Pain is a Pain in the...

My wisdom teeth is to acting up again, and thanks to that I'm going to have to do 9 articles today. It's not really that hard actually(I think I made 10 articles once in one sitting), but that was motivated by a 4-figure incentive and not by a pair of attention-deficit third molars. The pain is somewhat bearable, but I'm thinking of finally availing of that dental plan in the health card I just got from HR, but since the teeth are still midway inside my gums, I'll just have to wing it until it subsides.

Anyway, back to them fuel injectors.

Life, Love, and Death at the Crossing

I consider myself a rather serious gamer, and as most serious gamers know the word "heartwarming" is that not easy to find in video games. And so it was therefore in my collective surprise that I stumbled upon an article in Penny Arcade about a heartwarming webcomic of the Animal Crossing video game. After much digging around (with the help of Google), I managed to find the offending (or should I say, heartwarming?) culprit and checked it out to see its worth.

And in my opinion, it was worth a few good words. Plus a few tears if you can afford to.

(please click to enlarge)

I don't play Animal Crossing (not by choice, but rather by lack of a Gamecube in which to play it), but it doesn't take one to play the game in order to understand the poignancy of this strip. Being a gamer myself, I know how difficult it is to find a middle ground for both children and parents to step on when it comes to video games. But this one just goes beyond that awkwardity and shows that despite the hoopla regarding in-game violence and immorality, video games can be a fun and touching way in which a family can connect to one another. This is especially true in this age where the devices that can keep us connected can also keep us apart.

And so, with a lack of a suitable phrase to end this post/pseudo-review, I shall quote the final words on the strip:

Show your parents as much love as you can, while you still can.

Dog Piss

I hate bathing at night. There is nothing more traumatizing than stripping down to your bare essentials in the cold of night and dousing yourself in even colder water. Every time I swing that dipper over my head, I feel like my brain cells are getting shorted out by lightning. So every time I head for the bathroom at 9 in the evening with towel and soap in hand, I better have a damn good reason for it. And last night, the reason was because I smelled like dog piss.

The boarding house where I stay in here in Legazpi has a dog named Claus (My uncle, the landlord, found him on Christmas Day). And just like his namesake, Claus likes to give. Except that it comes in ammonia, nitrogen, and other stuff that dog kidneys make. But I really can't blame him; the fella is basically locked up inside the boarding house all day. But when you wake up to a glorious Tuesday morning and find that the dog left you a very smelly present on the doorstep, sympathy tends to vanish hard and fast. I'm a self-confessed animal lover, but it takes all of my mental faculties just to stop myself from whacking the dog every time he pisses on the doorway. And now I just consider myself lucky that he peed on the kitchen floor after dinner; at least I have the time to clean it up and go to sleep without holding the urge to puke every time I inhale. But then again, it's hard to consider oneself lucky if he's going to clean up dog piss. It just makes me want to blow up inside, or at least take a bath at night.

Bitter Coincidence on 7 Wheels

The conductor slowly inched his way to the back of the bus , taking the fares as he did. And as he came nearer and nearer to where I stood, I became uncomfortable, wishing that he would just go away. But as he came at arm's length he stared at me, with the gaze resembling that of a man who goes around asking bus fares. I would have humored him though, if it were not for the fact that I was literally stuck in what seems to be a dozen reasonably large and unreasonably sweaty men, each struggling to hold tight in the bus as it rumbled about in the road. Is he friggin' crazy? I asked myself. And just how the hell am I going to get my wallet outta this mess?

But then again, I realized that it was my idea in the first place to ride an overcrowded bus which is running with one blown tire in the middle of the countryside at 9 in the evening.

And so, with despair and through somewhat remarkable contortion skills, I got my wallet out of my pocket and handed my fare.

Assassin's Creed Trailer

I normally don't embed video in my blogs, primarily because they eat up a lot of memory and are a pain to load up. But I'm willing to overlook it for this instance.

The video shown above is a trailer for the upcoming game Assassin's Creed for the Xbox 360, Playstation 3, and the PC, which is slated to be available in the coming months. It tells the story of Altair, a disgraced assassin set to redeem himself by performing hits in the Holy Land during the Third Crusade. Judging by the graphics, the supposedly innovative gameplay, and the overall bad-assiness (the man replaced his finger with a switchblade, for crying out loud), it's going to be a good, if not great, video game. Just another reason for me to spice up my rig when the PC version supposedly hits the shelves next year.

The Days are Getting Longer, The Nights are Getting Colder...

I finally found the time to write again.

It's not that I don't write anymore. Instead what I really mean is that I finally found time to write something a bit pithier, rather mouthing off silly ramblings and revealing how much I suck at playing video games. I think there’s even a theory that states that as you get older, your skills in video games decrease accordingly. Must be with the aging brain cells I suppose. However, there’s actually no solid scientific fact which can support my theory. But if you find a middle-aged father beating his teenage son at Team Fortress 2, kindly let me know.

But I find it rather ironic though, due to the fact that I’m not really busy nowadays. Aside from the occasional weekend backlogs, my work does not require duty beyond the 9 to 5. But despite this, I still don’t write as much as before. Maybe it’s because my work is starting to turn my mind into that squash pudding my cousin made last week. After all, writing about license plate brackets all day does not exactly induce the Shakespeare in a person. Sometimes I even wonder how my co-workers who are taking up Law (don’t know how many, but my super-secret ninja spies say they’re quite a handful) manage to balance work with study. But then again, I need the money, and compared with other jobs out there mine is as easy as it gets, so I’ll just have to wing it until the next school year.

Also, there’s the fact that I’m no longer inspired to write at all. The teenage angst that has dominated my college years has started to fade out ever since that Senator guy handed me my diploma. Plus I’m no longer pulling out Cupid’s arrows out of my chest cavity. Come to think of it, I think that’s one of the good things about not writing anymore, as there’s drastically lesser chance of me writing about how the way she walks as though she’s gracefully swaying in the wind, cherry blossoms and uber-cheesy Kim Chiu songs in tow. Just reading through my old journal entries makes me cringe and want to slaughter Cupid with a rusty pick-axe.

Then there’s also the fact that we have a new PC at home. A brand-spanking new Sempron PC with 512MB RAM and a 128MB video card. It’s not exactly the fastest out there, but any rig that can make me run Half Life 2 smoothly is good enough for me. And although I still haven’t purchased the aforementioned game, I am contently wading through Disciples 2 and various console emulators I found on the Internet. And when I’m not wasting precious sec…er…hours of my life in pointless but otherwise addictive video game diversions, I’m busy trying to figure out Photoshop CS and doing the wedding invitation card for my cousin who’s getting married in January. And let’s not forget the occasional DotA fix with Shad and/or Vhan at Chuck’s, as well as various other frivolities such as laundry, eating, sleeping, and respiration. Kinda makes you think twice about “not being busy”, ain’t it?

But as for now, I have the time.

Flowers and Graves

Every day during my daily commute to work I would get off the jeepney at the corner where the flower shops are. And today would have been no different, except for the fact that instead of roses and tulips, there was an abundance of daises, lilies, and those other types of flowers usually reserved for floral wreaths of the dead.

Halloween is finally here.

I never really saw Halloween coming, or I simply just failed to acknowledge it. It's probably because I'm always distracted by a lot of things recently, and it wasn't until I saw the flowers that the thought finally hit home.

Ironically enough, Halloween, or All Saint's Day as they call it here, has always been of great significance for me. This is because every night of the first of November, my family and the families of my aunts and uncles would trek to the cemetery and pay a visit to the graves of my grandmother and grandfather. It is an unbroken tradition as far as I know; ever since we decided to stay here in the province I could almost always be found staring at the grave candles at November 1. But despite this, it was never really a solemn occassion. Except for the standard one-hour prayer vigil (usually headed by one of my more devout aunts), the rest of the night was punctuated by conversations, children making balls out of the melted wax from the candles, and the token card games of tong-its and pusoy. And it was hard to be solemn at the cemetery anyway, as it was always crowded with people and resembled more of a busy night market than that of a place of repose. There was even one time when the family of the grave next to ours brought a karaoke machine, buckets of beer and barbecue grille (which was promptly followed by a drunken brawl, thus permanently turning our all-night vigil into an until-midnight one).

Ever since my grandfather died in 1997, visiting the cemetery became more important for me. Suffice it to say that Gramps became my surrogate father when Dad was away; a wrinkly but robust old man toiling in his patch of cassava while his skinny young grandson tailed behind. I would never forget those tall cassava stalks, nor my grandfather for that matter. And after he passed away on that fateful birthday of his that January, we would visit his and my grandmother's grave regularly. But as the years passed by the visits became less frequent, and it even came to a point where the only time we would go to his grave was during All Saint's Day. And then came the time where I went to work in Manila. That was the first time I that missed the yearly visit. And as what I have planned for myself in the near future should come into fruition, I would probably be missing a lot more visits to Gramps.

But as long as I am still here, I'll still visit him.

Last Blade Blues

(much to the horror of Setsuna, Hibiki started to sprout wings)

I downloaded a MAME Emulator from the office the other day. For those who don’t know what MAME is, then the feeling is quite mutual because I don’t know what it is either. All I know is that it can simulate Arcade games like those coin-operated ones at the mall. And along with the emulator, I also downloaded 2 arcade games, or ROMs as they call it in the emulator trade. And one of these was the Last Blade 2: Bakumatsu Roman.

One of the reasons why I decided to download the emulator was that I wanted to try Last Blade for myself. Neil, my cousin and undeclared sensei on all things manly, once told me how great a game Last Blade is. And coming from a man who would rather spend the day reading Nietzsche than play video games, his recommendation was something to consider. And when I researched the game on Wikipedia, I was impressed with the artwork as well as the complexity of the unit sprites. So when I managed to stumble upon a website that offered a Last Blade game emulator, I decided to grab the opportunity and downloaded it.

And so far I’ve been getting ass kicked by it for almost two consecutive days.

Okay, so I did play a bit with it (and managed to actually enjoy a second or so of the game), but most of the time I was either being slashed at, pummeled, sucker-punched or having my face hammered at the ground. Last Blade 2: Bakumatsu Roman is by far one of the hardest and most unforgiving fighting games that I have ever played. The enemy AI is brutal and uses all of the skills at twice my speed. Sure, my old Compaq keyboard is not exactly the best gaming peripheral out there, but c’mon! How the heck can you land a hit on someone when you’re literally moving like you’ve got hot potatoes in your pants? And blocking is almost non-existent when the wily bastards lands one on the jaw. If were not for the fact that I spent two month’s of my savings on our PC, I might have thrown it out my window out to sheer frustration.

But as soon as my head cooled off (and right after my blood receded back to its normal temperature), I realized that the game was that hard because of the fact that it is an arcade game. Arcade games (with the exception of the Street Fighter vs. Marvel vs. Capcom vs. Care Bears franchise) are designed to be difficult. After all, how are they going to rack up on the money if you’ve beaten the game at a single sitting? Arcade games were meant to give its customers a thrashing, and have them spend tokens one after another with the illusion that they just might somehow beat it and place their name at the high scores. Neil must have played a console version of Last-Blade, which is usually watered-down and has a more merciful difficulty setting. Either that or he’s got the hand articulation of Spiderman on crack.

It took me another day before I decided to end the madness and stop playing Last Blade altogether. Arcade game or not, it is a game not worthy enough to test my anger management capabilities. So until I discover how to lower the difficulty level of the ROM, or they introduce a new character that has a fully automatic AK-47 as a weapon, the game is in the back shelf of my PC. But should any of you would like to be interested in getting a crack at it and want a copy, feel free to contact me. I’m always willing to share the love, or in this case, the frustration.

Cold

One of the band members of the Temptations once said that North Dakota is so cold that it is "where cold is made and sent to other places". And if that should be the case, then our province must have bought in bulk recently.

It has been raining almost every day for the past week. Maybe it's because it's the monsoon season in our country again, or maybe the Philippine government's effort at cloud seeding has gone awry. But either way, the incessant rain and wind has caused the temperature to drop. For the first time in months I had to use an umbrella and hoodie, which is already something, since I despise carrying umbrellas and our office tends to get hot as a Turkish bathouse at certain hours. But then again, if it were not for the fact that I have a job, I would be rather at home sleeping. For the past week, every time that I wake up to the frigid morning one of the first thoughts that comes into my mind is to go back to sleep again. And most of the people I've asked feel the same way as well (including my mother, who is probably the patron saint of workaholics everywhere). I attribute this sluggishness as the human body's way of conserving energy for heat, but then again one must think of Scotland, Iceland, and Norway, whose citizens are hardly touted as lazy. And nowhere in the history books mention of the hardy Vikings holing up at the living room watching reruns of the Emmys during a cold spell. Maybe were just not used to the cold, with us being tropical islanders after all.

But is not that I am complaining. On the contrary, I prefer cold days over the sunny ones. While others see bleakness and sadness on a gray sky, I see calmness, solitude, and peace. Plus the mountains surround our house look more majestic on a cloudy. It's just how one sees the world I suppose, which is already difficult to do in this world blinded with illusions and compliance.

Bossa Fever

I was sitting on a jeepney on the way to work when I noticed a banner on top of the highway. The banner advertised "Bossa Fever", a concert involving a local bossa nova artist and an "audio deconstructionist" (who blatantly looks like an ordinary DJ).

How the heck do you get Bossa Fever? Sure, I've heard of disco fever, but bossa nova? Dictionary.com states that "fever" is an "intense nervous excitement", but bossa nova is probably one of the most relaxing forms of music next to the lullaby. So how do get nervously excited over something so soothing?

Husband: Honey, I think I might be going down with the bossa fever...
Wife: Oh dear, what makes you say that?
Husband: Well, I've been feeling sort of relaxed since this morning, and just a few hours ago I keep getting this urge lie on the couch.

The marvels of Philippine marketing really do leave me speechless sometimes.

A Castle of Cards

I finally made my first complete card castle.

It was a simple construction: a three-section pyramid composed of receding triangular arches of two cards side to side, and platforms made up 4 layers of cards on the first whilst 3 layers for the second. Strangely enough, it took me only less than an hour to complete it, considering the fact that it is made up of brand new (and quite slippery) unmatted playing cards that was assembled on a wobbly wooden work table.

I started constructing card structures quite recently. Maybe it was the challenge I guess, or the fact that it can induce a meditative state at some point. And God only knows how badly I need meditation these days...

But sadly, I made this construction during the wee hours of my grand-aunt's wake, who was very close to me ever since I was a kid. So in the end I never fully enjoyed the fruits (or castle) of my labor, because I lost something precious just to gain another.

In the end, maybe we are all just a castle of cards, waiting for the wind to blow us away into a pile of nothingness.

(This card castle is lovingly dedicated to my late grand-aunt Carmen. In pace requiescat Lola.)

Ka-ching

I managed to scrounge a red bicycle frame and handlebars from my cousin over the weekend.

I was passing by their house the other day, and I saw the lad busily tinkering away at his bike. He managed to scrounge a much lighter bike frame from somewhere, and he's transplating the wheels, brakes, plate, and other components to this new one from his old bike. And since he had no use for the old frame, I asked him if I could have it, along with the old chrome handlebars I saw rusting in the corner. A few hours of haggling later, I managed to haul home the bike frame, the handlebars, and a set of pedals to boot. So right now I'm closer to getting a new bike of my own, with only a fraction of the market price.

I can be such a cheap bastard sometimes.

Close

It was already past 10 in the evening when I looked at the clock. Time flies fast when you've got a Playstation 2 joystick on your hands. I pulled at the aluminum door of the rental store, and the cold wind came rushing at my face. I was only wearing a t-shirt, so I shivered a little. I started to rub my arms warm, put my cap on, and started the long walk home.

Last week the woman I love told me she was leaving, where it is she wouldn't tell me. But all I know is that I may never see her again.

I wanted to go straight to her house and beg for her to stay. Or at least see her face one last time. But instead I am standing outside a Playstation rental store on a rainy Monday night, trying to think of other things that are less important. At least the unimportant things don't hurt when you wake up in the morning.

She wants me to move on; to keep my heart whole and wait for the right girl for me to come. I wanted to tell her that I don't know where to start moving on. Because I never went anywhere with her in the first place.

In the end, what probably hurts is not that she's gone and no longer a part of my life, but rather the fact that it's the best thing that's ever happened to me in years.

And that I still love her. Probably for the rest of whatever's left of my life.

I still wanted to keep playing for another hour, but the store was already closing for the night. So quite reluctantly, I had to go home. And as I walked out into the darkness of the alleyway, I wonder if there are other things in this life that have closed.

It’s just hard to let go of something very precious especially when you have accepted that something as part of your being. But letting go is essential. Separation is needed. Just like a seed... it needs to separate from the fruit to grow, become a tree, and produce more.... If the seed stays with the fruit forever, they will both perish...

...life cannot adjust to us; we adjust to fit in it.- Romalyn Casia

Rallying cry for my Work Ethic

If what I feel right now can be summed up in one word, it would be this:


I've been playing a lot of Urban Dead recently. It somewhat has certain parallels with my job (For example: it involves losing brain cells), but nevertheless it is quite engaging and entertaining. That is, if you find clicking text boxes entertaining, of course.

Since it's a casual web browser-based multiplayer online game, Urban Dead does not win any awards in terms of graphics. Here's a screenshot of the game:


But if you can sacrifice the visuals for expansive gameplay, well this game is worth checking out. The game basically dwells on a zombie outbreak in a London-ish suburbia, wherein you can play as a living, breathing human who is stuck in the city or as an undead, rotting zombie preying on the living. It's not really gross though; probably the most graphic description in this game is wherein you stick a syringe up the neck of a zombie. The survivors mostly spend most of their days scrounging for supplies, setting up radios, generators and barricades, and shooting the living (or dying?) daylights out of zombies with a double-barreled shotgun. The zombies, or zeds as they call it, roam the deserted streets searching for "harmanz", "harmanbargahz", and of course, "braiiiiiinzzzzzzz"....

The game can be frustrating at first, as you need to be of a significant level to be able to fully enjoy the game. It can also be boring sometimes, especially when the zombie hordes just passed the suburb you're holed up in. But nevertheless, it's quite a nice diversion on a boring afternoon.

Unlit Cigarettes

When I was younger my grandfather used to send me on errands to buy him cigarettes. Red "More" Luxury Cigarettes; I can still remember them as though it was yesterday. I would walk a few blocks in my sando and oversize flip flops to the nearest store and buy a couple of those weird-smelling sticks. I was always fascinated by those sticks: the odd but eerily fragrant smell, the smooth paper cover, and the fact that most of the men that I considered to be big and tough usually had them clamped between their lips. I would sniff them constantly on the way back, put them in my ear or in my lips just like I saw my father or grandfather did. But when I was in sight of our house, I would put it back in my hands along with the change, for fear that my grandfather would spank the hell outta me for messing with his sweet-smelling cigarettes.

But that was before Grandfather died in 1997. A former cockpit owner and "banig" seller struck down at the age of 86 by heart attack. He left behind 13 children and more than thrice that amount of grandchildren, including this boy who would buy him his cigarettes.

And as I grew older I realized that cigarettes were bad. I learned that they contained harmful chemicals with weird-sounding names like nicotine and formaldehyde which could make you sick. I saw pictures of lungs turned black with soot, of reddish human organs that look like they were taken from the local meat market. They were addictive and bad for you, they said, and that I should stay away.

And so I stayed away from cigarettes. But at that time I also stood away from the rest of the world. I was an outcast, a weird organism who never smoked. I saw other boys of my age who would swagger like those in the movies at the local town cinema, with a burning stick of cigarette in their mouths. I wanted to be like those boys. I wanted to be cool, because I want to be part of the world.

But I still stayed away from them. And as I grew older, I learned more about those burning sticks. I learned that they were made by multinational corporations which made lots of money from those tiny sticks. I learned that there was a lot of people who were fighting against it. I learned about conspiracy, compromise, bribery, bureaucracy, red tape, frame-up, blackmail, and salvage. And that people kept smoking them. They said it calmed the nerves, made them think better. Sometimes I wonder if they were right.

I had my first real puff when I had a bad cough back in college. My roommate gave me a stick of "Hope" Menthol Cigarettes. He said it would make my cough go away, and that it should put some meat on my lungs. I took a drag, inhaling the smoke as it went its way from the filter to the recesses of my throat. A wierd bitter taste grew inside my mouth, and I coughed it out. My roommate laughed in the darkness and took back the stick from my hands.

And more time passed by. My grandfather's body has probably turned to dust now, and my roommate is somewhere basking under the desert sun of the Middle East. I've finished school and found a job, and almost found love. I have died and been reborn so many times, and have learned other more important things to do and to think about.

But until today I still find cigarettes fragrant.

A meaningful conversation seen through a bottle of San Miguel

R: She's HOW OLD!?
A: If my calculations are correct, if she was born in 1987 that would make her 20 years old today.
R: I can't believe this!
A: You can't believe what?
R: That's she's just 20!
A: What's wrong with 20?
R: Dude, I have a poster of her in my closet!
A: And what's wrong with that?
R: It's from that Red Hot Special Lingerie Edition magazine.
A: Oh, THAT poster...
R: And I bought it 2 years ago. Which means she was 18, which in turn makes her a minor...
A: Uhhh, technically you're no longer a minor when you're 18.
R: Really?
A: Yep.
R: But still...ah never mind. Maybe I'm just over-reacting. I mean, she just looks too old for her age...
A: S'Okay. Europeans tend to look older compared to us anyway.
R: Probably...
A: ...
R: ...
A: ...
R: So that means that she's in my age bracket.
A: Oh please. Like that's going to help.
R: I'm just saying...
A: Dude, she's a tennis player. She whacks balls for a living. Doesn't that scare you even a bit?
R: Now that you've mentioned it...
A: ...
R: So does that mean I have to tear her poster down?
A: I dunno. Probably.
R: ...
A: ...
R: But she still looks hot though.
A: Whatever...

Misunderstanding

The woman that I love said to me that I should stop hurting myself.

It's been months since we've talked that long, and that's the second time that she has told me that. And that was the second time that I asked myself "Now what the hell kind of an advice is that?"

I know she is trying to help, but then what she is saying isn't helping me at all. I love her, and I've already told her what I feel. But the reply I get from her is more enigmatic than a crop circle formation. Now she's telling me to stop hurting myself because of her, and find happiness instead with God, not with a silent girl who dreams of joining a convent one day.

And maybe she is right. No, rephrase that. She is right. One can only find true happiness in God, because he is the source of all things. And despite my shortcomings, I have found peace from Him. And that is a happy thing.

Though that still doesn't explain why I spend our time together just looking at her, or that every time that I wake up in the morning her name is the first thing that pops in my mind.

And it is embarassing. A part of me wants to smack me in the head for dragging myself into this mess. What the hell was I thinking?, I ask myself. But in the end all I could do is shake my head in frustration, sink into my hands and hope that tomorrow I forget all of this.

Sometimes it is better to have no memories than to be haunted by many.

And ultimately, another day ends. Despite the joy, the pain, and evrything else in between, the day goes on. I have to wake up every morning for my job, do my articles, and go home. And maybe in the future, I go back to school and study how to become a lawyer. And should I pass the BAR, I'll get a good-paying job, a car, and the prestige that comes along with such a profession. And if I have money and power, people will say that I've finally made it.

But that still does not answer the question why I keep spending our time together just looking at her, or that every time I wake up in the morning her name is the first thing that pops in my mind.

Maybe I will never know. I've given up trying to find out why.

I'll just have to try harder finding happiness this time.

The Beginning of Something

Hey now, hey now. Don't dream it's over. - Crowded House

Many months ago I said to myself that I would never right a blog or journal again. Maybe because I find it prissy, or maybe just plain unnecessary. I have always adhered to the philosophy of Joseph Joffo: Happy people don't need to tell stories. And I believed I was happy with my life.

But now I'm telling my story.

But I'm not doing this because I am sad either. My life has always been a screwed-up soap opera in the first place. But I don't know. For the past few months I don't really know much about my life anymore. It's as though life is tugging me on my shirtsleeves and asking me with puppy-dog eyes: What should we do now?

I don't know. I really don't. And sometimes frankly I don't really care at all.

Maybe I'm just lazy with my life. Or maybe I'm just tired of it.

(Sigh)

Or maybe I'm just plain crazy.