therealcuriousbiker

Patch: The Dog with Identity Crisis

2012-03-07T19:12:00.000+08:00

In human years he's 35. But since he is a dog, he's only 5 years old. Today.

Meet Patch, our dog with an identity crisis. Apparently, he doesn't know that he is a dog. He thinks he is a baby. Our baby.

We got him from a relative, a tiny gift prone to sleeping and playing. Five years hence, he is still small, a bit on the heavy side, and still prone to sleeping and playing. But he has shown some uncanny - or should I say un-canine - behavior that somehow makes us believe that he may not be a dog after all.

It was the first time that my wife and I would have a pet so we really didn't know what to do, especially in the toilet training department. So he showed us what he should do: Go inside the cage meant to jail him at night, take a pee, or drop a load, then scoot out so he can either sleep or play some more.

With toilet training off our care list he was free to live with us inside the house. Our next problem was that if he slept with us, in our room, won't he keep us awake all night? Or maybe take a leak or a poo whenever he felt like it?

His actions allayed this fear. He slept like a baby and only woke up when we were already up. And yes, no mess all around.

The next problem was what to do with him when we have to go out of the house. He told us... hey never worry, just bring me along with you. And he wags his tail nonstop, and whimpers no end till we give in.

Okay, now that he will come with us, we wonder on whose lap will he settle during the ride? He says, don't fret my persons, I will come rest on each of your laps until I discover which is the most ideal position for me.

He alternates between my lap and my wife's. But when he is on mine, it makes it more difficult for me to drive as I have to balance him while moving my legs at the same time. He looks up at me, and says, you got nice broad shoulders up there, buddy. And I tell him, hey don't give me that look. I need to focus on the road. And he asks, are you having a hard time driving buddy with me on your lap? No problem. I'll climb on your chest and rest on your broad shoulders instead, my tail and hind legs on one shoulder, my torso wrapped on your neck, and my front legs and head sticking out on the other, with my tongue wagging like my tail.

And ever since that day that he discovered that sweet spot, he has probably travelled thousands of kilometers that way, sometimes looking at the road for vehicles, sometimes looking out the window for dogs and cats and other four-legged animals and, often, sleeping like a baby.

Patch in Manaoag, Pangasinan

Patch in Baguio

Patch has developed a keen sense of when he will be taken for a ride or to be left at home. When he knows he is part of the trip he would be jumping and running all over the house, whining, yelping and begging that he be loaded into the car the moment he hears keys being picked up from the table. But when he knows that he will be left behind, he would slowly walk and hide under the sofa, his eyes hidden underneath his bangs following our every movement until the door closes.

Patch watching Kris cry

And when we return home, he will be a bundle of fur jumping up and down for several minutes until we tell him to calm down. If I'm taking off my socks, he will pull on it then run around the house with it, inviting me to play catch me if you can. Unlike most dogs where they run after you, playing catch up with Patch means you go after him.

If I return from a bike ride, he would sniff the wheels of my bike after our welcome ritual is through, as if to say, I'd like to know where you went, buddy.

Having him in the house is joy. He sneezes at you when he doesn't get what he wants, doesn't drink water unless it's ice-cold, and snuggles between us to have a blanket pulled over him when it is cold. Often we can hear him snore. Sometimes he makes funny sounds as he dreams, we know he is having a happy one when his tail is busy wagging as he makes funny sounds. Often, when I am on the sofa watching TV, he will hop on and drop his head on my legs to take a nap as I stroke his side.

We never taught Patch anything. We did not teach him to munch on ice cube, or to snack on fresh vegetables - sitaw, cabbage core and pechay stalk his favorites. We did not even teach him loyalty, or unconditional love. He just shows us.

We are convinced that he is not a dog That's why we don't treat him as such. Our baby is five years old today.

The mind of Christian Paul Cruz

2012-03-06T20:42:00.000+08:00

The first time I met Paul Christian Cruz was some three years ago when I had to serve as a panelist for a presentation they made before their class. We had a lively exchange as I grilled Paul's group, then the bell rang and that was the end of that. Or so I thought.

As I went out of the classroom he tailed me to carry on with the conversation that he felt was left unresolved. So I patiently listened to him so that he can get it out of his system. Apparently, it was not enough. He was trying to engage me in a prolonged discussion, which was really no problem with me, except that I had a next class and my bladder was urgently begging for relief.

So I excused myself and told him I need to go to the toilet with a sign outside that says "FOR FACULTY USE ONLY." I thought that he would leave me alone but he didn't. He instead followed me inside. So while I was relieving myself in a cubicle, I was listening to him as he continued with his monologue as he faced the toilet mirror. I finished my business and had to go to my next classroom. And I told him maybe we could continue our conversation next time. I didn't realize then that our conversation would continue only after three years.

I didn't even get his name then but I would always remember him as the student who followed me to the toilet.

In a campus, you recall students for various reasons, there are the brainies and the laggards, the smartalecks and the recidivists, the loudmouths and the brats, the studs and the crush magnets, and then there is Paul.

Paul is a classification by himself. He is a huge man, about 5'10" and not less than 220 pounds of bouncing mass of human flesh and adiposa. He talks as he walks - very slow and deliberate. He is very shy and though he has an impish, if not charming smile he doesn't seem to have a lot of close friends, apart from Poch, his closest.

Paul is, well, like a big child - a man child, with a pair of glasses that dutifully hang on the bridge of his nose, and a healthy growth of stubbles running from his sideburns all the way to his double chin and all around his mouth. Needless to say, you can't miss him in a crowd.

I would occasionally bump into him in the next three years, sometimes he greets me, sometimes he seems lost in his thoughts.

There were a number of times that I saw Paul in costumes of flowing robes and made up hair, not unlike the anime characters that inspire him to dress as such. He once even joined a cosplay contest at SM City Lipa where he met his idol Alodia Gosiengfiao.

A week ago while I was driving by the road fronting the school, I noticed a familiar figure walking by the sidewalk. I yelled at him, Paul! He stooped and peered at the open window. Recognizing me, he flashed a wide smile, and he opened his mouth as if he was to start a conversation. But I was in the middle of the street and we can't carry on like that so I slowly drove forward and eased the car to the side.

From the side mirror I can see Paul getting something out of his bag as he followed me. He was all smiles when he showed his framed graduation picture. He looked very proud and happy. We can't have a conversation on a busy road so I had to say goodbye, but not after taking a picture of him (see photo above).

This morning I was waiting for a business plan presentation, where I was invited to be a panelist, to start when Paul entered the room, looking for a professor to sign a document for him. He was already processing his graduation clearances.

I asked him how he was, and that was the start of the continuation of our conversation that was cut short three years ago.

Paul had just finished his internship at McCann Erickson Philippines, a leading global ad agency, handling humongous accounts.

Paul was assigned to make sense of McCann's complex digital marketing data which requires not only above average intelligence but extraordinary concentration and focus as a deluge of data can be overwhelming for an ordinary mortal, with the product of his work used by the agency to formulate its strategic recommendations to its clients.

Though he cannot maintain eye contact, Paul and I were really having a conversation, an intelligent one where he paused to listen as I talk or ask a question, before answering with inside information that only a true industry practitioner can muster.

He shared how he met Christopher Lao (who became infamous as media aired his misadventure in submerging his car in a flooded street), now Attorney Christopher Lao, and his idol Alodia who recognized him as a fellow cosplayer, which thrilled Paul no end as he couldn't stop giggling.

But he was particularly animated as he explained his job. And I could see that he really knew what he was talking about. I could just imagine his brain cells exploding in action as he connected seemingly random information into reports that made sense. This talent did not escape his immediate boss as he invited Paul to join McCann Erickson as soon as he graduated.

Paul is at a loss what to do as he was not expecting that his boss would think so highly of him when he did not really excel in any of his subjects at school and practically knew nothing about the job when he first started on the internship. He was overwhelmed that he would be appreciated that way, by no less than a professional who has been on that kind of job for a long time.

I encouraged him to take the opportunity because it's a tough job to most but one that is tailored to his mental strengths.

I'm happy for Paul and I was so immersed in our conversation that I didn't realize we were at it for more that two hours. Noon time came and I had to go to my panel duty. I hope it's not another three years that we get to talk again.

I'd love to hear what you think. Please leave a comment or a reaction. Thanks!

Ad me, odd man, add new

2012-03-05T09:38:00.000+08:00

My blog is into its second ad campaign. I got the tail end of the Darkest Hour 3D promotional blitz as my first paid gig, appearing on my site for less than a day and earning me such a measly sum that I couldn't even buy myself buko if I decided one day to ride my bike.

Then comes this Nivea ad campaign which I hope will linger longer and pay me more than enough to cover my next buko and a little something for the wife when I get home.

A former student and now a dear friend told me, "Eh sir, 'di ba yan ang goal mo, magkaroon ng ad sa blog mo? Cool... meron ka na!"

True, that was the original intent - find out if I can find success in blogging. And in a world where most measures of success go by the amount of money one can generate or afford to throw away, I find myself somewhat crawling around its periphery.

Any blog guru would tell me that if I want a significant income to materialize then I have to be more patient and build my audience till I can no longer count them, an empire after all is not built in a single night, and not even in the two months or so that I have started my blog.

But the euphoria of having an advertiser has worn off as quickly as my first ad campaign was pulled out.

My first ad campaign

Not that I am not happy that my site is now on the radar of those willing to pay to get their commercial message across. In fact, I am honored by such a distinction knowing how advertisers can be so picky when it comes to choosing which blog has value and influence to reach a particular target audience.

I'd like to pat myself on the back but I can't, so I won't. I knew it was just a matter of time, and there's really nothing much to be excited about when you very well know what's coming.

To tell you honestly, I don't love writing. I don't even enjoy doing it. It is draining. What gives me profound satisfaction though is the thought that I can make my readers smile, think, or look at things and situations in a different light. Some tell me they learn new things, others say that my stories inspire them, and not a few claim that reading my blog allows them to forget their problems, even for a while -- that's why I continue to write.

So it's not really passion that makes me continue. Just like when I decided that I wanted to teach, it has become an urge, some kind of obligation that I knowingly inflict on myself because I know I have something that needs to be shared.

So I'll continue to write.

Perhaps more than the bike adventures that I initially thought would comprise most of my blogs. Life, after all, is more than just a bike ride. Sometimes it's a walk in the park, or a swim in a lake, or getting lost in a multitude of people, or simply just moments spent in complete silence and isolation. Often, life happens because people and events mold it so.

I'll write about them all.

And if by doing so advertisements keep coming then its just a welcome icing to the cake. If you read this or any of my articles and you give me the thumbs up of your approval -- that is the cake.

I write because you read.

I'd love to hear what you think. Please leave a comment or a reaction. Thanks!

N0w sH0wln9 at Robinsons Place Lipa

2012-03-03T13:08:00.000+08:00

Robinsons Lipa ruined a germ of an idea that I have been incubating for months. I was intending to develop this article as a collection of pictures of misspellings and weird jejemon titles shamelessly posted on Robinsons Lipa movie sign board outside the mall, fronting the main highway.

Until they recently did something about it.

For whatever reason, and I say there shouldn't be even one, Robinsons Lipa has apparently given its employee/s assigned to place and replace movie titles in its giant sign board outside of the mall free rein in as far as placing the letters and characters inside the slots is concerned, resulting into awful misspellings and laughable wordings.

And I only say awful and laughable because we are talking about Robinsons Mall here, not some small sari-sari store or a hole in the wall carinderia where mistakes of such nature would be considered forgivable, if not cute.

A mall sign board with grave misspellings is like seeing a picture of you taken while you are halfway between smiling and sneezing (can you picture yourself looking like that?) - you can live with it, but its darn irritating.

And seeing letters such as "M" resourcefully made into a "Y" by taping both arms is like eating kamote cue made of potato - it would do, but it's just not right.

As you move up the ranks, so do expectations of you. And when one consistently sees a sign board containing obvious mistakes (that could have been easily avoided in the first place by a simple spot check from supervisors), then one would tend to think that you are not as good as you have been perceived to be. To think Robinsons Malls is considered, for a good number of years, as one of the premier mall chains in the Philippines.

So while I am a bit disappointed seeing Robinsons Lipas' movie sign board suddenly bearing the correct titles of what's currently showing, using the proper letters, I was also relieved that thinking people, such as myself, will no longer be assailed by hapless movie titles that bordered on plain neglect and utter disregard by the management for the standard set upon itself by its brand's stature in the mall industry.

I can always tweak the angles of my story. I just don't know if Robinsons Lipa can still repair its tarnished image, at least in my curious mind.

Squeaky clean

2012-03-03T10:42:00.003+08:00

Unexpected freshness, guess where this photo is taken.
Clue: It's in the details

I thought the man was coming for me. His face dirt black with hair that was uncut, disheveled and had that stylish unmoving bed-hair look, except that instead of gum or gel it was days-old dirt, soot and oil that made it stay in place. Up his lip vigorously sprouted the moustache of bad guys you see in 80‘s Tagalog action movies. He walked deliberately towards me as I sat, drinking from my water bottle.

I was alert.

He had layered muddied clothes, tattered sando over an oversized shirt that was shorn along the edges, hole-riddled, frayed-along-the-hem denim shorts that were once pants, and workman’s boots with grayish white socks that have obviously seen better days sticking out.

The man was holding a white disposable plastic cup, the kind that you would find in a children’s birthday party. The same kind that he was wearing on his wrist as a bracelet, with the cup’s mouth shredded to reveal what looked like funny petals. I faced away from him, making sure that he does not notice me spying at him from the corner of my right eye.

I was ready.

Then he stopped five meters away from me, just in front of the faucet and air pressure gauge common in similar gasoline stations. He stooped and opened the faucet to fill his cup. I can hear the guzzle of the water and the sound it made on the pavement as it overflows the cup. I was upright on my seat, waiting to evade a splashing. Seconds passed, then a minute, then two -- no splash.

I turned towards him, white foam coming out of the sides of his mouth. I resisted the temptation of pulling my cellphone camera so I can immortalize the image. After all, I myself wouldn’t want to have a picture of me taken with foam dribbling from the corners of my mouth. His left hand, the one with the plastic cup bracelet, was briskly making sawing motions towards his mouth.

He took the water-filled cup, put it into his mouth, gargled then spewed the foam. He filled the cup again and repeated what he just did. He then carefully placed his almost squeezed out toothpaste sachet and toothbrush into the cup.

I was smiling. He smiled back, his shiny white teeth partly hidden by the wet ends of his movie bad guy moustache. He turned and walked away in a steady gait. Though his face was turned away from me, I can imagine him feeling fresh and squeaky clean.

Waaah! You are cited for contempt Vitaliano Aguirre. Waaah!

2012-02-29T21:59:00.000+08:00

Photo by Edward Ganal, ABS-CBN

I'm just not in the mood today. I don't get it. Bakit biglang inatras nitong mga prosecutors from congress ang ibang articles of impeachment. Ako pa man din ang magpe-present ng evidence sa isang article. Ano ba naman sila?

Sayang naman ang preparation ko. Ilang araw na nga akong 'di makatulog iniisip ko lang na makikipagbanggaan ako kay idol Justice Serafin Cuevas. Kaya nga ako nag-volunteer na maging private prosecutor for this chance to be part of history. Pro bono 'to brod. I just want my chance at the bright lights, at history.

Hindi ba nila alam ang pangalan ko? Vitaliano... Vital... Important... Something you can't live without. Hindi ito tanong at sagot at the same time... Vital? Aaahh...no.

Hasa na ako sa ganitong tagisan ng bangis sa korte. 'Di gaya nitong mga bagitong prosecutors na magaling lang magsalita kapag reporter ang kaharap pero nanliliit kapag si Idol Cuevas at mga judges na ang bumabanat.

And to think I had to sit through weeks of listening to our side getting lectures from these Senator Judges who think they are better just because it's their turf. Nasa home court lang kayo kaya kayo matapang.

Namumuro na 'tong mga to sa akin. Pag hindi ako nakatiis...

Oh, ano naman 'tong pinapakawalan ni Miriam? Huwag mo nang ulitin na inatras nitong mga gunggong na 'to ang chance ko para matutukan ng camera. Mabigat na nga ang loob ko, dadagdagan mo pa!

Pumunta ka na lang kaya sa Netherlands, dun ka magpuputak. Tignan natin ang tapang mo doon. Ayaw ko nang maaakkkiiiinnniiiiggg!

OO NA NGA!!! La-di-da-di-da-di-da!

Happy thoughts, Vitaliano... happy thoughts.

See no evil, Vitaliano. Hear no evil. Breathe in... breathe out. You are better than this, Vitaliano. This too, will pass.

Buti na lang maganda ang training ko sa asawa ko kapag tumitirada na ito nang kana-nag sa akin. Yes tapos na!

Sige na po Senator Enrile, ipa-announce mo na na sa March 12 na tayo magkita-kita ulit. We all need a break and I have to get back to my private practice so I can afford this pro bono job.

Yes, Senator Estrada? Did I cover my ears while Senator Santiago was speaking? Of course I did. Can't a guy who lost his chance at the limelight get some R-E-S-P-E-C-T around here?

Well, she was asking for it. Nagmukha na nga akong tangang ilang linggong nakatunganga dito tapos le-lektyuran pa ako? No way, Jinggoy!

That's right, Senate President... suspend the session so Madame Miriam can confront me.

Yes Madame, no madame... I'm not saying I'm better than you. I'm just protecting my ears from the shrill of your voice. Only my wife can do that to me.

Sure, cite me for contempt if you wish. Oh no, I'm not saying sorry. After all that I went through? No way.
Waaah your face!

Chicken Joy

2012-02-28T21:11:00.000+08:00

"Catch me if chicken"

If there is a domesticated animal that you would suspect running away with food that you left on your picnic table, the cat would probably come to mind first, the dog next, or if you are in an island like Palawan, the monkey would be another likely suspect.

But a chicken?

I was at a local resort doing something for my business when all of a sudden a commotion disturbed the stillness of this warm early afternoon. A group of resort maintenance crew was trying to corner a fat, noisy but very frisky hen - one of the several free range birds that wander about the place.

I thought to myself, what the heck has gotten into these people, can't a hen have a break in this lazy afternoon without being chased around by deranged humans?

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To grieve in private is a basic right

2012-02-24T21:39:00.000+08:00

You must have seen this in the news. One father, valiantly trying to contain his emotions, approaches a gurney in a morgue where a lifeless body - belonging to his only son, Marvin Reglos, killed in yet another hazing incident - is covered in white cloth. He lifts the sheet, sees just enough of his son, then desperately lets out all the pain and anguish that he dammed inside of him since he first heard about what happened to his son. Seeing the truth, there is nothing left to do but grieve, and this he does by pouring his profound sorrow in tears and wails of grief as he collapses into the arms of equally bereaving family members, also trying to find solace in him.

In fact, we have seen similar scenes before: executed drug couriers, tortured and murdered OFWs, met for the first time by loved ones; OFWs coming home to a dead kin, a victim of local violence, parents, wives, children of slain soldiers ambushed by ruthless enemies - all the drama, pain and grief delivered to our living rooms courtesy of eager reporters, trying to get the best shot and the rawest sound byte of pure, unadulterated sorrow. This is reality TV at its most real.

This is a part of media reporting that I find disgusting.

And you and I should not have seen any of those footages.

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Kasambahay blues

2012-02-22T15:18:00.002+08:00

It must be strange to be suddenly inside a house that is not yours, to be with a family that you don't belong. This is the case for so many, if not all, people whom the society calls kasambahay. Our family calls them simply as "angel."

In spite of the promise of a little money, I don't know if there is any angel excited to leave home to work in another's. What I know is that humans are predisposed to serve their own kin, in their own home; that's what the family is about and how it bonds as a unit. And when a family member is forced to leave, often because of economic reasons, she does so lugging together with her meager possessions plenty of apprehensions about what kind of life awaits, and lingering questions as to how things got so miserable that she had to forego everything that has become familiar and natural for everything that is intimidatingly new.

My nanay has a new angel. She is Joy from Iloilo, 20 but looks more like 16. She is the fourth child out of nine, and it's her first time to be away from her family. She wouldn't be here in Lipa if not for Nanay's old angel, Len, bidding her goodbye after only about half a year of service. My nanay's condition before letting her go was simple, find a replacement and train her awhile.

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House Resolution 2140: Pogi kami, hindi pangit

2012-02-20T18:46:00.001+08:00

Lolong, from mindanews.com

What's gotten into Congressman Aurelio Gonzales, Jr of Pampanga, filing House Resolution 2140 seeking to prevent the film and showbiz industry from portraying congressmen as crooks or evil people? Huh!? Since when has filming the truth become subject to legislature?

I know that not all congressmen are crooks. It's just too impossible to think that not even one of the close to 300 members of the lower house is honest. But anyone who has been into a pigsty for some period of time will emerge smelling like a pig, though he is not one, nor will he ever be one. That's the risk of being in such a trade, you are branded by association, though all you ever wanted was to serve your people.

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Isdaan, wet dancer and a lady with issues

2012-02-20T12:30:00.001+08:00

The best parts of a road trip are those that are not contained in a plan.

Traveling along Tarlac at past noon, the most natural thing to do was find a place to eat before we hit SCTEX, because the only choices that would be available by then would be fastfood restaurants lined along NLEX, which is not bad really. But if you have eaten in one McDo or Chowking anywhere in the Philippines, you wouldn't experience anything new eating in another, except perhaps giving you the lame claim that you have ordered this and this, in so-and-so branch of so-and-so fastfood restaurant.

When we reached the sleepy town of Gerona, to our right was a sprawling compound with enormous water-spouting fish statues that seemed to be beaconing us to stop and drop by. So we did. The place was called, appropriately enough, Isdaan.

Have a warm Erap welcome

Biking on runways, bad for your health

2012-02-17T14:17:00.000+08:00

First runway, narrower and ideal for small planes

Have you ever been personally called by a voice from a control tower inside a military air base? I did. And I lived to tell the tale.

It was not really a typical ride, more like a series of errands of paying bills and delivering things. I've done 15 kilometers and was on my home. Like a recovering addict searching for a fix I suddenly felt the inevitable urge to get some more. So I turned left to the rear gate of Fernando Air Base where I can get 5 more kilometers of dirt road, around the perimeter of the military facility.

But to get to the dirt road I had to cross two runways. It was not the first time that I was doing this, but it was the first time that military planes were taking on and off the runways. I know that when planes are flying, the area was off limits. But hey, it was just a two minute sprint and I could always stop when I see a plane coming, so I went ahead.

Second runway, wider and used by small and larger planes

A hundred meters or so before I reach the twin runways, a voice boomed over the control tower public address system, "Yung naka-bike, bumalik ka dito." And he repeated it after a short while, this time louder and with a discernible urgency as I was only fifty meters away from where I shouldn't be.

I can see movement from beyond the runways where soldiers, military vehicles and artillery are stationed. I certainly got their attention. And behind me where the control tower was, I can imagine guns trained at me with orange dots splattered all over my back (helped along by action movies I have watched), in case I decided to proceed with my intent and I had to be gunned down.

I pressed my brakes and made a u-turn, this time pedaling with less pace with my fingers rapping on my handle bar - my body language of telling the imaginary snipers in the control tower, hey relax, I come in peace.

As I neared the tower, I can see a soldier approaching to block my path. I first looked at where his hands were, oh good, he was not holding on to his gun. But he had a stern look about him, as if I just made out with his wife.

Anong pangalan mo, sir?

Saan ka pupunta?

Taga-saan ka?

I peppered my answers with "Pasensiya na sir."

Then from the control tower emerged a person whom I believed the booming voice that called my attention belonged. Though he was some sixty feet above me, I can see that he was not holding on to his gun, oh good. When I looked at his head, I recognized him as a kababata, and he recognized me as well because I have taken off my helmet. He was scratching the back of his head.

The soldier in front of me motioned me to proceed to an adjacent building, his commanding officer wanted to see me. As I was proceeding where I was directed, my kababata, still scratching his head, managed to get down from the tower. By his deep breaths it was obvious that he hurried down. He told his comrade, "P're, arbor ko na to," without looking at me and without stopping scratching his head. It's either he really had an itchy scalp or he was mighty pissed with me.

"Eh, gustong makita ni Sir."

Gathered outside an office was a group of soldiers, in the middle was their commanding officer in military coverall, he had the look of someone who had just a quarrel with his wife and the wife had the last say, the rest appeared as if they were having issues with their own partners. I scanned where their hands were at, oh good, no one was holding on to a gun.

The commanding officer, in a low voice, intently asked me?

Anong unit mo?

Bakit hindi ka nagpapaalam na tatawid ka?

Hindi mo ba nakikita na may flying ngayon? Eh, sasagasaan ka ng mga yan!

Again, I peppered my answers with "Pasensiya na sir."

He did not look happy or contented with my replies, but someone from the crowd broke into a smile - a soldier that I regularly played basketball with, "Bakit kasi 'di ka nagpapaalam, eh!"

The commanding officer sternly warned me before he let me go, "Sa uulitin mag-coordinate ka muna ha."

You think I would immediately head home after this brush with peeved soldiers, right?

Oh no, I'm not just a curious biker but also a stubborn one. So I headed to where I would normally exit this particular route and made a reverse trajectory, then made a u-turn when I reached where I normally started my ride. I ended up biking more than the five kilometers I planned for.

Now I have my fix and I'm ready to go home.

--------

I grew up in this military base where all pilots of the Philippine Air Force are taught how to fly. The runway was where I first learned how to ride a bike, and the base's perimeter is where I used to jog with my older brother when he was physically preparing for his entry into the Philippine Military Academy.

I'd love to hear what you think of this post. Pease leave a comment or a reaction. Thanks.

Day 18: Curious eye witness inside the impeachment court

2012-02-16T19:45:00.002+08:00

Senator Franklin Drilon reacts to Senator Joker Arroyo's non-joke
When Senator Arroyo stood up to voice his displeasure over the senate president's decision to summon the original bank documents of CJ Corona so that it can be compared to the alleged fake documents produced by the prosecution, Senator Drilon can be openly seen shaking his head, running his hand from the top of his head to the bottom of his chin in frustration, and making faces to the effect of, "What's this guy talking about?"

PS Bank President Garcia talking with Atty Miro Quimbo

Private business interest versus public interest business
The officers of PSBank tried their best to prevent the court from opening CJ Corona's bank accounts, even claiming that the document presented by the prosecution was fake. But when asked that they bring the authentic copy, they responded by saying that they would violate the bank secrecy law on foreign currency deposits if they did so. Tiongson, the lady bank manager of Katipunan branch, even claimed that the "K" in the 700K entry appearing in a document under scrutiny may mean anything (It was leaked that one of the dollar accounts contained $700,000). But ask any banker and they would tell you that K is thousand in banking parlance. While I believe that PS Bank would not want to stall the search for truth, it also has to make sure that it protects the interests of its clients - lose your clients' trust, you also lose their deposits, then you're no longer a bank.

Senator Jinggoy Estrada summons public judgment
Unable to make the witness to confirm her closeness with prosecutor Niel Tupas even after a lengthy, if not repetitious, line of questioning, Senator Estrada gives up but not without saying that he did not believe the witness. He then invoked the judgment of the public as to whether the witness was telling the truth or not. Huh?! Why involve the public when he can't prove his personal hunch that the branch manager was the prosecution's source of the leaked documents?

Senators Lapid and Revilla working hard
Following the impeachment proceedings is difficult enough for non-lawyers, moreso for judges with, pardon me for the being blunt, limited intellectual capacity. But I have to give it to Senators Bong and Lito to appear interested. Senator Bong is convincing in his portrayal as a serious observer of the proceedings. But even the best actors need a break, so he engages in banters with seatmate Senator Ralph Recto, from time to time. He neither takes note or looks at his copy of the documents being discussed unlike Senator Lapid who does. However, Julio Valiente often looks at the audience perhaps to scout for possible leading ladies, and at times can be observed trying to stifle a yawn. Ang hirap talagang magtrabaho.

Showbiz invasion
How did it happen that the Senate, supposedly the bastion of the most brilliant minds, become the office address of four showbiz bigwigs: Jinggoy Estrada, Lito Lapid, Bong Revilla and Tito Sotto? (Five if you count Ralph Recto, husband of Vilma Santos). Senators Lito and Bong are great pretenders, making it appear that they are involved in the proceedings, albeit in silence; Senator Jinggoy at least tries to actively participate, while Senator Sotto, as the Majority Leader, is doing a good job in introducing witnesses and making sure that the proceedings flow smoothly, just like what he normally does at Eat Bulaga - the Senate does need an emcee.

Prosecution gains edge despite sub-par performance
I sense the tide turning in the prosecution's favor when, despite the objections and pleadings not to open CJ Corona's bank documents , presiding officer Senator Enrile still ordered PSBank to bring all bank documents pertaining to CJ Corona's peso Time Deposits, which, unfortunately for the defense, are the same documents where details of the accused's dollar deposits are contained. This minor victory materialized without the prosecution breaking a sweat.

Cuevas admits Defense's precarious situation
During a break in the proceedings, Justice Serafin Cuevas, like a rock star, is hounded by batch upon batch of fans seeking to be photographed with him. In a moment of candor, Justice Cuevas remarked, "Panalong panalo ako sa piktyuran, pero talong-talo naman kami sa trial."

Miriam show a no-show
I, together with my companions, was thrilled when Senator Santiago marched into the session hall. She was seen taking down notes and reviewing documents. We were certain that we would be, together with everyone including the prosecution, treated to a lecture on the law and a display of top rate condescending drama. But we were disappointed. When the good senator stepped out of the session during the first break, she never returned. BOOO! Oh well, maybe next time.

Apprentice prosecutors in session
It is almost laughable that the prosecution team is considered and widely acknowledged as lightweight and inexperienced. When Senator Enrile mentioned something about him not wanting to lecture on the law to fellow lawyers, but he had to, it was met by instantaneous murmur and snicker from the gallery as everyone knew for whom the comment was. Good that when that happened, Senator Santiago was no longer around, otherwise everyone could have been cited for contempt.

Public trial attorneys
Both the prosecution and defense teams know that there is a simultaneous trial, one that is being held in the court of public opinion. Hence there is a battle between young, good looking and articulate spokespersons on both sides, wishing to win the hearts and minds of the people.

Shooting history
It is fascinating how on TV, the press coverage appears very organized and perfectly framed. But inside the senate building, it is a complex mess of cameras, electric cables, computers and reporters trying to finagle every available story. It is also interesting to think that the future of close to a hundred million Filipinos and the generations to come can be affected by a few people inside a small hall.

Shooting stars
When the trial adjourned for the day, people from the gallery were excited to have souvenir photos taken with the trial lawyers. A member of a group of well-heeled ladies was overheard saying, "Ayun oh, si Cuevas." Another shot back, "Huwag na, ano? Matanda na yan." They settled for Niel Tupas.

Shooting courage
Raissa Laurel, who lost both her legs in a bomb blast during a bar examination, was also in the gallery. Her ID says she is a staff member of Senator Koko Pimentel. Ms Laurel gained fame when, despite her loss of both limbs, showed courage and optimism in facing her future.

I'd love to hear what you think of this post. Please leave a comment or a reaction.

ADHD is special

2012-02-12T22:23:00.000+08:00

Kim, my nephew, was diagnosed about a decade ago as having Attention Deficit Hypersenstivity Disorder, ADHD for short. A disorder that baffles doctors as its cause is never known, but its symptoms: hyper active spiels, violent tantrums and, at times, surprising hints of unusual talent or intelligence, are unmistakable.

Even before Kim could go to school, he has shown the uncanny ability to spin fascinating stories from his imagination - in straight, perfect English, though no one in the household used that language in normal conversations. On request, he would weave tales of colorful characters involved in complex situations, certainly not the kind of basic plots that kids his age normally come up with. His stories reflected his brilliant mind.

But this talent slowly gave way to another fascination of the imagination as he started schooling.

When my sister-in-law's mother died, Kim's attention turned to the macabre. He would only learn his lessons if the teacher, or the adult supervising him, used images or characters that involved death. He learned his math by adding and subtracting kabaongs and caros.

At the final mass for my father, his grandfather, who also passed away; he volunteered to the mic to say farewell to his Lolo Doroy, which brought tears to the eyes of everyone as he, after speaking a few lines, let his repressed feelings burst like a dam with an unabashed wail of haunting grief. After this painful event, he accepted death as a fact of life. In fact, his vivid stories, which by then had come far in between, told of all kinds of passing away. While most abhorred even the thought of death, it made perfect sense to him that everyone's going to die someday.

When my brother was assigned to work in Laoag, he had to relocate his family with him, transporting Kim away from the distractions of Quezon City to a more quiet environment where everything, including the language, was new. It was there that Kim showed his talent for painting.

This channeled his energy and imagination to the visual arts, which suited him well because he had fallen in love with motor vehicles, particularly the jeep -- the more colorful it is, the more excited he became. A pen and paper allowed him to draw all kinds of jeeps, imagining that he was riding in one, with the roar of the engine playing music to his ears, and the wind in his face distorting his wide smile.

After a few years, my brother had to be reassigned to another place which made him decide to settle his family in my mother's hometown in Pangasinan where he planned to start a small piggery business while he stayed away at his new assignment. Amagbagan, Pozzorubio is the picture of rural life with wide open rice fields sliced by rivers and irrigation dikes, and where most people are inside their homes when dusk settled.

As "the" man of the house, Kim was called on to shoulder more responsibilities, especially manual work where he has shown willingness, even a hint of enjoyment doing them, which was good because a rural home with a backyard piggery required a lot of it. As the eldest in the brood, he was also counted on to take care of his younger siblings, particularly the youngest, the only girl. But when it came to household chores, expect Kim to murmur his protest as he does what was asked of him.

While Kim was not lagging in school, he was also not outstanding. And teachers noticed that he had the tendency to talk without being called or move about the classroom without being asked. He listened to his teachers and absorbed what he could till his attention veered away. This is specially evident when it came to long and quarterly exams where he returned his test papers with only the first pages containing answers, the rest untouched, without a trace of ink.

Kim seems to understand that his future does not involve staying in a comfortable office, working his way up the corporate ladder. In fact, his fascination with the jeep has convinced him that he will be a professional driver someday, not only driving his own jeep, but running an entire fleet. My mother, his lola, disapproves of this as she wants her favorite apo to finish college and become a professional just like his father and uncles.

But he is determined and has even jumpstarted his career by starting from the bottom -- as a konduktor for a jeepney driver that he befriended. This, my brother unexpectedly discovered as he, after getting off the bus that took him from Manila to Manaoag, boarded a jeep going to Pozzorubio. He was seated on the driver's passenger side when, from the back, he heard a familiar voice, "pasahe lang po!" He watched his son with a mixture of pride and concern as he did not need to work like that to earn extra money.

Kim is now fourteen, handsome and charming in his own right. He still works as a konduktor from time to time and is learning to drive their family car in and out of the garage. His personality is a range of contradictions. While he beams when he smiles, he has a scowl on his face most of the time. He is polite and says po and opo but still has a short fuse when he thinks something is not right, which is often.

But in my brother's absence, he is the man of the house. No matter how late he sleeps or how tired he was the previous day, he always wakes up at 4:30 in the morning, prepares his coffee, and cooks rice for the family's breakfast as he listens to AM radio. When his two younger brothers wake up, they already have hot water prepared for their bath.

Focus is the hardest thing to teach kids with ADHD, but I have never seen any teenager, ADHD or not, with such focus and sense of purpose as my nephew Kim. People say that young children with ADHD are special kids. I agree. And in a few years, Kim is going to be a special man.

I'd love to hear what you think of this post. Please leave a comment or a reaction. Thanks!

Prosecution working for Chief Justice Corona acquittal

2012-02-07T21:28:00.000+08:00

From ellentordesillas.com

Chief Justice Corona's best defense in his impeachment trial at the Senate is not his tried and tested attorneys or the lack of evidence that they so claim, but the vastly mismatched lawyers at the Prosecution side whose bravado in front of press camera is inversely proportional to their abilities to prepare and argue their cause before the impeachment court.

Someone said that congress sent boys to the senate to do a man's job. And I would have to agree. The first few weeks gave us a showcase of how NOT to prosecute an impeachment case: File a vague complaint, come to court unprepared, be surprised by your own witness, impeach him when he's not singing the right tune, take a line of questioning that invites objections, present evidence on the wrong articles, appear confused when asked for clarifications, and deny the statements that you and your team made to the media.

Pathetic.

Unlike in a criminal court where the objective is to prove guilt of the accused beyond reasonable doubt, impeachment only requires that enough doubt be established on the capacity and qualification of the accused to hold such a sensitive position. And it's not like the prosecution has no evidence to do just that.

They presented expensive properties that are beyond the means of a Chief Justice's salary, they have shown that there are questionable entries and non-entries in his SALN, and they have opened that the accused has knowingly involved himself in situations where prudence, as required by the stature of his post, should have been exercised, if only to steer clear of the possible controversies and conflicts of interest that may arise in the future.

Most of these they were able to do because they either stumbled on it, or barely allowed by the court, or mercifully saved by senator judges not bothering to hide their biases and party colors. But none of it created the desired shockwaves because no one takes the prosecutors seriously.

Marami ka pang kakainin, bata! Image from ph.yahoo.com

In public, the defense lawyers say that the prosecution is doing a good job, it's just that they don't have the evidence to prove their case. Which is a good strategy, I must say. It's like telling your opponent to go ahead, continue shooting yourself on the foot, so we no longer have to.

The impeachment trial has a long way to go, and the tide may still turn. But as long as Congressman Neil Tupas continues to squeak his way out of predicaments that he himself made, and Congressman Barzaga takes part in the proceedings armed with his unimpressive elocution and cartoon-like presence, and the entire prosecution team airs its grievances and evidences in the media, then get bamboozled by Justin Serafin Cuevas and lectured on by Senate President Juan Ponce Enrile in the impeachment court - acquittal is almost certain.

From asiancorrespondent.com

I can see it coming. Chief Justice Corona speaking before supreme court employees, in his now famous hoarse but high pitched drawl, announcing to the whole world that he is, as he claimed all along, clean and true to his oath as defender of truth and justice. This, while President Noynoy Aquino and the rest of his allies try to play cool under such an embarrassing setback to proclaim that they would abide by the impeachment court's decision, but would not stop at pursuing its mandate of curbing graft and corruption.

Good luck!

I just hope Justice Corona does not forget to thank his best assembled defense team -- the prosecution.

I'd like to hear your views. Please leave a comment or a reaction. Thanks!

1st to 6th Generation iPod Nano: The Evolution of a Product Recall

2012-02-04T11:36:00.000+08:00

Original images from news.cnet.com and mp3downlib.com

When large companies announce that they are recalling a product because of a discovered defect, you either say: "I don't care, I don't have that," or, "Oh my, God! It's my car / medicine / food / computer (add your now defective product) I could have died," or, "Recall? Woo-hoo! Re-place-ment...re-place-ment!"

My wife recently exclaimed woo-hoo!

Though no one was complaining, or even if there were a few who did, their voices were drowned by the hype of the next new thing - 7 years ago. Mac Intosh then launched its revolutionary iPod Nano that allowed users to store 2-gigabyte's worth (that was huge then) of music in a small tablet that was only a little bigger, but much thinner than a matchbox. And it came with a trailblazing click wheel control system, a precursor to the touchscreen that would train human fingers a new set of movements. Needless to say, it was the dawning of a new cool. And Apple was starting it all.

My wife was one of those to have the first generation iPod Nano. And she was doubly lucky as she got hers in a Christmas party raffle.

A lot has happened to the iPod since then. In fact, a lot has happened to technology since that fateful Christmas party. Again, with Apple at the front and center of it all.

Fast forward to present times. Well, not really current present, but approximately present time. A few months back, my wife got across a news announcing that Apple was recalling all first gen iPod Nano units belonging to a certain manufacturing batch because of battery defects that may, yes may, cause overheating.

Except for a damaged earphone (our dog, who was then a puppy, chewed on it), my wife's unit is in pristine condition -- no visible scratches, and definitely no nicks. And yes, she hasn't encountered an overheated battery, either.

At the first chance we got, we dropped by the Power Mac Center at Greenbelt. After a short inspection of my wife's unit, the Apple technician asked her to fill up a form and told her to wait about a month for her replacement unit to arrive.

A month passed, and no unit. Not even a word from the Power Mac Center. I've always had high regards for Mac Intosh, its trailblazing design, future-oriented products, and efficient and reliable service. So it was a bit of a disappointment that they would renege on their word, though it was not really a notarized contract.

But how they made up for it. Days ago, my wife was jumping up and down as she held on to her phone containing a text message that said:

Greetings from Power Mac Center Greenbelt 3. The replacement iPod has arrived. We are glad to inform you that Apple has decided to replace your 1st Generation iPod Nano with a 6th Generation model. Thank you for making Power Mac your preferred Apple Service Provider. Disclaimer: Please be advised that this model is applicable for this batch of replacement. Apple may decide to change the model for the succeeding batch of replacements.

The 6th gen iPod Nano is much different from its original incarnation as it is squarish versus the rectangular configuration of the latter. It can also be used as a watch or as an arm accessory - perfect for active people. In fact, it was designed with sports buffs in mind as it has, together with Nike, a feature that monitors heart rate and calorie count. Plus, it comes with an 8 gig memory that suddenly makes the 2-gig brain of the original Nano alzheimeric in comparison.

Original images from freshbump.com and swimmer.co.uk

I really have to give it to Apple. Recalling a product whose defect no one howled about? And some 7 years after the fact? Now that is great after sales service, if ever there was one. Now my wife has extra bounce in her steps. Must be the 6th gen Nano's adrenaline rush.

Senator Miriam Defensor Santiago impeachment court pick-up lines

2012-02-02T19:05:00.001+08:00

From starmometer.com

Senator Miriam Defensor Santiago is one of the most feisty and most colorful political personalities in the Philippines. But lately (Well, at least before the recent outburst at the Senate impeachment trial) she has somewhat mellowed down. Even reinventing herself as a standup comedian in her speaking engagements in various schools and universities, delivering pick-up lines that garner loud guffaws and applause from the captive audience.

Here's a list of pick-up lines that Senator Santiago may be dropping on the personalities of the impeachment court.

To Senate President Juan Ponce Enrile
Library ka ba?
Ang dami mong alam eh.

To Justice Serafin Cuevas
Wine ka ba?
You seem to get better with age.

On Justice Cuevas' clothes
On a diet ka ba?
Lumuluwag ang mga damit mo, eh.

Upon meeting members of the prosecution team at a birthday party
Kayo ba ang may birthday?
Mukha kasing surprised at unprepared kayo eh.

To Prosecutor Elpidio Barzaga
Matalino ka ba?
Kasi bright na bright ang ulo mo, eh.

Senator Miriam Defensor Santiago to Senator Lito Lapid
Kailangan mo ba ng mapa?
Para ka kasing nawawala.

To the Senate Sergeant at Arms
Talkative ka ba?
You seem to always have the first and final word.

To a representative of the International Criminal Court where she is chosen to be a judge
Cab driver ka ba?
Wait for me, ha.

To Senator Franklin Drilon
Ambulansya ka ba?
Always to the rescue ka kasi, eh.

To Attorney Miro Quimbo as she blushes and tucks her already short hair behind her ear with her fingers
Zipline ka ba?
Nae-excite ako sa yo, eh.

Preening in front of Attorney Karen Jimeno
Salamin ka ba?
Nakikita ko ang kagandahan ko sa yo, eh.

To a person watching her from the gallery as she preens before Attorney Jimeno
Hoy, inggit ka ba?
Palibhasa pangit ka. I'll cite you for contempt. Stop smiling!

Senator Lito Lapid's pseudo thoughts on the Impeachment Trial

2012-01-31T21:42:00.001+08:00

From beonline.com.ph

Bakit ba pa-jads-jads pa? Di ba lahat naman tayo ay may kasalanan? Sabi nga nila, kung sino ang malinaw ang mata at matuwid ang pukol, siya ang unang bumato. Eh, kaya nga ako may salamin eh, para masipat ko nang maigi ang akusado. Yun nga lang, ayoko namang mapahiya dahil hindi ko naman alam ang kailangang ipukol - bato ba o tinapay? Eh, di ba nasasabi din sa Koran kung batuhin ka ng bato, umilag ka at batuhin mo din sya ng tinapay? Mas mahusay sana kung may palaman na - yung egg sanwits - para kung gutom ang kalaban mo, ay may makakain siya nang masustansiya. Ohh, eh di peace na kayo?

Tsaka 'di ko naman linya ang batuhan. Nakilala nga ako sa pelikula bilang mahusay sa gatilyo. Aba, kung napanood niyo lang ang mga klasik ko na Leon Guerrero at Julio Valiente, 'di mabilang ang mga napatay kong masasamang tao. Sa sobrang dami nga eh binubuhay namin yung ibang extra at pinapatakbo ng patalikod para mabaril ko naman sa tagiliran. Kung hindi mo pa nakita pahiramin kita ng betamax copy ko. Wala akong dibidi, napi-pirata kasi yon. At lis, ito orig.

Ekspert ako dyan sa barilan. Gusto ko nga sanang i-sages sa ating militari yung mga teknik ko sa pagbaril para malupig na lahat ng mga kaaway ng kapayapaan. Eh di ba magaling magtago ang mga kaaway? Aba, kung ang mga sundalo natin ay matuto nung tinatawag na plesing -- yung bang aasintahin mo ang bato, pader o bakal na maaaring pagtalbugan ng bala sa nagtatagong kaaway. Pihadong sapul ito. Kung medyo bihasa ka na nga e na gaya ko, maari ka pa ngang mamili kung saan mo patatamaan -- sa ulo ba, sa pagitan ng mata, o di kaya sa hawak niyang baril para ma-disarma na lang. Nasa anggulo lang yan, parang karambola sa bilyar. Mahusay dyan ang cabalen kong si Hepren. Sigurado ako, pag na-master ng ating mga kawal yun, wala ng makakapagtago na kaaway.

Eh kung iisa na lang ang bala at dalawa pa ang kaaway? Dapat may baon ka laging punyal. Napanood niyo ba yon? Klasik yon ha, nahirapan akong isipin yung eksena na yon. Ilalagay mo yung talim sa harap ng butas ng baril, itutok ang baril sa gitna ng dalawang kaaway, kalabitin ang gatilyo -- bang. Patay. Patay. Tipid sa bala di ba?

From vidoemo.com

Pero maubusan man ako ng bala, palaban pa rin ang kamao ko. Aba, kung inyong matatanong, 'di na rin mabilang ang nagapi nang aking mga bigwas. Gusto ko nga sanang ituro kay Congressman Manny Pacquiao ang mga galaw ko, kanya lang baka maakusahan ako na 'di ginagalang ang enter the parelementary kortesi, yun bang nakikialam sa diskarte ng ibang bahay. Yung maybahay ko nga eh 'di ko pinapakialaman kahit nahuli sa Las Vegas. Aba eh kung makikialam ako doon eh di nakalkal din ang kayamanan at dolyares ko.

From jmthebest.com

Huwag na nga nating pagusapan si misis, matanda na yun. Di ko nga maintindihan kung bakit kinabitan ng bracelet sa paa, para daw laging malaman kung nasaan siya. Aba, iniinsulto nyo naman si esmi, eh di naman maliligaw yun, nakapunta nga sa US mag-isa eh, pinakita lang niya yung paspor niya sa erpor tapos bahala na yung drayber ng erplen na maghatid sa kanya. Basta alam na nya yon.

Uminit nga yung ulo ko ng maigi, gusto ko tuloy sila masampolan nung tinatawag na pompyang, yung bang kakalembangen mo nang parehong palad mo ang tig-isang tenga ng kaaway mo, tapos bibigwasan mo ng kaliwa na magpapatilapon sa kanya kung saan may mesa na maari mong talunan na naka-landing ka sa tuhod mo, sabay bigwas ng kanan at mapa-padpad ang kalaban mo sa may puno na may leter-Y na sanga, kung saan mo idudungaw ang iyong mukha na kagyat naman uumangan ng suntok ng damuhong na kaaway mo, na iyo namang iilagan at sasaluhin ng kamay ang kanyang kamao, samantalang ang isa mong kamao ay dadapo sa kanyang bodega -- uugghh! At siya ay tutumba. At may tatakbo sa iyong magandang dalaga na nakadamit na puting seda na bakat nang kaunti ang suot niyang tangga, tapos kayo ay maghahalikan at magyayapusan.

Sino bang mag-aakala na ang isang anak ng labandera ay magiging senador na gaya ko. Ako nga, ang alam ko eh sasamahan ko lang ang cabalen kong si Madam Gloria sa pagkamay sa mga tao sa buong Pinas, sabi niya kasi mga nakapanood lahat sila ng mga pelikula ko, pans ba. Eh dapat lang naman akong personal na magpasalamat, di ba? Yun pala eleksyon. Sa susunod, di na ko tatakbo sa senado. Ayaw ko na 'tong ganitong may impitsment, 'di ako makatulog, ang dami kayang kamerang nakatutok. Siguro, preseden na lang. Ay, bays preseden na lang muna, baka sabihin nila masyado akong ambisyoso, wala yata akong pelikulang ganon. Ayaw ko namang manloko ng tao.

From pinoyparazzi.com

Sana matapos na 'tong impitsmen trial, marami pa naman akong debateng nais pakinggan sa regular na sesyon namin, lalo na yung sa reprodaktib hell bill kung saan maari kong ibahagi ang malawak kong kaalaman sa paglikha nang beybi. Hoy, 'di yan syowbis ha, ekspert talaga tayo dyan. By the way, may syuting din ako ng bago kong teleserye, makakayapos na naman ako ng magandang dalaga. Ayos, pa din naman akong artista eh, walang nagbago. Tignan ninyo, pagdating ng syowing sa dos, makikita niyo na iyon na iyon pa rin ang akting ko. Konsisten ba. 'Di gaya nitong impitsmen jads ako, na alam ko namang wala akong karapatan dahil di naman tayo perpekto. Kung magiging spokesgel ko lang ang dati kong asawang si Melanie Marquez, sasabihin niya: Don't jads Jastis Corona, he is nat a book!

Sana nga magsuntukan na lang si Preseden Noynoy at si Tsip Jastis, para malaman kung sino ang totoong matapang. Eh 'di pag natumba ang isa, eh di kwits na.

I'd love to hear what you think of this article. Please leave a comment or a reaction. Thanks!

How to protect Maliputo from a thieving cat

2012-01-30T21:14:00.000+08:00

DISCLAIMER: The author of this article is not in any way or form an animal hater. Any mention or insinuation of antagonistic feelings against animals, or images or actions that may be construed as cruelty to animals have been compelled by unacceptable animal behavior. No animal has been harmed in the making of this blog.

From batanggenyo.net

Maliputo is a fresh water fish endemic to Taal Lake. It is known for its white, firm flesh that tastes best when grilled or when mixed in sinigang. Because its supply is limited, Maliputo is a bit expensive; and thus only served on special occasions, for special people.

Maliputo's notoriety as a fine table fish is not just local. When my Tia Amanda, who permanently resides in the US, told a Pinoy friend there that she was coming over to Lipa for a visit, the friend who apparently has been here told her that she shouldn't miss out on the Maliputo. I didn't know of that conversation when I thought of preparing that particular fish for her homecoming dinner.

I am the resident tour guide/cook/driver when there are guests in the house. So the day I was to pickup my aunt at the airport, I woke up early to buy maliputo, which I planned to roast in the afternoon.

The day went on as planned; I ticked off my duties fairly well, without glitches that can ruin the schedule, or my aunt's homecoming -- that is, until later in the day when I was about to take the maliputo off the grill and onto the dining table. To my horror, the fish was not on the grill but on the ground, with the darn cat that adopted our house as her own, on top of it - relishing the crisp skin and tender but juicy flesh of the maliputo that I lovingly prepared for my Tia Amanda. I let out a muffled curse as the cat deftly eluded my swinging foot (I assure animal lovers that it was just to shoo the darn cat away and to let off some steam as well), leaving behind the mangled remains of what should have been the highlight of the dinner table.
Apparently, the darn cat also knew how special maliputo was because I've grilled many fish before, tilapia, bangus and pusit, among others, plus liempo and all cuts of meat, but never had that darn cat try to steal even a piece - not until this.

From zeal4adventure.com

I had no power to tell my aunt that the darn cat got her fish, but I had time to hurriedly motor to town to buy whatever roasted fish was available. Inihaw na bangus was the best that I could do

Dinner time came and my Tia Amanda commented that the maliputo is no different from bangus. So I had to let the cat, that darn cat, out of the bag, so to speak. She said it was okay, at least the cat had her full. We also had ours, minus the maliputo. And I vowed that, given the chance, I wouldn't let such thievery happen again.

I know men are on top of the food chain. But it doesn't mean that we are going to devour every living thing that crosses our path, or wrongs us. I had an ongoing issue with a neighbor's dog (See my story about my quarrel with a dog), and now - a cat that adopted our house. Darn animals just wouldn't leave me alone. I'm just thankful that I can still think rationally, otherwise you would hear on the news about a tall man having a dogfight, literally, with a muscular but squat dog, or skinning a maliputo-stealing darn cat. Thank God, for human intellect.

I got my chance to redeem myself a week after my aunt came back to Lipa from a whirlwind trip that took her from her hometown in Pangasinan, to various places in the north and in Metro Manila. This time I was prepared to protect my grill. And my pride.

The grill and the darn cat

My grill is about 3 feet high, with about a foot by two feet grilling area. But I would only use a portion, just enough for the headless and tailless (the cut parts used for sinigang) fish, leaving enough room - if left unprotected - for the darn cat to quickly spring on top of the grill and with cat-quick reflexes, swipe at the fish so it falls on the ground, ready to be ravaged.

Being an intelligent human, I decided to think like a cat. Prrrr.... meoooww... what would prrrevent me frrrom getting that tasty maliputo on top of that grrrrrill? Surrrrely, that darrrrrn tall human can't keep watch overrrrr it the whole time it cooks. Hhhhhmmmm..... prrrrr..... meoooww... oh no..... prrrrrr....meeooww... I hope he does not put a barrrricade on top of the fish orrrrr else I won't be able to rrrreach it. Prrrr....meeooww.

No darn cat paws allowed!

Chi-ching! A light bulb illuminates my brain and brings a smile to my lips. I quickly gathered branches and twigs from the garden and assembled my version of a dome over the cooking maliputo. This would serve as a barrier from the cat's prying paws in case it attempts to mount the grill and takes a quick swipe.

At least the darn cat tried

My plan worked perfectly. And I had the darn cat drooling at the slowly roasting maliputo, with no chance at getting an easy feast. My Tia Amanda finally got to taste maliputo. And she concluded, it does not taste or look like bangus.

I regained my smile. My pride included. And I was able to put that darn cat in her proper place -- eating leftover and tinik. I hope she learned her lesson not to mess with the Curious Biker.

Search the image for one frustrated darn cat

My memories are being uprooted

2012-01-27T11:59:00.001+08:00

One of the fondest memories I have of childhood adventures is when I was still a grade schooler and travelling alone on a bus going to far away Pangasinan. Nope, I was not running away from home but out on an errand or on to a short vacation.

My mother is from that province, and I often tagged along with her as she regularly went home to bring money or some important document to relatives - too often, I guess, that I became familiar with what buses to ride and where to get off to hire short rides, all the way from Fernando Air Base, Lipa to Barangay Amagbagan, Pozzurobio, Pangasinan. Because I learned my way around I soon volunteered to make the quick trips for my Nanay, whom I reasoned out should just stay and rest at home; reminding her that she deserved a decent rest after working all week. Of course, I also had my own motives. I must have been trustworthy and responsible enough that my mother gave me her consent to travel alone.

Mount Arayat

I was not scared travelling all by myself. In fact, I relished my independence and the trust given me. I preferred to take the window seat as I can plaster my face on the glass panel and take in every view that fleetingly whizzed by as the bus hurtled forward. I loved the large rivers and rice fields of Bulacan, the frenetic stops at Dau and the weird shape of Mount Arayat in Pampanga, and the stretch of Mac Arthur Highway from Tarlac all the way to where I get off.

The trees of MacArthur highway

The Mac Arthur Highway -- lined by towering mango, narra and acacia trees on both sides and snaking endlessly in long straight stretches and emptying to occasional gentle loops-- heightened my anticipation of my homecoming because I knew that the road was drawing me closer to my destination, and the warmth and welcome of my Tios and Tias, who treated such visits with joy and eagerness. I would marvel at how the trees from both sides of the road reached and touched each other's canopy 30 to 40 feet in the air, creating protection for commuters from the harsh sun of central Luzon and a blanket of security to a young child anxious to get home. When the bus would pass the town of Binalonan, I knew I was only minutes away from getting off at Cablong. By then, the trees would seem to me a bit bigger in girth and taller in height.

Regardless if my visit to Pangasinan lasted a weekend or an entire summer, my stay was always filled with pleasant memories of eating vegetables and fish and meat at the papag while listening to my elders talk animatedly in their native tongue, watching TV at night as I had my late night snack of bread, peanut butter and a cup of hot Ovaltine, and in the daytime, wandering in the rice fields, catching fish with a worm bait, or simply wading around the clear stream underneath creaking bamboo groves.

My Tia Abe, Tia Amanda, niece Daniele, Tio Ito, Tia Lulu and my nanay

Today, only a few of my mother's siblings are alive. They are now much older, and so am I. The food still consist mainly of vegetables and fish, but no longer as tasty because my folks - because of health reasons - no longer use bagoong to season their food. Bread and hot choco can still be had at night if I choose to, though I no longer find it appealing. The stream further back from our house is still there, ever as clear, and ever hidden by towering bamboo poles that creak and sway with every whiff of the breeze.

The stream that runs at the back of our house

A visit at this old place still brings me intense sentiments. However, this joy is tinged with a pang of longing for the innocent years gone by and the painful reality that all these - the people that I love and this place that nurtured my childhood - will soon pass. Everything will become a memory someday.

But even my memories are being assailed by reality. The towering trees, some perhaps a century old already, along Mac Arthur Highway are being cut down to give way to road widening projects intended to keep traffic moving faster for trade and commerce, for city people out on a road trip to interesting places, and for locals who are quickly beginning to appreciate the benefits of convenience.

Soon there would no longer be shaded roads that are colored with the fragrant bright yellow-orange flowers of narra, or children whose faces are plastered on the bus or car window imagining ogres perched on the high branches of old mango trees, or elves hiding inside the gnarly recesses of the acacias. In place of these would be stories of extremely hot but very fast rides under the scorching sun of Central Luzon that would be quenched by a quick stop at a Jollibee for a refreshing soda and sweet spaghetti.

Like progress, memories are made everyday. And while I wish that mine would go on forever and will be shared by today's generation, there's nothing I can do about it except remember. Progress is the enemy of sentimentality. Now, it is uprooting my memories.

I would appreciate it dearly if you can leave a comment or a reaction to this story; more so if you can also share your childhood memories.

Impeachment Trial, starring: Atty Karen Jimeno

2012-01-23T09:07:00.000+08:00

From onlineknowledge.org

I never thought I would be writing something that expresses admiration for a woman other than my wife. But here it is, and I don't feel like I am cheating. First time I saw her was in the news, talking about how her client would be proven innocent of all charges levied against him. Needless to say, she immediately caught my attention. She was ethereally pretty, smart and articulate -- a refreshing contrast to pretty showbiz B-rated lasses whose statements never run out of sobra, and super, like "Super ganda netong show namen, as in sobra. Sobra namen pinaghirapan to kaya super mage-enjoy kayo dito."

I am talking about Attorney Karen Jimeno, of course, the spokesperson for Chief Justice Renato Corona's defense team in his impeachment trial at the Senate.

The live trial coverage is compelling TV for anyone with an interest in what's going on in our country. From the looks of it, it's going to be on TV a lot longer than our nation needs. So there are production values that I wish can be looked into. The choice of main characters, mainly. Unfortunately, trials are not acted out by actors whose primary assets are their looks or showbiz pedigree, but headlined by legal luminaries whose ticket to fame is their ability to interpret and defend the law whichever way it favors their client.

From globalbalita.com

Here lies the problem for me. While I appreciate the brilliance of the legal minds in the show, on the defense more particularly, I however can't look too long on the rather dull, if not unappealing faces and posturings of the litigants. Don't get me wrong, I'm not too good looking myself; but local TV has spoiled me with eye candies with less than impressive talent that I'm craving for the usual telegenic faces to go with the already compelling plot. I'm looking for a compromise between intelligent discourse and visual appeal. Something that Atty Jimeno provides by the truckload.

Too bad that she does not get to tussle with the prosecutors on the court itself. She could have given some Senator Judges like Bong Revilla and Lito Lapid (Click for a pseudo train of thought of Senator Judge Lapid), more specially, something that they could understand -- beauty. And when she speaks in her effortless but authoritative manner? Wow, why can't all lawyers be like her? I mean, the prosecution members, because of their sloppy looks and laughable articulation, are already at a disadvantage in as far as making a good impression is concerned. And I have not even mentioned that Justice Cuevas is making them look like bungling amateurs.

Images from onlineknowledge.org, Adel Tamano ANC FB Fanpage, newsinfo.inquirer.net

Imagine if both sides of the litigation court are lined by brilliant, good looking and articulate lawyers like Atty Jimeno and Congressman Prosecutor Miro Quimbo (my wife voted for him when she was a freshman at the State U and he was running for Student Council), we can have a show that is both nourishing for the mind and refreshing to the eyes. Definitely, must see TV. I am sure that if the trial drags on for months, the two would have showbiz offers on their table when everything is said and done.

But I know that can never happen. So I have to endure watching lawyers with foreheads reflecting light harshly, or making annoying gestures with their hands and jerky head movements, while dropping bombs like apter, bepor, Chip Jastis Roberto Corona, and deed of absolot-le sale. Grrrr!

I'd love to hear your comment or reaction on this article. Thanks! The Curious Biker

Are you happy with your name?

2012-01-21T16:20:00.000+08:00

Image from realbollywood.com

Can you imagine hearing this line in a movie: Hi, my name is Bond -- James "The Real Thing" Bond, son of Joseph "The Original" Bond of Lexington, England, not to be mistaken for James "The Earl" Bond of Norwich?

It's such a mouthful that the snappy and memorable James Bond name becomes a loose and forgettable punchline.

Allow me to use self-deprecating humor as I try to expunge a rather embarrassing deed that stemmed from a knee-jerk reaction, out of my system. You see, today is the first month of my blog at Blogger. And I can't get over the fact that I named it "therealcuriousbiker," as if somebody was pretending to be me, or worse, has the same wild imagination as to put curious and biker together -- oh my, the height of conceit, and I'm in the middle of it!

A little more than a month ago, my first web host Wordpress suspended my original blog www.curiousbiker.com because of a spam intrusion (They have reinstated it, but I have since moved on). Devastated but determined to post my Christmas story Wish, I decided to open a new one at Blogger -- this site.

curiousbiker.com no more

Thinking that my loyal readers from Wordpress should distinguish me from other bloggers, and assure them that it was me that they were reading and not some weird dude on a bike, I hurriedly typed the pretentious and super insecure "therealcuriousbiker" as my blog name. Well, what's done is done and there's nothing I can do about it except flog myself until I exorcise myself from the embarrassment of having a blog that begins with "the real."

But what's in a name, really? Well, judging by the amount of time that most expectant parents deliberate and sometimes argue over it, then I guess it's a lot.

From digital-photography-school.com

My parents though were not as imaginative when it came to giving names. My eldest brother Emerito was named after our mother Emerita; Rico, the second eldest, bore half the name of my father Teodorico, followed by Santiago who was the namesake of my uncle Santiago who was himself, the junior of our grandfather Santiago. I don't know where Ramon, my next brother's name came from, perhaps it was from Ramon Magsaysay, or could just very well have been a product of a coin toss between Ramon and Roman. Same goes for my next older brother Gerardo, who sometimes wished that the birth certificate registrar should have just omitted the letter "o," to give him that oh-so French-sounding name: Gerard, perfect for a little brown baby. And me? The very proletariat-sounding Marcial, not that I am not one, but come on, something like Keith or Johnston would have sounded good on another brown little baby like me.

But no. Being proletariats (masa, if you're having a hard time) themselves, my parents did not have time for humor nor of keeping me away from future insecurity. I was born a day after an anniversary of the declaration of Martial Law. So with a little tweak on the spelling, I was named after a horrendous event in our nation's history. And I was not even born on the exact anniversary! I suppose because I was a fairly long baby -- all 22 inches of me -- my mother probably started to labor on the 20th, saw my feet came out on the 21st (exact anniversary), but by the time my entire body popped out, it was already the 22nd. But I don't have any recollection of my birth, nor of the time when I was baptized with my permanent name, who knows, perhaps they were asking me "O anak, anong gusto mong pangalan mo?" But what can a baby do? I couldn't even mutter dada then, let alone Keith. So when the first sound that came out of me was a wail, then it was settled -- I would be named Marcial, and there's nothing I could do about it.

From westoncommunication.org.uk

It could have been worse, I know. They could have just as easily named me Post Marcial or Almost Marcial, and I would have, as a baby, done the close-open thing with my hands whenever my parents or elder brothers felt like playing with me: "Close...Open, Post Marcial; Close...Open, Post Marcial. I'm relieved and thankful that I never had to go through that. Life is good. So I tried to cope with my name.

When we grew older, and without us talking about it, me and most of my brothers separately introduced ourselves as Jinx when we each went into college in the big city. Jinx is short for Enjinx, a name resulting from the mispronunciation of our family name Enginco, which should be pronounced "en-hing-ko," and not "en-ging-ko" as was the common mistake of many. Jinx had a nice ring to it, kind of mysterious and a bit on the naughty side. It also gave a thin veneer of confidence to an insecure probinsyano suddenly immersed in city lights.

From pinoyexchange.com

It turned out that I wasn't the only one disturbed by my given name. A classmate introduced himself as Allan, a name that suits his tall and masculine physique, movie-star good looks and model-like fashion sense. He was the epitome of metrosexual long before that word became fashionable. During our time, he was described in explicit terminology -- makalaglag panting kagwapuhan. Heck, if I was gay I would have had a crush on him and would have taken advantage of him because we were good friends.

But his school ID, which he clipped (ID laces were still in the invention stage) so that his name and picture faced his chest, clearly stated, in capital letters that he was DELFIN -- a name that conjures a picture of a short, buri-hatted, dark-skinned man wearing kamisa-de-chino and canvas drawstring pants, holding on to a bayong containing native chicken; certainly, not some gorgeous hunk who made girls swoon with a drop of his fingers.

Rustico or Allan? From baliktanaw.wordpress.com

I asked him why the name Allan. He explained that it was in honor of his grandfather Allan. I thought to myself, come on, Allan my ass! If your name is Delfin, then surely your lolo must be a Rustico, or a Gorgonio, or a Geronimo or any name that was fashionable back in the days when Filipinos still had leftover angst against the Spanish occupation and still fresh from the euphoria of American liberation over the Japanese. I mean, can you picture an old man named Allan? Nope, I don't think so.

But I called him Allan just as long as he called me Jinx. And we were friends with Charlie Brown -- and that's his real name and nickname, which suited him for he was a chubby, rosy-cheeked Chinese-mestizo, English-speaking conyo. By then, I was beginning to like the sound of my name as my Manilenyo classmates pronounced it with a rolling "r" and a sliding "s" so it sounded more like Morr-sshhall, than the jologs sounding Mar-syal.

There are always exceptions to the rule though as proletariat names can sometimes be very cool, too. My best friend in college was named Pag-alay, which I thought was most appropriate for a very pretty and very intelligent girl; a perfect offering or a gift to the gods if ever there was one. Her father, a nationalistic lawyer, named her two other brothers Pag-alab ang Pag-diwang. Those are cool names according to my standards.

I guess giving children names that they won't like was contained in the first editions of Good Parenting magazine, to fortify the child's character as he grows older. You know, overcome an insecurity and you become more secure of yourself, and thus more in control of what you can do? Or it could have been an old-school ploy to make a child mature into a fighter who would redeem his proletariat-sounding name to announce to the world that: I am Marcial and you are reading my blog, or I am Delfin and I'm going to operate on your heart, or I am Pag-alay and I am going to save you from lethal injection!

I no longer hate my name, in fact I love it -- Marcial I. Enginco. It sounds strong and authoritative, respectable even. It sounds, well, me. And yes, I am also therealcuriousbiker. Nothing wrong with it either, right?

-------

My mother taught me long ago that I should always put my middle initial every time I write my name, in honor of her family lineage -- the Itliongs of Pozorrubio, Pangasinan.

I'd like to know what you think of this article. Please leave a comment or a reaction. And if you did not like your name as well what did you do so that you eventually grew into it?

Warning: Old people working

2012-01-19T16:50:00.000+08:00

Original image from flickr.com

In the early 2000s, when I was much younger, more naive and still working and residing in Makati, my wife and I chanced upon an old man on our way home. He was, in my estimation, in his 70's. He was frail, reed thin, hunched and struggling with his movement as he tried to put one foot ahead of the other -- his entire body gyrating wildly that he had to use every ounce of his energy if only to remain upright. Only one of his hands was free which he put to use by grabbing on to any thing solid -- an electric post, a steel railing, or a plant -- to keep his body from falling on the pavement, his other hand held on tightly to a portfolio.

People -- bystanders, passengers of jeeps, taxis and private vehicles, working masses on their way home or to the mall -- gawked as he writhed forward, alarmed and bothered, as I was. No one did anything more than stare and offer a cringed look to suggest mercy for the old man's plight, except for me and my wife who gallantly approached the old man to ask him where he was going.

But before he could answer our question, he volunteered where he was earlier that day. He flipped open the pages of his portfolio to show his hospital records at PGH where he explained that, in a trembling, half-whisper voice, the doctors no longer wanted to treat him or provide for his medicines, nor is the PCSO willing to shoulder his medical expenses. He said he has given up hope, as he proceeded to struggle forward once more.

I held his arm to brace his footfall and I could feel the old man's bone creak beneath the thin muscle under his wrinkled skin. I asked him again where he was going, and he said to Cavite, where he lived. Cavite was a long ways from the Makati Square area where we were, and he was walking away from where I know he can catch a ride to that faraway place. So I told him,"Lo, eh hindi po dyan ang sakayan papunta sa inyo." I offered to at least bring him to where he can catch his ride. He refused and instead continued on his way, albeit ever so slowly that it was impossible for him to leave us behind, and the help we were then convinced to give.

I excavated P200 from my wallet and offered it to the old man, which he took with a gracious, "Salamat mga apo, pagpalain nawa kayo ng Diyos." We turned around with a heavy heart, wishing that the old man would be alright. It was a prayer that would be answered after a few days.

From a Facebook post

I recalled this incident because a few days ago I encountered on Facebook a similar story. The characters may be different but the circumstances were oddly familiar: old person, struggling to move, meets young person, willing to help.

Life, sometimes is a series of coincidences. The other day, as I was biking my way home from a short ride around the Lipa-Lodlod-Pangao-San Jose loop, I chanced upon a roadside stall that sold dalanghita. At only P15 a kilo, I can have a pasalubong for my wife and still have a P5 change out of my usual P20 baon.

The fruit stand was tended by, what do you know, another very old woman, maybe pushing on 80, if not already there. She had a very steelly air about her, not really ideal for someone whose intent is to sell her wares. But it is the dalanghita that I wanted and the old woman's presence was just incidental. So I asked, "Matamis po ba 'to, lola?" And she answered,"Ay, 'di tikman mo," as she shoved a fruit my way.

I observed her as I peeled the dalanghita. She was looking back at me as I scanned her dark expressionless face, lined by the length of years behind her. "Asin? Kaunti la-ang dahil ayan naman ay matam-is," as she offered an open small glass jar with her coarse hand and thick, gnarly fingers.

I tried to make light of the situation by acknowledging that indeed, her dalanghita was sweet and juicy as she had claimed. She only nodded, "Ba-inte pa yan sa palengke."

It was around 4:30 in the afternoon and students from a nearby public elementary school were passing by on foot on their way to their respective homes; some noisily, others running, and a few alone. One boy, with a streak of liquid running down a nostril, passed by, and demanded, "Lola, pahingi ng isa"

This riled the old woman. "Aba'y hihingi ka naman?!" she shot back with a mean stare.

"Eto lang naman ho," the boy fingering one of the three fruits that were obviously set aside for they were damaged or had already signs of rotting.

The old woman did not protest when the boy picked up one of the fruits. Instead she handed another fruit, a good one, "Oh, ayan. Alis na!" The boy left smiling, not even saying thank you.

"Ay ganyan yaan lagi, ay sasabihin, ay kami'y mahirap laang," she shared with a hint of irritation in her voice. "Ay imik ko, ako ga'y mukhang mayaman?"

She handed me a plastic bag containing a kilo of dalanghita in exchange for my P20. She searched for a P5 coin as I placed my fruits inside my bag. I can see that she only had a handful of bills, 50s and some 20s, in her purse-- proof that she was not selling much.

She gave me my change. As I was about to mount my bike, she asked, "Saan ka ga uuwi? And I told her, not far, just behind the military base which was only about a kilometer away. "Ay siya sige, mag-ingat ka, bumili ka ulit dito ha," she bade without showing a tinge of emotion.

"Sige po, La," and she simply nodded, the sagging skin around her eyes failing to mask the defiant sheen of her stare that asked for neither mercy, nor sympathy. I was just another customer out of several, and it was just another day out of many where honest living can be had.

It is now 2012. I am older, wiser and perhaps more jaded; a far cry from what I was in the early 2000's when I was easily moved by dramatic scenes of perceived inequality and social injustice. Though, I haven't lost my love for humanity or my belief in the innate goodness of man, experience has thought me not to be easily swayed by what I see on the surface because there is always a story that we may not see, but would clearly explain, however strange, why things are the way they are.

Around a week after the sad incident with the frail, old man I was at an intersection waiting for the traffic light to signal that I could cross the street. And lo and behold, to my side was the old man also doing the same. I looked at him intently and his eyes met mine, I knew he did not recognize me for it was only a fleeting glance. He was merely scanning strange faces. But I was sure it was him. I could not forget his thin, swept back hair, his freckled face and his lean frame.

By the time the traffic light changed color, a small crowd had accumulated that left little elbow room to move around. On cue, we all stepped forward -- the old man included. But his step was sure and not belabored; in fact, he was agile and sprite. He seemed to be in a hurry as he nimbly maneuvered around slower moving pedestrians like a teenager late for a date; no sign whatsoever of the malaise that bedeviled his tired body only a few days ago. It's either he has found the fountain of youth, or, I humbly admitted -- I was had by the old man.

I am not saying that the old woman that a Facebook citizen met and helped took advantage of the innate kindness of a stranger but the circumstances that surrounded her story are eerily similar from those of my experience with the old man who can barely move. I believe that there is no limit to what the human spirit can do, but I must also admit that there is no age limit to people who would take advantage of those who are only too willing to share their heart.

I'd love to know what you think of this article. Thanks!

Confessions of an ex-professor

2012-01-16T19:27:00.000+08:00

In the unique hierarchy of the academe, I cannot be called a professor. In fact, I barely qualify as a Lecturer -- the lowest rung in the ladder. But I decided to use it in this article's title because, just like in the academe, it has a nice ring to it.

I was still given the opportunity to teach in college despite of my academic credential's lack of a masteral degree. Like every passionate teacher, the five years that I spent as a part-time teacher gave me some of the most frustrating moments, but also some of the most fulfilling highs of my life.

I was able to handle a merry mix of subjects that ranged from Advertising and Public Relations, to all sorts of English and English related subjects, to Writing, to Arts Appreciation, to Entrepreneurship and Marketing, to Literature, and in my last year -- Filipino, three different courses of it. Of all, three remained dearest to me: Advertising, Public Relations, and World Literature.

Teaching Advertising and Public Relations gave me the chance to share my extensive industry experience to young students who aspire to be part of the world that I was once, and now only vaguely part of. Introducing this often exciting, sometimes intriguing, and always cutthroat profession to wide-eyed dreamers, and showing them how they can be part of it given the limited preparation that they have in school, gave me a sense that I was playing an important part in the shaping of still malleable lives -- a grave responsibility that I took seriously, and a humbling realization that I relished dearly.

I was not easy to please when I was teaching these subjects, and my students can attest to this. In fact, whenever I gave my students projects that would require them to apply book theories into simulated real-life applications, I never, not even once, approved a concept or a proposal at the first instance. Everyone had to present a new set of concepts till I was slightly satisfied, by that I mean that the proposal has caught a slim chance of being considered, let alone approved, if my students were part of an Ad agency or a PR firm submitting real life industry-grade proposals to an exacting client. And it was not unusual that I would still be unhappy even with the last and final concept that a student or a group will present.

A consistent dean's lister who got this same treatment commented, perhaps in half jest and the other half in frustration, "Aba'y wala na yatang magaling kay sir, eh!" Well, true and false.

While I did not have high expectations as far as the quality of the materials that the students can produce (They are still, after all, students), I did not see it as a reason for me to lower my standard because I believed that I was preparing them for a future where people are tough, sometimes mean, and often competitive. It would be a dishonor to my students if, after having seen and experienced what it was like in the real world, that I would give them the false idea that what they were producing were good enough where it mattered most -- in real life jobs.

Stringent as I was with my standard, I had to make sure that I did not destroy my students' confidence. So while I thumbed down proposal after proposal, I also gave them glimpses of how they can improve their concepts or pursue angles that they may not have considered. And when they react, "Ahhh, oo nga ano. Ang galing talaga ni Sir!" I smile with supreme satisfaction not because I was praised, but because I know I opened a new door of possibilities.

But the highest form of satisfaction comes not inside the classroom but outside of it, long after the students have become my students. When I would find out that my former wards have landed prime jobs and are in fact doing well, or encounter those who would report, "Sir, kung ano po yung ginagawa natin sa klase, iyon din po ang ginagawa namin sa trabaho." I know that I prepared them well.

I once bumped into the student who complained about my toughness in class. She has landed an enviable job in a prestigious company. However, she said that working for her boss was rough, as if she was always not good enough. I felt sorry for her. But knowing how diligent and driven she was, I know she was going to be fine. I just wish that her encounter with reality was not as harsh. As I always reminded my students, never think that you are good enough, but have a mindset that you can still be better; the former reeking of brittle confidence, the latter underlining one's hunger for more knowledge that fills the gaps that would make one more capable.

While teaching Advertising and Public Relations allowed me to prepare the way for successful careers, teaching Literature entitled me to unlock minds and open eyes to deeper appreciation of life and the written word's power over it and with it.

Again, I am not academically prepared to be a literature teacher. I cannot quote memorable words from the demigods of prose nor drop a line or two from Frost, even if my life depended on it. What I had were questions; questions that made my students ponder and uncomfortable in their seats. I asked questions that challenged what they think, and even believe in.

I was the ultimate Devil's Advocate. I would grill a student no end regardless if I completely agree with his point or not. I did so because I wanted my students to think critically, to analyze and defend their point, to make them see that each issue can be viewed from several angles, and most importantly, I wanted them to grow as human beings whose views, thoughts and ideas are important, and thus need to be voiced out, and instigators of change in their lives and those of people that would cross their path.

I loved to open a lesson with a question that left a quizzed look on my students' faces. The more puzzled or disturbed they are, the more exciting the ensuing discussion would become. And the more ideas and thoughts that flowed and are exchanged, the clearer and more pleasant my students' faces would eventually become. When I see a student's face light up in that elusive eureka moment, or nod, or smile in a sign of agreement -- my heart leaps in utter bliss. It is what I lived for as a teacher. And in my years as one, I've had plenty of those moments -- enough to last me a lifetime.

Students are funny when they are disturbed by an idea, or deep in thought. Some look away, lost in their own world, some fidget or unconsciously make little but repetitious movements like twirling strands of hair or excavating dirt from fingernails. And as the only person inside the classroom facing everyone -- I could observe who would like to share what they were thinking -- those few who may not raise their hand but won't break eye contact either.

One of these was Anne Latayan Lado-ing.

What struck me first about Anne was that she was unusually tall. But when seated like the rest of the class, her attentive gaze and full concentration assured a teacher like me, that there would always be a student to call on to, to share what's on her mind. And she did speak her mind. In fact, she was one of the students that I enjoyed peppering questions because she never backed out of any argument or discussion. She is the kind of student that makes teaching such a joy and challenge.

A former student who never failed to greet me on Teacher's Day told me that a student will always remember a good teacher. And I told him that a good teacher never forgets a good student. I remember him. I remember Anne. I remember a lot of students. And I thank everyone of you for allowing me to be, even for a semester or two, a part of your life.

Like I always say, I'll see you when I see you.

I would love to hear what you think of this article. Please leave a comment or tick a reaction. Thanks!

My Devotion to the Black Nazarene of Quiapo

2012-01-16T19:21:00.002+08:00

The author of this article, Anne Latayan Lado-ing took up Legal Management at De La Salle Lipa where she was the Student Government Executive President. She was also Youth Commission Ambassador, a champion debater and speaker, among others. She was adjudged one of the Top Ten Students of De La Salle before she graduated. Ms Lado-ing is now studying law.

Image from manilagateway.com

It all started in January 9, 1996 when my mom gave birth to my younger sister. They were both in danger. Mom told me that she prayed to the Black Nazarene to save them both and made a promise that we’ll go every year in Quiapo as a way of thanksgiving for answering her prayer.

To count, it has been 15 years of attending the Feast of the Black Nazarene. Every year something always changes. One noticeable change is the growing number of devotees who come to mass and attend the procession. Before, we used to leave the house at 4am and yet we can still sit inside the church to hear the mass.

Witnessing the procession was also possible since, at that time, it passed by the smaller streets of Quiapo. Madali lang makiakyat sa 2nd floor ng buildings para maiabot sa Ijos (Volunteers who ride with Black Nazarene on the karosa) ang panyo. I guess it’s really talent how they can return all of those to their rightful owners. As in, madami talaga and people are waving their white hankies as the procession passes by the streets.

From filipinotraveler.com

But since the route changed, with Quirino Grandstand as the starting point, the number of participants doubled. We decided to have a little adjustment as well. This year, we left the house earlier, 1:36am to be exact -- much earlier than the usual and just in time for the second mass.

When you are walking in the middle of Quiapo, you would see vendors selling stuffs, mostly t-shirts, towels, oils, etc. with the print of the image of the Black Nazarene. You would also encounter fortune tellers, policemen and other men in uniform with bomb sniffing dogs scattered within the vicinity, which is scary (of course, the terrorism threat).

Image from my_sarisari_store.typepad.com

Ambulances were stationed in several locations; expectation was that there would be casualties but hopefully it would be minimal. I remember it was in 2001 that I became a statistic. I passed out slowly while singing Ama Namin. No one would like to be in that situation but at least, I felt the innate goodness of complete strangers around me -- vendors volunteered to help me, one guy even ran to buy hot milk and even returned the change. The woman selling candles took care of my sister while I was still regaining consciousness. You see, this is not the usual Quiapo depicted or described in movies (No Other Woman scene of Cristine Reyes and Carmi Martin). Good individuals live in this place. You just have to give them the chance.

ABS-CBN and GMA vans were setting their equipment to cover the event on TV. I even bumped into a cameraman who asked me to stand in view of his lens, which I declined politely. (Mahirap na baka maging sikat. Haha!)

Image from my_sarisari_store.typepad.com

In this kind of scenario, you got to have the ability of Lastikman. Good thing the three of us have this gift. My mom, sister and I stood near the entrance. Surprisingly, the church was filled with devotees (imagine the church was so full of worshippers that you can't find a space to fit in though just about everyone was already standing). This is definitely not the typical scene for a 3:00am mass, if you had been there every year, as we were. You can sense the alacrity of people inside and outside of the church.

Even the ambiance felt different than what we were accustomed to. My other companions, Lola and Ninang, were separated from us due to the huge volume of people. Amazingly, we saw them when we were pushed forward to have the communion with the Priests (first time yun in 15 years, lagi kasing sa lay minister kami napapatapat)
.
There were also scary moments when a group of men went inside. One stayed at my right and the other at the back while the rest went out of sight. Call me paranoid, but I can’t help the feeling that they were up to no good. I was terrified when policemen came in rushing with bomb sniffing dogs. Lingon tuloy lahat ng nandoon sa likod parang eksena sa pelikula. I told God, “Kayo na po ang bahala sa amin.” A few minutes later, all were pacified and back to normal. The mass ended peacefully.

All wanted to quickly exit the church since people were already doubling as the sun rose. Mahirap maglakad palabas kasi puno na ng tao ang bawat daanan. At 4AM, my sister Grace were walking briskly to where our vehicle was parked when we passed two men shouting at each other. Away kalye ika nga. My sister told me, “Ate lakad ng mabilis dali!”. Kaloka! I almost slipped. We continued walking. Bands began to march, together with barefooted men and women wearing maroon and yellow. Some were carrying their own replica of the Black Nazarene (also in the mass).

Image from my_sarisari_store.typepad.com

We reached our vehicle and were able to extricate ourselves before the roads became impassable. Everybody hates traffic. Ang dami na ring taong naglalakad sa kalye papasok at palabas ng Quiapo. You can see faces in the state of despondency. Having witnessed firsthand the unending sea of people, it’s not astonishing to hear in the news that there were 8.5 million who participated in the procession. Clearly, they hold on to their faith that Someone up there is the most powerful being who can make everything all right, and ease all the pain we are feeling.

This year, the procession went for 22 hours. Kung iisipin walang tatagal ng ganoon, pamatay sa pagod. But, it happened. This tradition will not stop here. Hangga’t may nahihirapan o nasasaktan at higit sa lahat, may mga nagpapasalamat, ang pagdiriwang ng kapyestahan ng Poong Nazareno ay mananatili.

Image from my_sarisari_store.typepad.com

At the end of the day, we are free to do what we believe, each should know where he stands. But whether or not one participates in such a procession, it wouldn’t change the fact that Filipinos are deeply religious. Just ask any Filipino who belongs to the biggest Catholic population in the world.

The quest for the perfect pandesal and the sacrifice for second best

2012-01-12T22:11:00.002+08:00

Image from burninglove.i.ph

One of my favorite breakfast items, and I'm sure of a lot of you as well, is hot pandesal. Though it comes in a lot of sizes and baking consistencies, how one wants his pandesal best is a matter of personal preference. Me, I want it not too crunchy on the outside, but very soft and a bit gummy on the inside.

My pandesal eating ritual starts by punching a hole into the side and using my thumb and index finger to dig out the soft inside, before depositing it into my waiting mouth. And I would follow it up with a sip of coffee for good measure.

It is only when the pandesal is gutted of its inside do I pair it with any palaman that is available: cheese, egg, tuna, peanut butter, fruit jam, hotdog, and even condensed milk. I was influenced by my wife to have something salty on the side, such as Mr Chips, Chippy and Tortillos, to balance off the tastes. She takes her Pandesal with orange juice.

Another reason why I like pandesal for breakfast is that it is easy to prepare and clean after. All it takes is a couple of small plates and a quick scan of what's inside the ref and breakfast is ready. But lately, we are having pandesal less and less. Not because we have grown tired of it, but because the two roving pandesal vendors have ceased to frequent our subdivision.

Their apparent disappearance started a few months ago when a neighbor, a family friend of ours, opened a new bakery. And what is a bakery without hot pandesal, right? Our neighbor is well liked in our community and so our small village, as a show of support, flocked to the bakery for our bread needs, me and my pandesal craving included.

But the new bakery's version of the pandesal, while a bit bigger, does not conform with my self-imposed specifications -- it is crunchy on the outside, and its core is dry and flaky like a croissant. Plus, it does not heat well as a leftover bread, so unlike the pandesal delivered by one of the ambulant vendors, which stays good even after two reheatings.

Though I have two regular roving suppliers, I like one better than the other for several reasons. First, and this is the most important -- his pandesal aces all my criteria. Second, I get to know bits and pieces of his personal story; that he is from Samar but is married to a native of Lipa, or that the bakery that makes the bread that he sells is some 5 kilometers away from my place, and that where he lives is another 5 kilometers away going the opposite direction. On a routine trip, he rides his bike -- a BMX rigged to hold a styropore bread box -- approximately 25 kilometers, and he does this twice, once in the morning, and another in the afternoon where he stakes another subdivision.

Monay, an alternative to pandesal

Which brings me to the third reason why I like him more. He just seems more hardworking than my other pandesal source, who sells his bread aboard his motorbike. Not once did I hear him complain about how hard life is for someone of his kind. I can sense his brimming pride for his work, which says a lot about the kind of man that he is.

Before the neighbor's bakery opened, and when I had the urge for pandesal, I would usually relax inside the house and wait for the pot-pot sound that heralds pandesal is coming. When I am not in a hurry, I peek outside to see who is coming. If it's the vendor on the motorbike, I don't come out and wait some more till my favored suki comes.

I did have a third option but it meant me literally sacrificing a leg. Some 50 meters from our house is a store that also sells hot pandesal, on consignment from another village. It is really just a short walk and the pandesal there is not half bad. But halfway, I often encounter a black dog that, out of so many people that pass by, it's only me that he snarls and growls upon. This dog has a personal grudge on me, and no one else. I don't understand why but I have a theory.

You see this dog looks really menacing, but also laughable. His head and torso are that of a mean and powerful doberman, but his legs are short and stout like those of a daschund. Perhaps, this dog's insecurity with his less than developed extremities has found a target in my long, lean legs. I am, after all, an inch above six feet.

Images from 22dog.com and greatdogsite.com

So you can imagine the absurdity of our confrontations as I try to cross the dog's territory to get to the store: A tall, long legged man being threatened by a short but powerful, muscular dog. I have seen too much of Cesar Millan's The Dog Whisperer to know that, when a dog bares his teeth and growls and moves forward, he means business -- or in my case, to take some inches off my ridiculously long legs.

I am just thankful that, although humans tend to covet what they don't have, or secretly eye another person's body part that he deems better than his, we don't normally resort to violence or malicious threats. Imagine what kind of world we would have if the stout pummels the slim, or the short maims the tall, or the slow bashes the intelligent, or the curly-haired trims the straight-haired. Insecurity plus envy, bad combination --resulting into chaos, major chaos because everyone is insecure, one way or another.

That damned dog has the habit of derailing me, first my trip to the store, then this story. Now where were we?

When the neighbor's bakery opened, the two roving vendors' visits became noticeably less frequent. But having been disappointed by the flaky pandesal, I would patiently wait for the familiar pot-pot sound so that I can source my preferred bread. At times, they came, often they did not. And that meant either settling for the pandesal/croissant or brave the threat of the insecure short-legged dog, or take the last option, which is to forego bread altogether.

The last time I saw my favorite vendor was also the last time I heard his pot-pot. I was patiently waiting for him to pass, but almost 15 minutes have elapsed and still no sign of him or his pot-pot. Not prepared to prolong my hunger, I decided to go to the bakery and settle for the pandesal/croissant. But on my way back to the house with a small paper bag of bread in my hands, I heard a familiar sound coming my way -- it was my favorite vendor. But when he was near me he simply breezed by without looking, nor asking if I wanted his pandesal, which he always did every time we chanced upon each other. He did not even press his rubber horn to sound off pot-pot. Instead, he just pedalled forward, head bowed and eyes steely focused in front of him. I wanted him to stop, or look at me so that I could explain that I waited for him. But he never did. He simply pressed on. And that was the last time I saw him selling pandesal in our village.

POSTSCRIPT: The neighbor's bakery has since stopped producing pandesal on weekdays, and instead offers them only on weekends. Still, the roving vendors no longer came back.

5 Reasons Why I Bike Alone

2012-01-11T14:49:00.001+08:00

This first appeared in my blog's original site. I'll be reposting stories first published there once in a while.

Overlooking Taal Lake, Lipa City view

I find it mildly discomforting when neighbors, who are avid bikers like me, would chide me every time they, in their car or in some random errand would encounter me on the road on my bike, alone. “Tumira ka na naman mag-isa!” (So you went solo again!) or “Bakit ‘di mo naman ako dinaanan?” (Why didn’t you pass by my house so we could ride together?) are comments that I normally answer with a grin and some lame excuse like, “Akala ko kasi wala ka sa inyo, eh.” (I thought you were not at home.)

The truth is I enjoy biking alone and I can’t simply tell my neighbors why without sounding aloof or worse, disconnected. Here’s why I prefer to bike alone.

1. Me time
There are things that are better enjoyed shared, like a lively conversation between friends or a nice meal with a loved one, biking for me is not one of them. I’m a bit of an introvert but certainly not a recluse, so I’m a tad selfish when it comes to my me-time. Biking, for me, is like a good book that you read in some comfortable corner of your house or in some quiet coffee shop, you don’t need nor hope for company.

For some, like my wife for instance who I normally drop off in one mall and pick up in another, it’s like going around the shops not necessarily to ring the cash register but to browse unhurriedly and with no agenda in mind other than to pass away time. For others, like my wife again, it’s going to the Ukay-ukay (Thrift shop) and discovering cheap, yet seemingly priceless finds. In a hurried world, it’s the unexpected thrills that make me-times so wonderful and welcome. Everyone needs it, deserves it even.

So when I am on the road and people or other riders ask “Mag-isa ka lang?” (You’re riding alone?), with a tone that betrays mercy and concern for my solitude, I can only smile as if I’m in a happy place -- because I am.

2. Spontaneity
When I open the gate to our house and pedal the first 100 meters to the main street, I usually have 4 hours of me-time and options, not a plan, on how and where to spend it. I may turn right and hit the rough trail passing by farming communities or turn left to a military base where I would cross the airplane runway (prohibited, of course) before I hit the dirt trail around the base’s perimeter, or go straight further down till I hit the national highway and to the varied places and roads -- concrete, mud, dirt, rocks, or a combination of all -- that await me regardless if I turn left or right.

Though I may have passed any of these trails numerous times, it is the feeling of spontaneity that gives each ride such newness and, thus, anticipation. Riding with others takes away this impulsiveness as consensus must be had first before any option is taken, you can’t simply make an unexpected turn without considering others. The moment you stop and discuss what to do next is the moment you kill spontaneity. Which brings me to my next reason.

3. Wander and Wonder
The beauty of riding alone to nowhere in particular is that each trip serves as a blank page that I can fill with stories of unusual encounters or unexpected detours. Though I am not a person who gets surprised easily, I am one however who is a sucker for something out of the ordinary. Sometimes, I pass by little, seemingly unexplored trails simply because I am curious where it leads. Or at times, I stop by places that catch my interest or that of people local to the area. I also take note of interesting places that I, together with my wife, can visit in some future date. In fact, some of the most interesting places that we show house guests and friends, specially those from Manila or abroad, I discovered in one of my wanderings. Often, I simply keep my eyes and ears open as I fleetingly immerse myself in the daily goings on of ordinary people. If I’m lucky, I get to converse with people who are only too willing to share their stories.

These things you surely can’t do when you are with a bunch of sweaty guys, and occasionally girls, on a gaggle of bicycles attempting to blend with the local crowd.

4. Pressure-free, guilt-free ride
Riding in a group definitely offers plenty of advantages, and I wouldn’t mind being in such a group once in a while. But its biggest advantage is, for me, also its biggest disadvantage: You leave as a group and arrive as a group. Not everyone in a group is of the same riding physical or mental condition on any given trip. Sometimes you just feel too tired and aching for rest but you won’t because you know others would wait for you -- compromising the progress of the group. You don’t want to be the cause of such delay so you tend to push on and squeeze your body harder so you can keep up. On some days you feel that you can use a faster pace but realize that your speed should be within the bounds of the slowest rider in the group. To paraphrase that popular saying, a peloton is only as strong as its weakest biker. If you bike alone, you have no such worries as you are at tune with your body better and pedal at your own pace and rest at your discretion.

5. Work and commute
Work for most is a 2x2 meter cubicle, a table with a computer and paper and folders all around. As an entrepreneur and freelance copywriter, the road is an extension of my office. With pen and paper, plus a small digicam handily in my backpack I can use my time on the road to generate creative inspirations, or should I get lucky, stumble on stories that I can use either for my blog or my copywriting work. Being alone on the road, away from every one, makes it easier for me to get into that creative zone that has proven to become more difficult to locate when you are stationary in front of a computer.

I also use my bike to and from my place of business (I have a wall climbing facility inside a school), especially when I am not lugging around anything heavy or bulky. I get there quicker because I can weave around traffic, plus I get to save on gasoline -- about a liter a day, which when you multiply by the number of times I go there a week and I get significant savings on my fuel costs.

I'd like to know what you think of this article. Thanks!

Now back to regular programming

2012-01-11T14:23:00.003+08:00

To my readers, my last two posts were just aberrations on this site. I don't enjoy being a Furious Citizen, nor writing as one because I become dour and moody after I publish each angst-ridden post. The only positive I can take from writing as a Furious Citizen is that I can finish fast. Imagine a very angry person machine-gunning his tirade, that's how I write.

Though I have complete control of this site, I do however realize that you don't click it to hear me rant or vent my rage on issues that pique my attention. I believe that this is as much your blog as it is mine, and you read it because it leaves you with something that you can smile or think about. So I hope you forgive me if my temper flares every now and then. I guess it just shows that I care and am truly passionate about what I believe in.

But I like writing best with my Curious Biker alter ego on the helm because I get to be funny and poignant, and creative yet insightul at the same time. And when I'm done posting a story, I get to keep a smile on my face.

So let's go back to regular programming!

I'd like to know what you think. Leave a comment or a reaction if you please.

Who loves the Philippines?

2012-01-10T13:15:00.000+08:00

"This group embodies the common values of unity amidst diversity, progressive mentality, love for country, cultural understanding, information sharing and showcases the beauty and warmth of Filipino hospitality."

This is the rationale of a Facebook Group, that a friend and former colleague added me to, as the 6,428th member. It is not the first, and definitely not going to be the last group that is going to be formed in support of the Philippines. But what is surprising about this one is that more than half of its members are not from the Philippines. Read: NOT FILIPINOS. Please, humor me and go back to the first paragraph and read again.

I was humbled, and I have to admit, a little bit shamed that people of other nationalities, with their own cultures and value systems to call their own, can show appreciation and support for a country that is not even theirs -- and this saddens me, for some of our own cannot do the same.

Our country is not perfect, and its not ever going to be. And the exodus of Filipinos going out of the country for economic reasons is not stopping anytime soon, defnitely not in our lifetime, nor in the lifetime of the next generation. But it does not take one person to be in the correct geographic location to show pride and appreciation for the Philippines; and as the non-Filipino members of My Paradise Philippines attest -- you don't even have to be a Filipino to see that we have a great country, a great culture, and a great people.

So it saddens and angers me when there are individuals who claim to be Filipino but do not behave, nor speak like one. It is not my intention to malign this person but I would just like to cite him as an example, he being a celebrity and thus, a public figure who wields a considerable influence.

He who does not know Martin Nievera is not a Filipino. Who has not heard of his powerful voice and glib tongue? Unfortunately, though he has practically matured before our eyes, he still speaks with an American twang and is unapologetic about his inability to carry on a conversation in Filipino without getting bulol. Sad. And frustrating.

On a happy note, there is an Anne Curtis (I am not a fan, by the way) who has transformed from a pretty teenager whose attempt to use Tagalog is a punchline by itself, to a mature woman who speaks perfect Tagalog with confidence and sense.

Going back to the group, should you be interested in joining, simply go to your Facebook and search My Paradise Philippines. It is an open group so all you have to do is request to be added. See you there!

In defense of a tagline that underwhelmed me

2012-01-08T19:16:00.000+08:00

One of the things that turn me from a Curious Biker into a Furious Citizen is when I hear politicians open their mouths as if they know more than they really do. Well, I am aware that they are supposed to do that, they are politicians after all. At times I suspect that they have a secret pact, like magicians do, to be as obnoxious as they can be especially when they know it's how they can get the most media mileage.

A case in point, a politician who looks like the twin brother of El Shaddai's Mike Velarde from another mother and father, has the temerity to say that "It is more fun in the Philippines," the new Department of Tourism tagline, is too long, compared to Wow Philippines! On one hand, I admire this politico for having the skill to count words, but on the other, I am just irked at how a politician whose job it is to blabber his mouth off, can now exalt the virtues of brevity.

I am not a big fan myself of the new tagline but it is not because of its length, nor its conciseness, but because I find that it lacks a bit of oompphhh! But having said that, making taglines is one of the most difficult jobs for an ad agency because it is supposed to capture, in a few words, the essence or promise of a product or service. Rare is the tagline, such as Nokia's Connecting People, that really says a lot in so few words. Just do it!, Nothing is impossible, Life's good, -- come on, admit it, while they are practically household terms now, when you first heard them, just like It's more fun in the Philippines, they did not really pack a mean punch... at first, that is. Then the ad agency makes its move and implements strategies that give sense, even impact and memorability to it.

A tagline, no matter how brilliant or plain, needs an effective campaign to make it successful. And that's what these pundits are missing, they saw a tree and they're calling it a forest already. Another politician, whose claim to fame is asserting that Erap did nothing wrong in his time at Malacanang, bluntly gives the verdict that the tagline is not ever going to attract tourists. It is so awful that he calls the amount paid to the ad agency a complete waste of public money. Was he talking about his pork barrel or his title as a Congressman?

The Mike Velarde look-alike even had the guts to inject his aesthetic values to the campaign's colorful banig weave logo, claiming that the colors green and blue should have been more prominent because these represent nature. How unimaginative, and thus pitiful, this politician can be that he cannot see nature without blue and green? Well, I suppose he has some authority on hues because he has shown the uncanny nature to change into the dominant political color of the times, like a chameleon, I guess that's another reason why they are called traditional politicians, they can't think outside of the small box that they have holed themselves in.

And to stress nature? In the times when nature itself is turning against us because of the undoing of so many selfish individuals, many of them politicians -- it's the kind of hypocrisy that blinds us into thinking that we still have pristine nature that is unspoilt and untouched by grimy, greedy hands.

Others do not like the tagline because they claim it is copied from a similar campaign from 1951. I am not privy to the creative process behind the development of the tagline, but I believe in the integrity of creative people who take pride in their work. Come on, you can never be a BBDO Guerrero -- the ad agency hired by DOT -- by being a copycat. So I believe in Secretary Jimenez when he says it is but a coincidence. Why, even winning jueteng combinations and lotto numbers repeat themselves from time to time. You can claim daya, or just call it as it is -- a coincidence.

I don't know if these "experts" have the humility to admit that maybe they have said too much, too stupidly. From the initial response of the ordinary Filipino, and this is the only reaction that matters, it's not the tagline that matters, but what you can do with it, which is a lot. Go over the internet and social networking sites and you will see that the campaign is already flying even before the DOT has made a formal launch.

So please, for once let's be part of this campaign. It's the least we could do for our country that is never lacking for help. And so you would know, I am not being paid to say so much about this issue, unlike politicians who are paid millions to say so much to mean so little.

I'd like to hear what you think of this article and I would appreciate it if you could leave a comment or a reaction. Thanks -- The Curious Biker

A List of Why It's More Fun in the Philippines

2012-01-06T21:09:00.000+08:00

The new tagline "It's more fun in the Philippines" does not have that "wooaahh" effect at first hearing. But whatever it lacked in cleverness, it more than made up for in the clarity of its mesage. I mean, you cannot be more straightforward than that -- We have more fun here. Period.

I believe in the guys running the Department of Tourism, not because Secretary Jimenez is an advertising man like me, but because I feel that they really are sincere in making tourism work for our country. So regardless of what others may say about the new campaign (and it can't be helped that there would always be naysayers), I am writing down a list why we, the people of the Philippines, and our unique culture would make for a more fun experience for our guests.

It is my intention not to include facets of our culture that, while still very interesting, have become cliches already. This is a work in progress so I will be updating it when I have something new. You may also add your input into the list should you find a gem why we are more fun.

1. There is a singer/entertainer in every family, who may be shy at first (very Filipino) but with some prodding would gladly showcase Filipino talent.

Our Country is a Talent factory.

2. Gather a group of Filipinos, take a piece of banana leaf, scoop in mounds of cooked rice, throw in any form of viand -- dried fish, adobo, bagoong, laing -- eat with bare hands.

Camaraderie and bonding Filipino-style.

3. Kids can play basketball barefooted, on a makeshift hoop in the middle of the road, using anything that resembles a ball that will fit inside the ring.

Hoop dreams, Pinoy-style.

4. The average height of the Filipino male is 5'7" but this does not stop us from making basketball -- a tall man's sport, our favorite.

The Filipino is bigger than his limitations.

5. Tapsilog / Longsilog / Bangsilog, and any Silog permutation.

We start the day right.

6. Tutong na kanin plus leftover adobo flakes, or kaning lamig swimming in sweet coffee plus tuyo.

We are food connoisseurs of the most resourceful kind.

7. Beer is cheap, and a bar may be just a bench on the side of a street.

We celebrate year-round Octoberfest.

8. Everyone smiles at a foreigner though the local may not understand a word that the guest is saying.

We are a smile paradise.

9. The toughest man in boxing sings "Sometimes when we touch," duet with another man.

We're tough but we have a soft heart.

10.Our elderly gets old in the home, not in some institution for the aged.

We grow old gracefully and thankfully.

11. A family car maybe a motorbike.

We know how to travel light.

12. There is gambling during a wake.

We acknowledge that there is life after death.

13. We have family reunions in the cemetery.

Our love extends beyond the grave.

14. Mc Donald's is second to Jollibee.

Sweet spaghetti is for sweet people.

15. Gays do not only have a set of slang and jargon, but an entire language all to themselves.

Fun is another word for gay.

16. We are a disaster-prone country, but when you watch the news you will always find people smiling and waving at the camera.

Floods may destroy our lives and property, but they can never take away our smile. --- Ms Maricel Agonia

17. A balikbayan will experience these stages in a homecoming. First: A welcomer will tell you "Parang kailan lang." (Translation: It's been so long but the wait is worth it now that you are here.) Second: Hanggang kailan ka dito? (Translation: Please stay a bit longer). Third: Days before you leave, Kailan ka babalik ulit? (We will miss you dearly, but we will wait, just like we have done before.)

Though your presents are nice, it is your presence that we love the most.

18. In places where bread is not readily available, pan de sal, the local bun usually consumed in the morning, is literally delivered to the doorstep by bicycle-riding vendors.

We have breakfast express delivery service.

19. In the State University, young men run nude as a sign of protest of an issue or in support of a cause.

We got balls.

Got something to add? Come on, let's make this list longer. Thanks -- the Curious Biker

The Farm at San Benito on a P20 budget

2012-01-05T18:46:00.000+08:00

I've read about and heard of The Farm at San Benito for years -- its heavenly massages, exotic spas and world-class treatments, to go with its healthy, scrumptious food, close-to-nature ambiance and sublime accommodations, and yes, of course, the expensive price tag that announces what an exclusive experience you've just had. Though I only have P20 on my pocket (my usual baon when I go out on my bike, and never more than P100), I decided on that fateful day that I'm biking all the way to The Farm in San Benito.

Actually, the ride going there is fun, lots of mini-climbs and downhills on mostly winding asphalt roads lined on both sides by tall trees with wide canopies that give the middle of the road such a cozy feel. It helps as well that only a few motor vehicles buzz by.

You know you're near The Farm when the mountain of Malarayat looms bigger and more imposing. A sign on the road says, "The Farm, Turn Left, 2.5kms."

So I pointed my bike to the left and continued to pedal; first, on a stretch of road with a healthy density of houses to the left and right, then to an uphill climb to where large stretches of land are being planted to Barako coffee, then, finally, after a sweeping right turn, to a forest of tall mahogany trees that usher me higher and higher to, hopefully, somewhere. (Remember, that I am on a bike where perception of the surroundings -- which then had become very silent except for the sound of my bike and my occasional grunts, and dark and primeval because of the sky-to-sky forest cover -- is more daunting than when you are inside the confines of a car. But it is weirdly exciting, like you know something that others don't.)

After a sharp right turn over a short bridge, followed by a sudden steep climb, I saw the small sign -- The Farm, fronting a large wooden gate that is at least 12 feet high. I peered into the half-open gate, like a student late for a class spying if the teacher is in a good mood. To the right is a guard house whose occupant asks, "Ano yun sir? Check in po kayo?"

Truth be told, my only goal was to find out where the The Farm was, and that was already achieved. So anything that would follow will be simply icing on the cake.

"Nope, I am a curious biker, not a sore one." That's what I answered in my head, but my mouth instead calmly replied, "Sisilip lang Sir, kung puede?" It was more of a hint than a request for I already knew where The Farm is located.

"Ipapasok niyo bike niyo?"

"Sana," as I watch him dial a line to the reception. "Ma'am, meron po ditong gustong mag-inquire, naka-bike lang." A brief pause follows. "Mag-isa lang ma'am."

Photo from The Farm at San Benito website

The guard looked at me and smiled, "Sir, diretso na po kayo sa reception." I smiled and thanked him. I congratulated myself for setting my goal that day so low that the reward that was about to follow can be considered a windfall.

The gate opens to large, towering moss-draped trees and gigantic fern plants that reminded of the scene in Jurassic Park 2 when the main characters first entered the newly discovered prehistoric world deep in Central America. I felt like I was being transported to another world, except that the manicured grasses kept reminding me I'm still in the age of iPhones.

The reception area is a modest-sized building that made perfect use of natural lighting and ventilation. Across the reception desk are oversized chairs and sofas bordering a wooden center table, with a vat half-filled with water serenely topped with floating petals -- it was as if I stepped into a page of a travel magazine.

Image from The Farm at San Benito website

The pretty receptionist, garbed in sarong, gave me a warm smile as if she knew me, and I also gave her a warm smile as if I haven't seen her in years. Our reaction to each other's presence -- just like the beauty of the place -- was natural. She, in fact, knew me, and I really haven't seen her in years -- not after she graduated from the school where I used to teach, where she was my student in two subjects.

I was surprised to see her there, but I suppose not as much as she was, seeing me aboard a bike. She gave me a guest book which she asked me to sign and provide with some personal information. As I was doing so, she emerged from a room with a welcome drink of buko juice. Funny, because I bring twenty pesos with me so that in case I drank all my water, I would use it to buy buko from any stand or farmer that I may pass along the way. And there I was having a refreshing drink in the middle of a magazine page, my twenty pesos still intact in my pocket.

She invited me to another magazine page -- an adjacent room , overlooking a lily pond. It was some kind of a receiving area with equally impressive sets of furniture and Asian-style architecture. On a side was a buffet table with all sorts of traditional kakanin and western pastries to go with a kettle of hot tea, and an assortment of hot beverage. My student gave me a plate and invited me to dig in, assuring me that it was complimentary.

Image from The Farm at San Benito website

It is times like these when I really appreciate being a nice and approachable teacher because I can feel that we were really having a well-spirited personal conversation, and not just an exchange of empty sentences meant to avoid awkward silence and meaningless stares.

A Caucasian woman, in white denim shorts and white sleeveless blouse, passed by. She had a pleasant smile about her when my student introduced me to her, informing her that I came there by bike. She asked me how far I biked to reach The Farm, and I said, "around 15 kilometers." After a brief but pleasant exchange about biking, Lipa and The Farm, she bid my student to show me around the place.

When she left, my student informed me that I just talked with the General Manager. I like her because, just like me, she shows genuine interest in people.

I did not ask my student to show me around because I don't want her to vacate her post. I simply asked for general directions and what to look for. She warned me though that the lanes and paths may be too slippery for my bike. I assured her that my bike, having travelled on all sorts of surfaces, would be fine.

No sooner had I lost sight of my student that I almost slid off the track. Apparently, my rubber tires cannot have a firm grip on concrete paved with smooth, tiny pebbles. It did not help either that the lanes undulate and twist and turn. I got off my bike and decided to walk along with it as I continued my tour.

A magazine article I once read claimed that The Farm is one of the best medical spas in Asia, and as I hopped from this real life magazine page to another, I can understand why. Each nook and cranny of The Farm speak eloquently of opulence, relaxation, serenity, peacefulness -- and just about every related adjective you would find in the thesaurus.

Every detail looked inspired; from the architecture to the landscaping, down to the decors and surprising knick-knacks that litter the surroundings, even the sound of trickling water from a fountain seemed orchestrated and perfectly in tune. And I'm only trying to describe the place and ambiance, not yet the actual massages and food that have been described, in another article, as heavenly and divine. My twenty pesos is not even enough to cover .05% the money it would take someone to enjoy a day tour.

As promised, I dropped by the reception office after I satisfied my curiosity. I thanked my student for the warm welcome, she told me it was nothing and that I could visit any time I please. After an exchange of digits, I bade her goodbye and said hello again to my bike. My unexpected adventure is, once again, another testament of how people on bicycles are perceived to be trustworthy and harmless. I am an Ambassador of Good Wheel.

I was smiling all the way as I made my way back home; I could not wait to surprise my wife where my bike took me on twenty pesos.

Your comment and reaction is highly appreciated. Please let me know what you think. Thanks -- the Curious Biker

Ambassadors of Good Wheel

2012-01-05T10:10:00.000+08:00

I think all bikers would agree with me that, when they pull out of their house to ride their bike, they have no intentions other than to have a good time. After all, aside from the occasional errands there's only so much you can do on a self-propelled vehicle.

Some people have short fuses but there was never a time that I was met on the road by angry people telling me to either get out of their way, out of their land, or out of their face. If at all, drivers are extra careful overtaking a biker knowing fully well how vulnerable a biker is to even the slightest nudge. There are plenty of bikers on the road but have you encountered news about them being in an accident or in any form of trouble? Parang wala, ano?

Photo from Lea Latayan

Why? Because we mean no harm.

Though we are often masked by our helmets and sunshades no one would suspect us of being up to no good, like snatching an old lady's handbag, or being a gun for hire, or worse, being a GMA henchman. You'll fall off your bike if the old lady fights for her bag with even her weakest tug. And when you are a hired gun, you either will:

A. Hit (highly doubtful) or miss your target but fall off your bike.
It's difficult enough to drink from your water bottle on the go, let alone aim and shoot with one hand and steer the bike with another knowing that your eyes, while two, can not look at your target and the road at the same time. That's the reason why a gun for hire must have a driver with him -- that's why the term riding in tandem was invented (I wonder if they use that term in other parts of the English speaking world). But if people would see a biker with another person riding with him on the same bike (and we're not talking about the real tandem bikes here), either in front of him seated on the frame or behind him standing on a step knot -- they would readily know that they are up to no good. Why? Because you won't see two grown people, both helmeted, cozying it up on the same bike -- bikers have too much pride for that. And a mountain bike or a roadie with step knots? Unheard of.

Photo from Lea Latayan

B. Be sprawled on the side of the road or run over by your intended target; in both instances, you are not able to fire your gun.
Most targets of gun for hires know that their life is in danger. Death threats either from text, spoken word or piercing stare warn them beforehand. In cases where the would-be victim has no inkling of what others are planning against him, they would still react the same way the "aware" would when he sees a biker aiming a gun at him -- sideswipe him when he is on the side, or run over him in case the biker uses himself and his bike as a blockade for the intended target's vehicle.

C. Pull over to the side of the road, crying; but, if it's any consolation, you may have succeeded in firing off your gun.
Your target noticing on his side mirror that you, on your bike, are trying desperately to keep in pace with his car, would shoot from 40kph to 100kph in no time the moment that he sees you doing a no-hander so that you can cock your gun with both hands -- leaving you with a loaded weapon but no target to shoot at. So in frustration, you shout out loud -- in a tone that mixes anguish and repressed sexual tension -- and fire your gun into the air, before proceeding to the side of the road, crying.

In all instances, one thing would be certain. You will be arrested because there's only so much you can do on a bike.

And we bikers don't have to worry about the wrath of people who would suspect us of being GMA henchmen because they know that the minions would be aboard big, heavy, tinted SUVs or flashy tinted cars with one number car plates, and not on some two-wheeled self propelled machine that gets you sweaty and messy all over. Yuck, so un-GMA-like. And so bikers are met with smiles, waves and the occasional invitation to drink from complete strangers (bikers, you know the feeling). Come on, we are after all, the ambassadors of good wheel.

So I pity our bigger, faster and noisier chain-wheeled cousins, the motor bikers. I often see them flagged down and harassed by police at the roadside in the remote suspicion that they are up to no good, especially when they are "riding in tandem." But it could be worse. At least they are not, and not going to be, suspected of being GMA henchmen. Like us, they are sweaty and messy all over -- so un-GMA like.

POST SCRIPT
If you are a non-biker but you have read it this far -- THANK YOU! Consider this an invitation. Wouldn't it be nice to be a good wheel ambassador yourself sometime soon?

I value what you think of my stories. So if you may, give a feedback or leave a comment. Thanks -- the Curious Biker

Pain, excruciating pain

2012-01-03T17:00:00.000+08:00

I'd like to think that I have a high tolerance for physical pain. During the course of my life, I've had my share of broken or dislocated bones, sprained ankles, flesh wounds, bashed toe and finger nails, head concussions and even bee stings, but nothing compares to the terrible pain that a small hole in a molar brings.

It started with a slight prick right after dinner, which I ignored. Then it turned into a bothersome pinch on my gums as I watched a National Geographic special on Mongol Invaders, which I tried to follow because the decision of the Chinese to build the Great Wall was more interesting than a small tooth begging for a little attention.

My molar might have taken my cold treatment personally that not long after, it was drilling a hole deep enough to penetrate my brain, which made me lose concentration on the raid that the Chinese Army made on the camps of the Mongolian barbarians. I asked my wife to Google a remedy for toothache.

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A Date with my Nanay at Graceland

2012-01-01T16:17:00.000+08:00

My mother, on her recent trip to the Holy Land where they spent hour upon hour of walking.

At 77, and still physically strong and mentally sharp, my mother did not reach this age by neglecting her diet and exercise. In fact, when the sun is up and perfect for outdoor activities, she can still out-walk some women half her age, and even teenagers on whitening lotions. For a son, it is simply a gratifying knowledge that his mother remains very strong and can still experience new places and things.

The picturesque Graceland man-made lagoon

On the invitation of Graceland's Mardi Castillo, my small contingent composed of my mother, my wife, our dog Patch, a brother and a sister from another mother and father -- motored from Lipa all the way to Graceland in Tayabas, Quezon for a quick day tour. We went there on a day that was sandwiched by Christmas and New Year, so while the atmosphere remains pleasant and festive, the place was not yet packed by revelers.

We arrived at a little past noon, on a slightly drizzly day. I thought it would be best that we started our tour with a stop at Memphis Garden, Graceland's quaint restaurant overlooking the serene man-made lagoon which, was itself, surrounded by tall trees, flowering plants and an open, grey sky that was sprinkling fine mists of rain.

We ordered a little of everything: a round of soup, a bit of vegetable, a plate of fish, a serving of poultry, and a chunk of Crispy Pata, to go with the perfect ambiance, even made more special by the presence of people you genuinely care for. It also helps that the service was gracious, polite and best of all -- prompt and attentive.

Sinful, Graceland Crispy Pata

My mother watches what she eats, and with the food on our table that day, it was no different. She surveyed the small feast, made sure everyone, got a plate and a small bowl of soup, then attended to herself. Everyone was taking a little of everything. She only took a little piece of crispy pata -- a piece of skin that was sticky and oily on the inside, but brown and crispy on the outside. Then she took a little more and paired it with a roll of Lumpiang Sariwa which, with her spoon and fork. invited to her plate.

The drizzle has heightened to a gentle downpour which created a steady murmur as it hit the placid lake. It was a nice meal -- filling, unhurried and very satisfying. My mother was the picture of that satisfaction. She was quietly wiping the grease off her lips and the fingertips which she used to dismantle the majority of the Crispy Pata and two rolls of Lumpiang Sariwa.

Fresh Ubod Lumpia, succulent and tasty

When we pointed out to her that she almost single-handedly consumed the cholesterol-rich pig extremity, she defended herself by saying, "Aba, hindi naman ako nag-kanin." There you go, balance: This, my friends is the secret of my mother's health and longevity.

Thank you for Ms Mardi Castillo for inviting us over to Graceland, my Kuya who willingly drove us on this road trip, and to God who gave my mother another opportunity to experience another of the endless rewards that she deserves for her selfless love and life.

The Hunt for the Red Dragon

2011-12-30T21:56:00.000+08:00

This story is based on true events. However, because the characters occupy important public positions, their names, but not their personalities were altered.

Acting on a tip from lawyer Gorgeous Kate's T-Back, a search team composed of high school batch mates was hastily formed; the mission: to search for former classmate Red-hen A-Okay (code name Red Dragon) who, according to Gorgeous, was afflicted with muscular dystrophy, a debilitating disease that tightens muscles, tendons and ligaments particularly in joint areas, rendering the victim in a painful state of immobility, in pitiful deformity.

10:30 a.m., April 23, a Saturday, the hunters: bank manager Medley Crossroads (nee Castle House), college professor Asserin Acacia (nee Caviar), NEDA hotshot Voltron Voldemort (aka Double Dork), and professional hairdresser Vanessa Longhair (aka Mama Hmm-Hmm) converged at San Sebastian Cathedral armed with the firm resolve to find Red-hen, assess his condition, report the findings to the rest of the class, and plan ways and means to help him out. The group last saw Red-hen on their graduation day 15 years ago; him with a short, frail body, bulging eyes hidden behind binocular-like eyeglasses, and a peculiar gait that appeared as if an invisible rope was permanently tied to his hip and pulled by an invisible mule, propelling him forward – hip first.

Needless to say, the hunters were prepared to witness the worst.

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Would you cheat if you can touch Jesus first?

2011-12-28T22:31:00.000+08:00

There is a place in the Philippines where a relic of the original cross of Jesus is kept: Monasterio De Tarlac. Reaching the place though, is an exercise in patience and great trust in the Lord that you're not going to get lost -- pretty much like trying to live a Christ-like life.

We were on our way back to Lipa from a Tour De Force of Northern Luzon. I've been driving for several days, which took me, my wife, my mother and my dog to Manaoag, to Pozzorubio, my mother's birthplace in Pangasinan, and to Baguio. Our stop at the Monasterio would be our last programmed destination.

My Kuya Gary, who has been to the place, told us it's a must pilgrimage. But after taking a right turn from Tarlac City, it soon become apparent that the search for the Monasterio has become an Amazing Trace. The map says its approximately 25 kilometers from Mac Arthur Highway where we made our initial right turn. So it should appear any moment.

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Silent nights and no last song syndrome

2011-12-27T15:40:00.000+08:00

Welcome to _______________, a quaint community nestled on the foot of majestic Mount Malarayat -- where cool, pristine air soothes away the stress of city living, and neighbors know each other by name. Here, crickets lull you to sleep, and birds welcome each new day with delightful chirps. Truly, when you place premium on quality of life -- this is the place that you want to call home.

If this place is being advertised, then that's how I'm going to write its copy on a print ad. But this is no expensive subdivision, but a small barangay at the edge of Lipa. It is called Barangay Talisay, a small, peaceful community where bike trails criss and cross.

With a collection of small and big houses made either of wood or cement or both, this place is not any different from any barangay you would see all over rural Philippines. But what distinguishes Barangay Talisay is how its residents value their security and peace of mind, and how they come together to ensure that they protect their quality of life; in many respects, like how exclusive subdivisions would protect theirs, though on a smaller and less expensive scale.

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Wish

2011-12-23T11:38:00.000+08:00

It was only by accident that I found that place. I was 5 years old, not yet in school, and we were playing hide and seek; I didn't want to be found out first because I despised being "taya." I hated it when I had to count past 10, you know the numbers, teneleven, twelveteen, twelthirteen -- and my playmates would count along with me, snickering the whole time. It had its advantages though, finding out where they hid by sonar, the foremost.

But it was not a good feeling searching for your playmates when your eyes are half-blind, clouded by tears about to fall. And when I had to call out a name, "Bong, Kanuto!" -- I wouldn't be able to declare it clearly because the lump that has formed on my throat prevented clear enunciation, and we would have an argument that I did not mention his name properly so it was not a legitimate out. It was a losing argument for me because, by then, I would be crying and I would be wailing away unintelligible words, in between sobs.

So I did my best no to be found out first.

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Moving on

2011-12-23T11:13:00.000+08:00

My heart is heavy as I write. My blog, www.curiousbiker.com was suspended by wordpress for what I think was a spam that I introduced through a posted comment. The spam is apparently doing things that are against wordpress policies. That blog, though barely more than a month old, has become an important extension of who I am and, I believe, a source of entertainment, diversion, and inspiration for a lot of my readers.

Though I am feeling a big loss, I believe that my stories should continue though my original site has ceased to exist. So I am moving on to blogger, to this new site which I hope would reach more readers. To my friends who are moving with me, thanks for the support. To my readers and followers whom I can't reach, I hope we meet again in this site. And if you are reading this right now, you just don't know how elated I am to be with you again. And to those who are new to my site, I hope you would like it as much as others before you had.

Nothing should stop us from moving forward. The realcuriousbiker is moving on.