Ghost Rider? T_T

I was talking with my brother about movies a couple of days ago, and we somehow drifted to this one movie: Ghost Rider. I never saw it but I thought it was pretty cool from the trailers. So my brother told me it sucked, and I was curious to find out so I borrowed a DVD (borrowed, so there’s no guilt in buying). Watching a movie just to see how bad it is wasn’t new to me. I did that on Alexander, the Colin Farell movie. Oh boy….what a movie. Anyway, back to the review.

The tagline was “Hell is about to be unleashed.” And it was right, hell was unleashed, and it was terrible! I was really disappointed with how this movie turned out to be. I mean, I loved Face/Off (I’m Castor Troy! lols), but this movie was just ugh. 

Going to Ghost Rider, the animations are really great. The flaming skull, chain, and bike really blew me away. But aside from that, the movie stank. The storyline was just horrible, especially the battle sequences Ghost Rider had with his enemies. The movie just failed to show me how cool Ghost Rider is by quick battle scenes and this gesture by Ghost Rider which really annoyed me (the part where he points at someone and goes, “You.”) Maybe Nic Cage thought it was cool when he helped write the script. Maybe. Ghost Rider also has the penance stare, where he stares at you while you relive the pains of your sins a thousand times over. The victim then gets his eyes turned to something (I don’t know what it is -.-’) and falls down. The movie doesn’t even tell you if he’s blind or dead.

So the villains in the movie are three elemental dudes and the son of Satan himself - Blackheart. Kind of like a video game, where the hero fights these mini-bosses(the elementals), then has a dramatic face-off with the final boss (Blackheart). 

So the first battle was with Earth. Earth just rams Ghost Rider with a truck, which looked awesome. But as Earth was walking away, Ghost Rider pops out of nowhere, punches Earth, and wraps him in his flame whip. Earth dies. At this point I was really concerned. Earth hardly put up a fight! It was just a scene of Ghost Rider saying a one-liner (Mercy? All out of mercy.) then quickly dispatching Earth. That was it??

The second battle was with air, which wasn’t as bad as Earth but still bad. So Air shows up, Ghost Rider shows up and they rumble. Ghost Rider tries what he did to Earth but (!), here’s the twist: You can’t grab air. I was thinking, “woah! how’s he going to get out of this hole?” So Ghost Rider whirls his whip to trap Air in a funnel, then Air explodes. All this in less than a minute. T_T 

 

The third battle was the most disappointing among the mini-boss battles. So Ghost Rider rides in this forest with mist (o0o0oh). I was expecting Water to come out of nowhere any minute. And then BOOM! Nic Cage gets pulled underwater by none other than Water himself! So they wrestle underwater, Water clearly looking like he has the situation under control. Nic Cage’s eyes then burst into flames and turns into Ghost Rider, and quickly kills Water. Again, all in under a minute, or now that I think about it, 30 seconds. Talk about anticlimactic! Water was killed in his own house! He’d at least try to win but he just died as fast as he appeared. The anticipation was just ruined. 

Before going to the final battle, I’d like to describe another horrible scene. So Nic Cage meets the old Ghost Rider and both ride out to battle. Nic Cage has his fire bike, and the old Ghost Rider has his fire horse. So they both ride out to meet Blackheart. Just seeing  two ghost riders riding out was the coolest. Then just as they were about to meet Blackheart, old Ghost Rider says, “This is the end of the trail for me *rides back*.” Oh…my…god. What was that….. 0_0

Okay, so it’s final boss time, the son of the devil. This ought to be nice. But I’ll just do what this movie does so well, I’ll skip right to the end. So Ghost Rider ends up choking Blackheart and giving him the penance stare. Blackheart then dies/gets blind. No secret powers, or dramatic final battle scenes, just a choke then a stare. That’s it, visual effects aside, horrible, horrible movie. Rating: D :)) (there’s a rating?)

 

The evil council will live on! haha

Kung Pow!: Enter the Fist review by Rein coming soon!

whoever said, “things don’t last forever” is wrong

A sudden rush of positive feelings came to me when I thought about R49. There’s so much to miss!

When did it all begin? It all started on a sunny day of June at CTC 202. I wasn’t feeling sociable, like my normal self, so I kept to myself with my iPod. I saw this tall guy, and I remembered him from ORSEM, though I never talked to him. “‘Dudes’ was what was said in his name tag. He looks like a bully,” I seriously thought. A bit later though, this guy introduced himself, and who would’ve known we’d be such close friends?

I got to know lots of people that day, including Jed, Dric, Jo and other people. I remember Drich to be hilarious; his jokes were endless. In time, I got to know everyone, even just by name.

As the days progressed, Denis, Jed and I became much closer. Lit became one of my favorite subjects because I got to sit near them. Dompor, Flores, Gomez… who would’ve known Eng/Lit class would be so much fun? Nobody really did. This is kismet. This is destiny!

To tell the truth, first sem English bored me. It was as if I wasn’t learning anything. Come to think of it, I don’t think I learned anything. No offense to the teacher, but maybe my listening wasn’t exactly up to par during the first semester. Lit was okay. I got to read “Killing Time in a Warm Place”, a book that is at the list of my top 5 favorite books. Writing wasn’t so bad in Lit either. In fact, I enjoyed it more. Despite the low grades I got, it was more interesting than English.

More and more kinds of friendship commenced. Second sem came like a breeze. I think I’m lacking metaphors, because there’s no way to describe the great feeling I have for this sem. Our English teacher got replaced. I prayed that second sem won’t be so boring. The Lord answered me gladly…

English wasn’t boring anymore. We had to do a research paper, and I joked around saying it was fun to do. However, I really didn’t know how to go about such papers! I almost failed terribly, but it was still all a learning experience. After some time, our teacher required us to write in a blog. That’s why I’m writing here right now! I’m not saying I’m just forced, though, because blogging has always been my passion, and this requirement has been one of the best things I’ve encountered in my freshman year.

We had to group together and come up with a unique group name for a blog. My group thought of “theevilcouncil”. Such brilliance, I must say, for it came from Kung Pow : Enter the Fist, one of the greatest movies known to man. We were all required to have a secret superhero name which was randomly picked. I got Captain Barbell, while Denis got Iron Man. Iron Man changed this blog forever.

Comments were made here and there in different entries. I wouldn’t elaborate as much as Denis anymore, but truly, this was one of the highlights of the year! It was so much fun having a great stir of controversies in a single blog site.

R49 will seriously be missed. If I didn’t really learn much about school related issues, I could say I learned this: friendship lasts forever. Is that too lame or cheesy? Who cares? This is what I learned! Call me a loser or whatever, but the friendships I’ve made in this class are so strong and I don’t think anything can change that. Denis, Jed and I even plan to continue writing in this blog! Who says nothing lasts forever? You’re wrong, person!

God bless all R49 people, wherever you guys may be, I’ll be here, as striderbatareyes, as your comrade and friend. Adios! Take care and have fun!

Two Lives, an R49 Epilogue

Some day in June at CTC-202…

2:30 P.M…

I sat down and looked around the room. Who are these people?! I glanced at the dude to my left. He was listening to his iPod, but I extended my hand anyway, “Denis…” “Rein,” he answered and we shook hands. All right, at least I know one person here, let’s get to know more. Shortly after, the teacher had just figured out the seat plan. Rein was still to my left, but who was this dude to my right? “Hey, where you from?” I asked him.

“Cebu,” he said.

“What?! I’m from Cebu!” I answered with as much surprise as delight, and we gave each other a high-5-hand-shake.

It’s so different meeting someone from your province in Manila, as if there’s this invisible bond even if you never knew each other.  It’s pretty funny how Cebu’s such a small place and I never knew this guy. That guy was Jed, also known as Tito Domps, and both of these people would be my seat mates for the rest of the year. 

 –end of flashback–

If I could list down my most memorable R49 moments, this little memory here would be some where at the top. But apart from that, the countless laughs I had in that block would be found all around that list, from the hilarious vandalism on the chairs, to conversations about Kung Pow!, to just about everything under the sun. It turns out there’s a funny side to everything, and I mean everything. As to vandalism, strangely enough, the chairs change places every week or so. Well maybe there’s some reason to it, but for my part, it’s hilarious. I get to see new works of art on my armrest almost every week. 

Vandalism is just a gold mine of meaning. From what I learned in Lit class, this vandalism is just a form of expression, an representation and a re-presentation of society. Need a text mate!!! Text me at 0917-potanginamo. (Sure that’s not even 11 numbers, but who cares?) I came across a lot of graffiti such as the one above, and they showed me just how creative and productive someone could get when they’re bored. Push button for free cut/eject teacher/eject student (drawing of a button). Occasionally, I come across something so profound and deep that I wonder whether the author really thought about it or just wrote some song lyric stuck in his head that time. But anyway, at end of the sem, R49 had to disband, but there’s just one thing that I can’t forget in that block. The one most memorable experience, without a doubt. So let me tell you are story…

The first semester with En11 went by quickly enough, maybe because I was sleepy most of the time in class, or because we spent around half the sem going to Cubao for our magazine. BUT! The second semester, more importantly the second half of the second semester, was perhaps the most interesting and hilarious span of time in my freshman year. 

After the argumentative research paper, we had our reflection paper writing module. Mmm, reflection papers, I suppose that would be more interesting than an argumentative research paper. That was an understatement, as I would later find out. So before the first blog was posted, Ma’am Doplon distributed the little stubs of paper with super hero code names for the commentators. I had never tried this kind of thing before, so I was as excited as a ninja turtle was for a pizza. I stuck my hand in and drew a stub of paper. Iron Man. Hmm, not bad I thought, it’s a pretty cool name actually. That’s when it all began. Yes I am Iron Man, fo shizzle! And yes Arthur, I have been listening to your death threats. 

So then Sunday came along, the deadline for our first blog entries. The first topic was to do a profile of some guard at JSEC, Antonino Parnada. Ah, how could I forget the name? So we did our task, I wrote about Mr. Parnada, and so did my fellow groupmates. Come Monday, the class discussed about the recently posted blog entries and I found myself talking about a certain controversial blog entry entitled, “The Guard and I.” I had previously read that entry and the more I read it, the more I realized that it needed improvement. But I had kept that to myself and a few friends early on. Later that night, two new comments popped up on that blog, both praising him for job well done. Clearly, I thought otherwise. I couldn’t let this stand. He’ll probably never know that some people actually think that that blog entry needs a makeover? I can’t let this slip. So the next night, I thought of a comment and posted it as Iron Man. A comment that would change the whole blog forever. That comment was the spark that would set the blog ablaze.  

 One comment was all it took. 

From then on I lived two lives, Iron Man and me. I was the person who attended english and lit class. Iron Man stayed home reading the blogs, occasionally charging his photon cannon, which sometimes scares me when I get home. And after that comment was posted, it caused an outrage. A flood of other comments followed through peaking at 38+, almost 5 times more than in the other entries. Negative criticism really is a big issue huh. The reactions of people towards negative criticism are interesting as well. Humility and a willingness to change inspires respect. Censorship inspires disgust. Commentators came to condemn Iron man, labeling him as incredible, er not credible. That he is living in a fantasy world, and that he is weak. One person, by the name Steel, even goes as far to call Iron Man an asshole and a terrorist. But, as some came to condemn him, some came to support him. Commentators (curiously using superhero names that were not assigned my ma’am) came saying that he makes sense, and even adding their own opinion to the blog. Truth be told, I could not help but laugh after reading a transcript of the comments in this string. Who argues about the existence of a yeti?!

But, after a few days, the unthinkable happened. I believe it was a Wednesday when it did happen. The author of the blog gave a public apology to the class, telling them how pitiful Iron Man must be after reading his entry, “Nakakaawa naman si Iron Man.” I listened intently. Then gave a look to my friend Shuma Gorath and chuckled. What a speech. Shortly after, the author tells us that the comments have been deleted. Spam he says. That’s Stalin talking. Now, I would have been really upset by this sudden, outrageous act of blatant censorship but, luckily, I saved a transcript of the whole thing in my computer (^_^), and would later re-post it in another blog, formerly know as ir0n-man.livejournal.com. Think of it as a fist in the face of censorship. I chuckled once again. 

This little victory would be short lived, though. A few weeks ago, I received an email telling me that my Iron Man livejournal, which has been online for a couple of weeks already,  has been permanently suspended because the authorities have received word that my account was “created for the sole purpose of harassing another person.” No joke. Well, I don’t know if criticizing is the same as harassing, but apparently they are to someone. WHO COULD HE BE? And in spite of the occasional death threats I hear in class about Iron Man, and the constant IP tracking (track track na kita!), I had a blast. I gave some negative comments on his blog, and now he’s giving me death threats?? This is priceless! 

The sheer irony of this whole scenario was one of the reasons that fueled my enjoyment, despite the occasional “I’m going to find him and his family and kill them” statements in class. A person who is appalled by personal attacks/constructive criticism chooses to defame his commentator. A person who wants to be heard out advocates censorship. Isn’t that just absurd? Yes, It’s ridiculous. It’s hypocritical. It was actually quite funny. 

Thus ends the tale of Iron Man, my most memorable R49 moment. Iron Man was created in R49 and there will he remain. And besides, it’s no fun living a double life if the public  already know who your alter ego is. R49 has really been the most interesting bunch of people I’ve been with. Hahaha awwww. And to end this grand finalé of a blog, I’ll try to make a list of my most memorable R49 moments, aside from the ones I mentioned earlier. Goodbye english block!

1. The Paracale presentations

2. The Hamlet presentations…especially the gangsta one. Title? Denmark’s Most Wanted? Haha

3. Wherein

4. The activity where we had to bring one thing that we thought represented ourselves.

5. DEAR sessions.  

AND LIT CLASS! 6. The Battle for CTC-102

 

 

 

FAULT!

 Ok so I had to do it again. @_@

 

“Move your feet! Wait for the ball! Time your shot! Follow through!” my coach used to tell me in training, as he returned my forehand shot. Little did I know that those words would resound in my ears every time I stepped on the tennis court. I heard them at my first tennis tournament, at my training sessions, and now, in the final match of my PE tennis class. Whoever won this was to represent the class in the inter-class competition in culmination day. Could it be me? I thought to myself just as I threw a forehand cross-court shot to my opponent which was shortly greeted by the umpire’s voice, “Out!” 

Not good, I thought to myself as I wiped the sweat amassing on my brow. It’s a tie-break and the score’s at 6-1. The dude has five match points. One more point, one more error, one more slip and I’m out for good. Could it still be me?

I started playing tennis at around 10 with my dad as my first coach and my brother as my training partner. We went to train every Sunday at a tennis court nearby. We were just beginners so we started with the basic forehand and backhand drills. Then it happened. Whenever I messed up a shot, whether it was in the stance or the sloppy footwork, my dad would scold me. He’d pummel me with, “move your feet! Wait for the ball! Timing! Follow through!”

Calm down, I wanted to tell him, but I ended up messing up more and more times and consequently, got more and more sermons. Why do I put up with this? I said to myself. Why do I have to put up with these constant bombardments on my playing. I couldn’t understand it at my age back then, so I tried to stay away from it. I started to stay home on some sundays, but eventually I stopped playing altogether, and thought “At last, no more sermons.” But it wasn’t until six years till I finally understood everything.

Maybe it was divine revelation, like how the caveman discovered the use of fire, or maybe I was just bored, but four years after quitting, I gave tennis another go. This time my dad hired a trainer for me. Phew I thought to myself, I’m not going to get anymore of those sermons like when I was a kid. Bzzzzt! Then there it was, it came almost as fast as Andy Roddick’s serve. 

Move your feet!

Wait for the ball!

Time your shot!

Follow through!

Ugh, here it goes all over again, I thought. But instead staying home again, I tried a different approach. I actually tried moving my feet, to the point where I thought it was almost unnecessary. But I did it anyway, driven solely by the fact that I wanted my coach to stop telling me what my dad’s been telling me four years ago.

So day in, day out I did his drills, I hit forehands, backhands, serves, and volleys, and I bore the gleaming, stinging sun on my skin through it all. Two years went by with my training and I’ve still been trying to make my coach quit telling me the same things. But then, something totally caught me by surprise. I joined a tournament. 

My first match was under the 11 o’clock sun, and it was not forgiving. Sweat was falling down my body as fast as rain, and serving with the sun in your eyes was definitely annoying. Close your eyes I thought, maybe you might get lucky. 

“OUT!” The referee shouted. 

Okay, time for plan B. Now, plan B would have helped me a great deal if I only knew what it was. But it’s match point for my opponent; one more slip, one more error and I’m done. The only plan B I could think of was to pray that God might suddenly bestow upon me Roger Federer’s skill. Dream on, I can do this, I thought to myself, or else I’ll get another sermon from coach! But after I saw my forehand shot fly dangerously high, I knew it was over. And my suspicion was affirmed by umpire’s ever familiar call:

“OUT!” 

There it was. So we shook hands then I trudged to the bench, sat down, and dug my face into my towel after a long, deep breath. How did he win? How did I lose? Those were the first two of a thousand thoughts that rushed through my head that time, but my attention was diverted to only one observation. My opponent had a coach too, and I figured it was probable that he got scolded almost as much as me in his training sessions. And then suddenly, somehow, it all hit me, and I finally realized the meaning of all my coach’s words.

  Athletes are hardened through training, like steel is to fire. As some math teachers would say “no pain, no gain.” It’s not through unicorns and butterflies that athletes can dominate in their field. It takes dedication, self-sacrifice, and more importantly, humility. My opponent probably got more sermons than I did, and he probably took it better than I did, too. How could he be so skilled if his coach just pampers and gives him candy for training?

So I’m back at my final match in my tennis class. One point from defeat. Seven points from victory. What could I possibly do? Just play, I thought to myself, that helps. Move your feet. Wait for the ball. Time your shot. Follow through. 

Fifteen minutes and a couple of fist pumps later, I found myself at 7-6, with me serving for the match. I laughed deep down inside, “if only my coach saw me now, and what would he say?” I guess I would tell him how it ended.

I tossed the ball high, just enough to get a good look at it, then sent it deep cross-court. I noticed he got to return it, but it was high, a perfect winning shot. I sprinted towards the ball, the sun still gleaming and singing my skin. I waited for the ball. Timed it. Followed through. Then there it was, we shook hands. Game, set, and match. And after a deep breath and a silent fist pump, I went to sleep that night with the title of class champion, a seven point run to 8-6, from 1-6, how did I do that? 

Just for the record, I never won any tennis tournament, and this was the first time I actually got something to take back home after the game, so you can almost guess as to how happy I was then. I reminisced on all the times my coach shouted out those words, which so filled me with dread. Now I know he was just trying to bring out the best in me, but my pride had translated those words into insults to my playing style, which wasn’t even close to world-class. Now I know better, that I have to swallow my pride in order to walk on the path of self-improvement. And it took me seven years to learn that lesson. Better late than never right? Well, even when life might be up 6-1, and one more error might seem to knock you right out, wouldn’t it be refreshing to hear God say, after it all ends, “Game, set, and match - you win.” 

Toast to a Good Lie

Suspended for three days - a big blemish in my high school life. How did this happen? What major offense could I have done?

Well, for starters, I never cheated in my entire life as an Atenean, so you could erase that from your guess list. Cheating could lead you to 2-3 days of suspension, and possibly even expulsion. What other heinous crimes are left? Fist fighting, indecency, vandalism, truancy, going to school under the influence of alcohol, excessive disrespect - these are some of the remaining offenses that could lead to suspension, and guess what? I’m guilty of the last three.

It all happened on an unlucky Friday night. I was a sophomore in the Ateneo High School. There was a class night for the Symphonic Ensemble, a group of musicians in which I was a member. Call time was 6 p.m. I was playing billiards at a place I hung out almost everyday after school. I could say I’ve got skill in the sport, plus memorizing the texture of the cloth of the billiard tables in that place makes me able to beat almost anyone (assuming they’re non-professional). It became like a disease to me to get money. It was too addicting. Gambling was my strength, but also my weakness. At 7 p.m, I was still in that pool hall. My friends told me to just go late to the class night and have a few drinks first. How could I say no? I had very few friends in Symphonic Ensemble anyway.

The night passed almost too quickly. I had 6 bottles of beer. I had no experience drinking, so I became bloodshot red. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but at that time, physically, everything felt so right. I was so ecstatic over anything. I kept on laughing. It was like I was floating on air. Seriously, nothing could’ve gotten me down that night.

I went to school obviously under the influence. My friends and I had plans of escape already. I changed one of my friends’ names into “Dad”. Just in case they ask for my parents’ numbers, my friend was ready to act as my father. I was acting all Nostradamus here, predicting all the possible things that could happen. Indeed it did. The authorities questioned my condition, and I told them I only drank one bottle. They looked at my eyes, the eyes of a liar. I knew they didn’t believe me. They asked for my landline which I said was broken. They wanted my father’s number after. “My ingenious plan is working!” I thought. They called my “dad” while my friend acted his best to imitate him. After a long conversation, the authorities told me to get some sleep already. I went to the assigned room where I was to sleep, and I kept thinking how the worst has come to pass.

I was a genius: that much was true—or so I would delude myself into thinking. I slept at the room with full confidence that I have succeeded in my ploy. How could I have failed when I was always one step ahead of my interlocutors? Too smart, too smart—I thought I was too smart for all of them. I had gotten away, scot-free. I slept with little difficulty; my eyelids felt heavy from intoxication. Sleep came naturally, in spite of the fact that my academic and disciplinary records were at stake.

The sun peeping through the windows already, I awoke the following morning with my throat sore. There was a rancid taste in my mouth and I wondered what had happened. It took around a few minutes to realize that I have, indeed, thrown up: on myself and on the floor as well. I went to the bathroom, cleaned myself up, and drank from the nearby drinking fountain. I had almost forgotten about the mess I left at the floor and luckily, no one was up yet—or so I thought.

Back at the room, I found the moderator with a gaze so intense it would’ve made me explode. It was obvious that he was angry, and it was also apparent from his facial expression that he didn’t believe any of my lies.

Paraphrasing what I could remember:

-Rein, are you sure you didn’t get drunk last night? I could make the sanction less severe if you tell me the truth.

-No sir, I wasn’t drunk. I had one bottle of beer and that’s it. You could call my dad again, but he’s a bit grouchy in the morning. You can try a bit later though.

-Sigurado ka ba iho? Lakas ng amoy mo kagabi, alam mo ba ‘yon?

Now at this point, I was caught unaware. This sudden shift from English to Filipino really messed up my thought process. Why can’t people just stick to one language and use that? Especially when in the process of interrogating someone, and most especially when the person at the receiving end was none other than me?

Ugh. These teachers: what horrible, horrible people.

-Umm… uhhh…

So I spilled the beans. I feared for my wellbeing and my future. Was it possible that I could get expelled for going to school drunk? Perhaps not, but at that point in time, I believed that I was in such a gaping hole that it would be in my best interest if I just confessed.

Suspension for 3 days, that’s what I got. Seriously, what the hell was that? Maybe I should’ve just stuck with my one bottle o’ beer fairy tale. Perhaps I should’ve told them that I was allergic. Regardless, there’s no use thinking of what I should or shouldn’t have done. What’s important was to try to learn something from all of this.

Well, what have I learned? Don’t drink and go to school? Maybe, but I’ve come up with something more profound and practical:

If you’re gonna tell a lie, make sure you come through with it—wise words to live your life by.

Mourning till Night

“The dawn is breaking, a light shining through…”

I woke up one morning to an eerie silence. The sun’s rays shone differently that day. As they passed through my window, they changed color from a glowing yellow to a mellow and silent orange. It seemed peaceful, but it felt otherwise. As I opened my door, a chilling breeze immediately and suddenly met me. As I stood there, just outside my door and beside a staircase, I tried to listen to what was going on downstairs. I couldn’t. I went down the stairs, letting my feet slam and making my slippers clap with every step. I reached the living room and as soon as I did, I turned the TV on and put myself comfortably on the couch. The same orange sunlight filled the living room and a small, white butterfly flew by and landed beside the TV. Minutes passed and I finally saw someone. It was the maid, and I figured, it should be relieving to finally hear someone’s voice in this strange and silent morning. It then turned out that the first words that I would hear that morning were to tell me that my closest grandaunt had just died.

It was lola Miliang, who I’d spent most of my childhood with. The same grandaunt that had never forgotten to give me hugs whenever we met. The same grandaunt that never got too tired to talk and spend time with me. And yet, the minute I had learned of her death, I didn’t feel any sadness, loneliness or grief. I just sat there, silent, waiting for a TV show to start. I felt nothing. And later that day, I’d question myself, “Do I really care? … Do I want to care?” I tried to dig deep inside me, and I thought to answer myself, “No. I don’t.”

“I worry I won’t see your face light up again…”

So months passed by, and I continued on with my life. I didn’t feel changed in any way and I didn’t think I was, but one day came when my mom, my sisters and I were having a discussion. Somehow, the topic flew from “best places we’ve ever been to” to lola Miliang, and so we began talking about her. Words just flew by and soon enough my mom would tell us how our family was very close to lola, how much she especially loved me, and how she felt extremely sad when we moved out of the old house, the place where she’d lived. “Malungkot na malungkot yung lola mo noon. Pinipilit pa niya kami ng daddy mo na doon ka nalang tumira.” Somehow, that hurt me, and I swear I wanted to cry, but I held myself together, not showing my mom and my sisters what I felt inside. It was awful, how I felt, and it only got worse when my mom told us how lola kept the pillow I slept on when we lived in our old home. She really cared. I felt completely terrible and it got harder and harder to keep myself from crying. I stayed silent through the whole talk, ‘cause I knew everything in me was shaking, and keeping silent was the only thing holding off the tears from falling out of my eyes. Later that night, I locked myself in my room, and just let myself think and feel. And I realized, “That thing that I was looking for when she died, that thing I tried to find deep inside me, it’s here and it’s real.” This time, I knew I cared, even if I didn’t want to.

Then came this one morning, months after that family talk. I woke up in a bus with different kinds of people. There were old men and women, people in their twenties, and kids my age. I wasn’t sure how I got there, but it didn’t seem to matter. Nothing did. We stopped over a few places: a gas station, a park and a basketball court. And throughout the journey it seemed like a cloud was following us. Everything always seemed surrounded by a fluffy, white glow. The whole trip was long, and I wasn’t sure where we were going. After a few stops and a long drive, we reached a gate, and somehow, I knew that we’ve arrived to our destination. People started getting out of the bus, and when I did, I saw people waiting, some meeting and hugging those from the bus. I watched as the people meet their friends, or whatever those other people meant to them. And as I scanned the crowd, I saw her. Lola Miliang, in her floral dress, with a comb secured on her head, smiling at me. It felt like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I approached her and we hugged. I had finally said goodbye. This didn’t last long, though. Soon, everything blurred and became nothing.

“Don’t stop here. I lost my place. I’m close behind.”

I woke up and realized the whole “trip” was a dream. It was all a dream. I put my face to my hands and realize that tears were falling out of my eyes. That thing that came to me months before, it was back and it was stronger than ever. I couldn’t go back to sleep. I just lay there, in the dark, thinking. Then I thought, that thing I tried to find and came months after, I didn’t find it then because I was looking in too deep. I tried so hard to make myself care that I’d forgotten that I didn’t need to, because I already did. And that certain thing I wanted to find, it was her. It was lola. She was a part of me, and I’ve only realized then.

Thinking of that, it was like everything had fallen to its place. The day she died, I felt passive because somehow, I knew she lived somewhere inside me. It didn’t feel like she was dead. But reality hit me like a jumbo jet, and the thought of her made me cry because I knew that I’ve never had a chance to say goodbye or show her how much she’d mean to me. Then, in a feeling of satisfaction, I felt that my dream had fulfilled that. I really felt like I had finally said goodbye.

This whole experience gave me a new look on death and loss. I found that, in these things, we find out how people really mean to us. These give us a deeper understanding of the people we care about, and through that, death and loss of those you really care about give us a deeper understanding of ourselves. It hurts us so much to lose someone because people around us, especially those we care and love, build up who we are. So, now as we find those we have lost, or as we fail to do so in this world we live in, we should look to ourselves, realize that they will never really die, that they really do live in us, and say that…

“Out of the doubt that fills my mind, I somehow find, you and I… collide.”

*quotes are lyrics from Howie Day’s Collide
**this happened a long time ago. haha.

When a Bank Runs

My family’s money was my money. My parents never gave me weekly allowances. I brought my own food until I reached grade 2/3 (when there were already food vendors near the classrooms).They only gave me what my estimated needs for the day was, and I gave them the spare. I never saved money that came from my “allowances”. I was honest and I gave them absolutely everything in excess. They still let me save money that I get from Christmas gifts and from other things though. When I wanted to buy something, I just needed to ask, and if they felt like it, my parents would buy it. When I was a little kid, I bought quite a number of toys (without abusing my parents’ money). I bought Marvel action figures, Power Rangers merchandize, Dragon Ball Z action figures, and the like. Even if the situation was such, I would sometimes still look at the prices, and avoid those that hurt. When I want to buy something on regular occasion-free day, I would choose the smaller and cheaper ones only, and wait for Christmas or my birthday before I put the great big Megazord on my wish list. At a very young age, I potentially had some conscience of a thrifty person. When someone asked me if I wanted something, I answered “is it ok?”

When I was incoming grade 4(couldn’t remember the exact year, but I think you get the picture), there was this bank called Urban Bank. All of our eggs were in one basket, the Urban Bank. Our money was in Urban Bank and it closed, bank holiday. Our money was “with them” but they don’t have it. So were the funds of all the other clients of the bank. It was like a store closing down. The bank didn’t have enough funds to give back to everyone all that they have deposited. They were able to give every client only a little portion of their money. This event gave me 2 mindsets to choose from. First is “Why the heck should I even save money if some unfortunate event could make you lose it all in one instant anyway?” The other is “Maybe I should spend less to make things easier for us”. Luckily, I chose to spend less.

Even as a little kid, I felt that I had to do something. My parents said that we had to start spending less, but we still had some spare cash for things that we want. But still, I chose not to buy too much crap anymore. When someone asked me what I wanted, I answered “which one is cheaper?” And sometimes, I answered “no thanks I don’t need it” Before Urban Bank fell, I had some attributes of a thrifty person, but I still bought some of those useless things, and spent money. After the Urban Bank’s fall, I spent much less. The potential attributes of a thrifty person were given the chance to develop and turn me in to a thrifty man. Aside from being more contented with what I have, the things that I bought also were changing from action figures to cheap PSone games (you know why they are cheap). Another factor that helped tighten up my pocket is the fact that having 1 good unfinished PSone game was equivalent to having 10 unfinished PSone games. You can’t use the 10 PSone games at the same time, therefore it is equally entertaining to stick to one and finish it first before you get another one. Also, some games have good replay value, making it still fun to play even after you have finished them. The Urban Bank closure gave me the chance to be thrifty. Luckily, the Captain Hooks of Green Hills made entertainment more economical too.

A few years later, the Urban Bank was able to either merge or liquidate its assets (I don’t remember if it merged with bank of Commerce, liquidated its assets or both) and pay back to its clients. In other words, things were back to normal. I could have returned to my old self with potentially thrifty attributes, but no. I chose to stay thrifty. Or perhaps, I was naturally inclined to being thrifty and practical.

Up to this day, my family’s money is still my money. There’s still no sneaky savings from my allowance. The excess still returns to my parents. The money for what I want still comes to me. It may seem like a spoiled treatment for some, but I’ll say it isn’t, since I don’t abuse it in any way. A spoiled person would have asked for everything possible. Even if things are back to normal, I still am thrifty. Now, I am even thriftier more than ever before. Aided by laziness and contentment, there are months that I don’t buy anything at all (aside from food, drinks, etc.). All these experiences have taught me, both consciously and subconsciously, how to be thrifty, and also how to respect the funds of others. I’m now a guy who would rather listen to the songs in his brain rather than buy an Ipod. All in all, I learned that hard times could be made easier when you adjust for it. In this case, if water takes the shape of its container, a wallet should securely fit in the pocket.

i couldn’t think of a title so i might as well go with this…

                It hurts less not to care. Tumbled down a flight of stairs? Sure, you’d end up with a few bruises on your shins and your elbows, but a bruised ego? Hardly. Ketchup on your shirt? Even on a date you wouldn’t really give a hoot. Airballed a potentially game-winning free-throw? Your teammates may be crying but you could laugh your tails off.

                “Looks like someone drank some tough juice,” you might think to yourself. But truth be told, when I was much younger I was overly sensitive. Err…okay, so that’s a tad bit of an understatement. Try “had the habit of wailing for several minutes without stopping for a second to inhale to the point of asphyxia.” Whether I was happy, sleepy, hungry, or constipated, I knew only one way to express it: let out a tantrum. But I was under my parent’s dominion. As my dad once said, “It’s my house, it’s my rules.” And in their house I couldn’t cry my way in and out of things. “But you’re too sensitive not to cry,” I thought to myself. So I went for the next best option: stop caring.

So I cared less about school. I studied only fifteen minutes before a test, started working on my projects only hours before its submission, and took downs notes only when…wait, I didn’t take down notes at all! I cared less about our national situation. I jumped straight to the sports section in the newspaper and skipped CNN, ANC, and all those other boring channels when I watched TV.

But if there was one thing that I really couldn’t give the slightest hint of concern about it would be football. I always thought it was the dumbest sport ever. Imagine twenty guys (!) meandering across an over-sized lawn all trying to boot a ball past a net. It may sound simple, but I’ve seen more sense and structure in my five-year old cousin’s essay than in this buffoonery. While all of this nonsense is taking place, two guys just stand waiting on opposing sides of the pitch. I’m not kidding, that’s all that they do. Okay, so there are the occasional contort-your-body-in-the-most-awkward-way-possible-to-prevent-a-goal moments, but all that for a lousy leather ball? Ugh. Cramped legs, stained shorts and ninety minutes later, no one scores. I just couldn’t stand this madness.

Unfortunately for me, I went to a school that boasted of just 400 students. Yep, you read that right: the entire school, not a batch. Instead of inter-batch intramurals, the school was divided into two teams. On one hand, it was easy to select players for the different sports since we didn’t have too many students to choose from in the first place. On the other, we knew we were going to have to field in the dorky guy with the glasses who couldn’t tell his body to turn left. In my case, it was the latter except that I don’t wear glasses. The team desperately needed a goalkeeper. Now, I have no idea what our team captain had for lunch that day, but he figured since I couldn’t kick a ball if my life depended on it I might as well catch it. I reluctantly agreed.

It rained on our first day of training. I sat quietly by the steps of the clubhouse thinking to myself “What on earth am I doing here?” After several minutes of brooding, my teammates finally called me up. I lumbered my way up to my spot between the two posts. One by one, they took a whack at the ball with the hope that they could sail it past me. Now, I don’t speak Tagalog, but to them I say: “ASA BOY!” …Okay, I take that back. There were moments where I found myself unable to react to a shot and embarrassingly concede a goal.

As quickly as Christiano Ronaldo could dart through a football field, the day of the competition arrived. It was only two weeks since I first took up the sport and I could already feel the pressure weighing down on my sweaty palms; with them I could spell success or doom for the team. I started the game at the deepest trenches of the bench. Four goals later, I found myself in between the posts. We got ourselves in quite a fix. Four-nil down didn’t look too promising. It was barely half-way through the first half and defeat was imminent. But hey, it sure helps to calm the nerves! We were down and definitely out, so I had nothing to lose.

A strike! The ball charges at the goal. It never parts with the ground and heads towards the far corner of the goal. I drop my knees and the ball soars out of play. Oohs and aahs. My first save.

Another strike! The ball bounces off the ground and heads towards the post opposite where I stood. I lunge at the ball with my body parallel to the ground. The ball skims past my fingers. Cheers and boos. Goal.

The game ended in a 7-1 bloodbath. Fortunately for us, this was a best-of-three. We still had our chance to redeem ourselves and I had my time to shine. I may have conceded three goals in the first game but they didn’t come by easily. I merited the starting position and was confident that this game was ours. I held them scoreless in the first half while my teammates struck goal twice for their part.

Enter the big guns.

They decided to bring in Team Korea to play the second half against us. Not one of them was Filipino, so it would be safe to assume that these guys really knew how to play. And, boy, did it show. A two goal advantage quickly became an even money bet. We were lucky enough to eke out another goal only to have it negated when they struck for a third time with a few minutes remaining.

3-3. With the game still undecided I didn’t see how I could last playing extra-time. To our surprise, the officials declared a penalty shootout. This time, I no longer had my teammates to bail me out. It was a test of intestinal fortitude. It was keeper versus striker.

Four times I guessed right. The ball went right alright…their right (See! I told you I can’t tell myself to go left!). We missed one of our attempts and if they scored on this last strike the game would be over. I bent my knees, stretched my arms and took a deep breath in anticipation. “Left,” I told myself.

It would fall on deaf ears.

My momentum forced me right. With the corner of my eyes, I saw the gravity of my error. The ball flew past my left shoulder and into a wide open net. An hour’s worth of football was decided by split-second indecision.

On the ground I laid. I laid there weeping, broken yet complete. I haven’t cried this way since I was a kid. After what seemed like an eternity of hiding all my tears in apathy, I found something that I cared about. My heart may have grown calloused but there was still passion burning inside of it. God must have a really good sense of humor for using a game I once bitterly despised to make me realize this.

Could this new found passion in my heart also translate to my academics? To my country? To God? To a girl, perhaps? It may hurt less not to care but I would much rather burn in passion than rot in apathy.

Permanently Changing

 

The final call for passengers was over and I already had my seatbelt on. The fasten-seatbelt sign wasn’t even on yet but I fastened it on anyway. I took out my iPod and looked at the other passengers. Some were passing by the aisles and placing the baggage at the overhead bins, others were reading the in-flight magazine, while the rest were just spacing out into the window. I don’t know what they were thinking, but I do remember what I was thinking about at that time. That was the first time I was leaving home to live without my family, I was on my way to Manila. 

I started riffling through some notes from my friends back home, which might have looked real emo if I started to slash my wrists along with reading them, but blades aren’t allowed on board. A lot of notes had the “Don’t change, stay the way you are” line at some part of it, but one other note, and I remember this accurately since it was the only note that said “Change for the better.” 

What is life without change? Without change, life is just some boring plane of existence where everything is what it seems. Change brings ups and downs wherever it goes, because a new change comes from some other change’s end. So there’s one thing in change that we all hate and love at the same time - that something has to end.

The first time I went to the States, I wished it would last forever. I loved the cool, crisp, air on my face, enormous toy stores, and the food, oh the food! It was an entirely new world. I was only seven years old then but I was already thinking of the little concepts behind change. I started to think about it when my parents told me, “Two more weeks then we’re back home.” Then it all collided, and I realized that this utopia would end, that all this was going to change.  

As the aphorism has it: the only thing permanent in this world is change. It’s really ironic how this is true, that the only unchanging effect is change itself. This makes me wonder about that note that said “Don’t change, stay the way you are.” Is change really that bad? Come to think about it, what would I be without change? I’d be boring, like a statue that just grows older. But I know, these kind of notes are usually polite versions of things that might sound offensive. This note for example might be translated into “Don’t turn into a jerk, stay nice.” 

  Perhaps that’s the prevailing attitude towards change in our society - the negatives are the first to be taken note of.  This isn’t all wrong to take negatives into account early, though. Thinking about the negative consequences are important in deciding to change, because sometimes you can’t get back that something before the change. There was a time when I had my own desktop computer back in the day, and I used it most of the time. Eventually I got bored of how it looked, especially the start up screen. So to fix this, I searched the internet for a theme that I could install to change this dull, monotonous start up screen. I finally found this video game theme that I installed, so now the start up screen is this poorly drawn cartoon terrorist that I thought was cool when I was 10. After three years I tried to uninstall it but I couldn’t, I couldn’t change it back because I didn’t look to far ahead, oh no!

  One thing that always sticks with change is that it’s never boring. Even in the case of negative change, it always catches your attention. So this leads me to think about what goes on in heaven. I suppose heaven isn’t a boring place, I think heaven is a place of constant change where everything is infinitely changing for the better. Sounds exciting if you think about it, things are always getting better, a little better all the time like that old Beatles song, that yesterday was never as beautiful as today, or today will never be as beautiful as tomorrow. 

  Changing for the better is a brighter and more optimistic way of looking at change than telling you not to change at all. It’s a more heroic way of viewing change as something that alters your personality. Instead of fearing it, you accept it and embrace it as a means to get better. It’s been around a year since my high school graduation, when my class had to split up for college. Some went abroad, some stayed behind, and some went to Manila, like me. So last December, nine months from our graduation,  I met up with some of my old friends from high school. One of them came all the way from Singapore, and other from the University of Asia and Pacific. Yeah, they had changed, living away from the family can be a big change in life. But what struck me more was that they still had the same quirks that I loved back in high school. It was like the same guy with an entirely new twist. So we had a long talk in a small Starbucks somewhere in Ortigas, where we caught up on many things and reminisced on all the things we used to do in high school.  

I guess that’s what someone usually means when he says “change for the better,” it’s not a complete Bruce Banner - Incredible Hulk change, it’s more of a renewal. It’s a mix of the new and the old, like seeing a old friend with a crazy new haircut that strangely looks great on him.

 

The reason why we try to resist change is because we fear what we’ll leave behind. Change implies loss, like when someone changes, a part of himself dies. It’s hard to accept this because maybe that part has been with us for a long time, and we don’t know how we’ll survive without it. Yes, change might take the part away, but who knows, it might just give you something better.  

what did my mom ever do to you!?!

Call me anything you want. Seriously, I could care less. Back in high-school, bashing each other out of our wits was our favorite pastime. We treated it as a game, almost a sport. It was a free-for-all; you can come in anytime you want, land some decent jabs and then occasionally go below the belt, then leave if you can no longer take the beating (but we would hunt you down anyway!). There was but one rule: no blood, no foul. When it was on, it was really on. It was “front-stabbing” at its finest!

So choose your poison and let’s bash each other senseless. I dare you! But please…leave my mom out of it.

If there’s one phrase that causes my blood to jump out of my veins, it’s “putang ina mo”. I’m no expert in Tagalog but I think that roughly translates to “son of a bitch”. I know, I stated that I can take just about any insult. But what I hate about it is that it has less to do with me and is more of a derogatory statement towards my mother. Do you even know who my mother is? If there’s one thing she’s not, it’s a bitch! And she definitely is not a whore!