Wednesday, July 30


"That is the burden of the thinking citizens: the bafflement of the ignorant."
- Jessica Zafra, No Plastic
I don't like a lot of people. I can only count a handful who have my utmost love and respect; I reserve my contempt for the rest of society.

It's easy to be a reservoir of disdain in this city. Liars. Mooches. Thieves. Hustlers. Otap vendors. Schmucks. Bitches. Good-for-nothing toadies. They're all around; they're a hodge-podge of milling humanity and sometimes just thinking about it makes me want to d run through the whole mob screaming at the top of my lungs and brandishing a flamethrower.

Sometimes I think I should be nicer. Sometimes I think I should care more. Just when I convince myself to "geeb chance to ahders" something comes along and shoves the rough end of the short stick up the butt of that idea.

Like, for instance, where I live. For the longest time people have been sneaky-cooking (sneaky-cooking means quietly cooking rice in their quiet little rice cookers in their quiet little rooms), sneaky-humping (which means quietly dragging complete strangers into their rooms and proceeding to not be quiet) and sneaky-mooching (late-night refrigerator burglars who steal lumps of peanut butter from someone else's stash).

I have a problem with dishonesty. I know how to be dishonest, I'm just incapable of 24/7, 100% dishonesty all the time. I'd implode. Truth is, I tell the truth most of the time. My life is on the table, for your dissection. Please, have at it. So I don't sneaky-cook. I don't sneaky-mooch. If I want to cook something, I take out my little hot pot and cook something.

For the longest time a neighbor of mine has had a stove. She's been cooking with it, not too sneakily. So I finally get one, and cook myself a proper breakfast, and lo and behold - that very afternoon, Miss Dried Up Old Prune of a Landlady decides to officially tell everyone to stop cooking or face a P1,000 fine. Right, that's going to work. Right next to the P500 fine for anyone who drags the opposite sex into their rooms. Not. Working.

I blame the maid. I'm angry.

Monday, July 14


My family plays it. I grew up playing it, though I went on an extended hiatus (which continues to this day). My brother is gung-ho about it. My grandfather played it. My dad and his brothers were champions in their individual age levels.

Alright, alright. Here are some more reasons why tennis is imminently watchable:

Janko Tipsarevic

Marcos Baghdatis

Marat Safin


(written during the height of Wimbledon 2008 fever)

Before I die, I want to go to at least one tennis grand slam event.

I've spent the last few days holed up in my room watching Wimbledon '08. The fashion, the game, the tennis. I've never enjoyed a tournament the way I've enjoyed this one.

Rafael Nadal incessantly picks at his butt, and when he bends over, you can hear the sound of a million women creating a drool tsunami. The man has a wonderful rump, seriously. And he delivers. Plus he's sweet. I hope he's not gay. He isn't my type, but knowing all that hotness is going to waste just breaks my heart.

I want to hit Roger Federer for never losing (people who win all the time incite envy, yes; they also incite boredom). By now I know he's lost Wimbledon 2008 - despite Gavin Rossdale rooting for him 100% - and I'm actually happy Rafa pulled it off. It's about time the Fed tasted a little losing on the grass court.

They say tennis is a gentleman's sport. My ass. It's gladiatorial. Full of showmanship, guts, emotion, screaming, pain, euphoria. The ball is a metaphor for your head, and your head is getting the crap knocked out of it. Watch the matches on Center Court - 15,000 cheering, screaming people watching you get your ass handed to you on beautiful green grass. It's civilized paganism at its best. I keep waiting for Roger Federer to hold up his racket and scream "Are you not entertained?!?!" at the crowd.

Dry Spell

I'm alive. And kicking. I've missed blogging but haven't found the time to do it as often as I have before. So many things have happened. I'm currently in the middle of raising the next crop of "Nikka's Hos" and from experience I barely get time to breathe.

Wish I could do this at work. Damn SurfControl.

Now Playing

I just realized I left my poddie's cable back in Dumaguete. Aargh!!! I want to get this song ASAP!!!! Darnit darnit darnit.