "love knows no season"--some poet said that, I forget who. (I'm just full of quotations today.)

I wouldn't know, as I've never been in love.

"Never?" gasp the affronted lovers of the world. "How can you live like that?"

I cannot count the number of times people have asked me if I have a boyfriend.

"No," I say, and you'd think I'd just jabbed them in the eye with my G-Tech pen.

"GASP! But why?" they wail. They could not look any more shocked and mournful than if I'd announced I were a serial killer about to strangle them with my ID cord.

I have grown increasingly inventive in the reasons I give, as it's too boring giving only one reason.

* * * * *

To one I said, "I used to be married once, but he jumped off the carpark building at Megamall, and I've been grieving ever since," and showed her a picture of one of my guy friends in my wallet.

To another I said, "I have plans to enter the convent in a few years."

To an annoying girl who was looking at me with a superior poor-you air, I said, "Because I'm gay," and grinned at her suggestively, which got rid of her pretty fast. (If I were gay--which I'm not--I'd have better taste than to pick her, I hope!)

Etcetera.

* * * * *

I suppose, when you come down to it, it boils down to never having been in love. And the never having been in love part is probably because I've set high standards.

Too high, some will say, but I don't care.

There's a very definite kinda guy I'm looking for, and I'm not wasting my time with those who don't fit.

Also--and this plays a big part--I believe that when you date, it's with the intent to marry. You don't go playing around with hearts for fun.

And I'm not ready to settle down yet, or even to commit.

Footloose and fancy-free.

That's me, hah.

* * * * *

Incidentally, don't you think it's a terribly presumptuous and personal question for people to ask?

"Do you have a boyfriend, and why not?"

I might just go around asking them if they have a boyfriend, and why so.

Cookies!

The girl next to me is eating chocolate chip cookies. I can smell them.

Wish she'd give me some.

Weird Philo Orals

I have just finished the strangest Philo orals I have ever taken in my life. The strangest orals, period.

He had about 30 large index cards on his table. Chose one and handed it to me.

What features in this world would make you accept the following: a) polytheism, b)ditheism, c)monotheism? Explain.

I stared at the card, eyes bugging out. The study material, which by the way was roughly the thickness of your average telephone directory, did not cover anything like this.

He stared at me with this blank, stern expression (unnerving because he's usually smiling), and just waited.

I finally stammered out some crap about how man always needs religion, and what polytheism, etc. means, and how if you're playing it safe, you go for polytheism, etc.

Pure crap, as I said.

Then the next question on the card read:

Discuss the ff:

a) God was the first event.
b) God created the first event.
c) There is no first event; but everything from first to last comes from God.
d) God created time.
e) to i) [Can't remember]

For Pete's sake. Again I stared at the stuff, all of which had never occurred to me to think about before, and which had never even been whispered about in my readings, and managed to make up some idiotic rubbish. Like, God has always been there--it is from him that all things come, but we must note that time is a concept man created, so there is, in reality, no 'first' event, etc.

He took the card back from me when I'd finished letter c), and said I could go. My time was up (ten minutes).

Trish, who came a bit after me, got a question that went something like:

Accept or reject the ff (and explain):

a) atoms
b) electrons
c) molecules
d) [similarly weird stuff]

She was like, huh? when she came out. Taps also came out of the orals room similarly dazed.

Someone else got this.

Belief is not knowledge. Discuss.

Hmm. I think that's a trick question. Why would he pose a kindergarten question?

There were, I heard, a few thesis statements a bit easier to discuss.

Evil stems either from God or from the heart of man. Discuss.

I can't remember the rest, but take my word for it.

Most were really weird stuff--like, how do you explain stuff like that philosophically? Or they're so easy they must be trick questions. And all the time he's watching you with that scary stern look on his face, like he's God and you've come to beg Him to let you into Heaven.

Please let me have gotten a decent grade. And please let the written exam be--well, more normal.

Thesis, Thesis

We're scheduled for October 17 for our thesis defense.

They've been giving us pointers on how to conduct it, what not to do, etc.

We're not ready!

The thesis draft has just been returned to us, and we have a million revisions and additions to make, and transcribing, too (wish I had a secretary, haha). Added to which, we haven't really planned yet how we're going to present, what we'll use, etc.

I'm thinking of putting some exotic drug in the coffee so they'll drink it and get heart-shaped eyes (like in the cartoons, y'know) and say, "What a fabulous thesis! No thesis has ever been done quite like this! You are outstanding thesis makers! A+++!"

Hah, how I wish.

* * * * *

Incidentally, the two very nice women I interviewed from Children's Hour want to come watch our defense.

Crikey.

Oh, well, if you're gonna make a fool of yourself, might as well have a big audience. Spread the fun.

The one and only real advertising prof in the department--whose name I shall not mention in case she ever tries to search the web for references to her--is a dragon, but she's also impressed by big cheeses.

No, wait, impressed is not the right word. She used to be pretty big kahuna herself in the advertising industry, and knows tons of people; and it makes an impression on her if you manage to conjure up some of her more influential friends for your presentation.

Hmm.

The board of directors for Children's Hour are all heavyweights. Even the president of McCann is there.

I wonder if they'd like to come to our defense...?

Stupid Makati--And Everything Else

Cut History class--in which I've already overcut--to go to Makati to interview Children's Hour for our thesis.

Commuted there via railways.

It took me half an hour to get to the building because I had to walk.

I hate stupid Makati.

It's a dressed-up stainless steel rat's maze. Underpasses here and there, none in other places, LOADING ONLY areas, UNLOADING ONLY ares, fences everywhere with no underpasses in sight so the pedestrians have to go around in circles.

I finally got a ride on a jeep after walking what felt like twenty miles, on the muddy dirty sidewalk that smeared up my jeans and shoes. The jeep went 20 feet, then dropped me off at Paseo de Roxas.

Agh.

And while I'm at it, I hate the rain. It clogs up gutters and floods streets and spreads mud everywhere. It falls on our heads and is probably eating away my skin right now with its acid components. Traffic's heavier, everyone's wet and muddy, and you can't see anything.

I also hate the leaves that all stuck to the hems of my jeans, the rude saleslady in National Bookstore who answered my questions like she was doing me a Huge Favor, and all the commuters who stood next to me in the MRT and smelled like they hadn't taken a bath in weeks.

I also hate people who don't reply to my texts, thereby wasting my time (I wait for replies because I actually expect them, y'know) and credits.

I'm also not too happy with myself either at the moment. I wish I were someone else.

I wish I were smarter, surer, happier, better. I wish I were more hard-working, better-looking, more athletic, better at html and more well-read (or should it be 'better-read'?).

I wish I were nicer.

Don't mind me. I'm just having a bad day.

Sigh.

Strange, Sweet And / Or Interesting Things I Have Seen On-Campus

1 Two guys and a girl dressed up as shrubs. They had real vines draped all over them, leaves stuck here and there on their clothes, and crowns made of--how'd you guess?--leaves. Maybe they were secret agents.

2 A guy sitting behind me at the computers yesterday. He turned around and began talking to the girls lined up against the wall. He said, "Hi, my girlfriend is at La Salle, and it's her birthday today. I'm trying to wish her happy birthday from 143 different cell numbers. Could I borrow your phones for just one text...?" The girls started handing over their phones even before he'd finished speaking. Awww.

3 A monk, walking around. A real one. Little Chinese-looking bald guy in bright orange robes, huge wooden bead necklace hanging around his neck down to his waist. Talking with a professor.

4 A guy, all wrapped up in bandages from head to toe (even his face), helping to put up a stand for something in CTC. Maybe they were doing a retake of The Mummy?

5 Really big hulking guy, looking extremely woebegone and forlorn, being scolded by a tiny female teacher. The teacher had to look up at him as she ranted away in her shrill voice, but that didn't deter her in the least; and the bruiser was looking quite intimidated and trying to make himself smaller. Haha.

6 Fat white ducks swimming around in the Meron Lagoon. Dirty, scummy pond--wonder how they could stand it? Anyway, they all suddenly disappeared a few months ago. Maybe some people got cravings for Peking duck.

7 Big white plastic-covered signs posted on trees, giving their scientific and common names. Like we're a zoo or something.

8 Ambeth Ocampo. My extremely brilliant and extremely eccentric History professor. Once lay down on top of his desk in class to show us how a certain mountain range was supposed to resemble a woman lying down. Constantly adjured us not to study, and rewarded those who didn't. 'Nuff said.

9 A group of people walking around, dressed as kings and queens. Rich, brightly colored gowns/togas, glittery jewelry, exotic makeup and golden crowns. Hmmm.

10 I drop some books on the floor. Guy walking by, loaded with books, too, stops and puts all his stuff down to help me pick mine up. I thank him, he smiles and walks on. Most Atenean guys are so nice. (There was one a while back who, when the vending machine wouldn't take my money, dug out his wallet and changed a crisp new bill for mine, unasked. Little things make for a nicer world.)

11 A guy who--I swear--looks exactly like Jesus Christ. Hippie American guy, taking graduate studies in Philosophy, I think. Walking barefoot around campus. He's done, now, and is a Sunday school teacher at my church.

Friendster

Hey! Join Friendster! It's great. You can find old friends there, and new ones, etcetera. It's great, try it! (Plus it's free.)

So far, Jax, Doy, Jeff, lunacy, and Hyannah are the bloggers I've seen around Friendster.

My email addy's imoxyz-at-yahoo-dot-com. Join Friendster and add me to your friends there! Haha.

ACET Proctoring Update

Two words.

Utter boredom.

I never realized before how tiring it is, being bored.

Nine hours of sitting and staring at zitty adolescents scribbling away can drive you mad. After a while, I started seeing little green men hanging from the windows, and I'm not sure it was merely my imagination.

Here's what we did.

First, we came in at 6 a.m. in the morning. Each proctor is paired with an examiner, and both are assigned a room number and a box. The box is filled with 40 sets of test booklets, each set consisting of 4 booklets (English, Math, Information, and Aptitude). Then, it's the proctor's job to count the booklets and make sure there are 40 sets (or 160 booklets, whichever way you see it), and they all have to be arranged chronologically (by serial number).

Then the proctor counts the scratch papers (there have to be exactly 120), and the answer sheets (40 red, 40 orange). Again, the answer sheets have to be arranged chronologically, with the serial number of each red one matching the orange ones inserted in between.

Then the proctor must insert 2 scratch papers between pages 3 and 4 of each Math booklet, and 1 between pages 49 and 50 of each Aptitude booklet.

It is also the proctor's job to distribute the booklets and answer sheets, as well as collect them, and arrange them by serial number, and count them neurotically.

(Even a single missing sheet of scratch paper means all hell will be raised. The Ateneo does NOT want leakages.)

That was the fun part.

The time in between--wherein the proctor sits and stares at the examinees, patrols up and down aisles occasionally to keep from turning into a pillar of salt--is, to say the least, not the jolliest of times.

The examiner's official job is to be the timekeeper (writing on the board test starts at 8:15, ends at 8:30, time remaining is 10 minutes, etc.) and reader of instructions. And of course, watchdog, too, like the proctor.

Of course, reality seldom happens the way it's supposed to.

Examiners

In reality, the examiners help the proctors in all the counting and recounting, both to save time and because it's also their necks on the line if anything goes missing. They also help with distributing and collecting stuff, as it saves time.

I was assigned to the grade school the first day, and my examiner was Mrs. Grace Yu. She was a BS Math major at AdMU (all examiners and proctors, by the way, are former or present scholars of the Ateneo. Examiners have to be graduates.) and a Merit Scholar. She is also a grade school teacher at the Ateneo.

I was immediately intimidated.

A Merit Scholar! (This means you got a scholarship without even applying, because you were among the top 10 examinees. Not top 10 percent, but top TEN.) And BS Math, at that! And a teacher! (To my vaguely sleepy mind, this meant that she must be an expert in giving tests and watching students.)

We got on quite well, though.

She's Chinese, and we conversed in that part-English, part-Filipino, part-Fookien language that the Fil-Chinese have made their natural dialect. We had a conversation on scratch paper (unused bits that had been collected).

We talked about Finding Nemo, and compared our favorite characters. We dashed out memorable lines from the movie ("No hurling on the shell, dude! Just waxed it!" --Crush), and 'talked' about whether we were still traditional Chinese (we're semi). Harry Potter, Legolas, favorite school hangouts, organizations, and legendary teachers.

The second day, I was transferred to the other testing venue, the high school. (Mrs. Yu wasn't able to come on the second day. Teacher stuff.) They assigned me to an examiner whose proctor wasn't able to make it either.

My second examiner was Mr. Jared Billena, a teacher at the Biology Department of Ateneo. (By now you're wondering if all examiners are teachers at the Ateneo. They're not--I saw a banker and a computer analyst there.) He's chatty and charming and very gay. And I don't mean that in the 'happy' sense.

We got on like a house on fire. At first we read books from the mini-library in the classroom to pass the time (glancing up hopefully every few seconds to see if someone was cheating). Then, towards the latter part of the exam, we stood outside the room, peering in through the windows at them, and talking animatedly in hushed voices.

(Don't worry, the examinees weren't disturbed. There was a storm raging outside at the time, which competely drowned us out.)

His specialty is microbiology, and I learned some interesting things about Finding Nemo (yes, I really do love that movie, and so did they). Like, for instance, clownfish really do live in anemones, but they can't survive without them (anemones discharge a chemical which serves as a vital catalyst for the clownfish's metabolism), so Nemo should have died in the aquarium, which didn't have an anemone. Etcetera.

He wants to go into medical school, but doesn't have the money yet. The UST med school costs P70,000 per semester. (UP costs P15,000, but of course they prioritize their own students.) His sister studying nursing at UP back in their province (I forget where), and wants to go to London after.

He asked me where my salary from this stint was going. I said, "Hoarding it, I guess, till I find something nice to buy (mainly books or food--my two passions)."

His money was going to his sister, to help defray school expenses.

We compared dormitories and scholar's tricks for saving money; favorite teachers and sports.

Sir Jared plays badminton every Tuesday and Thursday with 9 other faculty members at Moro, and he said he'd invite me sometime, and got my cellphone number.

(Did you know, by the way, that he's now colleages with his former teachers, and still calls them 'sir'? He said Ang feeling naman kung tatawagin ko na by name!)

Perks

Of course, there's the food.

First day: Chowking

breakfast: pancit canton, 3 buchi balls, and softdrinks in can / orange juice
lunch: laureat meal (pancit canton, rice, 2 siomai, 3 shanghai rolls, 1 buchi ball, and drinks
merienda: 4 siomai, 1 siopao, and drinks

Second day: Jollibee

breakfast: Jolly hotdog in bun, potato chips (what they give you instead of fries when it's delivered), and drinks
lunch: 2-piece Chickenjoy, 1 banana caramel pocket pie, and drinks
merienda: regular Yum, spaghetti, and drinks

Oh, yes, we were very well-fed indeed.

And the pay?

Proctors get P350 per session. That's 2 sessions per day, and I did all 4 sessions, which means I got P1,400.

Examiners get exactly twice. So they made P2,800 for 4 sessions.

I can't wait to be an examiner.

How To Be A Proctor / Examiner

There's a sign-up sheet posted on the OAA bulletin board every year around late August. Third and fourth year students may sign up to be proctors, although you should be warned that they prioritize scholars (probably because they know we're poor. Sniff.).

The OAA sends letters to certain Ateneo scholar alumni (don't know how they pick them) inviting them to be examiners each year. When some of them say no, then slots are opened up for grabs.

Any Ateneo alumnus may call and apply for a slot. (Don't know, either, how they pick them. Probably just take them until all slots are full.)

Thoughts

There were a lot of other details I don't have time to enter at the moment, and perhaps this post is too long already, anyway. Maybe I'll post on them tomorrow, if you guys aren't bored with the topic yet. Tell me if you're bored.

There is an ongoing informal race between rooms every year to see who can get back to headquarters first (meaning their class has finished the exams). This doesn't mean you cut the testing times short, of course, but rather all the extra time in between (distributing things, counting them, reading directions, etc.).

The last pair to get back to headquarters always receive a standing ovation.

Thankfully, we were never last. Hah.

It was a memorable experience, and the pay (and food!) was good, but it isn't something I'd want to do everyday.

Boredom fries your brain and makes you weird. Er, weirder than usual, anyway.

PMS And The ACET Don't Mix

I have my you-know-what, and I'm feeling cranky.

(I suppose it's crude to mention it, but I don't care.)

I feel rather sluglike and irritable, and two people were curt with me yesterday and I was curt back.

The ACET's tomorrow, and I'm proctoring (like you guys didn't notice when I trumpeted it a few days ago).

The soft copy of our eight-page thesis proposal is missing, and I will have to retype it again.

Oh, yes, I most definitely have PMS.

ACET

Anyone with an ounce of sense will put light-years between himself and the Katipunan area tomorrow. Heaven knows how many students are coming to take the entrance exam, and the Traffic Jam From Hell is on its way.

We're supposed to be there at around 6 a.m. , and start getting things ready. Judging from our responsibilities, we're treasurekeepers more than anything else.

We have to count all the answer sheets, test booklets, and scratch papers, and make sure they're arranged chronologically (they have serial numbers). Then we distribute them to the examinees, harp at them on how to fill things out, make sure the serial numbers match, etc. Then we patrol around looking alert and waiting for someone to start whispering so we can pounce on him. Then, after 5 or 6 hours of patrolling around looking alert, and collecting and distributing still more booklets every so often, we collect the last booklets and answer sheets and scratch papers.

Get this.

If even a single sheet of scratch paper is missing, we will not allow anyone to leave the room.

Apparently there are quite a few attempts to provide leakages on the ACET, and people will try anything--send a different person to take the test (which is why we make sure the photo matches the person), steal a test booklet, copy the questions on the scratch paper and steal that, etc.

Sheesh.

They should've given us stun guns. Then we wouldn't have any trouble.

"You, what're you doing?!"

"Huh? Uh, just working out this math problem, Ma'am."

"Not good enough!" Zap!

Too bad we have to be nice.

* * * * *

There's also a dress code. Skirts or slacks, no plunging necklines or sleeveless blouses. Look respectable.

No jeans either.

The examinees want to go to Ateneo because they look up to it and all; let's not disillusion them, the boss said.

Hah.

My Cat Friend

Remember the cat who was talking back to me, somewhere on the SEC pathway?

He's always parked there, lying about in the sun.

This morning I bought my usual cheap meal (P25) at the canteena outside our dorm, and headed for school.

I was already on campus when it occurred to me that I had forgotten to have them package it in a styrofoam case, so I could eat out of it.

Sitting around eating lunch with my fingers out of two plastic bags is not my idea of a good time. The only way you get a decent plate anywhere in the school cafeteria is to buy something on a plate.

I was on the SEC pathway and had already passed the cat when it occurred to me.

I could give the cat my rice, and just buy rice on a plate at the caf.

So I retraced my steps, took out the bag of rice, and tore it open.

"Want some rice, kitty?"

"Merw-erw-erw! Meow!"

I plopped the bag down in front of him, and he darted in, and began eating daintily. He must've been hungry.

Stood there for a while watching him eat, and wondering whether to give him my viands as well, so his meal would have some flavor.

Finally decided against it. He was perfectly happy with the mountain of rice (the canteena always gives me too much), and I couldn't really spare the money to buy more viands for lunch.

Ah, well.

More an act of convenience than a good deed, but it made both of us happy.

And as I went on my way, I thought I saw a rainbow that hadn't been there before.

Another Recycled Paper

Alas for all my grand plans of making a new paper for this last critiquing in Nonfiction class, and getting an A+. (Dream big, you know.)

I have just what I want to write set in my mind, but it's Friday, and the first draft of our thesis is due on Monday. Proctoring all day Saturday and Sunday doesn't leave me any time at all (besides, my computer's still in the shop, so I can only type at school), so we have to finish the darn thing now.

Thesis draft, I mean.

There's no time to make a beautiful paper, so I'm reduced to recycling yet another first-year paper. Ah, how the mighty are fallen!

(You'll have to excuse my penchant for drama these days. Put it down to impending senioritis.)

Anyway, with my usual arrogance, I'm posting it here anyway. Comments and suggestions before I email it at ten on Monday will be highly appreciated.

I've been reading it over, see, and can't seem to revise it. Ah, well, authors are blind when it comes to their work.

And might I remind would-be plagiarists--not you guys on my links, I know you--but strangers who find my site through mysterious ways--that this has been published, and they'll probably sue you if you steal it.

Thoughts Of The Weary

I am tired. The Sandman has tossed his dust into my eyes again, and it itches. The prickly feeling is a thousand pounds of hot dryness per square inch, and I can feel my eyes burning up. Perhaps it is just as well. I do not see what I am supposed to see, and all too often I find myself seeing that which is useless to see.

I look at the sky, and through some incredible blindness, see only the brilliant stars that fleck the night. For some reason, I do not, cannot see the darkness that closes around me.

Child that I am, I think of the tree that stood by the gate to our old house, and weep when I remember how it fell during a storm. We tried to pull it up again, and make it stand, but its spirit had been broken, and it would stand no more. My father had it thrown away, outside, without any shelter. The corpse of the tree that I had known since I could walk lay outside, with no one to mourn its passing but me. And only me. Later on, my father left as well. And I thought perhaps the tree had known.

I remember how my mother used to compare me to my cousins when I was younger. They were always smarter and quicker and nicer. They were perfect. Our neighbors had a guava tree with branches that hung over into our yard. The tree was huge and sweeping, almost beautiful. And it bore fruit every summer, for everyone to eat. Such a worthwhile tree to raise. The other tree—the one that fell—was of no use at all, my mother said. It didn’t provide fruit or flowers, and its shade was useless since it was right beside the shaded guardhouse anyway. And the storm came, and the tree fell, and the men came and took it away. It did not belong anymore.

My father had a beautiful garden. He was always away on trips that he said were for business, but when he got back, he would spend time watering and pruning his plants. The ground was not flat—it was a pretty hill, sloping so that you had to bend forward when you walked. I don’t remember the other plants now, but the orchids were beautiful. There were yellow ones and purple ones and white ones, and dainty freckled ones with paper-thin petals that curled open in a star shape. They remained when my father went away for the last time. My mother’s lips were pressed tightly as she ordered the men to tear up the plants, and they leveled the pretty slope and removed the soil. Then they covered it all up with cement, and built a new driveway. But the orchids remained. My mother took them and hung them on the wall beside where our old tree used to stand. Then she watered and pruned them, too, like my father did. But there was a difference. I couldn’t tell what it was, but the orchids weren't the same anymore, even though they should have been.

When we moved into our new house, there was a star apple tree out in front. It wasn’t pretty at all—quite ungainly and scrawny with leafless branches, but it grew star apples. We ate star apples from it, and it grew on its own, without any help from us. Later on, though, another storm came, and blew it down. My mother had been among those who had tried to make our old tree stand up and live again, tying splints of wood to its trunk and rubbing it with plant ointment. But here in our new house, she did not try anymore. The star apple tree blew down, and she said, “It’s dead. There’s nothing we can do.” So we threw it away, too, like the first tree.

I don’t know where the orchids went when we moved in. Perhaps my mother left them with the old house because they belonged there. We brought only things into the new house, nothing else. Our neighbors there, though, had orchids. Yellow and purple and white. There was also the pretty freckled kind, blooming on the wall. My mother did not say anything, but she looked at them for a long time before she went inside. It was as though she thought they would disappear when she left.

My mother made a garden of her own in our new house. It wasn’t pretty like my father’s, but it was useful. There were calamansi plants and oregano, and pepper and mint. She also planted some fortune plants. “For good luck,” she said. She watered them regularly at first, but then she became busy because, she said, she has to support the four of us. So she left the plants alone, but they grew anyway. The rain watered them and the sun shone on them, and they thrived. They are still there now, as a matter of fact. But I wonder what will happen when the next storm comes.

Our old house was rented by a Taiwanese businessman. He wanted to make a business selling cars in the lot. The driveway, he said, was perfect. So my mother leased it to him, and he repainted the old gate and the walls and tore down the glass house where my father used to have his office. He’s quite content there now, making a lot of money. I wonder if he notices that the ivy and moss don’t grow on the walls anymore. Paint isn't good for them. My father would have told him that, if he’d been around.
My brother didn’t know our dad. He was only a year old when our father left. He doesn’t remember the old house so well, and he doesn’t care about the tree. It’s strange, though, because now he is the one watering the plants my mother planted. School keeps him busy, but he makes time to go out to the back yard and hose the plants down. He doesn’t think about pruning and such, of course. Watering the plants makes him happy. I can see it in his eyes. He thinks, of course, that he is making a difference. None of us will tell him that the plants survived before he began to water them, and they will probably still be around long after we are all gone and there is no one left to water them.

My uncle—my mother’s brother—has a garden, too. It is huge and sculptured, like those in Buckingham Palace. He doesn’t take care of it himself, though. He hires gardeners to do that. He’s always busy, too, like my mother. My mother walks around his garden sometimes when we go to visit. But there aren't any orchids, and my mother notices even though she tries not to. Orchids die easily, and take a lot of time and care. Perhaps that is why my uncle doesn’t have them. He guards his time carefully, as well as that of his gardeners. My mother doesn’t say anything, and I do not know if my uncle realizes about the orchids. Whenever we come home, though, from a visit at my uncle’s, my mother stops to look at the orchids next door, hanging on the wall. Then she goes in without a backward glance.

On Mothers’ Day, our family went to church. The church people gave out corsages to the mothers, and of course the flower pinned to the leaf was an orchid. It was of the quiet purple variety. My mother wore hers for a while, but took it off later on and pinned it to her mother’s blouse. She didn’t say anything. When we were about to leave, though, she looked at the orchid as if she wanted it back. But we left without it.

We didn’t go to church anymore on Mothers’ Day the following year.

The sky still looks too bright, and I do not know if something clouds my vision or lights it up as I look out at the night. The Sandman fell asleep while waiting for me, and his dust holds my eyes open now. I think I see some of the dark along with the light, but the light outshines the dark, and deep inside, I reach for what I need. Perhaps that is why I do not see as well as I should. The hands of the demons around me close on thin air, because they do not exist for me; therefore I do not exist for them. I see only their gleaming eyes and think that they are the stars, and perhaps I am right, in some way. Someday, though, I must put my glasses back on and see.

For now, my eyes fail me again, and the Sandman awaits.

The "Hi" Phenomenon

I’m walking down the corridor, and suddenly there’s this guy in pink coming towards me. It hits me that he sits beside me in Polsci 100, but we’ve never talked to each other. We make eye contact, and it’s decision time: Do I say hi—or not?

If I say hi, this guy will a) be really surprised and say hi back after a few seconds; b) think I’ve got a crush on him and say hi back after a few seconds; or c) think I'm a stalker or something and pretend he didn’t see me.

Now, presuming he isn’t paranoid and says hi back, a pattern is going to be set, and we’ll probably say hi to each other each time we meet, even though we don’t even know what the heck each other’s name is. But if one time I'm busy, say, dreaming of nice hot onion rings, and I don’t notice him when he says hi, then you can bet your knickers he isn’t going to be saying hi again anytime soon. (“Gasp! I’ve been snubbed!”)

So what am I saying?

College is a crazy world, where someone can be your semi-sorta-kinda friend one day, and a stranger the next. It’s made doubly hard for people like me, who are nearsighted but too lazy to wear glasses, so the people I don’t see think that I'm snubbing them, so they get all offended and say, “Hah! Catch me saying hi to her again!” Then, too, I'm usually afraid that that person won't remember me, and will think I'm really weird if I suddenly start waving at him. (He’ll have some story to tell his friends: “You know, there’s this strange girl…”)

It’s usually worth it, though, to be friendly because you meet some great people that way. Some of my nicest friends I met when I just talked to them out of the blue about class and stuff. (I made my very first friend at college that way. Awwww.)

And after some time, there comes a point where, if you don’t say hi back one day, the person will know you well enough to shrug it off and say hi again the next day. Some people will even go up to you and wave in your face till you notice them. (It’s guys, I notice, who usually do that. There’s a lesson in there somewhere.) And it’s at that point, I think, that you start becoming friends.

So even though I’m kinda shy, I sometimes say hi to people I see in class, because who knows? Maybe they’ve got terrific personalities, or maybe they understand every word of that boring reading on Socrates and will explain it to me, or maybe they’ve got lots of money to lend me! Just kidding! (On second thought, why not? What else are friends for?)

So don’t be surprised if you see me waving at you. Don’t worry, I'm not going to start stalking you.

Just wave back, and let it ride.

Quick Aside

I've decided to remove the no-text-copying javascript, as it seems to be causing more trouble than it's worth at present. The plagiarist was an anomaly, I think, because how many people would go around copying blog posts?

Ace: You can copy the A paper tips now, haha. Oh, yeah, we were too embarrassed to ask about the ACET proctor payment (because they might think we're mercenary little so-and-so's--not that we aren't, but of course we want to give a good impression); so I guess I'll only be able to tell you how much after we're paid. ACET's this weekend. They prioritize scholars, though, when choosing proctors--tsk, tsk, bias.

Moe--one of my favorite linkies, by the way--made me a cat on his links! Haha!

I'm so shallow.

Announcements (For Ateneans)

Circulating email announcements on the shuttle and non-smoking policy; thought I'd post it here for those who haven't received it.

Ateneo Shuttle Details:

The primary thrust of the Ateneo Shuttle Services is to help decongest traffic along the Katipunan stretch by encouraging the use of mass transportation.

It is hoped that the Ateneo community will support such a scheme that promotes sound transportation. The Ateneo Shuttle Services promises to offer transportation that is cheap, safe, efficient, and environmentally friendly.

I. Shuttle Terminal and Routes

Permission has already been secured to use the I-Mart side under the fly-over to be the Terminal for the Ateneo Shuttle Services.

The shuttles will enter Gate 2 and will proceed to these Loading and Unloading Stations:
a. South parking
a.1. South parking entrance
a.2. South parking exit
b. West Parking exit near Social Science AVR
c. Xavier Hall Driveway
d. Bellarmine Waiting Shed
e. North Parking near waiting shed

Loading and unloading can only be done in the 5 stations mentioned. Queuing will be strictly imposed in the 5 stations. The shuttles will exit at Gate 3. The final drop-off point is at the Terminal, under the fly-over

II. Passengers

Only Ateneo employees (administrators, faculty, staff, and maintenance personnel) and students may avail of the scheme. A valid Ateneo ID, along with the ticket, must be presented to the driver. However, non-Ateneo people can avail of the scheme provided they are accompanied by ID-wearing Ateneo employees and/or students.

III. Shuttle Costs and Tickets

A standard rate of 5 pesos per ticket will be imposed. This means that wherever the passenger’s destination is, he/she will have to pay the standard rate of 5 pesos.

Tickets will be issued in stubs of 10 tickets each. Thus, each ticket stub will cost 50.00 pesos.

To purchase the ticket stubs, the employee/student must go first to the Office of Administrative Services (1st Floor, Xavier Hall) to get the change slip. He/She then has to go to the Cashier’s office for the payment, and go back to the Office of Administrative Services to get the ticket stubs.

No refunds will be accommodated.

IV. Schedule

The Ateneo Shuttle Services will be available starting on SEPTEMBER 15, 2003. It will be on experimental mode for one month, until OCTOBER 15, 2003.

The Ateneo Shuttle Services will be available from Monday to Friday, starting at 6 AM to 6:00 PM. Two airconditioned vans will be available for that span of time.

V. Security

Safety will be assured by the strict implementation of the ID Policy. The ID must be worn upon boarding. Security is further reinforced by the fact that the Aurora terminal is right next to the police outpost.

This sounds quite interesting, as I've grown quite tired of legging it all over the campus from class to class. My leg muscles are starting to resemble a mountain goat's.

They didn't say how many shuttles there are, and how long we'd probably have to wait for each one at the stations.

Non-Smoking Policy

WHAT DOES THE TOBACCO REGULATION ACT OF 2003 SAY ABOUT SMOKING IN CAMPUS?
Section 5a of the Tobacco Regulation Act of 2003 (Republic Act 9211) absolutely prohibits smoking in “centers of youth activity such as playschools, preparatory schools, elementary schools, high schools, colleges and universities…”

WILL THIS BAN BE IMPLEMENTED IN THE LOYOLA SCHOOLS?
Yes. Starting on Wednesday, October 1, 2003, smoking is ABSOLUTELY PROHIBITED in all areas of Loyola Schools 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, EXCEPT at five designated Smokers’ Pocket Gardens.

WHERE ARE THESE SMOKERS’ POCKET GARDENS LOCATED?
These gardens can be found at the following locations:

Xavier in between Berchmans
PLDT/CTC and JGSOM in Rock Garden
Social Sciences and Humanities in Quad 3
Communication – near Parking Lot
Bellarmine – near guard house towards SDC complex

*Drivers of students will have their own smoking areas in the parking venues. If a driver gets caught smoking outside these areas, the student responsible for his/her driver’s behavior will be subjected to the same sanctions.

Please note that smoking is allowed ONLY within the tiled areas that comprise these pocket gardens.

WHO IS COVERED BY THIS BAN?
Everyone in the Loyola Schools Campus is covered by this ban. Students, Faculty, Staff, Administrators, Parents, Drivers, and Visitors are ALL subject to the policies and sanctions when caught smoking outside the designated areas.

WHAT ARE THE PENALTIES AND SANCTIONS FOR THOSE CAUGHT VIOLATING THIS BAN?
Anyone caught smoking (holding a lighted cigarette or any tobacco product whether or inhaled or smoked) outside the designated areas will be penalized with:

·1st offense – fine of Php500.00
·2nd offense – fine of Php1,000.00
·3rd offense – fine of Php5,000.00 and will merit a Major Offense to students and all employees
·4rth offense – fine of Php5,000.00 and will be subject to dismissal

WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THE IMPLEMENTATION OF THESE RULES AND REGULATIONS?
Everybody in the Loyola Schools is responsible to watch and report violators of the restricted smoking policy. The elected Sanggunian officers, the Council of Environment Officers, Likas, PMSA, and Environmental Science Society are deputized to supervise and report violators of the restricted smoking policy, while all Loyola Schools offices and departments shall have respective deputies, one staff and one faculty member per floor.

HOW ARE VIOLATORS OF THIS BAN APPREHENDED? HOW CAN I REPORT VIOLATORS?
A form for reporting violators will be available from the Associate Dean for Student Affairs’ (ADSA) office at the ground floor of Xavier hall. When a complaint is received, a copy of the said complaint will be sent to the office concerned (Department Chair for Faculty, Office of Administrative Services for Staff, VP’s office for administrators, and ADSA for students) who will then talk to the violator and enforce the sanctions.

I heartily approve. *applauds* My life expectancy may just stretch to ninety.

Current Mood: high

So...Who're Ya With?

I'm walking from the counter to my table at McDonald's with a loaded tray, and someone says, "Imo!"

I turn, and it's Keefe with a girl I don't know.

We do the usual greetings and what-are-you-up-to's, and the inevitable question comes.

"Sino kasama mo ngayon?" ("Who're you with?")

"No one," I say, and they look surprised, and I smile goodbye and make my way back to my seat.

* * * * *
People always act as if there were something vaguely shameful and pathetic about being alone. Anywhere--in school, in restaurants, in movies, in malls. Caught alone, they say, embarrassed, "Oh...my friend couldn't come," or "I'm just here to buy a notebook," or something like that. They squirm awkwardly, and some faces turn the interesting shade of pink you get with Bazooka chewing gum.

It's like you caught them picking their noses in public.

They're no less doleful when they see me going about alone.

Gabo sees me on my favorite stone bench at school, studying, and he says, "Where's Mel and Grace?", looking about expectantly as if she were just hiding behind a bush.

I say, "I don't know...in class, probably," and he looks at me and says, semi-scandalized, "So you're all by yourself?"

I roll my eyes, tell him to sit down, change the subject, and we start chatting away. You can't explain it to someone who doesn't understand. Either you know it or you don't.

Why has it come about that our first option, when going to the mall, say, always has to be that we do it with someone?

I suppose people think that when you're alone, you probably didn't have any choice. Like, you were begging everyone to go with you, but you're such a loser no one wants to be seen with you. So everyone--or nearly everyone--makes sure to bring someone along as a security blanket, so they don't look like social pariahs. And the someone they're bringing along uses them as a security blanket, too. Mutualism, I think it's called, in environmental science.

Bull.

People are nice to have along sometimes, but other times it's all just a hassle.

You have to coordinate schedules, discuss every move, and go around in a pack. When one of you wants to go to the restroom, everyone has to wait. When another goes, everyone has to wait again. Six bladders to take care of in the same amount of time. Same goes for all the little chores and fetishes and food fancies everyone has.

I like being with myself. I'm extremely good company, if I do say so myself. I know what I want to eat, I don't interrupt myself while thinking, I laugh at my own jokes, and I never have to share my fries (one of the primary food groups the scientists forgot to include).

I can go to the restroom whenever I want, eat wherever I want, look through any shops I want. No need for majority votes--I'm the entire group. Majority and minority. Democracy never had it so good.

Next person who asks why I'm alone, I'll bite his head off.

On Heroism

Adults are very fond of asking children, "And who is your hero?"

Psychologists recently did such a survey in New York a few months ago, asking 10-year-olds who their heroes were. The results were less than inspiring.

"Michael Jackson." (You want to be like him?)

"Bill Gates." (Hmm, I wonder why.)

"Myself." (I know you're supposed to believe in yourself and all, but are you sure you want to look up to your 10-year-old self as a model of the ideal human being?)

"Superman." (No kidding.)

"Adolf Hitler." (Where did this little Nazi come from?)

Etcetera.

Not a single one of the 100 ten-year-olds surveyed, stated the researchers, had named his hero as being someone reknown for uprightness and integrity, and sheer goodness. They all chose their heroes for their wealth, or fame, or superpowers.

Now, I'm the last person to go all parsimonious and proselytize, but don't you think there is something really sad about that?

Ten years ago, the psychologists said, the children had said, "Abraham Lincoln, because he freed the slaves. George Washington, because he was honest. My dad, because he always keeps his promises."

* * * * *

A few weeks ago, one of the maintenance guys--known as Boy, I think--at the Ateneo found a wallet containing $90 and several thousand pesos. He promptly returned it, with everything intact, to the owner (a foreign student who had no other money than that to live on for his stay).

His mother was gravely ill, and was in the hospital. They were struggling to pay the bills.

How many people have we read about who stole or otherwise broke the law, with the excuse that they had loved ones to take care of?

We cannot, of course, condemn them, because we have never been in their shoes or felt their particular need. But how many are there who can hear debt knocking at his door, with no end in sight; bowed by pain and sorrow in his family; and still do the right thing?

* * * * *

A schoolteacher was routinely lecturing his Grade 3 pupils on the times table, when fire broke out in the building (due to faulty wiring). Their schoolroom was located near the exit, and the teacher quickly led his pupils out to safety, calling to other classes as they did so.

A few moments later, the other classes stumbled out as well. Their teacher, nearly unconscious from smoke inhalation, was clutching three of her students. Their classroom was located at the far end of the building, and was surrounded by fire by this time.

In the province, the firefighters are stretched few and far between. The children still trapped in the room would die by the time the firefighters arrived.

The schoolteacher who had first noticed the smoke stripped off his jacket, wet it, pulled it over his head, and rushed inside. He emerged with two children, one under each arm, and burns around his legs. He went back inside.

Over and over again--six trips he made into the burning inferno, the burns growing more and more serious each time--each time coming out with two children.

On the seventh trip, he did not come out again.

Three children expired with him. The twelve he had carried out, lived.

A few newspapers carried the story, giving it a tiny article somewhere in the middle of the spread. It wasn't of general interest.

* * * * *

When the foot-and-mouth disease started in the States, farmers' livestock were taken to be inspected by the Bureau. Livestock that had been found contaminated were immediately slaughtered, and the farm disinfected. The farmers received about a quarter of what their animals had been worth, as the meat was worthless. The livestock that had been cleared were returned to their owners, but many, they found later, had been carrying the seeds of the disease and had spread it to others (when sold in the market, etc.) before it was caught.

Pigs and cows everywhere were dying, and so were the people who had eaten their meat.

A certain farmer had taken his livestock to be inspected, and had been cleared. He heard about the dormant disease-carriers, and asked if there were a way to be sure. No way, he was told.

He went home, slaughtered all his animals himself, and disinfected the place. He received no remuneration, and didn't expect it. "It was the right thing to do," he said, as he looked at the ruins of all he had in the world.

* * * * *

A girl and a boy were on a motorcycle, speeding through the night. They loved each other a lot..

Girl: "Slow down a little, I'm scared."
Boy: "No, it's so fun."
Girl: "Please..it's so scary."
Boy: "Then say you love me."
Girl: "Fine, I love you. Can you slow down now?"
Boy: "Give me a big hug."
The girl gave him a hug.
Girl: "Now can you slow down?"
Boy: "Can you take off my helmet and put it on? It's uncomfortable and it's bothering me while I drive."

The next day, there was a story in the newspaper. A motorcycle had crashed into a building because its brakes were broken. There were two people on the motorcycle, of which one died, and the other had survived.

The boy knew that the brakes were broken. He didn't want to let the girl know, because he knew that the girl would have been frightened.

He asked, instead, to hear for the last time that she loved him, requested a hug, and had her wear his helmet so that she would be protected. And died himself.

* * * * *

What makes a hero?

Is it being richer, braver, smarter, faster than everyone else?

Is it being strong where others are weak? Being brave when you'd rather not?

Is it doing what's right, at all costs?

I'm not sure. But some I know, when I see them.

Which is perhaps more than I can say for the future generations of America.

Current Mood: pensive

Mom's Quotable Texts

As some of you seemed quite amused by my mother's text message (and we, as dutiful children, laugh at her, too), I thought I'd share some more of her quotable messages.

Gt back da phantom of opera cd frm MEL. Da songs r r diferen n mor bwtiful dan mine. Gt it nw
Long story, but basically we have a CD of The Phantom of the Opera, which is with Mel at the moment. My mother loves that CD and sings along to it (she's in the church choir, too). While she was waiting, she had a friend make her another CD from a different copy of The Phantom, but found songs different. She must be wanting to sing real bad.

Tel ireene 2 get job. pas resume to ahead. if da tenant cannot pay, she mas PROACT n not REACT. ern money
I guess my sister's unlucky in that my mother expects her to do everything I'm doing now. Like, she had to get a scholarship, too (we would've killed her if she hadn't--P70,000 a year is no joke), go to Ateneo, too, and now she has to get the jobs I have, too. I'm working at Ahead tutorial center right now, so my mom's been harping at her to get a job there, too. My sis has dug her heels in and keeps making excuses like she hasn't got time to make a resume, etc. (Our income right now depends on some property we have in Q.C., so if the tenant can't pay...)

I don't know where my mom got the 'proact-react' line. Must've been one of those self-help books she's always reading.

She alwys claim she dasn hav time, but she has time 2 go 2 movie w 2 boys
Follow up of the text above this. My sis went to a movie with 2 of her guy friends, and my mother was semi-scandalized (not totally--we're too batty for that). And she still wants my sis to get a job.

Soldiers massing at EDSA. Let us pray for peace. We must STORM THE GATES OF HEAVEN and ask for God's help!
Nothing wrong with the sentiment, but where--oh, haha, where does Ma get her phrases?

Resume. Study. B bold 2 aproch ticher 4 help. Leson u don undrstand. Gt dictionary. No dating. Aim 2 finish colege at ATENEO ha. N gt a good in u.S. Dn travl
I guess what makes my mom's texts even funnier is that they often just zoom in out of the blue, when I'm peacefully eating or reading or sitting in class, and bam!--there's another quotable text. She's always full of grand plans for us (nice, but kinda hard to live up to). Oh, and I think she meant "get a good JOB in the U.S."

Yeah, she's pretty cool, for a mom. Not cool as in, you know, with shades and saying, "Dude," (although she does say "dude" sometimes, to annoy me); but cool as in, she's okay.

No curfews, no rules, but no spoonfeeding either, and a whole lot of expectations. We can come home any time we want, as long as we don't ask her to fetch us. We can go anywhere we want, as long as we get there ourselves. We can buy things we like (like a Discman and stuff--we don't go for drugs or anything--we're pretty bright kids), as long as we earn the money ourselves.

Oh, yeah, and we gotta be rich when we grow up. Non-negotiable.

As I said, my mom's different. As am I.

The Milestone Of Success

I went for a guidance interview and the counselor said to me, "So, when do you know that you've made it? At what point do you stop and look at all you've accomplished, and say, 'I'm successful'?"

She'd been interrogating me about my future plans for the past hour.

I was stumped.

Success, somehow, always seems to tie up in my mind with vague notions of mountains of greenbacks and a nice apartment in the States with a library (the apartment, not the States). I had to stop and think a bit.

When do you say enough's enough? You've got all you ever wanted, and you're satisfied?

The problem is that what would be enough for the person I am at this point, may not be enough for the person I will be at that point in time, when I finally achieve it.

The trick there, as all psychologists and gurus and Buddhas say, is to be happy, here, now.

And I am, I guess, pretty much. As a cockeyed optimist with a cynical streak, I've got the best of both worlds.

I thought about what she said, and decided on some of my more important goals (check out the Things I Want To Do Before I'm 30 list at the left panel), and said, "Probably when I've sent my mother on a trip around the world, and when I'm earning lots of money at a job I love. Oh, yeah, and when I've helped put my brother and sister through college as well."

Then I'll go to the Bahamas with a cigar and a martini, and ogle bronzed men with great abs.

Nah, I think I'd rather stay with my job.

How To Make An A Paper (In The Ateneo)

Warning: You will be bored to tears if you try to read this for fun. Only people genuinely interested in making A papers will keep from falling asleep. I won't be offended if you don't read this. Haha.

With the strength of a million crammed A papers behind me, I have decided to arrogantly give pointers to people, whether they want them or not.

Hey, listen to me, anyway! Writing and cramming are about the only things I'm good at.

First off, we start with some pretty simple rules which shouldn't need to be said, but which a surprising number of college students neglect, anyway.

Simple Rules:

1 Check your grammar and spelling.
Microsoft Word's spelling and grammar check program is useful, but not foolproof. If you're not sure about some terms and spelling and whatever, ask someone who's good in that to check it for you.

A lot of teachers hate it when they see grammatical errors, because (1) they think college students should know better; and (2) it looks like it was crammed.

Now, teachers know and you know and I know that everyone crams(except for a few hardworking individuals like my friend here; but they don't like to see crap masquerading as a paper. I can't count the number of teachers I've had who suddenly descended into enraged impromptu sermons on sentence structure and grammatical parameters in class, inflamed by the glaring mistakes in the papers they had to read.

2 Follow the prescribed format.
Now, we all agree that teachers are self-important asses who have nothing better to do than to make our lives harder by giving out unreasonable dictums such as use Times New Roman only, 1 inch margin on all sides, etc.

However, it's such a waste if you pour out your life's blood putting together the most beautiful, heartrending piece ever created by mankind, and the prof deducts a few points because it's not in the prescribed format.

When there's no prescribed format, follow the usual conventional structure. Profs don't like being blinded when they're reading. Black ink (no lavenders or neon blues, please), Times New Roman or Garamond, size 12, double-spaced. If you're trying to save on paper, and have to single-space it, try putting spaces in between paragraphs, to make it a bit easier to read.

Secret Rules:

Okay, we're done with the baby stuff. On to the formulae.

3 Make an interesting title.
Teachers love this. If you're all required to make a paper on the proposed dress code in school, don't entitle it The Dress Code or even A Paper On The Dress Code. For one thing, everyone has a title like that, and you want to stand out as being creative. For another, a creative title awakes an unconscious association with professionally written articles, which never have the title A Paper On The Dress Code unless they want to bore the reader to death.

Make it something like On Fuddy-Duddies And Spaghetti Straps, which is what I did (nothing like a little self-promotion).

4 Place a quotation in between the title and the body text.
You know those book chapters where there's always this little quote in tiny italicized font? Well, that's it. Find a great quote (search the net or books) that relates to your topic, and put it in italics just before the body text, in font a bit smaller than what you're using (ex. size 10 if you're using 12).

Kudos points if the quote is by a very famous intellectual person (Einstein, Kierkegaard, Solzhenitsyn, you get the drift), and the quote is not well-known. The prof will be impressed that you apparently know something he did not know, and will admire you accordingly.

5 Have references if relevant.
If it's not a purely creative paper and is supposed to be a reflection, research, logical, etc. kind of paper, add references! Use 3 different references where one will do--the prof will be impressed that you actually took the time to go the extra mile, and do research where none was required.

Have a neat little list of references attached at the end of your paper, so you look professional.

6 Use footnotes whenever you can.
When you use obscure terms that aren't related to your class, or are quoting lines from a reference of yours, use footnotes! They look quite impressive and make the prof take you more seriously, to say nothing of making your paper look longer.

7 Never plagiarize.
Don't lift stuff from an upperclassman's paper, or from books, without giving due credit. Rephrase and give credit, or put it in quotation marks. The Ateneo expels plagiarists.

Also, it's another chance to show how much you researched! Give credit to your references! You'll look cool!

8 Insert anecdotes.
I don't mean start talking about how your dog died when you were five. Look up interesting anecdotes of famous personages that demonstrate your point admirably, and insert them. (Not too many--you won't have room to write.) If you can't find anecdotes, use quotes.

For instance, for a Philosophy paper on how propaganda dehumanizes the enemy during war, I focused on the question of who the enemy actually is. There was this fantasy novel I read by Mike Resnick in which there were lifesize wooden soldiers who fought, day in and day out. Asked who their enemy was, they answered, "We don't know. But we've nearly got him beaten." Terrific! I wrote, M. Resnick writes about wooden soldiers who... Then, after making few points and leading up to it, I added Pogo's "I have seen the enemy, and it is us."

The anecdotes serve as a convincing and colorful argument, because the prof will be doubly impressed by the fact that the argument comes from a published writer or from a real personage's life (if he has heard of the individual in question, he will be interested. If he hasn't, he will be impressed that you know about this obscure fact), and that you either actually researched on it, or have been carrying it around in your head (thus branding you as an intellectual). Either way, he'll be impressed!

The quotes serve as a kind of punchline, or an added point to your argument. Use them where your mere opinions will not do. They'll lend color to your facts.

9 Choose a unique topic, or take a different angle.
I forgot to put this at the start. It's always best if your topic is different; or, if you're just given one topic, you focus on something no one else will. (But it still has to be relevant. Talking about Aguinaldo's warts will not amuse the prof; talking about how his mother influenced him to fight the war in such a manner, will.)

Why? Because it's fresh, and stands out from the crowd. Also, there's no basis for comparison--the prof can't compare you to your brainiac classmate who read the entire Encyclopedia Britannica for his paper.

10 Final point: Your paper must have substance.
All the things I've enumerated so far are tried-and-tested methods for adding points to your paper. However, all that won't save you if you turn in something in which there is no logical coherence or no sense.

If you're arguing something, make sure it's logical. Ask people about your argument--a varsity debater, if you can--to see if there are loopholes or farfetched jumps.

If it's a reflection paper, don't turn in some crap that says, "I felt moved when I saw the naked statue..." There will be about 40 other students in the class, and every one of them will turn in something like that. The prof will probably be wanting to barf by the time he works his way down to your paper. Surprise him!

Always have insights. Think deeply about whatever it is you're writing about, and come up with stuff that'll make the prof say, "Wow, I never thought of that, but it's true!" A tough job, I know, but a definite winner.

Have recommendations or suggestions where appropriate. If, say, you're writing about why the Filipinos lost the war with the Americans, make some solid arguments about what they should have done, and present the facts to back them up. If you find they lost because they were much fewer than the Americans and were untrained in open battle, suggest that they should have used guerilla tactics (hit and run), and show how Vietnam beat the US doing just that. Show the similarities in terrain and people, etc.

If you do all that, and still don't get an A, I'll eat my hat.

Current Mood: artistic

For All The F4 Fans Out There

Email forward:

On behalf of ABS-CBN, we are recruiting a Chinese-language interpreter who can be available full-time from Sept. 11 to 13 who will accompany the two F4 members plus San Chai. He or she must be able to handle the translation both ways -- Chinese to Filipino and Filipino to Chinese and will be willing to be available all three days, in all the engagements, including live tapings and the concert itself.

If you are interested, please forward a copy of your biodata and qualifications to Johnny_Sy@abs.pinoycentral.com. Please, only those seriously interested with the confidence to handle translation on and off-camera.

Thanks,

Johnny Sy

As a non-F4 fan, I can't tell you how funny I find this. I can just picture them coming here without an interpreter and trying to communicate.

("Oh, beybeh, beybeh-beybeh, mah beybeh-beybeh...")

Things To Take Care Of This Week

I know this will probably bore you to bits, but on the other hand, it might possibly raise some sympathy and people will send me flowers or something. I like orchids.

1 Research paper for Ad Industry class.
2 Reflection paper for Ad Industry class.
3 Call 5 ad agencies for stupid thesis and haggle appointments with them for this week.
4 Keep appointments and abuse the privilege shamelessly. Make them shell out their deepest creative secrets.
5 Possible orals in Ad Industry class (she didn't say).
6 Read Nonfiction classmates' 6 papers and 1 reading.
7 Comment on 3 of classmates' papers. Be polite and say nice things. (Because they outnumber me three to one.
8 Do first draft of thesis, to be submitted next Monday.
9 Beg thesis adviser for more time. Bawl if he doesn't.
10 Study for Theo test.
11 Take Theo test.
12 Go play with sick children at East Avenue Medical Center for immersion outreach thingy. Twelve hours left to fulfill.
13 Text everyone that my number has changed. Am now Globe subscriber. Hah.
14 Look for more references for thesis topic. No one has ever done our topic before (creative process behind public service ads). Force connections to distantly related articles.
15 Proctor ACET for 24 hours (Sat & Sun combined).
16 Start studying for Philo orals next week.
17 Die.

Thoughts On The Plagiarist

Yes, i know, it's an overused topic, as everyone's ranting about her these days.

Just a few thoughts.

Marcelle and I had the brilliant idea of doing our thesis on blogs two weeks too late. We'd already done all the groundwork for our pro bono ad topic.

Now we're thinking, if we'd done our thesis on blogs, then this plagiarist would've added an interesting twist to things. We'd probably be chasing after her to interview her right now.

I can just see it. ("What motivations did you have for copying other people's blogs, Ms. So-and-So? Would you say that it applies to the Media Influx and Conjunctival Theory?")

I looked over some of her posts, and I don't think I was on her hit li8st. There's an email that I posted a long way back, but of course, it could have easily been forwarded to her as well.

Should I be relieved or insulted?

The whole thing amuses me, as what I write here is mostly just nonsense ramblings off the top of my head.

Now, if she were to steal something I'd really thought about, on the other hand...

Book Fair

To those who didn't catch the International Book Fair thing at Megamall last week, don't worry. It wasn't worth it.

Well, if you're Daddy Warbucks and hunting for books that you'll never find in local bookstores, then you'd have enjoyed the book fair.

Unfortunately, impecunious students like me went there in search of good bargains, and came away disappointed.

Incidentally, Goodwill Bookstore was selling Harry Potter 5 for only P780.

My sister and I bought it for P1500 a month or so ago.

I think I'll kill myself now.

Text Messages In My Phone Inbox

Hanzel: PUCHA! JST FINISHD READNG the outsiders by s.e. hinton. GRABE! TNX TLGA! ANG GANDA-GANDA! TODO! ANG GALING. SALAMAT!
I coerced him into buying the book when we saw it at Booksale going for P35. Nice to be appreciated. And yeah, it's really a fantastic book, read it, read it.

Saria: Okay, I'm having lunch. I was going to invite you to join me. By the way, my phone fell in the bowl so it's malfunctioning. I have to use the dictionary.
Alright, so that explains the perfect diction so different from the usual uy, lnch tyo sby!

Cliff: wru? der r snotty sophomors hir. dyr ol lukng at me. huri!
We were supposed to meet at the Comm Dept., and I was late. There was a gang of sophomores (who are juniors now) whom we particularly detest, as they took to making rude remarks about some of our friends in their (the friends') hearing.

Mel: its fil theo pla! i was trickd! oh no!
Mel signed up for a Theo 141 class under a reputedly good teacher. They neglected to put the 'FIL' sign beside course title that would indicate it was in Filipino. Only after it was too late did she find out. 'Nuff said.

Ma: Dumikt ka sa frnd mo na may datong tapos titigan sya w/o blinkin. Den ilabas mo ang tongue. M cukin sukiyaki. Com hom fas. Duds
I had gone to school without enough money for lunch, and complained to my mother via text that I was hungry. That's her reply above. The 'duds' is her attempt at saying 'dude', I think.

Hanzel: REALY? S DAT TRUE? WE 5--LEO, JEFFRY, GRANT, GRANTs GF ND I--R IN GLORIETA RYT NOW. WAT WE GONNA DO? WER KNDA PARANOID NA.
This was after I sent Hanzel a text warning him of the impending coup attempt in Makati that night. They eventually just ate dinner and went home--a good thing, as the coup started quite soon after, I think.

Ireene: HAHAHAHAHAHA! SAYA SAYA KO! HAHAHAHA!
My sis's reply after I told her she'd been awarded a full scholarship, too, at AdMU.

Saria: Tnx im0=) m ne w d VTr NNA m nOt sure if id get in but i did wat i cld at d m0ment 2 sound spontaneous n confident hehe
Her phone must be fixed. Haha. Saria was chosen for a VTR (Video Tape Recording) for an ad agency where I interned, to see if she'd do for the Palmolive Circle thing. She asked for some tips (because I'd know what ad agencies look for), so I said they usually search for a specific look that fits an image they have in mind. Like, say, they want a Filipina-looking girl next door, etc. Palmolive probably wants someone looking clean and fresh and girly, I said.

Ryan: hi. ryan 2. wla n kc ako load. cno dun? yng mejo maputi si RaC, yun nman mejo maitim na mukhang poor, yng tga PUP, c ROD... =)
I met some fellow Chalkers at the anniversary party and couldn't remember their names, so I texted Ryan and asked.

Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde

Our Nonfiction teacher is rather scary, because he's highly unpredictable. One minute he's smiling and making jokes, then the next he's snarling coldly at someone.

Bea was conducting the class discussion when suddenly Sir turns on someone in one corner of the room and says, "Where are your articles?"

The girl, whom I'll call Leah, had been sharing someone else's handouts. She looked up in surprise and said, "I'm sorry, I thought I was reporting today, so I brought only mine."

Sir stared at her.

"But I read the articles," she added hopefully.

"Our class policy is that you must bring the required readings to class." Sir waited a long moment, while we all sat frozen in our seats.

Leah looked like a rabbit held in thrall by a cobra.

"Leave the room."

She sat there a moment more, as if it was only just sinking in, then stood up, slowly gathered her things, and left.

Then Sir continued with his discussion as if nothing had happened.

* * * * *

Later after class, we saw Leah come back to the room to speak with Sir. They were discussing something, and Sir kept shaking his head and saying, "No."

Leah left and Mel, who is also class beadle, gave Sir the money she'd collected for the handouts, then mentioned that she hadn't gotten Leah's money yet.

Sir said, "Oh, Leah's been dropped from this class, so I guess you won't need to do that."

The three of us left together, as we were all going in the same direction, and we chattered about stuff on the way. Sir's fun to talk to, but the whole time I kept thinking of Leah.

* * * *

Apparently, Leah had already had 3 cuts, which is the maximum allowed for 3-hour classes. And when Sir sent her out of the room, that counted as a cut, which meant she'd overcut, and was dropped.

I don't think that's fair, because being sent out was a kind of punishment for not bringing her readings. Being dropped is a punishment that stems from the punishment (which she didn't choose to have, anyway).

A friend of mine went back to the room to get something later on, and saw Leah sitting in the dark, face buried in her hands. My friend left quietly.

* * * * *

What's weird is that Mel and I, and a bunch of other classmates, have come to class without readings plenty of times. Mel and I are particularly obvious, as we lean over each other's desk to share the readings.

And Sir looks at us and calls on us to recite, and doesn't say anything.

Maybe Sir just doesn't like Leah, we said. He came down on her first paper pretty hard (an email which she edited a bit to make a kind of letter-narration), and was a bit ho-hum on her second. Leah didn't seem to take an interest in class, either--she came to classes without having read the articles or our classmates' work (to be critiqued), read notes from other subjects during class, and never commented in the email (we have to email comments on 3 of our classmates' work every week; it's part of our recitation).

I don't know what it is, but it isn't right.

But I'm not going to interfere, because I'm no hero, and need an A. Sad but realistic.

Philo Orals

Philosophy orals coming up week after next, and we haven't learned anything.

Seriously.

We have readings about seven inches high when you pile them on the floor, in single-spaced tiny print, and I haven't read any of them yet. Our class discussions consist of him just sitting there and asking hard questions. When someone asks questions, he turns it around back at you.

We haven't learned anything! All I know about Philosophy of Religion is Marcel's A Metaphysic of Hope, and that's because we had to do our group report on it (stupid hard boring long article it was, too).

We haven't had any quizzes or exams or papers in his class yet. There's just the group report and the finals, which is split into the orals and a written exam.

We said, "Sir, so how're the orals going to be? It looks really hard."

He said, "Oh, don't worry. It's gonna be like we're telling each other stories. No need to study."

He laughs a lot and is extremely nice to everyone, and accepts everyone's point of view in class, no matter how weird. He marks me down as late, not absent, even when I come in 10 minutes before we're dismissed.

Classmates I know who have siblings who've taken him before say that the lowest grade he ever gives is a B; and yes, the orals are really easy. He just sits there and asks your opinion on stuff. The written exam is based more on the lesson, but still easy.

Hmm.

Somehow, I'm leery of believing in all this, and equally leery of not doing so.

I don't want to read 1000 pages of stupid Philo!

Personality Test

The Myers-Briggs personality test is one of the most well-known psychological tests around today. It's based on Carl Jung's archetypes.

There's an online version--as there is of everything--but of course it isn't as extensive and complete as those to be found in books and purchased test packages. We have a book, incidentally, entitled "Please Understand Me". It has the Myers-Briggs test in it--a much more exhaustive version--and results.

Anyway, they gave us the test in high school, and I tested myself twice in the book, and a few times here. I'm so definitely an INTP (Intuitive Thinking Perceiving type), a.k.a. the architect. Even when I changed my answers to others that also appealed to me, the results were still the same.

It's fun taking a test that's actually true, and it reveals things about yourself you never noticed.

Test results:

INTPs are pensive, analytical folks. They may venture so deeply into thought as to seem detached, and often actually are oblivious to the world around them.

Precise about their descriptions, INTPs will often correct others (or be sorely tempted to) if the shade of meaning is a bit off. While annoying to the less concise, this fine discrimination ability gives INTPs so inclined a natural advantage as, for example, grammarians and linguists.

INTPs are relatively easy-going and amenable to most anything until their principles are violated, about which they may become outspoken and inflexible. They prefer to return, however, to a reserved albeit benign ambiance, not wishing to make spectacles of themselves.

A major concern for INTPs is the haunting sense of impending failure. They spend considerable time second-guessing themselves. The open-endedness (from Perceiving) conjoined with the need for competence (NT) is expressed in a sense that one's conclusion may well be met by an equally plausible alternative solution, and that, after all, one may very well have overlooked some critical bit of data. An INTP arguing a point may very well be trying to convince himself as much as his opposition. In this way INTPs are markedly different from INTJs, who are much more confident in their competence and willing to act on their convictions.

Mathematics is a system where many INTPs love to play, similarly languages, computer systems--potentially any complex system. INTPs thrive on systems. Understanding, exploring, mastering, and manipulating systems can overtake the INTP's conscious thought. This fascination for logical wholes and their inner workings is often expressed in a detachment from the environment, a concentration where time is forgotten and extraneous stimuli are held at bay. Accomplishing a task or goal with this knowledge is secondary.

INTPs and Logic -- One of the tipoffs that a person is an INTP is her obsession with logical correctness. Errors are not often due to poor logic -- apparent faux pas in reasoning are usually a result of overlooking details or of incorrect context.

Games NTs seem to especially enjoy include Risk, Bridge, Stratego, Chess, Go, and word games of all sorts. (I have an ENTP friend that loves Boggle and its variations. We've been known to sit in public places and pick a word off a menu or mayonnaise jar to see who can make the most words from its letters on a napkin in two minutes.) The INTP mailing list has enjoyed a round of Metaphore, virtual volleyball, and a few 'finish the series' brain teasers.

What about you?

Globe Switch

I'm switching to Globe. I want the free GPRS.

Frankly, Smart is probably a better deal than Globe. Globe charges you somewhere between P1 and P2 (but never just P1) per text to other mobiles, while Smart charges a flat rate of P1 for all. Additionally, the credit update is faster--there's only a delay of a minute or so before what you spent registers, so you can have a clear idea of how much you have left. Also, when they tell you your credit update, they also include the free text allocation.

I am a bit suspicious of Globe's free text allocation because I never seemed to receive any, back when I was using Globe.

However, Smart charges P.035 per kbp when you're using GPRS, while Globe's is free (although they do block the free sites, while Smart doesn't).

What I'm after is really the wireless stuff on the Globe homepage and all. Interesting games. Haha.

Blogger Problems

Blogger is acting up again. I can't open my site (or any blogger's site, for that matter), so I'm being forced to view the comments through the preview page.

If that isn't pathetic, I don't know what is.

New Pad

We moved in our dorm last night.

It's a pretty okay place. Nothing to rave about, but nothing to rant about either.

Pros: We dormers have a little house all to ourselves. There are currently 8 of us in residence (3 to our room--one empty bed; 4 to our next door room, and one to a tiny room). There's a mini kitchen and mini sala downstairs (with a baby TV in it), and 2 bathrooms (1 upstairs, 1 down).

Pretty cheap--P2,500 for each of us, with an extra P500, though, if we want to bring our computer. Maybe later on, when it's back from the shop.

Cons: It's a bit far from school to walk--#5 E. Abada. The place is right outside the main tricycle terminal, though, so if we don't mind spending P5 every day to go back and forth, we should be fine.

You can't run the faucets in the upstairs bathroom at the same time as the downstairs one, and vice-versa. Same water supply, I think.

There's my sis and I, of course, in our room, and there's this other girl. She's working already (as a matter of fact, my sis and I are the only undergrads in the place) as a...something--er, I forget--at the ISO buildings in Ateneo. Something to do with NGOs.

Her name's Elaine, and she seems pretty nice. We all chattered away for a bit while we were unpacking. She's from Ilocos Norte. (Uhh...is that in Luzon?)

The woman in the room by herself is an elementary school teacher at Miriam. Her name's Condes, and she's the one who always opens the gate when someone leans on the doorbell ('cause she's usually the one who hears it, her room being where it is, near the stairs), and that's all I know about her.

But it's the inhabitants of the room right next to ours that interest me. They're interning as physical therapists at the clinic at Moro in Ateneo (I didn't know there was a clinic there). There are two guys and two girls in there.

Guys.

I couldn't believe my eyes when I was coming up the stairs and saw this burly back disappearing into the bathroom. Hairy legs and all.

I thought, No, wait--it could just be a really big girl or something.

But no, Elaine told us all about them.

Apparently, the two guys and two girls are classmates, and they came to the landlady together, wanting to rent the room. The landlady probably had no objection, as it was just them in the room, and no other girls to be shocked.

Is is a pro or a con that there are guys in the house?

Maybe a con, since they aren't that cute.

Haha, kidding!

Seriously, I guess it's a bit of an extra hassle, as you can't leave your underwear to dry in the bathroom, yell out for napkins, or go around the house half-naked (not that I was planning to, but you never know). Things like that.

On top of that, the upstairs bathroom lock isn't working very well, so whoever's inside usually leaves something outside--slippers on the mat, towel over the doorknob, whatever--to show it's occupied. With guys around the house, it should be pretty interesting if someone forgets.

Note: I'm not some 18th century prude or anything, to be shocked by the sight of manly legs or whatever. I've gone with guy friends on overnight trips and all that.

The weird thing is, when the person you're sharing so much personal space with, is a stranger of the opposite sex. I don't know why gender or acquaintanceship should make such a difference, but it does.

Ah, well.

English and Filipino

--> English

There's this funny email I got. One of the anecdotes is about this mother in McDonald's.

She's scolding her little boy, who, despite her instructions to the contrary, insisted on going to the play area and fell down and hurt himself.

She says, "I told you not to go to, you go to. Now look at!"

Huh?

I think she's trying to say, "Sabing huwag kang pupunta, pumunta ka. Tingnan mo ngayon!"

Er, some things shouldn't be translated directly.

--> Filiipino

I used to do that in Filipino classes all through high school and college. I can speak it fluently, as long as I can throw in English words for the terms I don't know. My store of Filipino words is pretty shallow, and has the strangest gaps in it.

"Playing music" was (and still is--can't seem to rid myself of it) "naglalaro ng musika". I'd translate the words I knew and tack on a's and o's or cut off a few e's here and there to invent my own Tagalog words. And then, when I really couldn't think of any semi-recognizable Filipino-looking word for it, I'd just enclose the whole thing in quotation marks. My essays looked like they were infected with fleas.

Fortunately, most of my teachers were very nice people who graded me on my ideas and not my, er, innovative vocabulary.

And then when we went to the East Avenue Medical Center last Wednesday to play with the sick kids (outreach program thing--my immersion by requirement), they told us to talk to the kids in straight Filipino. Because these were the class D and E people, who weren't likely to understand most English words.

I thought, sure, okay, I can do that.

I sat down and began reading The Lion King to the kids. (Incidentally, they don't know the story. When you think about it, how would they know it? They don't have the money for movies or books.)

Actually, I was reading the English text, then translating it to Filipino for them, complete with gestures and facial expressions.

I was really on a roll, with the kids eating it all up, until I came to the part where it said, 'Scar (the bad lion uncle) told Simba, 'The elephants' graveyard is a place where only the bravest lions go." '

"Sabi ni Scar kay Simba," I said, opening my eyes wide, "na dito sa libingan ng mga elepante, ang pwede lang pumunta ay ang mga...mga--mga..uh.."

I couldn't think of the Tagalog word for "brave".

"Uh, ang pwede lang pumunta dun ay ang....ang mga...ang mga pinakamagaling na leon!" I finished in triumph. I thought, what the heck, when you're brave, you're bound to be magaling, too, and vice-versa.

"Pinakamagaling!" I repeated proudly, and the kids waited impatiently, unimpressed by my heroic translation efforts. All they were interested in was what Simba did next. Hmph.

Alright, wait--don't leave me comments telling me what 'brave' is. It's matapang--I know now because I've told the story a few times to some friends, and each time, the listener invariably interrupts to say, indignantly, "It's matapang!"

(They're always indignant; I'm not sure why. I remember back in high school, I used to say, "for Peter's sake," instead of the usual "for Pete's sake", and anyone who overheard me would correct me, in tones of highest indignation, "PETE!")

I guess it's because I've always associated the word matapang with 'mean'--you know, when a new teacher comes along and someone says, "Mukhang matapang."

Okay, so much for my multilingual abilities.

Plagiarist

Oh, I say, there's a blog plagiarist going around. Apparently she steals posts from other blogs and passes them off as her own, changing the names of people to imaginary friends of hers.

Got it from freelancer. The details are in this blog.

What's weird is that some of the people she's ripped off are those I more or less indirectly know through blogging. Suburbanwit, I always see around on tagboards; and nocturnal angel is my friend's boss and one of the most prolific bloggers around (nominated by Blogger as one of the heaviest bloggers in the world).

There's something so wrong about plagiarism, particularly of diaries..it's like they're stealing a part of your soul.

I think they're all currently trying to stone her to death via tagboard.

I joined in. Haha. You do the same.

An Ounce Of Prevention...

I got the jeebies after reading about this plagiarist and decided to precautionary measures. They're not foolproof, of course, but it oughta make plagiarists sweat and perhaps change their minds.

If you'll notice, you can't copy any of my text. Try it (a great big alarm will scream, no, just kidding).

Anyway, I'd advise you guys to do the same, 'cause you never know.

Current Mood: thoughtful