Um, Okay

According to this nifty little program, this is who I most resemble, writing-wise:

I write like
Isaac Asimov

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

I'm sure. Uh huh - ridiculous, considering I've never even read one of his books. It's a good waste of five minutes, and a temporary thrill (it's the waiting that's thrilling). And then the page finishes loading and you realize it's all a crock.

Brought to you by CodingRobots.com, click if you have a sample of your own writing and want to know what the universe has in store for you.

The Grass is Always Greener on Center Court

Top 10 Reasons Wimbledon is my Favorite Grand Slam Tournament:

1. It's the only major currently being played on green, green, grass (ironic, since tennis first started being played on that surface).

2. The dress code. White, or bust. White on green always looks refreshing, and it's easier to follow the trajectory of that fuzzy little yellow ball. Everyone has to wear white, which means the Fashion Police don't get to pick on a lot of players for crazy outfits, and players don't get away with much (like Serena William's did, with her black bondage gear at some other slam a few years back). The dress code is so strictly imposed, if a lady shows too much cleavage, she won't be allowed to play.

3. Tradition. No one pays homage to tennis as an institution as much as Wimbledon does. If anything, Wimbledon IS an institution. Dating back to 1877, it's the oldest tennis championship out there, and relishes the significance it plays in the history of the sport. Wimbledon never buckles under; case in point, letting the Isner-Mahut marathon run on forever, because a tiebreak in the 5th set isn't allowed. Not even if the game lasts for 3 days.

4. Center Court. The only time anyone is allowed to play on Center Court is during the Wimbledon Championships. All other days of the year, the grass is fertilized, cared for and basically mollycoddled. It's like the court equivalent of Kobe beef. Only recently has an exception been made: Center Court will be in use during the 2012 Olympics.

5. The view. Wimbledon has the most beautiful view in my estimation. When the camera pans out to an ultimate aerial view, you see green courts, great vegetation, and it looks like it's full of fresh air, sunshine and good fun.

6. Non-commercialism. Of all the Grand Slams, Wimbledon resolutely refuses to indulge in a spate of commercialism - this is why you barely see any company logos. It's glaringly obvious, especially on Center Court - among the very few are Rolex, Evian and IBM (even these are discreetly placed). Even the Ralph Lauren logo on the ball boy/ballgirl's uniforms is barely noticeable. Compared to Wimbledon, the US Open looks like a Nascar driver.

7. Prestige. Simply put, if you get to win Wimbledon, you get to be king of the (tennis) world. Which is why everyone has worshiped Roger Federer forever.

8. Rain delays. Watching the crew cover the court with a green tarp to protect it from rain is as much a part of the tournament as its green grass.

9. Henman Hill (or Murray Mound - they like to change the name depending on the latest Brit hopeful). The grassy knoll with a giant TV screen that plays important matches for the tennis faithful to follow is a great place for fans who cant get into Center Court but want a piece of the action. Officially, it's called the Aorangi Terrace.

10. The royal patronage. The visit of Her Majesty the Queen just a couple of days ago highlighted the impact of royalty on the sport - so much so that players were practicing their curtseys and getting themselves into a tizzy over what the Twitter nation calls #HerMaj (catchy!). Even Henry VII played tennis, and enjoyed it, from all accounts.

Extra: I still contend that tennis is the only gladiatorial sport left in the world. No other sport forces the players to get so close to each other, whacking away at a fuzzy yellow ball, surrounded by a hungry, cheering audience waiting for either to succumb. The silence prior to and the accompanying roar when a point is won only emphasizes the reverence and intensity that tennis fans around the world hold for this sport!

More Adventures in WTF

Crazy shit you see in department stores, part 2: what in the name of heaven did they do to my beloved Pringles?

Here's my good friend and colleague Abby Z. holding up one of the newest flavors Pringles has decided to hoist on an unsuspecting public. While I understand the Japanese undertones, this is still bizarre. Seaweed? I skipped the soft-shelled crab flavor, that's not exactly weird. Probably tastes like shrimp kropeck. Nothing like this, though:

These, um, things, caught my eye. Sky blue canisters more suited to M&Ms than a potato crisp. I'm all for change, but what in gay hell? And upon closer inspection:

Blueberry and Hazelnut? This is for chocolates, not potato crisps. I actually got to taste the lemon one (courtesy of a friend at work). Ick, and nast. It tastes like Pringles for all of two seconds and leaves you with an aftertaste similar to that of a lemony chocolate bar. And it lingers in the sinuses. Awful.

Not wanting to leave out the expectant, lactating demographic, another Pringles flavor promises to be a potential hit with hormonal pregnant women:

Extreme indeed. I'm not a pickle fan myself, this is pretty weird to me. No thanks. This is like if they made Cheetos in Cheesy Chocolate. Totally FUBAR.

Would any of these appeal? Discuss.

Adventures in WTF

Crazy shit you see in department stores, part 1.

Straying off the beaten path pays dividends. You never really know what you can come across when visiting huge, largely abandoned department stores. They sit like giant hulks of history - their goods gathering dust. Sometimes it's just as much fun as visiting museums.

Can't think of a museum that has completely drug-addled island girls as pornographic ashtrays, though.



Unless it's the museum of sex. Which may or may not have mass-produced cavorting natives abusing fruit in the hot, hot sun.


Bob Marley's "Buffalo Soldier," anyone?

I Heart Tennis

Lurve, lurve, lurve.

In the middle of an increasingly washed out Roland Garros 2010, and tennis gladiators trying to kill each other with furry yellow balls, my good friend and colleague Abby Z. alerted me to the existence of this insanity:

Apparently there's one of Nadal hopping around to La Bamba like a crazed Majorcan bunny, but the video quality blows. So, Robin Soderling in drag will have to do. God, I love this game.

Punch Out

I'd totally forgotten Manny Pacquiao was running for a seat in the House of Representatives. Much to my shock, he's won this time. And thanked his "fans." Yes, it's now down to how many fans you actually have. He's also promised not to let this get in the way of his fight with the Mayweather guy. Are we supposed to be happy he's treated the elections the way he treats a boxing match?

I will say he's been savvy with his career so far. The same cannot be said about the choices of the Philippine people.

Tie a Yellow Ribbon

I've been watching the news (on mute) just to see who gets a crack at leading our nation for the next couple years. Much to my disgust, the orphan in yellow is winning. Now we'll never be rid of his sister.

Trust No One

Another long weekend to enjoy. It's supposed to be a weekend with a purpose - the working class have all been (very kindly) given one day off to decide who will lead our country and occupy upper echelons of the republic for the next few years.

And, I'm not voting.

Upon hearing this, my good friend and colleague Charity B. summarily stripped me of every right to complain. "You're not voting? Then don't complain about anything in the government." She's from Manila. Everyone in that city complains.

I'm not voting because I'm not registered in La Sugbu. I'll have to go back home to Dumaguete, which I am doing this weekend anyway. I am also out of cashola. Also - I trust no one.

Voting represents hope, and suspension of disbelief. Since I have no faith in the integrity of anyone who is shameless enough to pay for airtime, dance around with random strangers, plug his face all over the city, radio and cyberspace, all for a spot as the top official, then I don't believe in suspending my disbelief.

I feel used. My taxes go into their pockets. My money fuels their lavish lifestyle. We listen to a litany of promises, platforms, rip-offs from the Obama campaign of change. Nothing is original. Everyone gladhands, smiles, makes promises that won't be kept. We are a nation that is never satisfied. Something is always going to go wrong, and we wait to pounce on weakness. I'm tired of the merry go round. We were happy with the dame in yellow who passed away (and effectively elevated her ugly son to savior status since he can "carry on") but really, she didn't do jack. Couldn't even control her famewhoring youngest daughter. Whatever happens, I hope these people never win. I'd rather see the smart pilot be president.

Not voting is the one day I can actually say I'm not being used.

14 Days Left

Roland Garros 2010. Not my favoritest Slam, but worth watching and waiting for. Well-known as the grittiest, toughest, dirtiest Slam out there, it fits its most popular competitor - Rafael Nadal.

I'll be putting on my insanity cap again in two weeks because I love watching tennis. To clarify, Grand Slams only. There's something about a stage that massive, an audience that great, and the pressure it places on the gladiators of the tennis world.

Nadal is heavily favored to come back and show the world who's boss again, and I'm backing him. That blasted Roger Federer is weeks away from beating Pete Sampras' record number of weeks on top. Does that man have to have everything? Ugh. I don't want him to win anymore (haven't wanted him to win in years). Someone who does not visibly sweat on TV is cheating.

Yes, yes. I am unreasonable.

Yay, Roland Garros 2010 is around the block! Cannot. Wait.

Abrupt

People hate GMA but I like her. She's declared Monday a holiday, despite Labor Day actually falling on a Saturday. By rights it shouldn't even matter, but she's gone and given us all time to breathe.

Looking forward to a looooong weekend with nothing much to worry about. The insanity of the past six weeks is coming to an end and I look forward to being as I once was.

How many days has it been since I kissed Facebook goodbye?

I can't feel any pangs of longing anymore (then again, I never really did). Cold turkey. Slowly backing away is for pussies.

View to a Kill

Ah, weekends. All I ever really do these days is sleep them away. My only regret lies in how fast they fly by.

While searching for a new background for my desktop, came across scenes from New Zealand. It's a beautiful country. Fresh. Clean. Doesn't look like anyone smokes. I think I'd like to go. The esteemed JZ did grace that country with her presence, although this has nothing to do with my decision. I've never been one for tropical locales, with beaches and the locals wearing grass skirts. Perhaps this is due to the fact that I was born in a tropical country. I should like to go wear the grass is so green and the sky so blue it actually hurts your eyes.

Plus, it's Middle Earth.

More on beauty: with the eruption of that Icelandic volcano I can't spell the name of, come pictures of staggering clarity and dangerous beauty. This is what it looks like when God raises his middle finger at humanity and reminds us how inferior our technology is when it comes to His wrath.

Bone Tired and Harmony

Exhausted but my mind still keeps running. All I want is peace and quiet, but I know I have a class to go to. This is too much pressure for my poor little mind. To top it all off, sleep is a long time coming. I just want to float away, sleep for a week, and forget about work. Plus, it's month-end time already. Thinking about all the crazy reports and data I'm going to have to come up with isn't a party. I might actually develop yet another vice. Like huffing glue. Or something.

In other news, I have successfully downloaded the entire third season of The Tudors. Hate that I can't find the appropriate subtitles.

The Tudors is a good show - everyone keeps humping each other, it's Brit accents all around, stylized and liberally twisted history. I'm told it still doesn't hold a candle to HBO's Rome. I really must see about that show.

Back in Qwertyland

My search for a new assistant is over. Teddy's replacement is exactly like him, except he's currently nameless and is as black as the night.

Deciding didn't come easy. I'd initially thought of the E72, until my good friend and colleague Abby asked if I was "...willing to pay 7K more for a metal body, trackpad and the fact that it breathes?" I suppose that, coupled with SM's amazing sale yesterday, and my restlessness and general discontent with using a phone that didn't belong to me and wasn't Qwerty, settled it.

I do love the E63 a lot. Teddy was taken from me too soon. I'm taking a deep breath and hoping his successor doesn't suffer the same fate.

Surprise Butt Secks

Somehow, RWJ resurrected my faith in the internet and society as a whole. After an hour spent watching this guy, I realized something:

1. We are all going to pot as a civilization.
2. Seriously.

It's a train wreck and being on the internet is like having a front row seat. We may know we're headed for total insanity, but hey, it's going to be a helluva trip. I guess this is why Twitter and FB exist. Thanks, RWJ. I have decided that society, while ofttimes being criminally idiotic and apalling, is fun and I want to be a part of it, not a dinosaur watching from the wings.

I also realized that:

3. Sometimes it's good to take a step back and detoxify.
4. It heightens one's appreciation of these things.

This means YM is back online, and fingers will fly. As for FB, I have reserved judgment.

I can't embed RWJ's videos, so here's a LINK to my favorite one. It features the amazing doggy commercial below.

QWERTY or Bust

I want a new phone. It's like an itch that won't go away and it makes me fidgety. I've ignored the hum since I lost poor Teddy almost three months ago; but now it's risen to a scream and I can't seem to make it go away.

The phone I use now is a borrowed one and no offense to the owner, but I hate it. I dislike texting on it since it's your regular run-of-the-mill mobile, and I've gotten accustomed to using a smart phone. Qwerty makes my day. I want to cry each time I text, it's so frustrating.

Day Eight

I'm beginning to lose count of how long I've been off FB. I know it hasn't been that long. Doesn't feel like forever, either. It just feels like I don't really care. At times it's completely exhilarating, and other times it feels weird being completely out of the loop. What's the rest of the world doing today? I suppose it's just like missing the beach. You miss it because it's not where you're at, but the moment you get home you find yourself wishing you were somewhere else. Of course, this is just me, since the beach is not one of my super favorite places.


It's not that I've cut myself off completely. I still check up on my favorite blogs, read the news, watch TV. It's crazy how it feels so antiquated, not getting news updates via FB feed, or Twitter (not that I ever had Twitter). Instead I get it fro websites. Omg, like, sooooo old school.

I do know for instance, that Heidi Montag is now a hideous plasticine doll with giant sacks of silicone in her chest. Oh, and Steven Seagal has gotten busted for sex trafficking and being a complete pervert. Yes, as usual, I concentrate on news that really matters.

There he is. Glory days, sort of. Never was a fan, but this is one of the better pictures floating around out there - he is currently a bloated, washed-up caricature of his former self. Thought I'd spare your eyeballs.

Day Four

Nestle Strawberry Yogurt makes me feel loved. That stuff goes down smooth, with a sudden twist of berry, like a surprise kiss that lingers.

I realize it is now the middle of April. Days simultaneously zoom past and crawl by with equal amounts of unbearableness. I sometimes find myself waking up and it's the weekend, with absolutely no idea how I even got through the week.

Take today. It's unofficial hump day. I told Blitz I can't believe it's Wednesday already. Blessing or curse? I really don't know.

The Simpsons Season 19 is on rotation. It's on TV, muted. Every now and then I glance up and wonder what the yellow people are doing and why America loves them so much. I never really got past the looks. They are just too plain for me. It's an intelligent show, or so I've heard.

I have a number of movies on backlog: 2046, Die Hard 4.0, The Godfather Part Une, The Usual Suspects. All have subtitles and are ready for viewing; I find myself strapped either for time or energy. I am a gluttonous black hole of free movies. It's enough to have them ready, I suppose. I will watch them all. Eventually.

Eulogy for Theodore

Hopefully you are in loving hands; no chop shop for you.
Not hacked to pieces.
Lovingly wiped down each day,
Your shiny screen.
The sweet blips
When you have messages
Permeating a dark room.

Hopefully you remind your new owner
By the patina of your body
That someone owned you once, loved you once.
That you are his by virtue of carelessness.

Day Two

Living offline, Day Two.

Concerted effort to do things that matter without being stymied by Facebook: took some time to have dinner with the trainers in Sophia Suites. I personally love the ambience at that place. Mellow lighting everywhere. (I have a thing for mellow lighting; it bolsters denial of age.) Good conversation, bad smoking. I understand that people smoke because they're stressed, but it is a nasty habit and I dislike being a second-hand smoker. I don't get why people are aware that it kills, but do it anyway.

It seems a night meant for smoking. After dinner, Formo was up next. Met up with Chuck for a nice little reunion. Good music, good place for eye candy. Beautiful men. Beautiful women. Beautiful in-betweens. Saw a tiny, girl-like hooker being swallowed up by her big white john. Making out in public - awesome if you're good looking. Train wreck if you're both ugly. They were both ugly. I could barely find the decency to look away.

On Doing

I don't think wired humanity knows how to wait anymore. It's practically disappeared from our vocabularies. I have a number of friends who scoff, whine, rail or freak out at the prospect of waiting. I find myself doing the same thing.

I suppose it's fear of being viewed as unproductive. If you're not doing anything, then why are you here? Everyone asks that of themselves. It becomes a nagging question that drives us to French kiss a shotgun, because the answer may not be palatable.

When did doing nothing become so negative? Even yoga, the Indian discipline for tranquility of the mind, body and spirit, is something people do to fight boredom. It's something they do so they can say they're actually doing something.

Even our moments of reflection are timed.

Day One

Did a world before Web 2.0 exist, where individuals didn't get poked, tagged or tweeted, books were made of paper and music was played on a cassette tape? Sometimes I forget what that world was like.

Everything is noisy and over-saturated. It's intrusive. It's galling. It's boring. Everyone screams into the ether, wanting to be heard. People scream back. It's all about "what I'm doing."

Facebook has finally gotten to me. I still want to know what everyone is up to; I just don't want to know about it all the time - especially if all you're doing is going to work, having a hangover, watching Keanu Reeves, eating potato chips. I am sick of the pressure of trying to be interesting.

I no longer want to be ultra-accessible. There will only be three ways to touch base: e-mail, text messages or Skype.

I haven't gotten the shakes yet.

This is Day One.