Pet Peeves: Exaggeratedly Dangerous

I had this teacher back in high school who was told to be dating a commercial model from the Gard shampoo commercial back in the days. Word had it that model-guy went to her house one night to pick her up for a dinner date. After a short while of having the guy wait, she came down the flight of stairs from her room leading to the living room area. She was dressed splendidly. She was more than pretty. She was beautiful. She has this air of street-smart confidence about her. Model-guy, probably feeling relaxed, had his leg hoisted over the arm rest of the couch, beaming and all smiles, probably more than happy that she gave an effort to look elegant for their date. She, however, was disappointed. She just hates it when people drape their legs over couch arm rests.

I could not anymore recall her name, for the light of me. I could just remember her face. She has the charisma that would never translate to her having something against what most would only consider trivial. She also has the mature woman look that could easily be the subject of more than half of the male population of the entire secondary school's wet dreams, both asleep and awake. There are teachers who effortlessly become the hapless focal point of adolescent urges and this particular teacher's on the top bracket of the list of "Most Eligible and Hottest" secondary school teachers in the region. The list of course never made it public and was even regarded as fictitiously made up by one blogger with supposed "naturally-almond-brown-since-birth-colored eyes." Her beauty is a fact, though.

Going back, it gradually ended that night between the two. She did not get to be with him for long. Word was she did not even go out with him that night.

Pet peeves die hard or, in most instances, they never die at all. Ever.

My pet peeve is when people ungratefully hand me over their jeepney fare that I in turn should pass on to the driver without them saying thank you. I've got nothing against taking people's dirty coins and brushing against their gunky hands. To pass on public transport fare is after all a duty everyone inside the jeepey or FX is bound with. The sacred protocol that those of us who are either too lazy to drive our own cars, too miserly to spend on gas and parking, too passive to learn to drive, or too poor to afford even a bike for transport are constrained to keep to. Saying "bayad," a two-f*cking-syllabled word, is just as long as "thank you," and being grateful is the least you could be among those people who have equally paid for the same right to conveyance. I'd understand if the thankless were in a deluxe section of a jeepney where their fare subsidizes my own. I will even avert eye-contact from them, staring at my feet, as I take pleasure in biding their command. The deed of handing over somebody's fare for them translates to a favor done in their behalf---instead of personally going all the way forward and back a narrow jeepney's low-head-spaced aisle more so for those who sit at the far end of the jeepney. They give an alibi that people who hand over their fare do not even hear the spoken "salamat" anyway so they might as well do away with the bull crap niceness gesture. It was not about people hearing the giver's gratitude that mattered in the first place, rather that the person feels grateful for even the simplest of deeds because that's what separates the refined from them condescendingly pompous smegma-class. That's how low these kinds are from my perspective. Lower than scum-level. Smegma: the dead remnants of life even before they even had the chance at a life.

Expressing gratitude should not be something beyond the capacity of any normal person's proper upbringing which all the more makes it hard for me to rationalize why the societal sub-class of them bitch-assed ingrates still exist. May their traits all die together in mass-genocide with those who unthankfully borrow lighters from total strangers and those who treat restaurant attendants like dispensable slaves.

Labels: Opinions, Vertigo

posted by Fritz @ 12:14 AM

I want those S805 DJ Headphones. Now!

So I'm still waiting for a jeep along Ayala. Story of my life. I had my earphones on, acting all busy, shuffling my song listing for a soundtrack-of-the-moment that could at least make the waiting more interesting. Panic! At The Disco. I pushed on the track and the right ear piece stayed blank. The left goes off in full stereo and the right had nothing. F*ck. This is so nostalgic of what happened to my XDA's earphones. Same side. The right.

I tagged on the wire from the ear piece down to the mic receiver hoping for at least a glimmer of hope in the persona of a static. Nothing. Double f*ck.

Since there's plenty more time to spare until the mall closes, I might still get a new pair at Glorietta from the stall beside CDR King. That is, if they currently have stocks.

Off I went. On foot. That's at least four blocks. With quality, hard-leather soled shoes, I made my way to the mall. Pretending to hear music on both ears. Walking. It might be that I'm one of them walkers from the Books of Magic. One of Tim Hunter's companions was from a tribe of walkers. It was said that for some pilgrimages to some other realm, a traveler could only walk his way to the destination. No shortcuts. I could walk on and on at times. Not in the mornings, though. I'm a late-afternoon-to-night person. I barely have time to get to work on time in the mornings.

My feet took me to the Motorola store instead of the pirated-albeit-class-A route. Stinking feet thinking on their own. My callous must've manifested their disgust for my lack of compassion in making them experience a nice, quality foot spa. Not in this lifetime, mates! By this time, they should have already realized my disconnect to anything that involves a touchy-feeling contact that does not end with me taking the touchy-feeling contact initiator to bed. Naive losers.

Back to the story.

While scanning the show cases inside the Moto store, lo and behold, to the sound of nothing less than a 102-piece orchestra, my eyes were transfixed to a vision of matte-black. Lit by a majestic 10-watt halogen lamp was my heart's desire for the past 4 months. The would-be other half for my A2DP and AVRCP feature packed clam shell phone. Its long absent soulmate. The Motorola S805 Bluetooth DJ Headphone.

I motioned at a sales person for assistance and pointed at the my dream possession, where he might have noticed the almost-permanent glimmer in my then brimmed-with-tears-from-excitement-and-anticipation, naturally-almond-brown-since-birth-colored eyes. I asked how much and, without even hearing a reply yet, told them to get me one. Pronto.

Much as I was eager to give the unit a test run, an out of the box factory item has zero battery charge. Sorry, no test unit either but I could return the unit should it be defective. I was told to initially give it a continuous 24-hour power boost before using. So much for excitement.

Fast-forward to 24 hours later.

I tried pairing my V3x to his destined, star-crossed, and till-death-do-them-part-sort-of-connection soulmate. Unable to connect, said the V3x in annoying white font. I tried again and still got the same response. F*ck. I'm dying with anticipation here, bitch! I tried for what seemed like an eternity, trying out various means and formulating my own methods by reading the hard copy manuals and the write-ups and reviews on these interwebs. All failed.

The two are on their honeymoon now. Playing loud, blaring, and bass drowned music. In stereo. Thanks to the assistance I got from the same kindly Motorola personnel who sold me my S805, two full-days later.

I'm smiling. I'm happy. I'm contented.

My personal review up next. Stay tuned.

Labels: Gadgets

posted by Fritz @ 6:30 AM

In choosing my demise

A friend is currently working in Batangas. He lives in Quezon City. He spends six hours a day traveling to and from work. That's six valuable hours of his prime, waking life. That's 1872 hours a year, about 78 days on the road out of 365. That's 21% of the entire year with your ass glued on a vehicle.

It has been told that smoking cigarettes can shorten your lifespan by about 3 minutes for every stick you consume. If say I had been smoking an average of 10 sticks a day, I'd have shortened my life to about 30 minutes a day. If I were to choose how to waste my life based on these statistical assumptions, it most probably won't be having my bum stuck on a bus seat.

I'm still lucky to be smoking and living close to work.

Labels: Vertigo

posted by Fritz @ 6:01 AM

A being wishing to "Be Human"

Here's a thought: if Tachikomas were real, how would our roads fare in holding up their weight (estimated to be close to a ton a piece)? I'll bet, with the way things are, DPWH would probably need to re-touch the damaged asphalt on the daily. No offense, dear street-pavers, but the quality of your service sucks cock big-time!

I caught my mind toying with the idea of a wandering Tachikoma while I was waiting for a ride along Ayala Avenue, earphones in full blast, listening to random titles from the Ghost in the Shell Tachikoma Album by Yoko Kanno entitled "Be Human." Every track in the album is Tachikoma-related. The first one, the carrier single for the compilation, narrates how a Tachikoma would spend his life if he could only "be human." Its lyrics have a message that pinches the heart. The other tracks comprise a mix of music genres that's a welcomed break from the songs I usually listen to.

Speaking of OSTs, I just found out that Comic Alley sells original DVDs of quite a range of anime titles. I bought Death Note Volume 1-2 last weekend plus an assortment of Bleach-character statuettes. Surprisingly, they also sell OST audio CDs of anime titles all for P450.00 each! That's cheap compared to getting the stuff directly from Japan! If I remember correctly, they have OSTs for Getbackers, Full Metal Alchemist, Chobits, Trinity Blood, and Death Note, among others. I left my number with the attendant should they already have the actual-sized Zangetsu sword (used by Kurosaki Ichigo of the anime "Bleach") whose price is still unknown at conversation time.

As a bonus to anime-lovers who have read as far as this fourth paragraph, This one's for you. The site may not look much but it actually is a gold mine. Seriously.

I have vowed to never post lyrics of any song but this one's more like a narration, from a "robot's" perspective, on what thoughts they entertain if only they are given the chance to be like us (lyrics by Yoko Kanno):

I analyze and I verify and I quantify enough: 100 percentile no errors no miss. I synchronize and I specialize and I classify so much. Don't worry 'bout dreaming because I don't sleep. I wish I could at least 30 percent, maybe 50, for pleasure then skip all the rest.

If I only was more human, I would count every single second the rest of my life. If I just could be more human, I'd have so many little babies and maybe a wife.

I'd roll around in mud and have lots of fun then, when I was done, build bubblebath towers and swim in the tub. Sand Castles on the beach, frolic in the sea, get a broken knee, be scared of the dark and I'd sing out of key. Curse when I lost a fight, kiss and reunite, scratch a spider's bite, be happy with wrinkles I got when I smile. Pet kittens 'till they purred, maybe keep a bird, always keep my word. I'd cry at sad movies and laugh 'till it hurt. I'd buy a big bike, I'd ride by the lake. And I'd have lots of friends and I'd stay out too late.

If I could just be more human, I would see every little thing with a gleam in my eye. If only I was more human, I'd embrace every single feeling that came in my life.

Would I care and be forgiving?
Would I be sentimental and would I feel loneliness?
Would I doubt and have misgivings?
Would I cause someone sorrow too?
Would I know what to do?
Will I cry when its all over?

When I die will I see Heaven?

Labels: Anime, Music, Plugs

posted by Fritz @ 8:48 PM