I’m catching some flak for some of my posts. :D. I might have let my tongue wag a little too loose and I may have let my memory get the best of me….
So much for therapy 
It’s almost Christmas!Have you done your shopping already?
If you’re looking for the perfect gift for your favorite niece, look no further!Call in for the “Judith Beheads Holofernes” limited edition doll today! It comes in a numbered collector’s edition box with 9 points of articulation.Your niece will sure enjoy reliving Susana’s adventures and discover the manifold joys of decapitation. Call now!
****
Sorry.That was my dark passenger going off tangent.This is an actual doll from the Filipiniana section of SM.The limited edition dolls are from the Flores de Mayo collection.But still, a doll with a freshly decapitated head?And with what nobility….
Whoever is in charge of product development here should find another job
Would you actually wear this? (Found at the AVenue mall)
Looks like some designer was a little too drunk at work
Filipinos try to inject the concept of hierarchy everywhere. There always has to be a “boss,” someone more important than the rest. Someone we genuflect to. Someone who wields the “Power.”
On the streets, the policeman–beer belly, gold rings, and all — often are the kings of the roads. We call them “sir”, “boss”, “tsip.”
At the office, we have “sirs,” “ma’ams,” and “bosses” regardless of pedigree, knighthood, or whatnot.
Foreigners balk at this cultural idiosyncacy. So much that in one of my office environments, they actually outlawed calling managers sirs and ma’ams.
One Canadian manager (let’s call him John), and I got to talking. He says, “Don’t call me sir. Just call me John.”
I ask, “Why? Is there any particular reason. It’s a Filipino way of showing respect.”
“Yeah, but–it’s hard to explain–it’s a cultural thing.”
Actually, I did get it. In our “respect” for authority, we sometimes erect walls between the castes. John wanted an environment were everyone could speak their minds to bosses. He wanted the employees to be proactive participants in the business instead of lashed grunts churning away at work. And he probably didn’t like the managers to put themselves on pedestals, away from people who did the actual legwork.
I kinda like his viewpoint. I just don’t think the managers would take it kindly if I started calling them dude or dudette.
The sudden rush of blog posts? It’s because I haven’t been posting in a while. And I’ve been thinking a lot for some time. Needless to say, my head’s a little constipated. This here is my mental fiber.
Yes, Cookie Monster. Delete cookies. It’s good for your health.
A few years ago, not deleting my cookies (and not logging out) almost cost me my dignity.
I was at this internet shop when, after checking mail and Friendster-ing, I had forgotten to log out of my sessions.
The next day, Dothy (ever so prompt Dothy), sent me a message.
“Chee, are you really suddenly gay? Are you okay? Check your profile!”
Sure enough, some fiend changed my status to “Married”, made me “Interested in Dating Males,” listed my interests as “s*cking c*ck,” and a few other things too nasty for this blog. And oh, he listed me as “Gay.”
I had to do some serious damage control afterwards.
But I did learn a few lessons.
Log out.
Delete cookies.
p.s. This is really embarassing because I’m supposed to be the IT guy. Can’t even secure my online persona, sheesh.
This is the true story of Tiger, my favorite dog.
Tiger was the ugliest of our dogs.Unlike Brandy and Scotch, he had no pedigree.Unlike, Bon Bon, he wasn’t cute.But he was the most loyal of them all.And the most intelligent too.
Of all our dogs, he was the only one who could be taught anything that resembled a trick.The others, particularly Brandy and Scotch could only be taught two tricks:Eat food, and lick gonads.
Tiger, on the other hand could be taught to cross the street, stay and sit.Plus, he’d usually tag along wherever we’d go. And we had to physically restrain him from boarding the jeep with us on the way to school.
My mom proudly declared that Tiger used to belong to NPAs in the mountains, which accounted for his constant company of whomever his masters were.And yes, he was named Tiger because of his coat of brown streaks.
One day, as we let the dogs out of the house to do whatever dogs do, Tiger, Scotch, and Brandy shot out of the gate to engage a rival dog from across the street.Scotch and Brandy, being fat and lazy, lumbered forth.Tiger, on the other hand darted across the street.Straight onto a hurtling jeep.
I watched in horror as he went under the jeep’s wheels twice.And even though the three-ton jeep caught him square in the belly, Tiger managed to scramble up and limp towards my mom, where he collapsed, chest heaving at his injuries.
My step uncle came and massaged his belly, feeling his injuries, and presumably sizing up his chances of survival (come back to this scene later).
Unfortunately, Tiger didn’t make it. The jeep was too much for his tiny body.I mourned in my room until nightfall.
At around 8 I felt a little peckish, so I went down for dinner.Imagine my horror as I lifted the lid of the casserole and found myself staring at Tiger’s tiny body, adobo-style.I could not have been mistaken. I could recognize his mottled coat even in its current dismembered form.
I then realized why my step uncle had been massaging Tiger’s belly, he was sizing up his viability as viand.
I was really mad then.I’m still a little mad now.I will never really understand how someone would cook one’s pet. Dead or otherwise.Step uncle should have been shipped off for sensitivity training.
And after Tiger, I never really did have another dog I could call my own.It’s hard to recover from something like that.
I’m a little tired of listening to press statements from personalities on the docket for some crime.Probably because they all use the same carefully studied, misleadingly measured key phrases.
“I deeply regret”, “I made a lapse in judgment”,“I made an unfortunate decision”, “It was a unsuspected”, “I am afflicted by a disorder”, “caused by factors around me that I have no control over”,“I have been making steps to move on and leave this episode behind”,“this was an isolated episode”, “I understand I have caused anguish”, “I have checked in to a rehabilitation center to treat this disorder.”
I don’t like these phrases because they feel contrived and calculated to make the crime committed feel benign and unintentional.Everything is an accident caused by unfortunate events which, unfortunately, makes the perpertrator just someone at the wrong place at the wrong time.All the perpetrator needs is a little medication.
When Harvey Milk was murdered, the reason was “I had too much sugar which caused an imbalance in my emotional state.”The perpetrator was acquitted.This is now called in the “Twinkie defense” in legal circles.It may have been valid (or not) then, but look how we have abused it.
In another case, the defendant was acquitted after being found “morally handicapped.”So I guess the court found him innocent of the charges against him.Morally handicapped?Aren’t we all?
There are more horror stories, some valid, most preposterous.But what scares me is that people have lost the ability to take responsibility for their actions.It’s always someone (or something) else’s fault.My parents, my siblings, my environment, too much twinkies, too much TV/Video Games, not enough education, not enough disclaimers.
I just hope we don’t end up praying like this some day:
“Dear Lord, I have made some decisions that are regrettable.I have made a few lapses in judgment which have cause inconvenience to some people around me.These mistakes, have caused some anguish in some sectors.However, I can assure you that these are not caused by malicious intents, but by the fact that I have been exposed to unfortunate circumstances beyond my control.In spite of this, I have always been a good citizen.I have discussed these problems with people around me and behavioral experts.You can be sure that I have made steps to address these tendencies so that they may not cause this harm again.”
I think what we lack is the ability to call a spade a spade.To call sin by its rightful name.The ability to say: I have sinned; I was wrong; my actions were criminal.To accept that what we have done is a low down dirty shame.
Now, I’ve done sinful things as well.I know that fully well.But when I come before God, I know it would be best if I told Him that I had sinned, fully, completely.I am a criminal guilty of breaking the law.And I need a Saviour.
Because if we don’t own up to our action, be we victims or not, we will never receive healing.
My high school batch had a reunion of sorts a few weeks ago. And I wasn’t able to join. It’s been a little north of a decade but the old guys still look the same–only older, uglier, and with love handles. 1996 WAS a long time ago, so I suppose we all have to carry the same bedraggled look.
I’ve always maintained that reunions are for those who have memories to celebrate and relationships to rekindle. And, for me, there has always been a dearth of both.
Anyway, I have a few particular memories of high school that come to mind and I felt like sharing:
*****
At one Christmas party (probably one of the only Christmas parties I attended at school since I’d usually ditch class) I had just won first prize at a parlor game.And Ms. A.L., being one of the prettiest in our class came up to me and gave me my prize, which was a bar of Irish Spring soap—a nice prize notwithstanding.But it was what she said afterwards that has haunted me for the past, oh 15 years or so: “Ayan, Chee, Irish Spring, bagay sa yo.”
At that time I didn’t realize it, and I guess it was just the shock of being talked to by a pretty lady, but now I realize that they really didn’t hold my personal hygiene in high regard.
*****
Having said that I admit to suffering from the Aoki syndrome.Meaning, I don’t like talking to pretty girls, especially the vain ones.Owing to a couple of reasons: trauma, equity (being pretty, they get a lot of attention, I’d rather reserve my attention for those lacking), vindication, and my glaring social ineptness.And this generally means I’m not nice to pretty people.
So, if I’ve been nice to you….
My brother and I used to live at the Manila Sanitarium.Room 221 to be exact.And we stayed for almost 2 years (1990 – 1992).
Back then, me and my brother would pass off as twins, moreso now, meaning if you see me doing something evil, it isn’t me, it’s him – at least that’s my excuse 
A few months ago, one of the veteran hospital workers, who evidently still remembers my face, made this astute observation regarding me:
“I remember that Puen kid, he had an uglier brother who was darker and skinnier.It’s nice to see him grown up now.”
Unfortunately, when we were younger, I was the darker, skinnier one.
I always thought I was paranoid to think that people regarded me the ugly one.Nice to know that I wasn’t paranoid after all.Thanks for the affirmation!
