finally!

on a late friday night, first draft = final. what music to my ears :) lahvet.

happy thoughts to send me on my way.

next post, from cebu.

happy madcap christmas, everyone.

finally!

working class

My work is getting me all-schizo, in a good way. Fun. I have to always keep in mind “voices” when I write. I am forced to actually put discipline in writing. My constant source of insecurity is the fact that I didn’t go to school (training) for this, but since this is something that I am passionate about, I am willing to go to great lengths to learn as much as I can. Oh, the things I do for this love of writing- I took a pay cut, I now commute in the smoggy metro and contend with a lot of rude people during rush hour. I know this won’t be the end of it, this constant adjustment, stretching of myself. I don different thinking hats- one minute, its party girl covering a fabulous event, and the next, serious news fit for front page. Work may not be perfect and ideal, but it’s reliable. It isn’t about feeling the love everyday- it is about sustenance, for even when after the glow of falling has waned, I will stick it out and I will choose to stay. That is something I cannot say about a job that I’m not in love with. I was interviewed in several multinational companies; a couple with posts that were connected to my training and HR background. In one, I did the initial interview, exam and the departmental interview all on the same day. I knew if I really wanted to, I would have gotten the job. Except, when I was talking to my potential boss about projects that I had done, I noticed I was telling her my story by rote. In a weird out-of-body kind way, I saw myself talking to her, all prim and proper in my suit, hands clasped on my lap. Just enough of a warm smile, slight nodding of the head. No sparks, no chemistry. Much like a blind date that bombed.Then, the exams. Logical, abstract reasoning and mathematical ability. Number series that required you of what came next after 8, 9, 12. How the hell should I know? I hate those exams, and I hate it even more when numbers and shapes start swimming on the test booklets. Good thing the proctors didn’t see my scratch sheets, or else they’d have seen my doodles. Still a lot like a blind date who insists on bringing you home. Prolonging the agony.In contrast, my interviews for the current job was full of laughter, some retelling of stories and I didn’t even have to take an exam. On the very day of my first and final interview, I got the job and a take home assignment. Now, here I am. Of course, I cannot write about clients here, one thing I promised myself. Common sense, even if I did have to sign a confidentiality agreement. I’m having fun learning. Being continents out of my comfort zone isn’t all that peachy fun, but there are moments. In events, I get all glammed up and prettified, then you’d see us scarfing down fishbols on the sidewalk, right before schmoozing with guests. Sarap.I will not complain about demanding clients; it doesn’t take a genius to realize they’re the reason we have the business. It will only give me more insight on human nature, and hey, more fodder for my future-book material. I will not whine about having to read and scan newspapers and magazines for client monitoring, I already love to read them anyway. It will just mean I will have extended my reading menu. A downside is the abuse I’ve been inflicting on my eyes, having to stare at the computer screen for hours and noticing a need to have my eyes checked. That, and pushing myself to turn out better articles, faster, so my editor will be happier. I don’t mind though. That silly smile I have plastered on my face after seeing my words on major dailies is more than enough. For now. I still want my byline.

commuting casualty

“Give a woman a great pair of shoes and she can conquer the world” (Bette Midler) Unfortunately, not even Carrie and the rest of the SATC girls can account for the fact that walking in heels on concrete is a version of hell on earth. I may have to go back to basics, and I don’t think I’ve ever been a basics kind of girl. Wearing clothes my own way, I didn’t need to previously consider the logistical considerations of outfits. (Yeah, so socially relevant.) I’ve never had to commute this far and if I did, I was always able to get rides. Getting on the MRT was a once in a while treat; almost five years in my stay in Manila, it’s still somewhat of a novelty. Not anymore. In my previous post, I mentioned about tugging hemlines and lowered necklines. I’ve never been one to wear something so attention-grabbing, but I do love to have my own way of dressing up. After years of having school uniforms, fashion was something that I relish. Aside from clothes considerations, my promising love affair with shoes is getting nipped in the bud. I still love my stilettos, but I have also recently learned to be friends with flats, something that I have never imagined doing. I’m sure girls can relate to the power of wearing high heels and I need not go over again the high (literally and figuratively) that women get when in heels. Sure, we walk differently, hips consciously swaying in tune with the staccato beats our walking creates. Try that for, oh, let’s say three blocks, and you’ll be crying for your mommy. Someone, please invent heels we can actually commute in comfortably. Is a confidence-boosting device in the guise of footwear too much to ask of Santa this Christmas? Conquer the world in flats and the height you were destined, in my case, puny? So much for world domination. Forget it. (Oh wait…a certain lady president who stays firmly in place? Sheldon Plankton in SpongeBob? Hmm. There might be hope yet.) Thankfully, the weather has been great. It’s actually cold out, and the MRT’s air-condition is even sometimes freezing. Come summer, it’s going to be another story.

here's another.

procrastinating efficiently. Here's another linked article, this time by F. Sionil Jose (because I can certainly relate, and because I still haven't finished Viajero)

Should our writers globalize?
HINDSIGHT By F Sionil Jose Updated December 08, 2008 12:00 AM

A hundred writers and literature teachers from Mindanao and the Visayas met at the University of the Philippines in Tacloban last Monday. This is what I told them:

Prof. Merle Alunan asked me to comment on “Literature in the Environment of Globalism.” For those of us who write in English, since English has become the lengua franca of the world, our literature will have a global reach even without our intending it. And such megaton words like globalism, globalization, what could they possibly mean to a farmer in storm-lashed Samar, who had slaved to send his children to this university in Tacloban? What can such words mean to us, knowing that the world has shrunk so much with the laptop and television, and of course, with our thousands upon thousands of relatives strewn at random all over the world. Truly, we have become a cosmopolitan people although our roots are embedded deep in the provincial soil of this unhappy country.

We now see our workers here and abroad losing their jobs because of the rapacity of capitalists, and at home, the myopia of those Makati moneybags. These are the sordid realities of the present, the ugly face of globalism staring at us.

We cannot demand of writers, to portray a particular theme, a particular view, although, of course, it was common for Popes and Kings to patronize writers who pandered to them affirming their greatness. But maybe, just maybe, from this impending catastrophe — “Only the event will teach us in its hour…” and, so it must be — from the great conundrums in history have sprung equally great writers. From the Spanish Inquisition emerged Miguel de Cervantes and the world’s greatest novel, “Don Quixote dela Mancha.” Bad times create good if not excellent literature — in living memory, the Great Depression in America in the ’30s brought forth the brightest of American writers, F. Scott Fitzgerald, John Steinbeck, William Faulkner.

Stalinist repression from the Thirties to the Seventies did not extinguish the creativity of Russia’s authors; from those horrendous decades of imprisonment, torture and death sprang Alexander Solzhenitsyn and Boris Paternak, poets like Osip Mandelstam who died in prison and my favorite poet, Anna Akhmatova whose poem, permit me now to recite, is a tribute to those who stayed behind and braved the lash:

I am not one of those who left the land

to the mercy of its enemies.

Their flattery leaves me cold,

my songs are not for them to praise.

But I pity the exile’s lot.

Like a felon, like a man half-dead,

dark is your path, wanderer;

wormwood infects your foreign bread.

But here in the murk of conflagration

when scarcely a friend is left to know,

we, the survivors, do not flinch

from anything, not from a single blow.

Surely, the reckoning will be made

after the passing of this cloud.

We are the people without tears,

straighter than you, more proud.

In the last hundred years — think back, momentous watersheds — in our history; the revolution of 1896, the Japanese Occupation in 1942 and the dictatorship of Marcos in 1972; these tested us, and we were found wanting, but at least, the twilight of Spanish colonialism brought us the Noli Me Tangere and the El Filibusterismo — the two great novels that have loomed brightest in this tumultuous past to remind us the necessity for writers to be contextual, if our writing is to survive and prevail. For in the end, although we cannot wait that long, time is the ultimate — and the best critic.

Let me digress and be personal.

In a couple of days, I will be 84 — a very old man. I have earned the privilege of saying what I please because now, I know so much — and yet, I also know so little. Indeed the whole of living is a learning experience. I have seen how this nation has decayed, how our leaders betrayed the Filipino dream. I think I can also question now without quibbling what Ninoy Aquino said, that the Filipino is worth dying for.

With my background, then I hope I can impart to you some thoughts about writing — shortcuts, perhaps, in the craft which will spare you some trouble.

Early enough answer some basic questions which all writers should ask of themselves, like, what is literature? Why do I write? What will I write about? And who is my audience?

Before doing so, let me salute those of you who are teachers or who plan to teach bearing in mind that teaching, like writing, is a vocation.

I owe so much to my teachers, my mother most of all who taught me patience and industry, and my grade school teacher Soledad Oriel who introduced me to literature, to the novels of Rizal, Miguel de Cervantes and Willa Cather and thereby opened a vast new world for me. And Paz Latorena in college who defined for me the difference between telling a story and writing one. And the Dominican, Juan Labrador who taught me clarity.

First, what is literature? So many of us and even teachers at that do not realize how valuable literature is, not just as entertainment or history, but as a shaper of culture and of ethics for as I have so often stated, it is only literature which can teach us ethics.

And this very personal question, why do you write?

Globalism? Forget it — we will infuse our literature with what we are, our gonads, the odors of our bodies and the verdure of our land. We will write as Filipinos, free from the influences of our colonizers, from the canons they imposed on us. In this way, we will not be swept under by the dulcet enticements of McDonald’s, Toyota and Harry Potter. It is the Filipinoness, this particularity which will identify us, from which the universal begins.

And for whom are we writing? This is such a simple question which demands a simple answer but if we think a little bit more, then we realize that our answer will embrace so much.

We are writing for ourselves and for our own people.

What then should we write about and what do we tell our people? We will entertain them, that’s for sure but writers are also teachers so we will teach them our history, about ourselves. We will do this bearing in mind that we can dig into the rich lode of our folk traditions, the mud at our feet if need be. We must remember that we are creatures of geography, of our colonized history which shaped us not as Asians but as Westerners, Latinos, perhaps, people given to flamboyance, to hyperbole, to rococo excesses — all of these which we must refine and infuse with more depth for this is also a fact about us — we are shallow, without the philosophical profundity of Buddhism and Hinduism — the two great religions of Asia that did not touch us. We are Christians, most of us, without a profound knowledge of Christianity itself and its roots in the Greco-Judaic past. Depth, and more depth, that is what we need in our arts, in our literature — not just the purely visceral which characterizes our response to the arts.

To acquire that depth requires of our writers more knowledge, a keener understanding of the social process, and of art itself.

A priest who is an excellent writer of both fiction and non-fiction, not too long ago, confessed that he was no longer as prolific as he was in his younger days and that now, he found difficulty in creative writing. I asked if it was his vocation — the priesthood that was inhibiting him. For a while, he seemed in deep thought, then he said quietly, it was, indeed the priesthood that was in the way.

Indeed, art is very demanding — and it is difficult if not impossible for any man to serve two masters. Think about this dilemma, too.

A writer’s life is harsh. First there is the very tedious struggle to put down on paper the fires that burn in our bellies, the honing of craft into art, the total immersion into what we are writing, the shutting off the outside world so that we enter the new world of the imagination with clarity and anxiety.

And then, there are the iron demands of the other world wherein we actually live, the need to provide three meals a day for family, a roof that does not leak, and hopefully, a future that is free from drought and storm.

And we know that the stuff we produce does not earn us money, and that integrity cannot really be translated into milk for the children. What then?

All of us know only too well these grim realities not as masochists who thrive on suffering, but as reminders of the risks to limb and to the spirit most of all which we must take.

Let this sign be before every writer’s desk: write at your own peril.

What can an old man tell young Filipino writers, their eyes ablaze with purpose, their hearts bursting with conviction? Why should someone grow old writing when there is no reward to it? I have seen so many of my contemporaries, many of them more gifted that I with the magic of words and creativity, go into more lucrative enterprises. Why then must we continue writing?

The world demands that we go global, that our vision should extend beyond the confines of our national frontiers.

Yes, but in the end, if we are to prevail, we have to have that passion to do so. Call it commitment, or just plain doggedness or stubbornness of which we have a lot.

But to sustain it means only one thing, that we are rooted tenaciously and affectionately in the native soil — that though our minds may soar to the ether, our feet are on solid ground, this earth we call Filipinas.

Sure, there is going to be Elysium, and Nirvana, and Utopia where justice exists and happiness is all around for everyone to share.

But even when that moment comes, the artist in us will still be, seeking, not just perfectibility, but the eternal essence of art, that which transcends our puny selves, that which will exist for always, and which sustains us and drives us to act, although we with our infantile minds cannot quite define or grasp.

We are a very young nation; we don’t have the august megalithic monuments that adorn our neighbors’ lands, edifices which remind them of their noble traditions. How difficult it would be for us as creative writers if there was a Confucious looking over our shoulders, or for that matter since we are in a sense Westerners, illustrious writers like Homer, Cervantes or Shakespeare.

In the beginning of this presentation, I had sounded apocalyptic by citing the coming depression that has already afflicted the industrialized countries. It has already started to batter our very shores, and vaulting difficulties await us in the coming year and even beyond 2009. Our leaders say we can weather this economic tsunami and they are partly right because subsistence economics such as ours can take a lot of punishment. There is also a saying in the army that you cannot demote a buck private any lower because he is already there.

But even without this disaster brought about by greed and capitalism gone wild—we would still have troublous times ahead. Just remember this — we are now ninety million; some 10 year ago, more than half of our grade school children stopped schooling at grade 5 — we now have millions of young adults illiterate and ill trained for any job which modern industry demands. Our natural resources are depleted and they are not renewable. It is not just physical poverty which condemns us to penury — it is poverty of the spirit, the endemic corruption, the gross and obscene irresponsibility of our elites which will bring about the implosion that will destroy this nation — not the ongoing communist rebellion or the Moro separatist impulse.

Before this terrible challenge, what can the individual do, least of all those of us who write?

Let us hearken to those hoary panegyrics that he who stands alone is the strongest, that the pen is mightier than the sword.

Brave words, but meaningless, and even foolish. Can a poem, a beautiful essay, or even an epic novel stem this creeping rot, or like some magic drug, stop the metastasis?

Though our futile craft and intention will humble or even humiliate us, we also know that we have to plod on, to write as best as we can, to build that one brick, lay it down with our sweat and blood and shape that noble foundation on which this nation will stand and, hopefully, endure.

And to do this, we know that we have to transcend our puny selves, shatter the towering egos that prop us, and seek beyond ourselves the sublime meaning of what we do, to make this life more meaningful as well.

We will write in spite of our knowledge that we can do only so much and we do this as duty if we are to accept that duty as did our most heroic writer, that exemplar Jose Rizal, in whose shadow we work. The salvific resonance of his work and life affirms us for Rizal redeemed us.

We may now pause and ask ourselves — are we worth redeeming at all?

typing without a clue (linked article)

taray, di ba. but this is so true. i wonder who's gonna read that crap. Typing Without a Clue Anyone who abuses the English language on such a regular basis should not be paid to put words in print.'); } function getShareKeywords() { return encodeURIComponent('Writing and Writers,Books and Literature,English Language'); } function getShareSection() { return encodeURIComponent('opinion'); } function getShareSectionDisplay() { return encodeURIComponent('Guest Columnist'); } function getShareSubSection() { return encodeURIComponent(''); } function getShareByline() { return encodeURIComponent('By TIMOTHY EGAN'); } function getSharePubdate() { return encodeURIComponent('December 7, 2008'); }

By TIMOTHY EGAN

Published: December 6, 2008

The unlicensed pipe fitter known as Joe the Plumber is out with a book this month, just as the last seconds on his 15 minutes are slipping away. I have a question for Joe: Do you want me to fix your leaky toilet.

I didn’t think so. And I don’t want you writing books. Not when too many good novelists remain unpublished. Not when too many extraordinary histories remain unread. Not when too many riveting memoirs are kicked back at authors after 10 years of toil. Not when voices in Iran, North Korea or China struggle to get past a censor’s gate.

Joe, a k a Samuel J. Wurzelbacher, was no good as a citizen, having failed to pay his full share of taxes, no good as a plumber, not being fully credentialed, and not even any good as a faux American icon. Who could forget poor John McCain at his most befuddled, calling out for his working-class surrogate on a day when Joe stiffed him.

With a résumé full of failure, he now thinks he can join the profession of Mark Twain, George Orwell and Joan Didion.

Next up may be Sarah Palin, who is said to be worth nearly $7 million if she can place her thoughts between covers. Publishers: with all the grim news of layoffs and staff cuts at the venerable houses of American letters, can we set some ground rules for these hard times? Anyone who abuses the English language on such a regular basis should not be paid to put words in print.

Here’s Palin’s response, after Matt Lauer asked her when she knew the election was lost:

“I had great faith that, you know, perhaps when that voter entered that voting booth and closed that curtain that what would kick in for them was, perhaps, a bold step that would have to be taken in casting a vote for us, but having to put a lot of faith in that commitment we tried to articulate that we were the true change agent that would progress this nation.”

I have no idea what she said in that thicket of words.

Most of the writers I know work every day, in obscurity and close to poverty, trying to say one thing well and true. Day in, day out, they labor to find their voice, to learn their trade, to understand nuance and pace. And then, facing a sea of rejections, they hear about something like Barbara Bush’s dog getting a book deal.

Writing is hard, even for the best wordsmiths. Ernest Hemingway said the most frightening thing he ever encountered was “a blank sheet of paper.” And Winston Churchill called the act of writing a book “a horrible, exhaustive struggle, like a long bout of painful illness.”

When I heard J.T.P. had a book, I thought of that Chris Farley skit from “Saturday Night Live.” He’s a motivational counselor, trying to keep some slacker youths from living in a van down by the river, just like him. One kid tells him he wants to write.

“La-di-frickin’-da!” Farley says. “We got ourselves a writer here!”

If Joe really wants to write, he should keep his day job and spend his evenings reading Rick Reilly’s sports columns, Peggy Noonan’s speeches, or Jess Walter’s fiction. He should open Dostoevsky or Norman Maclean — for osmosis, if nothing else. He should study Frank McCourt on teaching or Annie Dillard on writing.

The idea that someone who stumbled into a sound bite can be published, and charge $24.95 for said words, makes so many real writers think the world is unfair.

Our next president is a writer, which may do something to elevate standards in the book industry. The last time a true writer occupied the White House was a hundred years ago, with Teddy Roosevelt, who wrote 13 books before his 40th birthday.

Barack Obama’s first book, the memoir of a mixed-race man, is terrific. Outside of a few speeches, he will probably not write anything memorable until he’s out office, but I look forward to that presidential memoir.

For the others — you friends of celebrities penning cookbooks, you train wrecks just out of rehab, you politicians with an agent but no talent — stop soaking up precious advance money.

I know: publishers say they print garbage so that real literature, which seldom makes any money, can find its way into print. True, to a point. But some of them print garbage so they can buy more garbage.

There was a time when I wanted to be like Sting, the singer, belting out, “Roxanne ...” I guess that’s why we have karaoke, for fantasy night. If only there was such a thing for failed plumbers, politicians or celebrities who think they can write.

about face

When you're capable of speaking softly and being kinder, do so. The world needs more thinking people and charity. It's not easy, but it does make things less complicated. People being the way they are, we are intent on seeking our own uniqueness and fixated on leaving our heavily stamped footprint on the pavement. We are absorbed in our obsessive excesses, in feeding the ego that we shut out all our inner voices. Sadly, it is these voices that we need to listen to. The softest caress of an ego stroked makes us purr like cats. When the need is left unrecognized, it turns us into growling bitches with hurtful words to spare. Such is the dilemma of an imperfect human. Left alone we retreat into oblivion and yet seek out addictions to balm our soul. Strength is terrifying, but I fear courage even more. Because audacity teaches me to recognize faults and yet be able to sing about it. Because I learn to walk alone and be unafraid, to draw the line and be able to say that I am happy. Because I can walk away, or towards something, and know that everything is predesigned. Because even if the cold is blasting from all sides, there is a fire in the pit of my stomach that says I am right. I just have to sit. And stay.

cute alert!

this is too cute-

check out the link to msn news. make sure you read the cartoon strip with his excerpts :)

(thought aside: sheesh. a 9-year old already had his book published?! aarrgh.)

Little ladies man pens dating primer

9-year-old Alec Greven advises boys of all ages how to get the right girl

bookbound

My inner geekydorkdom is stoked with my recent book buys. I had a crappy Friday night and I went over to Powerbooks, stories being the perfect salve for my soul. (That, and great music, which I luckily had a fill of when I later decided to go to a friend's gig.) I know, I promised myself I wouldn't be buying new books, until '09, and until I finished the few unfinished ones I had. I think I was possessed and promptly bought two. Never, never leave me alone in a bookstore- or at least grab hold of my purse when my eyes start to get that glazed over expression.

Last Saturday's room makeover, I had to rearrange my shelves to make room for all my magazines and books...until it looked more like a library than a bedroom. I wanted a library in my future home, NOT live in one- though that wouldn't be such a bad thing. :P

But WAIT there's mooore. I used to pass by Bound Bookshop a lot, but haven't really had the time to go in. I just found their site, and oh, be still my heart.

So, how IS thees?! I can't wait to go and shop. I was going to be a holiday miser because I'm broke, but hey, with these prices? Never mind the stuffed shelves and my broken promise to myself. :D I'll be the girl on her knees scavenging for great titles.

(linked below their website)

Black Christmas update- Get Wolfgang's new Villain

Yay, am getting my own copy of Villains, the new Wolfgang album, delivered right at my office.
How?
Email : jeepneyrockstop@gmail.com
You may pay through Paypal, Gcash, Banco de Oro/ Unionbank deposit.

Courier Deliveries will be sent out on Dec. 10 - 11, 2008.

You can also claim reserved CDs at the gigs: Eastwood- Dec. 10 and Cebu City - Dec. 11.

Those who reserved copies and pay on time (on or before Dec 5) will receive a special Wolfgang sticker and a card with 2 stamps. Freebies!

And-- if you didn't notice text above- they're playing in Eastwood Dec 10 AND in Cebu Dec 11. (Too bad I can't go to both shows, boohoo.)

sex and the convent girl

Currently reading Behind the Walls: Life of Convent Girls, a collection of stories from various colegialas. I was intrigued enough to buy the book and so far, it's been really entertaining. It made me think of all the stories when I was in school, though I've never realized I was actually a "convent girl" -I was in all-girls' school all of my high school and college years. It was just the way it was, and the rules we had were part of everyday life. (Well, more on convent girl lessons in another post).
One line made me really laugh- for colegialas, with all their restrictions, one alumna said: just add sex and mix. Then, I came across this article, and I though this tied it all pretty well:

Sex tips, from the year 1894
- by Erin Flaherty, Shine staff
on Tue Nov 11, 2008 3:01pm PST

Imagine a time when sex was seen as "at best revolting and at worst rather painful." According to *The Sun* (and well, anyone who's ever taken rudimentary history lessons), the
Victorians, not exactly known for their raunchy bedroom antics, perceived a woman's um, "wifely duties" as something to abhor. *Sex Tips for Husbands and Wives* was penned by Ruth Smythers, a vicar's wife, in 1894. Some amazing gems:

- The wise bride will permit a maximum of two brief sexual experiences
weekly — and as time goes by she should make every effort to reduce this
frequency.
- A selfish and sensual husband can easily take advantage of his wife.
One cardinal rule of marriage should never be forgotten: Give little, give
seldom and above all give grudgingly. Otherwise what could have been a
proper marriage could become an orgy of sexual lust.
- A wise wife will make it her goal never to allow her husband to see her
unclothed body, and never allow him to display his unclothed body to her.
- Once in bed, the wife should turn off all the lights and make no sound
to guide her husband in her direction, lest he take this as a sign of
encouragement.
- When he finds her, she should lie as still as possible. Bodily motion
could be interpreted as sexual excitement by the optimistic husband. Sex,
when it cannot be prevented, should be practised only in total darkness.
- Clever wives are ever on the alert for new and better methods of
denying and discouraging the amorous overtures of the husband. Arguments,
nagging, scolding and bickering prove very effective if used in the late
evening about an hour before the husband would normally commence his
seduction.
- By their tenth anniversary many wives have managed to complete their
child-bearing and have achieved the ultimate goal of terminating all sexual
contacts with the husband.

Compare that to the lessons offered by Holly Hollenbeck, author of the 2008 book, *Sex Lives of Wives*:
- Exude tremendous enthusiasm for sex and have it as often as possible.
Try never to say no and do not start thinking or talking about other chores
or problems during it.
- Create variety — make love as a "lady" then next time, play it nasty as
a "tramp". Alternate the pace — sometimes fast and frantic, sometimes slow
and romantic, using different sound effects, including sexy compliments
breathlessly uttered, pleasurable moans and sighs and nasty encouragements.
- Be assertive about what you want, taking care that any ideas do not
come across as criticism. Try incorporating what you would like him to do by
working the suggestions into the details of a story. Describe how hot such
action would make you or your character in the story feel.
- Tune in to what he loves and share it with him — if he likes watching
sexy movies, suggest watching one together. Visit a bookshop and choose some
erotic stories you can read to each other, surf the web with him and share
"chats".
- Venture outside the bedroom and seek unusual locations for sex. Have a
mental fixation on the sensation — focus only on his and your pleasure.
- Know what turns you on — your desire will heighten his. Good things for
women to try include having an ear sucked, a foot rub, leaning on a
vibrating washing machine during the spin cycle and feeling the spray of a
pulsating showerhead.

Damn, looks like you really have come a long way baby.

new year, new look?

Part of the excitement of another year is to experiment with yet another look. I've never been in the habit of dressing up for anyone but myself, but these days, I needed to pare it down. I remember one compliment (?) I got from a senior consultant who once said he always looked forward to what I would wear, since not one day is ever the same. Chalk it up to mood-dressing. Hey, that's why fashion is fun. :)
Since starting my new job, I've been commuting and walking a lot, so I'd had to learn how to dress more comfortably, with clothes I can move fast in. Meaning, no self-conscious tugging at hemlines or necklines. But, I cannot afford not to look good before I go out for the day because it's part of the job, and besides, looking iffy and lousy spells a bad day for me. Fine, maybe it's vanity, but it's my only sin. Not. Haha.
Anyhoo, scouring the Internet for new look inspirations has been fun. Check out little Suri Cruise, my new and youngest fashion icon. Isn't she just adorable? Ballet flats made for walking, check. Effortlessly chic in black, check-and yet she looked so comfortable and ready to run around. Notice the little painted fingernails too. Too cute! (Today's tots are definitely more kikay. Shoti's niece, Yanni, has little sparkling toenails, which she says she covers with shoes, because "teacher doesn't allow it." She's 4 years old.)

Then, I've been thinking about chopping off my hair short because, well, I'm bored. And as soon as I've decided, I've had great hair days for the past couple of weeks! Now, maybe I'll stick to the long wavy/curly hair. I've waited ages for it to grow this length, maybe now's not the time to cut it. This was, literally, a wash-and-wear look on a Saturday night and it was humid out. Miracles, no hair frizzies!

I'm gonna overhaul my closet and try to revamp a whole lot of stuff. Project! Ahlavet.

bags baggerie

I'm so crushing on the man bag, and I must admit, on the guy who can
carry off well, carrying a man-bag.
First, because I've been on the market for a new work bag and two, ever
since I saw that picture of Obama holding his bag, I've been noticing random
guys on the street with their own totes. There is a certain kind of panache and confidence to a guy who dresses really well in their business casuals and
their leather satchels. Very dignified, yet young and stylish.
Of course, I prefer my guys to have the more subdued browns and blacks, than this
screaming lime one. Then again, if it's Robert Downey, Jr., he can carry pink for all I care, he'd be gorgeous anyways.

still on thanksgiving: gross national happiness

A great read, and since it's Thanksgiving, really makes you think too.
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gross national happiness
DRUMROLL, PLEASE By Gena Valerie Chua Updated November 28, 2008 12:00 AM

The stock market has been so depressing lately — especially if, like mine, your livelihood depends on its ups and downs. Unless you’ve been hibernating underground with seasonal bears, you have to know the world is no longer what it was a year ago or even what it was during the last financial crisis. Yet here we are, my beloved countrymen, happy as ever. Not to generalize, of course; surely someone somewhere is pulling his hair out from the rising cost of pandesal. But the majority of us continue to defy expectations. In Nielsen’s recent consumer confidence survey where the global average was 84 confidence points, Filipinos scored 102. The survey appendix notes that although we’re generally aware of a looming recession, this just isn’t enough reason for us to stop spending.

Last September, local car sales surged from the previous month. This as car dealerships abroad close down. As TV Patrol reports the fate of sinking international markets, bystanders on our streets flail their arms at the camera, grinning proudly in their one-second fame. Our malls are jam-packed with shoppers at 11 a.m. on a Tuesday — and we’re having the worst financial crisis in history? I once asked a Korean tourist guide why his people seem to be flocking our country. He said that in contrast to career-driven Koreans (who by the way scored lowest in consumer confidence globally with 36 measly points), Filipinos constantly manage to prove that life doesn’t really have to be so hard. Apparently, they find our happiness infectious.

Yup, we are a happy bunch in this country, all 90 million of us. And so will be the 2.5 Filipino babies being born every minute, the 12th most populous country in the world and certainly one of the least able to afford it. In 1972, Bhutan’s King Jigme Singye Wangchuck decided that his kingdom’s progress would be measured not only by the classic Gross Domestic Product (GDP) indicator but by something he called Gross National Happiness. Wangchuck said focusing only on economic growth eventually led to deep-seated problems in society. Maybe Wangchuck’s proposal wasn’t entirely outrageous. Rich nations do have a knack for developing all sorts of psychiatric conditions: when high school kids start shooting their classmates, you have a serious problem. Imagine, though, if happiness were really used to measure economic progress: how rich our little archipelago would be.

Yet we are not rich, not in the way that allows us to live comfortably and to assure our children of a shining future. Is it conceivable then that we score too high on the happiness index, and too low on everything else? Could it be that our disproportionate amount of Gross National Happiness is precisely what has caused our GDP to crawl like a snail stuck in its shell — and, vice versa, would a higher GDP take away the happiness that comes so easy to us as a nation? Horrifyingly, has our ability to withstand the bare minimum cost us the desire for something more, for something better?

We’re not lazy people — only citizens with a stable social security system and fallback pension fund can afford to sit on their golden arses all day. What we are, really, is complacent. It’s a vicious cycle that feeds on itself. We’re so easily contented with what we have, so grateful for the little crumbs sprinkled on our palms that we don’t feel the need to strive any harder. We’re so used to it being bad that we’ve come to stop expecting any good. It’s the opposite of being spoiled, which is what rich countries have inevitably become — and why we can’t understand what they’re making such a hullabaloo over. We shrug it off like dandruff. Nothing shocks us anymore; we’ve grown accustomed to a dumbing down of the sensibilities. How could we not? Just watch local television.

Economists have their theories. Our tropical climate is so conducive to growing food that we’ve never had to suffer a cropless winter. The Japanese, in comparison, have scarce seafood resources (thus the overflowing rice in donburi meals). This means the Japanese have to work harder so they can compensate for nature’s stinginess, making them some of the most determined, ambitious people on earth. Historians, on the other hand, believe that we continue to suffer the aftermath following centuries of colonization. We’re so used to being downbeaten and being told what to do that we’ve learned to manage our expectations out of life. Either theory may be correct or both could be wrong, but does it really matter? Do we really need to keep making excuses for our poverty?

While having churros on a sunny Florida day in Disneyland, I realized how most children back home will never know this experience. Our children have resorted to finding their own happiness, even while swimming in leptospirosis-infested floodwater. I could imagine the look on their faces as they bite on Mickey-shaped caramelized apples and watch the parade fireworks at night. Maybe it’s true that what they don’t know won’t hurt them — but how could you not want for them a piece of Disneyland, the happiest place on earth?

We are survivors, but that is precisely it: we are content with just surviving. Until when will it be enough? Because until we say it isn’t, that it shouldn’t be, this floodwater happiness is all we’ll ever have. Despite our countless talents, we will remain what we have been for too long: grossly happy and perpetually poor. We are forgiving to a fault (just look at our political record), tolerant of pains (malayo pa yan sa bituka), and work eight hours a day for minimum wage without complaint. And maybe that’s why we are unable and unwilling to fight for ourselves. We have too much strength and too little courage. We wake up very early each morning and go home to watch a little television in the neighbor’s house before sleeping at night. This is enough to make us happy. A celebrity sighting would make our whole week, our whole year. We snuggle into wooden folding beds, contentedly wrapping a holey mosquito net around our bare bodies. We have given up the one thing that remains free in this inflation-ridden world: our capacity to dream.

I’m not sure how long we can stay this way, so content with meager survival that we even have a name for: isang kahig, isang tuka. Maybe, hopefully, one day we’ll get tired of being the perpetual underdog we cheer for endlessly. Some part of me will be sad to see it go, this innocence and arguably shallow happiness that seems embedded in our cultural make-up. But a bigger part of me — the part that believes we are meant to do greater things as a nation — wouldn’t mind scoring just a little bit less on happiness and a little more on the future we build for our children.

Every condition of Darwin’s theory of natural selection says the Filipinos will eventually be selected against by nature. The laws of science indicate that we will be extinguished from the face of this planet as soon as the stronger races decide to run us off. But we are not a weak people; on the contrary we continue to surprise everyone with how much fight we have in us. With everything we’ve been through, we will probably survive a nuclear holocaust. I just wish we could dare want a little more for ourselves, because that is what we deserve — even when every fiber of our culture has made us believe we don’t.

Why not work harder then, why not breathe in and keep walking forward instead of staying stuck in our happy little rut? No matter how much we complain about government inefficiencies and the harshness of poverty, the truth is we do not want to change those things enough to do something about them. We’ve grown to be contented with what little we have, afraid to be given what we’ve never had because we wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway. We’ve evolved into a people hardened by time and rusted by history. And while the rest of the world argue about evaporating stock markets and credit crunches, we crawl into the old shells they leave behind, smiling contentedly, grateful — always, always, simply grateful.

happy thanksgiving and have a Black Christmas

Obviously, this was lifted from this site: http://philmusic.com/main/content/view/198/7/
And yes, they're on Facebook as well. I've just asked where to reserve for a copy of their new album.
Read on:


Wolfgang's "Black Christmas"
Concert: Dec 10, 2008

By Official Concert PR

Sunday, 23 November 2008

They’ve been sleeping for 6 years, but now iconic rock band Wolfgang returns with ‘The Black Christmas Project’ concert at the Eastwood City Central Plaza, Libis (near Ortigas Avenue) on Wednesday, December 10th, at 7 p.m. The highly anticipated awakening by the band -- widely regarded as the Philippines’ definitive ‘rock gods’ -- is presented by No Fear, LevelUp, and Eastwood City, which is expected to reverberate with Wolfgang’s signature onslaught of thick ferocious sound. Precision riffs, emphatic beats, power-drenched vocals, colourful licks, driving ostinatos, occasionally jazz-styled basslines and imaginative breaks merge with razor-sharp interplay in Wolfgang's unique style of American-influenced hard rock, heavy metal, grunge and blues-rock. Basti Artadi, Manuel Legarda, Mon Legaspi are joined by Francis Aquino at the year’s ultimate year-ender. The band's ability to infuse everything they do – be it power ballads, progressive rock songs, bluesy tunes or their harder-hitting material – with strong melodic hooks has made it the only Filipino rock act to be released in both the USA and Japan. Wolfgang is also the only Filipino heavy metal act to breach platinum records on home ground and receive more than 20 group and individual awards for creative virtuosity, cementing their reputations as stalwarts of the Philippines’ rock Valhalla. What can fans expect? Says frontman Basti Artadi, “Expect lots of singing, dancing, drinking and all-around head-banging because it's gonna be a hell of a party!” (Tickets are now on sale at Ticketnet (dial 911-555) or place reservations at ticketnet.com.ph.) I heart Basti and the boys.

notes to self

I got this as a forwarded email awhile back, but I don't know who wrote it,

so sorry I can't give credit. Anyone out there who might know, please drop a
message. Really long, but so worth the read. Enjoy :)

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Note to self: Don't listen to Robbie Williams' "Sexed Up" while getting over someone. It might encourage anger or maybe even hostile tendencies. Don't listen to any Lenny Kravitz or "Heaven Help" or "It Ain't Over Till It's Over" or Regine Velasquez or MYMP or just any crapshit for that matter. These might encourage hopes of a reconciliation which could be detrimental to the recovery process. It might even cause delusions.

Note to self: Stay away from the cookie jar. In moments of absentmindedness you pluck at cookies as though they were popcorn and before you know it, all you've gained are pounds no figure-forgiving fabric can hide and fat by the ounces and then you'll be unloved, heartbroken and- to top it all off!- hideously overweight, thus jeopardizing any hopes of future trysts with anyone.

Note to self: Stop trying to convince yourself that it's your fault and you deserve to be rejected. No one, no matter how they've screwed up in the past, deserves to be rejected. Jason Mraz already rhymed about it- It's our God-forsaken right to be loved, love, love, love, loved. You just got the luck of the draw and struck out but things'll get better soon. Don't beat yourself up and stop crying over spilled milk. What's done is done. Blaming is not gonna make things better, just a little bit more bitter.

Note to self: Don't cling on to hope- or anything else or anyone else for that matter. In times of heartbreak and utter sadness, the only person who is strong enough and able to help you is you. Hold on to yourself. You've survived this savage world so far. You'll get through this hump fine, bumps and bruises and scarred heart notwithstanding. You'll be a little damaged and maybe even cynical but you'll be stronger, wiser, and thinner after all
the moping.

Note to self: When the pain comes over you, succumb to it – SERIOUSLY. Pain is good. It means you're coping, accepting and very well could be on the road to healing. The angels could be singing the Ode To Joy faster than you can say "recovered". The pain, thankfully, only lasts a fortnight. Maybe sometimes longer or shorter than a fortnight but it goes away just as quickly as it comes. You let out one big bellow of anguish and in one fell swoop you're healed! Just don't wait for the big bang. It does build up and explode but it's not an orgasm.

Note to self: Stop going over every detail of the two of you and stop trying to analyze. That's just what it is – two halves coming undone – a breakup. You both screwed up somewhere and the damage has been deemed irreparable so there's no other option but separation. That's all. No need for long speeches or gut-wrenching goodbyes to the world and yaddah…yaddah…yaddah. It's no one's fault. You can come up with all the clichés in the world but you'll never be able to make more sense out of it other than – things happen for a reason and the two that once became one has now gone back to just being two.

Note to self: Eat – but in moderation. You need to sustain yourself. Crying is tiring. It should be considered a workout for this reason – like jogging or sex. Worrying takes its toll too. Thrashing your room and flailing your arms in defiance and defeat and beating the floor with your fists are all considered predictable actions when getting over someone and they all
require strength. You need stamina for this. You owe it to yourself to at least be physically prepared for the rigors of heartbreak. You're too young to keel over out of exhaustion just because you broke up with someone.

Note to self: Say NO to self-pity. It doesn't matter who broke up with who. If you're not together anymore, it just means you're way too good for each other. I know it's a screwed up theory but take it for what it is and you can thank me later. It works for me. It still is true in this cosmic loony bin we're in. You're too good for each other so you had to part. Someday when all this is over, another loony will find you and thank their lucky stars for you and the two of you will live loony ever after.

Note to self: Do not even consider getting up on any type of vice – smoking, drinking, drugs, overeating, shopping, playmate-hunting and Lord knows what else. You already made the mistake of falling for the wrong person before. You don't have to top that by screwing yourself over intentionally this time. Think of a more docile vice – like praying or reading the Bible or maybe even going to church. Most people forget that God still exists despite all of this. Maybe it's time you got back to that.

Note to self: Be thankful. Really. Some people live and die without feeling real love at all and nothing's gotta be more tragic than that right? You fell in love and things didn't work out and you broke up and now you have to pick yourself up and dust yourself off. But at least you loved. If you're broken and all screwed up inside because you loved someone deeply enough, count yourself blessed. Love, despite all its unfairness and craziness, is still this life's most incomparable glory. If you've loved truly, madly and deeply even once in this life, I daresay you've lived a full life.

post halloween post

My new office building is old-school, with dark wood panels and mirrors in the hallways. It is reminiscent of the '70s and I half expect to see Christopher de Leon in the driveway, clad in a pale blue polyester shiny suit with wide shoulders and wider bottoms. Getting down from a BMW 3.3 Li Sports Limousine circa '77, opening the door for Rio Locsin in perhaps a Christian Espiritu and hair teased into her famous waves. See what early mornings do to me?

fear. Monday last week, a foreigner was found dead in one of the residential units. In our floor. According to the grapevine, he died of a heart attack that Sunday. What a Halloween/All Souls' weekend. The girls were scaring themselves with stories of meeting the dead man in the elevator. *Salamat ha.* This led me to imagining creepy scenarios when, one day, on a candy run across the building, I got in the elevator with a huge foreign man, about the same age as the deceased. Great. He must have seen how startled I was when he asked, *did I scare you?* Momeee.

halloweening. I was all prepped for a Friday night scary-movie marathon with the girls, and we had a modern Twilight Zone series (forgot the title) that bordered on B- gruesome, bloody and plain stupid. Then we moved on to The Strangers, starring Liv Tyler and Scott Speedman- gorgeous Scott, great for a couple of screams, but overall still stupid. I miss super-scary movies- how come there aren't any good ones being made now?

chupets. On to more juvenile pursuits. I woke up on my first weekend free to a cold Saturday morning and I rolled out of bed in my lovely, wonder-smell new orange hoodie. After a bit of breakfast, we went out to nearby National at Crossings, me still unkempt with an-out-of-bed look. I loved the fact that after a week of being all dressed up for work, I impulsively went out with nothing but my housekeys in my pocket, shades on, uncombed hair tied in a bun and a lollipop in my mouth. We spent the afternoon in a blissfully empty bookstore and I finished "browsing" a couple of books. Teehee. The geek in me loved all the paper products and the bargain bins. And I was a good girl; I didn't buy a new notebook, even if I desperately wanted to. I'm having paper-guilt, I still have several unfinished ones I cannot part with because of sentimental value.

In the afternoon, I was persuaded to go with some friends to Star City. Of all places. It's so hard to be perky when you're not really feeling well, but it didn't stop me from going on the bumper cars, alternately running and gingerly tip-toeing in the horror tunnel and the Mummy ruins, the standard (vs. the more complicated) roller coaster which led me to conclude that
damn, I am so getting old because I actually got scared, and my favorite- the pretty, pretty carousel ride. What's an amusement park trip without corndogs and ice cream, which we had our fill of. Luckily, I think more calories were spent walking and playing around, so that absolved the guilt from the food trip. The truly scary part though, was when the car wouldn't start on the way home and we had to wait awhile since it was raining.The tune of 200 bucks was more than enough for "kind strangers" to help us out by supercharging the batteries. Sheesh.

I miss more idyllic days of childhood Halloween games of Jason vs. Freddy, a
morbid game I played with grade school friends and with one named Jason
who was, because of his name, perennially It. So chupets and fun.

hello, universe?

I was browsing through old entries, trying to tidy up my blog when I came across my
Nov. 30 entry, brain candy fluff, a random survey I answered.

Item # 15: By this time next year: I will be working in publishing, making good my promise to be relatively on my way to succeed in writing/PR. And, oh, I will have taken that SE Asian backpacking trip, with or without him.

Well, here I am, finally writing and in the PR industry, almost a year after I answered that survey. Creepy, in a good way- I started Oct. 27.
If only the universe would serve us up everything our heart desires, no? Yet, I believe that somehow, everything we want, if it is meant to happen, will definitely happen. I know, the difficult part is believing and remembering to hold on to our dreams. Which is why am careful about them (my dreams). I have this feeling that not everyone would understand it, and it's ok. I just don't want anyone trampling on them just because people don't believe enough. This, after someone told me not to be so ...serious, was the word.(Me, the silly-giggly girl, serious?!) Hmm that made me think though. If I can't be serious about my life plans, then I wonder with what else? True, setbacks abound, but I don't worry about it. I just want to be at peace knowing what I want, what makes me happy and everything will work itself out.

Well, I didn't get to go backpacking through SouthEast Asia- yet. :)

Cute Kid in the City

How cute is this?

12-Year-Old’s a Food Critic, and the Chef Loves It

Full article here.

Photo: Michael Appleton for The New York Times

.

These words I read today broke my heart a little bit:

“i have a fire escape with a greenhouse, a cat, a red couch, a brisket in a crockpot timed to finish at five, and you ... you have my best wishes.”

Read the whole story here.

i like making lists

and I found this nifty little thing on the internet.
I know, it is going to be one of those social networking sites again, but I don't mind.
Lists are nice. I'm a nerd.

http://www.43things.com

meet mr. worry

Sometimes I lay awake at night and my thoughts just run amok. I worry about these decisions I make- and do not make. I worry about the standstill, about running too fast, and not getting anywhere.

I worry about the leavings, the partings and the staying. I worry about not doing enough, about doing too much.

Most of all, I worry about the rightness of this.

I'm not used to this helplessness, to this not knowing. I've been taught to always do something about things, to look for solutions, to seek out answers to "what are you doing about it?"

Alas, there are some things you just have to let go. Especially if you can't put a finger to what it is.

Damn this existential nattering. Must be the weather.

*picture from a children's book on, appropriately enough, OCD. By Albert Whitman, 2004.

the audacity of hope pays off

lovely man, lovey pictures.
i'm so happy he won. check out
callie shell's photos of him at
digitaljournalists.org.
most of these photos were taken
with a leica m8.

i wants

...a new work bag, something to take me from day to night. any of these, plus a clutch. nooneenoo...be still my heart...

itsy bitsy part deux

this time, fun nonsense stuff. this is also known as narcissism.
in celebration of my new job

maybe my grandfather would look like this, had he lived long enough, no?
i look kinda creepy though...
this one i would love to have in my future home.
something to scare future great-grandkids with, too!
wouldn't this look great on a birthday party event?
theme: self-love haha kinda like a VC Andrews paperback cover.

Go try out some vain fun :) --> http://www.photofunia.com (and try saying "photofunia" fast 5x!)

itsy bitsy part un

§ Not to be such a dork about it, but am excited to get a new notebook for the new job. But… I already feel a bit guilty because I have several unfinished ones lying around, and now isn’t the time to be spending on frivolous things… still, it would be nice to have a neat new little one, especially since I’m such a note-taking nerd. Plus, am thinking of a new set of colored pens and Post-Its, oh joy. Then…

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Here’s a pretty little thing I absolutely had to have because I had an unfortunate Mentos moment (ok, I snapped my heel off.) Good thing I was already in a mall, but I really had to make the purchase as cheap as possible since it was an unexpected buy (yeah, right, anything to get to buy shoes.) Scouring around for about an hour in Landmark, I found these neat little babies… I call these my Alice in Wonderland shoes; literally little- it’s so hard to find my shoe size- pieces of just-right blue patent heaven. I love them so much, I wanted it right by my bedside. You can’t believe how inexpensive these were, so although I was disappointed with my broken heel (a more expensive brand, by the way, and the pair hasn’t been worn that much,) getting this new blue pair made for a very happy pop of color in my day. I didn’t understand the stereotype of women’s obsessions with shoes, up until about three years ago. Hard to believe, but I was quite okay with having a few. Not that having a lot is ok, too- that’s another obsession and I believe in moderation. I just can’t believe I used to be that same person. Hmm…psychoanalysis by shoes. Friends who come over notice that my shoeboxes lined up are taller than I am , and I always reason out that hey, I’m not tall, so its not a lot…and then as I’m writing this, I am thinking of that pale turquoise wedge that I left behind…hay, soon little one, I just might come back for you.
The blue shoes, as mentioned, are from Landmark, a Korean brand to be found somewhere at the front area of the shoe department. Go be shoe-hounds!

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