I'm thinking of brewing something
And it ain't coffee.
I just bought a domain name. My very own, fancy, shit-laced, shiny bling-of-a url. Trouble is, I don't know that much about domains and I don't know anything about DNS and nameservers and code tweaking so it will take a LOT of reading and research to pull this new idea off. I want to do this right the first time.
For so long, that's two years of writing stuff, I never had a central theme for my works. Topics spew forth from wherever and I see it as a pile of Lego pieces from 20 different Lego sets, like a bag full of assorted and unmatched socks.
The other Saturday, at Peter's, I heard him say something that triggered an interest in me. Something worth pursuing. A thing that I'm not alien to but that has much potential should it be given focus.
The new url will be my brand. It will mark everything I touch. The idea plays well inside my head but it will take away more of my time to take it to the level I have set for it. Hard as it is, I will try to take so as far as it would go.
I now have the brand. All it's lacking is the facade to face the public with.
.
Labels: Blogging, Plugs, Vertigo
Your Way Out: Solution in 3 Shades of Awesome
It’s
the big day. You have prepared for the presentation with everything you could arm yourself with: corroborating documentations, related statistical information, facts-facts-and-more-facts, a thumbs up from your immediate boss, a well made powerpoint presentation with graphs and hyper-links, and, most importantly, a good night's sleep. You say to yourself, "
this is it," and that nothing else could possibly go wrong. You propel yourself into the boardroom with more confidence than what most TV personalities have while in front of a camera during an international live airing of the single most will-be watched coverage of something with global relevance and importance.
You wait. Five minutes 'til shake and bake.
Standing in front of your audience, you stare at 10 of top brass executives occupying the highest positions in your company. It is after all a proposal your subsidiary's New York Head Office have taken a liking on the moment you first presented the revolutionarily sound business solution via electronic mail. That's a two-level promotion in the bag once your 30-minute-tops talk is done.
Time flies when you enjoy what you do. Your talk is soon over and you open the floor to Q&A. The AVP for Finance clears his throat and you acknowledge him by nodding in his direction. He mumbles something expected and, God, you are so prepared for it. You formulate the single, best, most eloquent sentence construction of this deal-closing answer you have inside your head. You say, “
Thank you,” followed by a brief pause, preparing your audience for something they would definitely blow their brains out the moment words of refined precision start flowing out and through your authoritative chops.
Then, it happens.
You involuntarily twitch the instant you felt the solid, burning sensation on your testicular area. Something is biting and it doesn’t have plans of stopping any time soon. You have the tendency to scratch but thought better. You can NOT do anything. Instead, you prolong the awkward silence, muster a gasp, bite your inner lower lip to prevent yourself from groaning, all the while fighting a lone solitary tear from rolling off the side of your eye and down your cheek. The discomfort leaves you paralyzed, agitated, and out of focus. Since you can't even brush the side of your palms over your groins to at least alleviate your discomfort, the wretched spawn of the devil keeps on hanging on to biting your nuts like your flesh is some divine manna. You picture it shaking its head in conviction as it chews on you. It then makes a sound of angst and triumph, inaudible to human ears, that when translated could well be "
FOR. THE. QUEEEEEEEN!"
I watch you from the vantage of your audience. Since I know nothing of your sorry predicament, a conclusion shapes itself inside my head. “
This is a waste of my time.”
This scenario is not that far fetched. In fact, it could happen to anybody, either with or without balls, in whatever age, career, or ethnicity. What may seem like a dead end to your smoothness is still redeemable if you follow these simple fail-safe steps.
You politely excuse yourself from your audience by declaring a five-minute rest period as you walk towards your immediate superior. You tell your boss to take over the discussion one minute, should there be any offhand questions from the group, while you run off to get an important file from your work station. You exit, close the door behind you and you rush to the nearest restroom, into the nearest unoccupied cubicle, not wasting any time to unfasten your belt, pants, and boxers with a single yank.
What you do next is up to you but here are several awesome options:
OPTION 1: The-Ordinary-yet-Awesome 
You bend over for a better view of your gems and you take the blasted ant off its reverie using your thumb and index finger, crushing its fragile body in the process. Not done with your revenge yet, you put its lifeless body over the tip of anything handy, like a ballpoint pen. You fish out your trusty lighter and let its bluish torch burn the abomination in front of you. You experience wave upon wave of bliss with every flicker, every burning sound, every manifestation of yellowish ember, and fast eventual charring of the sucker’s fragile armor. All is good.
OPTION 2: Death-by-Death-God Awesome 
You part your jewels to have a better view of the insect’s face. You will know its name, having traded your eyes with that of a Shinigami. You fish out your Death Note. You write its name down while remembering closely how the insect looked like. You then proceed to write down the elaborate “cause of death” you have crafted especially for it and only it within six minutes and forty seconds from the time you have written its name down. You write: it will be tortured in levels far beyond what beings its size would normally bear and undergo and it will die in the hands of another Shinigami’s Zanpaku-To’s Bankai. You then go into the details. Everything will happen within the next 5 minutes. You feel a chill as a paralyzing force suddenly envelopes everything. Yamamoto Genryuusai Shigekuni will arrive. He knows your predicament. He turns you around using nothing but his Reiatsu so he could have a better aim at the insect that’s still attached to your balls. You spin around, bound by something unseen, like a wrestler's grip, only more awesome. Without further ado, he chants "Banshou issai haijin to nase," or “reduce all to ash.” Everything feels weird. You suddenly feel heat all round you that grows in intensity by the second. In one blinding instant, a bright light flashes. Then everything is still. Next thing you know, the ant has burnt and charred together with a few of the tips of your wiry genital hair. The old man disappears and leaves you panting from unease. With only the smell of burnt pubes in the air, you become thankful and realize that all is still good.
OPTION 3: Help-from-Powerful-Women Awesome 
You wait until midnight. You wait for the right time because the awesomest of revenge is never rushed. You go online and search for Hell Girl’s site. Once there, you type in the name “Antoine,” or “Ant1” in ant-spell, in the site’s only blank field. Over it are the words, “we will exact your revenge.” A few moments later, Enma Ai appears and gives you a straw doll with a red string. She gives you a warning in her emotionless voice and expression, “Beware, two graves are dug when one seeks revenge.” What she means is she will take the victim’s soul to Hell if you agree that she will have to take yours, too, when you die. Blah, you pull the string anyway and the wheel of revenge starts to spin by the weaving of the gracious Enma Ai as she re-appears in front of your balls in the smallest of her imaginable form and says to the ant, “ippen shindemiru?” She goes into the victim’s mind, reminds it of its inhumane acts, and then Ran (Texhnolyze), Major Motoko Kusanagi (GITS), Flower Maiden (Wolf’s Rain), Dita (Chobits), Kagero (Basilisk), and Otonashi Saya (Blood+) suddenly appear from nowhere. They each hold on to an arm of the insect and they pull them out at the same time. With a shrill chorus of uproarus banter, the women disappear with a tiny limb each. Next, an army of dust mites swarm at the remains of the still living insect. Hell’s dust mites. A thousand times more vicious than the earthly dust mite. They bite and inject excruciating pain with a mere touch. In the end, Enma Ai takes the soul of the insect on a ferry to the gates of hell. She leaves you with a flame tattoo on your chest. Her mark of damnation.
You will not be awesome until the next day, but all is still good.
Which soever way you choose, it ends the same way.
You flick the unrecognizable remains of the lifeless bastard in the toilet. You flush it. As the water swirls in
Orinoco waves, you spit on it while muttering a triple bad karma inducing curse. Only then will you have finally avenged the future generations your loins will breed.
You massage your now-swollen sac and fix yourself, breathing normally now, albeit still uncomfortable. Somebody walks in the john to find you washing your face from the sink faucet and asks, “
everything OK?” You answer with a mutter that sure sounded like, "
Ass.”
He will walk towards the urinals as you exit the restroom. He will fish his member out of his pants and catch a whiff of something burnt in the air. Like the heady smell of smegma that he will only later that same day's night realize as his per his wife's nagging remark of disgust. He will wrinkle his nose and pay it no mind in a few seconds. After all, the long day ahead lined up with board meetings is at the top of his worries.
You regain your composure like a stud who just claimed a harem of 14 deprived concubines as you re-enter the boardroom.
You will rock. You will kick ass. You will succeed.
And you will have me to thank for it.
Bitch.
Labels: Anime, Humor, Man-Blog, Vertigo
Kitsch from the distant past
Yes, I paint. Well, did. Until Freetime, the carefree kindred that she was, left me which was regretably my fault as I was eyeing this foxy chick, Career, right after college. I pursued Career and fell in love. I to her and she to me. One thing led to another and the bond between me and Freetime severed. I did not blame, nor scold, not get mad at her the moment she left. I made the choice and I understood why it was she felt she'd never be friends with the demanding Career. I made a vow to make amends with Freetime, whether she accepts or not. After all, it was only friendship and attention whe was after, nothing more. We'll catch up on lost times. We could spend some weekends or some late nights together like we did before. I'd like to see that happen. And soon. 'Cause she made me do one thing I felt good at doing. Paint.
In the old times, I'd paint shirts. The first I did had Sandman which I still wear in the house to this very day. Friends would give me a shirt and I'd return it to them with my kitsch-art. I did all these for free. Those were pre-digicam days so I never got to have photos of my art before I gave them out. What I'd give to get those even after all this time.
These photos have two of my creations from the distant past. They are my humble renditions of popular Vertigo comics characters as originally done by Duncan Fegreedo. The dude with the long do is Shade, the Changing Man. The gay masked guy is Enigma.
I made Shade for Chewie. She soaked the shirt in detergent soon after I gave the item to her and the top-coat separated itself from the metallic canvas-base. Got it back with a promise to return it to her once fixed. I never did and the shirt has long been with me.
Enigma was for Omar, aka Wolverine. He loved my comicbooks and we had some good times hunting down bargain buys from the shelves off Merriam Webster bookstores and far flung branches of Filbars. He had some Enigmas and so did I. He gave me his stash when he left for the suburbs. If you look closely, there are still tapes on the boarders of the painted portion of the shirt. I put them there to keep the paint from bleeding off the sides. I never finished this one either. It has been six years from when I started.
My paints have all dried up. My brushes have gone missing. I made a resolve to meet Freetime again and we'll become close and tight and good. I'll get me new paint-stuff then and, hopefully, I'll paint again.
More photos of these shirts through here.
Labels: Art, Vertigo
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
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
A Resounding "What-the-f..." for Ultra Cryptic Posts
Ultra cryptic posts are those that I consider, upon reading, to only please the writer for it begs to be translated by the general reader in a googleplex number of ways. These are usually personal opinions and experiences that are published in snippets to purposedly not make sense. They oftentimes contain a conveyance of strong emotion targeted to, as an example, a dear beloved who suddenly turned into the devil through something they've said or done. Or a highly personal or domestic situation whose narration, if published, might reach the person concerned and they might not be ready to handle the truth (modulate voice for the last three words). The reality is, the storytellers do not have the balls to malign nor tell their tale staight on or is restricted by some stronger force than what they themselves are ready to face at the moment. And so goes the tale of how a pseudo-post comes to exitence with all the sugar-coating, disguising, rewording, and renaming making the final output not look and sound like the original thought at all. And the readers are treated to a pointless waste of time. Double whammy if you happen to read one on a Monday, starting your week off with BS.
Below is an example:
Realized too late. Had I been her, upon realizing how it is I do not anymore have someone I never placed real value to at all in recent times, I'd sing me this song. A girl song because I'll be singing from her perspective.
If you had known that I do not currently have a lovelife, thank you very much, you'd be left wondering what this shit is all about.
Geez. Really, really pointless if not expounded on. Perspective-wise, most may not understand it but those for whom the message was intended to, hoping it reaches them, it might be that the writer wanted to have a tale driven home. Hoping it sinks in, stays there, and wrecks havoc in a painfully agonizing fashion. Like pulverized glass mixed with beef and made into a really delicious burger patty served with garnishings and all, fed to the revenge-subject, only later doing its tiny cuttings and slicings on the innards from the stomach all the way to the organs at the end of the digestive process. Short and sweet. That's the opinion I got from someone who always writes in this merry-shitty way.
I'd never get the hang of it. Honestly. End of discussion. And, by the way, a Merry Christmas to all!
Labels: Vertigo
Carols hypnotize! Cover your ears!
Halloween is the best time of the year. Period.
In Christmas, I only get to become Saint Nick. Not that everybody isn't Saint Nick with or without the jiggly red satin wrapped belly, the unruly beard, and the inevitable hoe-hoe-hoe-camel-toe spill. It's a fact: we all get under the hypnotic spiel of the sadly sang carols, the repetitive and characteristically poorly-constructed rhyming lines, the plight of its long-dead characters, of giving unless you want to be left out since it is after all a season of giving and only giving. Not just taking as taking does not count. Giving! So give!
Give for your chakras to pulsate, for your hair to naturally flow, for your scalp to not have dandruff for all eternity, for you to have a great career in front of you despite you screwing up your previous 17, for your babies to grow up within the path of the just, for you to not grow bald at earlier than 60, for you to still get a raging hard-on at 70 by natural means, and for you to sustain it for more than 2 hours if need be.
It's the season for your folly, um, or was it fanny, or did that go like, um, sex... nevermind!
The songs. The carols. They're the real culprit. Their real message reverberate at a low frequency, not noticeable to most human auditory senses, saying buy all the crappy little paper caddies, paper-clip dispensers, coffee mugs, coaster sets, magnets, pens, photo frames, this-book-belongs-to-the-library-of-blank stickers, 3-for-P100 hankies, lighters, note-pads, personal pocket diaries, mouse pads, fancy earrings, yada, yackity-yack, yada. And yes, your peers might not even use them but it IS the season of giving. The carols do not whisper give something meaningful and close to your heart and something which you think they would actually need! No. It merely said give. So give we'll do.
We do it year in and out. In a vicious cycle we can't seem to get our asses off from. We do it because the carols say so! Believe me! The next time you go into a store and start hearing some in-or-outro to a supposed subliminal song, hum a track, say a rock song, or, if you are keen enough, fish out those mp3 player earphones from your pockets and crank up the volume to anything at all! Even those lame emo songs! Anything to keep those waves from planting seeds of purchase-inducing thoughts into your pitiful mind!
Trust me on this. For the love of everything you consider to be true and of pure intentions. Do. Not. Listen. To. The. Carols.
Period.
Labels: Humor, Opinions, Vertigo
Children: In this place, we are the monarchs!
At a considerable distance from the amusement park's paved lot, we could already make out about a dozen or so various trade-name buses neatly tucked in the diagonal parking slots. Did all schools in this part of the country declare today, of all days, an EK Go-Fest?! Come one, come all! Seeing the buses and anticipating a crowded venue was one thing but being with the elementary school kids takes the matter up a whole different level.
One thing is them all going berserk and clumsily running amok.
Then there's the noise that only little kids could make when they all talk simultaneously. It's not so piercingly shrill but, in unison, it could make walls crumble, metals bend, and Gatorade drinks lose all its ions.
Then, there's the smell. That distinct smell only humans in the 6-to-12 age-range are capable of effortlessly emitting. Add all these three observations and you could already imagine how it nauseatingly felt to be surrounded by critters while waiting in line for our turn on the rides.
What the f*ck are we doing in an amusement park on a weekday, anyway?! Taking a leave from all our otherwise grown-up and busy work-lives to be child-like and juvenile and possibly face the fear we wet our pants with when we were younger. It's the children’s Free Country. The Neverland of the masses and the here-third-world born youth of supposedly both the physical and mental aspects (as claimed by the young-at-heart in an effort to devise a work-around to them, or us, rather, aging).
Ok, so it was evil to pass judgement on the critters but years make me forget of the ways of awe and thrill and carefree-ness all bundled up in a beautiful human state of life that's only just beginning to unfold. The nexxus we have all broken free from either by brute force, choice, or natural means.
The realization, though, does not negate the fact that they all stunk like they were sun-baked by the sun-god Ra himself! Falling in line with them was more vertigo inducing than the ride! Hell, more than the Space Shuttle or the Anchors Away rides combined!
God, forgive me!
Labels: Opinions, Vertigo
Girls in the office and me
This conversation just happened. Everything is presented "as is." As a backgrounder, this girl is heart broken. I had asked her out for lunch early that day but something came up:
Girl 1: HARI NG KAGALINGAN... the "ex" just asked me to lunch.
Fritz: Whoa! Grab it! Dali!
Girl 1: YOKO NGA! Eh di hindi naman kita maka-date! hahahahahaha! promiscuous itoh!
Fritz: Kaw bahala, pero suggestion ko eh you let him have the chance. Pero expect less.
Girl 1: Don't expect at all. He could've asked me for dinner. Eh lunch daw eh. Hmph. Kinuripot na ako.
Fritz: Pag hindi kayo eh lunch lang kasi back to a regular colleague ang status mo!
Girl 1: Ganun ba un?! kasama ba yan sa C-policy?!
Fritz: Yep, sa Commitment-policy kasama yan. Ni-ratify sa isang part ng nakasulat sa Vienna Convention noong May 22, 1969 and later on strengthened by a detailed two-paragraph article sa Charter of Paris noong November 21, 1990.
Girl 1: naks! napaka-believable! grabe!
Fritz: Ganyan pag magpre-present ng argument. Supported by facts! Vienna Convention was started in May 22, signed on the 23rd, and was put into force on January 27, 1980. Wag mo na itanong kung bakit ang haba ng panahon before sya mai-enforce. May gap-filling and clarifications kasing naganap kasi international treaty sya. In any case, covered ka kasi nangyari kayo ngayun taon and hindi pa na-lift or na-revise ang mga nakasulat sa mga ito!
Girl 1: kasamba-samba ka talaga! IDOL!
Fritz: Naku, wag po. Isa lang akong hamak na writer-genius disguised as some accountant. I don't deserve, nor do I solicit, praises.
Girl 1: SINONG NILOKO MO?? If I'm correct, I'm sure you bask in other people's praises and high regard for you! Hhaaaahhhhaaayyyyy....
Fritz: Let me tell you something that happened recently. Isang beses habang dumadaan ako sa area ni Girl 2, nahuli ko syang nakatingin sa akin habang naglalakad ako.
Fritz: Bakit?!
Girl 2: Bakit ano?
Fritz: Bat ganun tingin mo sa akin?
Girl 2: Wala no! Bakit? Parang ano ba ang dating sayo ng tingin ko?!
Fritz: Yung tingin mo parang pupurihin mo nanaman ako!
Girl 2: Ganun naman pakiramdam mo sa tingin ng lahat ng tao sayo!
Fritz: Minsan lang.
Girl 1: NYETA! Nakakainis!
Labels: Humor, Vertigo
From diamonds to Project Utopia
Pictures of a supposed diamond-studded Mercedes Benz had been going around a while now. The email I got claims it to be the umpteenth car of Saudi Prince Waleed.
With Serena's signature for the Man Blog forums auto-rewinding and manifesting itself in my mind like those neon signs along Burgos Street in Makati (quoting the quote, it goes, "Some people get so rich they lose all respect for humanity. That's how rich I want to be. --- Rita Rudner,"), the following exchange happened between me and an officemate:
Midori X: Here, would owning this take you up to the wealth-level where you supposedly "lose all respect for humanity?"
Fritz: Maybe! But if I should become that rich, I'd be low key. I would not need to sport a diamond-studded car to announce it. Ever. Besides, it's already been done. I'll have for myself crystal-blue colored, diamond corneas. My irises, black diamonds. All diamonds must pass the clarity test with a perfect rating. That's internally flawless (IF) under 100x magnification, instead of the usual 10x. The operation would first have to be 100% viable, tested, and safe so I may still see with the 20/20 I have now. That length I'd have to go through just to get to feel how to see behind ultra-expensive eyes. Priceless.
Midori X: Holy guacul... guacum... guacomol... uhm... Holy avocados! Now, THAT is loaded! The stuff you could think of when you get to be filthy rich!
Fritz: I have already outlined what it is I would do with that kind of money: I'll make a fully-functional prototype of a Utopian City, scale 1:1, where its inhabitants live perfectly free of poverty, war, hunger, and the commonly corrupted democratic form of government. The experience will be rendered to the visitor in virtual-realistic hologram sequences. It will, beyond a feather of doubt, be a major tourist destination from day one of its initial opening. Spectators or visitors could walk around made-up streets and gaze at the most amazing of architecture constructed over a 10,000-acre lot poised in the midst of a barren land like the Sahara or Gobi Desert, where weather condition will be closely monitored and controlled. Details on culture and language will also be reflected in the way the made-up population of the city behaves and interacts (Absent-mindedly bump a virtual-reality rendered Utopian national and they say "sorry"). Visitors may take as long as they want inside the controlled environment as real lodgings are provided in a hotel-structure sitting at the center of the perfect city (hotel prices quoted separately from entrance fee to Utopia). What may seem to be undirected events within the city will be povided by an intricate web of programs generating sequences of random instances where probability of several occurences ever happening in concurrence is marginally infinitesimal (mathematically translated to come close to a ratio of 1 to a googleplex raised to a googleplex). A reset will be done after a period of exactly 5 years. A partition of the venue would be donated to science where experimets will be done on aetherlike-near-human subjects mimicing life. An alien-invasion will occur on the fifth year before the entire program is reset. Science-donated partition will not be affected by alien-invasion. Visa restrictions may apply when required by the destination country where Utopia is from the national of an originating country.
Midori X: I just have to say, veering away from your Quixote dream sequence, that that quote is so positive in all its sarcastic glory. I so agree.
Since I'm only making this thing up, I took it upon myself to explode my dream big time.
Labels: Humor, Vertigo
Work with pressing deadlines were hurled my way like scuds at desert storm during the past week. An officemate from far-away could not have stated it better when she summarized in a word what had been keeping her on her toes albeit expectations from our demanding job: dedication. For me, it's the absence of an offer for a better paying job and the hope that things will normalize and get better if I stay on. Also, there's the glimmer of hope of getting another raise as I deem it to fit my tab. Everything would be ok if I were paid equitably for the things I do on the daily. More importantly, for the things I do beyond those embodied in the job description of the position I occupy. They now call me creative director, AKA a very gifted and talented person on the arts (music, graphics, multi-media, project aesthetics, layout, feature writing, etc, blah blah blah) that the department is lucky enough to have. I'll bet my ass they would not find anyone who could top what I put on the table as a single individual with the pay rate I'm getting. Not to be misconstrued, I'm paid rather well for the regular job I should only be doing, that is. Several people, maybe, but not a single individual who had not only specialized but who was also lucky enough to be born with over-flowing creative juices. Oh yeah, I'll bet my ass on that for sure.
I, plus several others, have grown to accept that what we do is thankless. I could live with that. But tired is what I am right now. My eyes hurt. My stomach churns unhappily to the intense tune of Jimi Hendrix's Fire. That and I have a 3-week worth laundry in my room that I'm too tired to fold up and take to the laundromat. Oh, and Emily, our helper, had not visited for more than a month now due to some sickness that had affected her family which lends the house an air of primal chaos.
On a much lighter and non-venting-of-heavy-feelings-and-frustrations side, an officemate is again leaving for an expat assignment to neighboring Hong Kong. A despedida party was held and the creative director, cue me, was again called to step up. I mixed several 80s music with shounds of people booing, cymbals, and random noises to fill the gap between horrible jokes that the leaving officemate so enthusiastically hurled our way in the past. We had all only found out in the past week that we shared the same opinion about the substandard nature of the jokes. It's either that or the delivery was not quite ok, they say, but it was pretty obvious that the jokes were horrific. I'll spare you the punchlines. Believe me, you would not ever want to hear them.
The 80s music had been served and I quite enjoyed my find via the link on the title of this post. I got some Milli Vanilli, Ice Ice Baby, Push It, Asi Me Gusta Mi (more popularly known as Extacy Extano), and Mony Mony. The tunes were so old-schoolishly old that you would want to flush your ears with a dose of heavy metal to rid you of the nostalgia. Aweful tasting nostalgia, that is, but fun. I had a wicked time listening to the full tracks.
Below are some tracks I reserched that made a cover of some popular 80s music. These versions are fused with rock so you get a new experience while reliving the old memories.
Labels: Memoir, Music, Vertigo
Panic! The bedroom door is jammed!
I left home last Friday while our house-cleaner was still doing her magic with the house. The last three instructions I gave her before going to work were: (1) do NOT take the box of comicbooks upstairs again as it gave me itches, (2) take my pillows to the clothes line and let the sun kiss the foul odor from it goodbye, and (3) have the pillow casings washed while she's at it.
Emily, our trusty house-cleaner, goes by once a week to do her home hygiene-stroke-management-stroke-organizing voodoo all over our two storey flat. She'd leave a note for us to brood over should she have concerns. Concerns covering common house-cleaner affairs like prompting us that we're running low on laundry detergent or floor polish or when she took it upon herself and decided to throw away our trash bin as she had noticed it to be at the throes of causing mass hysteria by the new strain of highly contagious, endemic-causing bacteria-virus cross breed that she had observed for it to already contain a colony of.
Her new note below, however, made me panic not only because it said my feather-pillows were still stinky.
Wait, what does she mean by pinto ng room mo?! In a dizzying sprint I lounged three stair-steps at a time to the landing in front of my room. True enough, the door was jammed. It wasn't locked. I just couldn't get the tongue part at the side of the door to go all the way in.
I was frantic. My mind was reeling on what it is I should do. Is there a guide somewhere in the internet that could give a fully detailed instruction on how to take down a door with a jammed door knob? I was telling myself,
"Think. Think! What do you reckon would a boy scout, or McGyver, or Michael Scofield would do had any of them been in your shoes right now?!"
I tried fully twisting the door knob in both directions. That only made the knob turn a centimeter more clockwise and counter-clockwise but it still left the
tongue still protruding a third of the way out. I also tried turning the knob fully in one direction as I lurched onto the door with the free side of my body with zero results other than a nearly dislocated arm.
Dammit!Sweaty and defeated, I went down to the living room and wailed my desperation out by singing the Stone Temple Pilots' unplugged version of Plush as it played from my PPC.
Ten minutes later, the person I'm sharing the flat with arrived, told him to help me with my door, and that I've tried nearly everything.
He went upstairs. I followed suit with my hands now vengefully clasped over a trusty pair of old pliers. Had anyone seen me, it would have looked as though I was plotting on killing my homie. He did the stuff I'd already done, only in a more stupidlike and clumsy manner. And there I was, hopefully thinking he'd deliver results!
My next post will cover how I managed to get the door opened with negligible or no damage to the door while leaving me a dilapidated door knob (afterwards) which somewhat tells me how strong I had become, thanks to wall climbing. To be continued...Labels: Vertigo
