Fabric Defibrillator

I have this favorite pair of black pants that I chanced upon while meandering around the mall a few years ago. It was one of those finds that you know would never occur again in this lifetime or the next. The material was comfortable and it fit and fell in all the right angles. The fact that it was black (my favorite color) was flattering as many of you may or may not know,  it has a way of bending light and deceiving people into thinking you’ve lost weight.

So one day, as mishaps would have it, I wore it to a tree planting activity in La Salle Canlubang. After the main event, we decided to explore the campus before driving back to the city. As I was admiring the imposing edifice that was their main building, it happened. Without warning, my foot lost traction and I found myself doing an awkward little air dance before landing knee first on a freshly painted speed bump.

Of course…Because these things can only happen to me. Only I can be the target of cosmic misfortune. At that, I stood up gingerly to find a nice coating of yellow all over my hands and pant legs. Perfect.

In my defense, there were no “wet paint” signs anywhere in the vicinity. Only an empty mineral bottle to mark where I assumed the workers had left off. To this day, I remain oddly suspicious that it had been a calculated ploy to penalize anyone from the Blue camp foolish enough to set foot on Green soil. Up goes the white flag. I was there to plant trees, dammit!! The infiltration was for a good cause. But that’s just me being bitter.

After trying all the tricks of the trade to get the paint stains off, I gave them up for dead. My most prized piece of clothing rested in peace in the dark recesses of my closet.  Sort of like cryogenically preserving a diseased pet in anticipation of technology that might someday revive it. Also, I didn’t have the heart to cut them up or use them as an improvised mop.

Fast forward three years. I was standing outside Megamall last weekend with some friends from work. We were discussing how to survive the company Christmas party. This year’s theme was “Glam Rock” and only at gunpoint were we to don a mohawk and tight shimmering leather. Somehow the tragedy of my black pants (may they rest in peace) sneaked into the conversation. One of my friends suggested I use a fabric pen to shade over the stained portion. Brilliant!

I spent all of the next morning resuscitating them with a Pilot Permawash pen.  Before long they were as good as when I bought them. Happy, happy, joy, joy! For the first time in ages, I took them out for a test drive.

I got on the MRT and headed for the nearest House of Minis and got myself a celebratory porterhouse steak, well done with a generous blanket of gravy. 

I didn’t even mind the hordes of Twilight-toting teenagers teetering around me. All is well again.

 

The Prodigal Weirdo Returns

It’s good to be back!

It took a lot of heaving to put an end to that month-long bout of literary constipation. I also intentionally stayed away from my time-hogging computer to put a dent in my reading backlog. So my apologies to the blog’s readership. I know you’re a small bunch (my estimate circling around an innocuous single digit figure) but I really appreciate you guys sticking around. If I somehow snap out of the financial slump I’m in and I know where you live, I will send each of you a bundle of sharpened pencils as a token of gratitude. What to use them for is entirely up to you (but if you can find a way to threaten Kris Aquino with them, I will send you a freakin’ Boeing 747).

If you read my stuff, you must have wandered into my blog from the comments I made in Jessica Zafra’s site. If you understand her humor then you must have some level of weirdness floating around in your head. Quick! Run outside and thank the high heavens you’re not normal!

I think normalcy equates to mediocrity and we are stocked full of it as it is. I mean look at our attempts to secure any semblance of recognition in the Olympics. That in itself is a symptom that something’s terribly askew.

Has anybody noticed that we as a culture don’t encourage ingenuity as much as we should? Sure we come up with creative ways to get around certain day-to-day dilemmas. And we do have excellent underground talent. But an alarmingly large chunk of the societal bell curve finds fulfillment in copying others (preferrably the ones that come from overseas) which I think is completely cockeyed.

Case in point: In 1996, Alanis Morrisette came to Manila as part of her concert tour. In the weeks leading up to the said event, local noontime show A.S.A.P. held an ”Alanis look-alike/sing-alike” contest and the winner would be announced by Alanis herself. At the finals, they had about a dozen wannabees lined up on the stage and nobody seem to be cringing.

Strange concept. In North America, they do that too by the way…Every Halloween. Or maybe as a spoof of something. Or at the gay pride parade. But only we can do it with a straight face.

And do movies really need to have recycled song titles to sell at the box office? And how come a considerable percentage of local TV shows are really just travesties of imported originals?

As I’ve probably already said before, I’m proud to be weird. As should you be. It’s hard to defend sometimes but it’s easier to breathe when you’re far from the herd.

 

Irony of Fate

That’s it. I’m coming clean.

A few weeks ago, I made a decision to momentarily lift my self-enforced ban and buy a book. I was scouring the volumes at Fully Booked when I came across Elie Wiesel’s Night (the ban being that I am neck deep in my reading backlog. The trip to the bookstore while said ban is ongoing is my way of chastising myself for everything I’ve ever done wrong in my life). It is a tiny volume containing a powerful firsthand account of a Nazi concentration camp survivor. I’ve read the book twice (or at least the Xeroxed copy of it) as part of a Political Science requirement in college but felt like I had to own a copy that did’nt involve staple wires.  

Ever had one of those “Aha!” moments in the mall when you find something rare? You know for a fact that the phenomenon will never repeat itself in this lifetime thus forcing you to suspend any and all laws you might’ve manufactured against unnecessary purchases. Well, ladies and gentlemen of the dury, that is my only way of justifying this transgression I’ve committed. Do you know how frustrating it is to pass off a chance to buy something only to find it gone by the time you’ve decided to get it? To add insult to injury, every other questionable item that you will only acquire at gunpoint is still sitting on the shelf mocking you.

I’ve had enough of delayed gratification! It is not a sign of maturity! It’s a sign of foolishness especially if the item you’re getting for yourself is only Php250.00 and may very well be gone by the time you get back! So there…I bought a book. Sue me!

And if it’s any consolation, I subsequently  realized that my “Aha!” moment was all for naught. Yesterday I went to National Bookstore. Guess what was stacked in piles and piles under a huge red sign that said “Bestsellers”.

Elie Wiesel’s Night.

The cosmic jokes are getting really old.

 

Blitzkrieged!

I think I might’ve surpassed the current world record for the most number of mishaps in a 48 hour span.

It starts with the fact that I’m completely destitute. Everytime I come within a 2 mile radius, the ATMs start making strange gurgling noises. Then I find out too late that a trip to the mall in this state is a flagellation all on its own. To keep from getting buried in more debt, I had to repeatedly remind myself (and Chrissie with whom I suffered the flagellation) that our lives will not come to an abrupt end if we decided against buying this corduroy pillow case or that bathroom rug. Notice how capitalism’s iron hand becomes increasingly flagrant when you’re a financial cripple. Believe me, it’s there. It just becomes less egregious when you have money to burn.

Of course,  dear ol’ Murphy wasn’t content with that. Sunday morning we woke up to find all the sockets in the living room short-circuited. The internet went down for the Nth time. And for the Nth time I had to call and listen to my ISP’s insipid muzak. The elevator went berzerk and thought it would be hilarious to make a stop at every floor in the building. The washing machine decided to stage a coup. My MP3 player refuses to turn on even after a fresh battery change. On top of everything else, I have a stack of laundry, a clogged drain, a busted kitchen sink, required overtime at the office, 15 flights of stairs from my floor to where I won’t be late for work, traffic, cab drivers (don’t get me started on them), and a fabulous all-expense paid trip to the seventh circle of hell.

I have it down to an art, really. When it rains, it not only pours but summons the horsemen of the apocalypse to lead the great household appliance mutiny of 2008.

I’m sure the pundits will agree that this onslaught of misfortune builds character….I wonder if it’s the kind that makes you consider buying a two-barrel shotgun on your next payday.

 

Milquetoast

Phone rings.

A muffled voice initiates a greeting at an exceptionally slow pace. “Welcome… to… Skycable… customer… service…. line. If you are a postpaid subscriber, press 1. “

Beep. The little orange number appears.

One excellent way to waste cell phone minutes, listening to your service provider’s automated system.

“For customer service, press two.”

Beep.

I’m growing roots here.

“Please stay on the line while we connect you to a customer care representative”

Do I have a choice?

Finally after 16 pesos worth of muzak a representative gets on the line. “Thank you for calling Sky Cable, how may I help you?”

Thank you for calling? What does that even mean?

“Hi, good morning. I’m calling because my internet connection has been down over the weekend.”

“Can I have your account number?”

“Six. Zero. Four…..”

“Can I have your name?”

“Jane.”

Oh god, she’d better not make me spell my last name. Was it National Geographic or Discovery Chanel that recently put out a clip featuring the number of hours an average person spends on a certain activity during a lifetime? X number of hours sleeping. X number of hours eating. X number of hours looking for the remote. Well, I have an extra activity. I spend X amount of hours (a conservative estimate equating to a 4 digit number) spelling my last name to strangers. And X amount of hours (another 4 digit number) convincing said strangers that I am not Russian.

“Yes, ma’am Jane. How can I help you?”

Train of thought ends. “My internet connection has been down for the past two days.” 

I’m paying 999 for a nonexistent service!! Does the connection have to go down everytime it rains? Have you not heard of waterproof insulation?

“Let me check.”

“Ok. Thank you” You’re such a doormat! Yell! Scream! Sling expletives! Do something!

Josh Groban starts singing Italian opera.

I really should get a landline. Widen my social circle while I’m at it. Or maybe even be a lucky home partner at one of those noontime game shows.

Groban croons through the receiver.

Wow! Did she literally run over to Loyola Heights to check if the cables have been peeled off the ground?

“Thank you for waiting, ma’am”

“No problem.” I demand a reimbursement!!

“What’s the status of the modem?”

Status?! Its status is kaput!!That’s what its status is!! “Uhm…The PC light is on but the cable light keeps blinking. The send and receive lights are off.”

“Have you tried resetting the modem”

“Yes.”

“How about trying other computers”

“Yes.” When will this end?!

“When did the connection go down?

“Last Friday”. I’m guessing she’s made a hobby out of repetitive over-the-phone interrogations.

“Ok. I’m placing in a service request. Can I place you on hold?”

And we’re back to Josh. You brought this upon yourself! You’re a disgrace!

More muzak. More of my prepaid load down the drain. Yes, I have adamantly functioned on a prepaid Globe account for the past six years. My credit card bills have given me enough hernias, thank you.

“Thank you for waiting, ma’am. I’ve placed the request. Is there anything else?”

“No that’s it. Thank you!”

“Thank you for calling and have a nice day!”

“You too.” Note to self: keep a paper bag handy for when I call them again.

Thus explains my blog silence.