Release Your Inner Moron

What I do: Ninjas, Gurus, and other Titles from Hell

2012-02-17T09:04:00.000-08:00

Not so recently, I've been asked semi-seriously, "what's your job again?"

That's a tough question in my field. See, a lot of people in my field, in a bid to make the title sound ~~cool~~ less boring, like to append their position with guru, like this: Search Engine and Social Media Guru. Which raises the question:

What?

No. That's not what we do. That really doesn't mean anything, and it just sounds like Robert Duvall using Google a lot. The other thing ~~sad~~ creative people do is add ninja, like so: Digital Marketing Ninja. Which again, raises the question:

Seriously, what?

Uh-uh. See, it's really less that guy ... and with just TV shows, more meme-like ...

Look who's blogging

2011-11-06T22:51:00.000-08:00

All righty, blog. I owe ya a post about Italy, Cebu, and Davao, and I'll try to get all that but first, but first ...

Aiyo's blogging.

Would you look at that.

Philippine Travels

What the Internet Loves: Kittens and Babies

2011-01-30T02:25:00.000-08:00

There's an untested belief that the Internet loves babies and kittens. The problem I have with this theory is that the Internet is the most efficient medium for documenting collective human consciousness since the beginning of time. Surely, we're more advanced than that, and we'd move quickly past babies and kittens and onto sophisticated concepts, such as boobquakes.

So I'm thinking, let's actually put this to the test. This blog post will look like babies and kittens collectively puked on it.

Google Analytics will do its thing, Feedburner will do its thing, and if it receives more visits than any posted before this one...

Let the games begin.

Thanks to Shodensan for the baby pics. The baby links may require a facebook login.

Baby!

Kitten!

Just in case you intend to commit suicide...

2010-06-21T09:46:00.000-07:00

Remember not to do it in China, where they have the awesome no suicide clause.

Boobs, Boobquakes, and the day the nut jobs had it

2010-05-10T07:24:00.001-07:00

It doesn’t take too much brainpower to mock Iranian cleric Hojatoleslam Kazem Sedighi, who told the world boobs apparently cause earthquakes. Yes, literally. No, he wasn’t kidding. “Many women who do not dress modestly...lead young men astray, corrupt their chastity, and spread adultery in society,” he said, “which increases earthquakes.”

Now, come on. Mocking a guy who says that stuff like that is like trying to get the Kardashians to stop using “awesome.” And also, if what he said was true, then all we can say to the cast of Baywatch Hawaii is this: RUN.

So anyway, because of the sheer idiocy of the situation, the world just moved on and left the cleric alone to his aversion to plate tectonics and love for the boobquake theory.

No, wait. What happened was, the world decided that CNN should report it. That’s right. CNN, the giant freaking cable network that brought you 234 years of Larry King interviews. So people started laughing at how much the cable network has changed and how the mighty have fallen, and then moved on.

No, wait. What happened was, people started a movement to test the theory. That’s right – a girl named Jennifer McCreight asked 200,000 women to show off as much cleavage as possible to show that women’s breasts will not cause earth-shattering events, at least in the literal sense. As you can imagine, a lot of men supported this movement. So CNN just scoffed at what a movement they helped create, and left the movement to die a natural death.

No, wait. CNN blogged more about it. And things started to spiral, as is usually the case when boobs are involved, out of control. And lo and behold, 200,000 women INDEED showed up in as little clothing as they could muster, like on a playboy party on steroids, but with less tact. And mother nature let us know, once and for all that boobs do not, in any way, shape, or form, cause earthquakes.

No wait. What happened was, mother nature sided with the nut jobs. On boobquake day, Taiwan INDEED had a 6.9 magnitude earthquake.

Take a second to think about that. Imagine Eddie Gil promising to pay all Filipinos a million bucks, and then INDEED pushing through with it. Now imagine that in all facets of your life. Ricky Martin being straight. April Boy Regino getting a Grammy. Or a Pulitzer. Or both.

The next time you reach for your hippocampus to mock them about how absurd that is, they will have Boobquake day to reference. The nut jobs now own the streets. Everybody else is just passing through.

Release Your Inner... Metafictionist?

2010-04-24T07:47:00.000-07:00

Geocities, a failwhale posterchild from Yahoo!, is dead. It housed many a journ student web site, (the term is loosely used here) and has left stories like this one homeless. I'm reposting The Story here, a project from Sarge Lacuesta's fiction class.

The Story

Every story is a struggle for an ending. Some have dark ones, and in the worst of hours, the characters of those stories die, suffer, live in quiet agony. Some have happy ones, complete with a convenient little secret they will have to keep to the grave and a white picket fence, or in some cases, a right duly protected, or an adventure coming to a sorrowful but successful end. In both scenarios, Nelson, a cornucopia of emotions are present. A myriad of entities make their appearances. A host of realities are at work. A single element binds them Nelson. Finality. Finality that you, I know, refuse to give me.

There is a covenant, Nelson, dear author, that those characters act in a fairly developed world. Some are set in the culturally developed world, others in shanties. I don’t much care about the differences of the two. You made me that way, didn’t you Nelson? Or did I do some of that myself? For all my nonchalance about places, you’re rather proud of yourself in the way you still managed to bug me with this room, aren’t you? This room with a rectangular table in the center, a table that I’ve broken a couple of dozen times and that every time reappears in its original form. This room, with two doors that, at one point, I thought led to other rooms that look exactly the same as this one.

Was the irony irresistible? I can imagine it would be, wouldn’t it, author? A work of yours who doesn’t care about settings, only to finally succumb to the fact that he wants more than an indestructible chair, table, and a room that is looped such that there is no other place in this reality. And a character that knows about the world- the real world, not this infinite imprisonment facility you built yourself- yet is stuck in that place.

Or is it the power, author? Certainly, the power must be addictive. To have control over but one inconsequential person and yet let him speak about the depths of despair you made for him. You even gave me a name. John, isn’t it, Nelson? John Ruaz. A name that no matter how hard I try to unlearn, I never do. A name constantly there, never ceasing to drive me mad, because I shouldn’t have a name. It makes me too valuable, too accessible. It makes me too real. So real, that in your sad little life, author, when they yet again refuse your fiction in yeat another publishing house, you will think about me. And you’ll compare our despair. That real.

You must know, Nelson, that my existence is proof of the parody that you are. And yet you keep me here. Have you succumbed? To what have you succumbed, Nelson? To writing? To thinking? To life? A life, Nelson, that you no longer enjoy. I know. I know because some of your thoughts spill into my consciousness. And maybe, just maybe, the reason you made me was your discontent in life. Somehow, with me around, there would be someone who would give up anything to, for one day, live that sad miserable life and be happy with it. Because, you figured, I’d live any life. I’d crave any life, even yours.I would give anything for it. And you’re right. I do want your life. Only so that I have control of when my existence will end. If only for the rich, utterly soothing availability of ending, of finality.

Finality that by now I am convinced you will never give me. Your pathetic little life calls for me to exist, I understand that too well now. I know, author, that you are in control. I know that you made this room so that I not only cannot escape, rather, there is nothing to escape to. But you have worked on my consciousness, Nelson. Without that consciousness, you cannot hound me into despair. You cannot belittle your grief by comparing it to mine. Your sheer joy in my desperate condition wouldn’t be complete without that, would it, Nelson? But because of that consciousness, I learn Nelson, and I’ve learned quite a few things. I learned, for instance, about you. About how you write this. About when you write this. And since I’ve learned that you will not stop writing this, I learned about my consciousness further. It’s a nice little irony, isn’t it ,author, and I know you’re quite a fan of ironies. You know what makes consciousness so brilliant, Nelson? Yes, go ahead Nelson, nod, for you know it all too well.
How did you first bring me about?

If my consciousness is developed enough to feel your wrath, then so too are they powerful enough to make us at par in this reality. For I can do the same thing you do, Nelson. I can dream.

* * * *

Every story is a struggle for an ending. Mine is no different, although my story just might be. Hear this: your creating me will not ease your pain, John. By making me you only add a witness to your pain.

Make him go back, Nelson, to sitting in his pretty little chair. Make him break his stupid table over and over again. Keep him from dreaming. Make him stop making this reality. I can bear none of it. My existence is nil, and between my feeling John’s pain, and yours as well, it just isn’t fair.

Can you bear it, Nelson? He’s even given me a name. John. John Ruaz. He did this to fight back. He figures, by naming me that, he’s controlled you into making him somewhat less valuable. Less accessible. Less real. He obscures your creation- the John Ruaz you made- by making me. Punish him, Nelson. He betrays you. Every second I last here, he grows stronger..

Can you see it Nelson? I’m in a forest, a massive, beautiful, heavily detailed forest. I can feel the trunk of the tree I’m standing on. How did he know how these things feel? You kept him in a room.

He’s a thief, Nelson. He steals from your memories, from your experiences. He makes it his. He makes it mine. And he’s forcing you to do his will. In truth, haven’t you already? You obscured an existence which is precious to you. You remember the feel of a tree trunk, in spite of your keeping him in a reality where it doesn’t exist. He’s forced you to abandon most of the limitations you’ve set for him. All with his will. The will which is a product of your devotion in his consciousness. End his capacity to dream, Nelson.

End it.

Please.

End it.

Because I still hear the sounds of birds chirping, and see ripples in the water created by wind, because I smell the decays of a creature and feel the wind on my face, I assume you haven’t taken my advice.

So let’s talk, Nelson, for the last time, because that is how I see fit. Your power? It was founded on control. It was a power that was doomed to end.

For that power is predicated on us being trapped, and as long as we’re free, that power is challenged. Does John seem trapped to you? Is he contained? He has tapped into all of what you know and is creating all of this, all of my world, all of my consciousness. He is, as you are, empowered.

But you know what John didn’t do?

He didn’t tap into you, Nelson. He made a character, but that character doesn’t magnify your pain. Say hello to my dream, author. Welcome.

* * * *

Every story is a struggle for an ending, and Nelson’s is no different. He lives alone, in an apartment in Jersey, having spent most of his parent’s earnings for a ticket to the United States, and a dark, but cheap, apartment. He lives on practically nothing. After 8 months in San Jose, he moved to Jersey.

He imagines almost daily his life in the Philippines, in a province, Pangasinan, where he used to believe in all the wonderful things his dad taught him. He was raised to be different. Everybody in his town said so. Everybody said he had something exclusive to him. He imagined it was his writing.

Later, he found that however different his writing was, it wasn’t good enough to be published. With nothing going for him in the Philippines and his father dying, he moved to the US.

He had an especially rough time adjusting. The people just weren’t the same, and neither was the atmosphere. With his resources dwindling and still none of his works getting published, he began to live in quiet despair. But he was out to prove something. He was out to prove his dad was right about him being different.

The first thing that caved in was electricity. He just wasn’t able to afford it anymore. The night his lights went out and candles replaced fluorescent lights, John was born.

After a while, it wasn’t about the power, or about someone sharing his pain. It was about someone who would understand. Someone who would marvel at all that has happened and maybe tell a friend about a story, Nelson’s story, a story about a person who made stories about a person in a room with nothing but a chair, a table, and his thoughts.

So he wrote it down. Not everything. No, not everything, as authors need to hold back. But enough. Enough for everyone to understand how he feels, and enough for whoever would read the journal he keeps to understand the bliss of nothingness that John will tonight achieve. Because Nelson’s words have run out. The consciousness he started now seems alien. And if he throws the journal by his window and drinks the sedatives in his pocket, someone might just understand him. Someone might understand John, or the other John.

Someone might understand, every story is a struggle for an ending.

More signs. They can be legen... wait for it...

2010-04-12T07:42:00.001-07:00

da...well, you get the picture.

Specific, much?

They mean literally, as in "do not swipe pictures off this wall."

Again with the specific, much?

The Secret Diary of Kratos, Part 2: Inside My Grammy’s Boobs

2010-04-09T08:14:00.000-07:00

Previously, in the secret diary of Kratos: Kratos saved the titans from the great war to fight Zeus, who – to be honest - has been kind of a dick, lately. Kratos and the titans managed to make their way through much of Olympus, but Poseidon made like Olympics diver He Chong and killed many of titans. Kratos, suddenly in need of cover, finds himself in a strange place.

There comes a point in every great warrior’s life when he asks himself – as I’m sure Achilles, Thor, and Lancelot have asked themselves – “what the hell am I doing in my grandmother’s boobs.”

I recently had to deal with this question after a brief encounter with my uncle, Poseidon, god of the sea. He used to be a nice guy and all, but lately he’s been all thunder, floods, and sea horses. Sea horses, for Pete’s sake. I mean, the guy has the entire fracking sea under his control, and he conjures sea horses for a living. Olymp-tard.

Anyway, the whole ruckus started when they named a movie after him. Or, well, after they named a ship after him, and the ship got a movie. “Now that I’m a movie star,” he’d started uttering, annoying the living crap out of us. He started asking us to refer to him as El-Posso-Loco. And then Percy Jackson got a movie deal, which everyone in Olympus thought was kind of stupid, including the Harpies, which technically have no working brains.

Anyway, I have got to get myself out of Gaia’s boobs and stop El-Posso outside from taking out too many of the titans. That, and this whole boobs situation is getting too Oedipus on steroids for me. After moving around some titan cell walls, poking through Gaia’s innards, and generally touching stuff I’d rather not recall, I got some much needed air, emerging from the boobies.

But then Uncle Poss started steering again. That dude is one stubborn fella. He’s all sea horse here and lightning there, and I find myself doin some fracking some Numa-Numa dance moves to dodge. Elijah Wood would be proud. Finally, I hurt him enough so grammy can punch him, and he got separated from the sea horses.

Now, I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was the stupid nicknames. Maybe it was that disaster flick. I started pummeling his head through the wall and I couldn’t stop, and when he started to utter something I remember myself saying “Here’s what I think of Percy Jackson, El-Posso.” And then I gouged his eyes and snapped his neck. Oedipus would be proud.

Anyway, with El-Posso-Loco no longer a threat, Gaia and I confronted daddy.

“Death could not hold me. The sisters of fate could not control me,” I uttered, summing up the past two games, just in case he’d forgotten. I mean, the dude is fracking old. He’s all beardy, which uncle Poss used to laugh at because El-Posso shapeshifts into Coolio regularly.

Anyway, daddy may be old, but damn, that guy can move. Before Gaia and I could react, Zeus hurled a giant lightning bolt at us. In case you’ve never been hit by a giant lightning bolt, lemme tell you, it hurts. Gaia and I fell, and I asked grammy to lend me a hand.

She thought I was on one of my wordplay things because her hand was literally about to fall off, so she ignored me and went all emo about how this is her war. I hate you Gaia. For the whole boob experience, for not appreciating good word juxtaposition, but mostly for letting me fall off Olympus, and being all speech-ey about it.

I fell about 345,987,568 stories, and when I came to, I was reminded that…

Next in the Secret Diary of Kratos: It Fracking Stinks in Hell

The Secret Diary of Kratos, Part 1: Family Issues

2010-04-08T07:25:00.001-07:00

My name is Kratos. Father to a murdered child. Husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance in this life or the… what’s that? Yes, I’m totally quoting from Gladiator, which is, like, the best thing ever. Maximus, if you ever need to learn how to gut centaurs, let’s talk.

Anyway, like I said, I’m Kratos, son of a dude called Zeus. Have you heard of him? He’s kind of a big deal. Ruler of Olympus and all.

I’m on my way to see him, riding my Grandmother’s back. Now, before you make any inappropriate jokes, lemme say that grammy is the size of a small park. No, that’s not exactly true. Her chest is the size of a small park. My family’s weird like that.

Gaia and I both have a beef with daddy. Gaia and the other titans want him to kick the bucket because he waged war on them; I have a beef with him because ever since I became a God (ahem), he’s been all emo on me.

Which brings us to me and Gaia, climbing Olympus. I’d say it’s a herculean task, but my brother Hercules is up there sending legionnaire-foot-soldier-idiots to slay me, and if he finds out I use his name as an expression, I’ll never hear the end of it. I mean, yes, he lifted a freaking planet once, but that dude has some serious ego issues.

He’s always like, “remember the time I chased that apple,” or like, “you know that time I wrestled a lion?” I’m like, “dude, it’s a LION. You’re a DEMI-GOD. Just sayin.”

He then threw a tower at me. If you’ve never been hit by a tower before, let me tell you, it hurts.

So as I was saying, Hercules sent legionnaire-foot-soldier-idiots to try and slay me. Let me tell you something about Olympians. They are eternal optimists. I see their logic at work and I think, by god, how did you survive this long being this retarded?

I mean, I’ve freaking slain enough Gorgons, Harpies, Chimeras, and whatever the plural form of Cyclops is, to populate Greece. I’ve killed fracking thousands of these legionnaires before. I’ve killed Gods, for Pete’s sake. So when I bring the fight to them with dozens of bad-ass titans, what do they do?

They send, like, eight legionnaire-foot-soldier-idiots to try and kill me. And hope for the best. Olymp-tards.

Anyway, I unleash my Blades of Athena™ and the legionnaire-foot-soldier-idiots make like butter. So a very angry Poseidon decides to play.

Uncle Poseidon is a fairly important guy. Part of the big three. He, Dad, and uncle Hades typically get the most screen time when movies, comic books, video games, ESPN, etc. depict Greek gods. Helios and Hermes are also out to stop me, but they’re more of the cannon fodder variety.

So anyway, Poseidon drops down and kills Epimetheus, a wimp of a titan. Uncle Poss is all like, “You’ve disrespected the gods for the last time.” I’m like, sure, but will you stop using the sea as a weapon for a second?

It was a long shot, but it was worth a try. Like I said, these Olymp-tards have the IQ of starfish.

Uncle Poss didn’t like that idea too much, and he sent sea horses after me, Gaia, and some nameless titans. The nameless titans fell like dominoes. Gaia started complaining a lot. She’s like, help me do this. Or, like, get rid of that. And I’m like, “shut up, kind of busy here too.”

Anyway, after ducking like, eight hundred very phallic sea horses, I took some cover inside Gaia. Eat that, uncle Poss. I was enjoying my respite. I’m fighting the God of the fracking Sea, and even he couldn’t get me. Suck it, uncle Poss. But jubilation was out of order. I saw Gaia’s heart and realized that I was…

Next on the Secret Diary of Kratos: Inside My Grammy’s Boobs

The Manila Bulletin...

2010-04-03T17:42:00.000-07:00

...has some breaking news for us.

Meet Simone Rinoa

2010-04-01T05:34:00.000-07:00

Donna ~~Rasal~~ Lampa postulates that no person, event, deity, concept, etc. exists until he/she/it/ has some type of online presence. So I'm going to take a precaution or two and defend Simone Rinoa against some type of Back-to-the-Future-type paradox that keeps her from existing.

So anyway, that's her on the left, jamming.

And below, that's something she's apparently very passionate about. I tried it and frankly, I don't get it.

Update: Linking to her albums.
Peyups
Rollin'
Gerber Thingy
Birth of the Social Smile
Baptism (Courtesy of Paul Mata)

Oh, Mang Larry's...

2010-03-30T18:45:00.000-07:00

Mang Larry's isawan is a good place in UP for really bad stuff. If you're into roasted pig ears, deep fried chicken intestine, or makeshift microphones, you should really check the place out.

Anwyay, Mang Larry apparently has quite a business going - the place is typically packed, and they now offer shakes, shedding off some of that exclusive isaw aura.

But it's still a little jarring when you head over to a nice little isaw cart, place your order, (order!!!) settle on your favorite rock, sidewalk, or jeep, and you get asked...

Dine in o take out?

I know business is booming and all, but, uhm, where?

The Mannequin, much?

2010-03-28T00:51:00.000-07:00

Hack 1: I know, I know. We could pay people to carry billboards on their backs! Moving billboards for the win. We’ll flood the Ortigas area…

Hack 2: Shomen actually beat us to that, those shameless batstards. But I like the way you think. Anyway, what if we took a giant speaker, put it on a truck, and just blasted out the marketing message like there’s no tomorrow?

Hack 1: Pretty sure that’s illegal.

[Silence]

[Laughter]

Hack 1: So, anyway, I think San Miguel beat us to that. What if, what if, we made real people pose as mannequins, so we’d have mannequins who blink, move slightly…

Hack 2: That just might…

Facebook and Game-changers

2010-03-26T22:39:00.000-07:00

Most events take a while to influence the world, but on rare occasions, a few manage to polarize or demolish opinions; to change frameworks in an instant; to let people know that the world is one way today, and the next time they wake up, the world is another way.

August 6, 1945, was one instance. The world changed that day. Up until then all the hubbub had been about a science nut named Albert who studied light and had a penchant for saying nothing in reality is absolute. Then, Hiroshima happened. It's not that the technology wasn't available before - nuclear technology has been studied since a lot of people figured out that the science nut was dead on. But on August 7, 1945, everybody knew for a fact that a nuclear meltdown was possible, and people woke up to a different world.

Up until April 26, 1986, nuclear power was a relatively safe power source that was on an energy class all its own. It was on its way to save the world by providing an energy source that doesn't heat up the world the way carbon-based power sources do. Then, Chernobyl happened. It's not like the risks weren't known from day one - nuclear power debates had been taking place for a while. But on April 27, 1986, people woke up to a world where it was apparent that a few corners cut was all that stood between power source and a major catastrophe.

Last February, we had another world-altering experience. Up until then, the most evident proof that people on the interwebs were morons had been the fact that MySpace exists. Okay, that’s pretty big proof. But still, there had been no honey pot – you’d have to check out trashy page after trashy page until your eyes had given out to confirm.

No more. On February 10, 2010, ReadWriteWeb wrote an article about Facebook – pretty standard stuff, saying that Facebook, like every other site in social networking history, preferred if you stayed there longer, with the site serving as a person’s main login.

And then, something curious happened. People started commenting that, and I quote, “The new facebook sucks> NOW LET ME IN.”

And it got worse from there. The seventh comment reads “I WANT THE OLD FAFEBOOK BACK THIS SHIT IS WACK!!!!!” Denial and anger dominated the streams.

Clearly, something had gone wrong. People flocked to the blog in droves, angry that Facebook had apparently become all red, angry that apparently, Facebook had become a blog, angry that they had been locked out. They expressed this with all the urgency of a crack addict looking for the next fix.

At a few dozen comments, some turned to bargaining.

Comment 113:"You reallllly don't want to know what I think. I was doing pretty good until now. I want a nice EASY login like I had before!!!!!”

Some greeted the change with depression.

Comment 353: “I wish I could find my facebook login.”

But then, anger slipped back in.

Comment 455: “WHY CNA"T I LOGING TO MY FACEBOOK!11!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WHAT IS GOIGN ON HEAR??????”

At last, after a grueling experience, some shot straight to acceptance.

Comment 873: “CANCELL MY ACCUNT!!”

But some refused to give up. They went on to fight the good fight, and you could almost hear their heart breaking.

Comment 2202: “OMG WHAT THE F? Facebook is my life, if this is what it has come to, I'm just going to kill myself... Why would they change it like this, it's terrible!!!! WHY CANT I LOGIN OMG.”

To RWW’s credit, they tried to stop the mess. They had a message, written in bold…

Dear visitors from Google. This site is not Facebook. This is a website called ReadWriteWeb that reports on news about Facebook and other Internet services. You can however click here and become a Fan of ReadWriteWeb on Facebook, to receive our updates and learn more about the Internet. To access Facebook right now, click here. For future reference, type "facebook.com" into your browser address bar or enter "facebook" into Google and click on the first result. We recommend that you then save Facebook as a bookmark in your browser.

But by then, it was too late. The juggernaut had started rolling, and there was no stopping it. On February 10, 2010, we created the world’s largest pool of potential Nigerian scam targets, and for crying out loud, it’s what the Internet was made for.

Join the party at comment 2261.

Fire Drill at the Orient

2010-03-25T15:03:00.001-07:00

There are two kinds of employees. Those who change the world or build an empire, and those who attend fire drills. Yesterday, I found out I was the latter. Bah! Humbug!

Jeff Pe Benito, Author of the Dos Palmas, Baby

2010-03-22T09:40:00.000-07:00

In Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote, Borges' character argues that even though the fictional Pierre rewrote Don Quixote word for word, the the second story was vastly superior to the first, because of context. The world has changed, as did the meaning. Metafiction?

Bleh. Welcome to the 1930s, where they didn't take concepts far enough. What if the same author rewrote everything, word for word? Would there be meaning? Would one be superior to the other? Would anyone... hey, where'd everyone go?

Anyway, to take the concept and twist it until it's meaningless...

I just came back from Dos Palmas, home to an array of things you will lose yourself to - a magnificent mangrove beach, a plethora of Rico Yan references, and souvenir items that declare, “God created women and pearl as well.” And as with so many of these trips, the story starts out with the airport, where we arrived after using up enough batteries on digital cameras to run a small village.

The Palawan airport, we would later learn, is a place for contemplation, a respite clearly designed to take your thoughts off of stress, or take them off altogether.

The Palawan airport battle cry against stress reads,

Try and relax the soothing massage
Of blind masseurs,
While waiting your trip!
It is for rajuvination, it releases stress

But the point is, airport. The place is supported by a fee travelers pay, money they use to tend to the cobwebs by the seats and - and this is what I really like about that airport - the guy who walks over the roof, holes on the ceiling and all.

From there, we took a bus ride and basked in the glory of Palawan, complete with a very enthusiastic tour guide. “The specialty food around these parts is... well, there’s really no specialty,” she began, and it dawned on me that it was going to be a long haul. “Notice how clean the place is. Palawan was voted cleanest city in 1994, 1995...”

About an hour and an MP3 session later, we arrived at the ferry dock, a small place with a thing for bathroom use. The comfort room sign reads,

TAKE-A
CR - P5.00
SHOWER - P20.00

After having taken a CR, and then staring at the sign for a good few minutes, I got left behind by the ferry I was supposed to be on, and the rains began to really have at it. I got on another one, and there was another guide, replete and bursting with tourist information. “That is the bat island,” she began. “It’s called that way because there are lots of bats.”

“MP3 player, now!” said my feeble, tourist-information-overloaded brain.

“You can’t see it because of the rains but that’s the Starfish Island,” she continued. “It’s called that way because...”

They were looking for me after the ferry finally docked on Dos Palmas, partly because the rains were really heavy by then, but mostly because I got left behind my designated ferry ride while I was in awe of the CR sign. So after the people from the office realized I wasn’t lost, just signage-inspired, we got to the business of checking out the beach.

The island is called Arreceffi - it’s a sweet little patch of sand and mangroves, and the beach makes some of the others I’ve seen look like a backyard picnic spot, and that’s while there’s vicious amounts of rain. There’s a range of things to do - we kayaked, played an array of beach sports, and watched the fire dancers play with, erm, fire, but we made sure we didn’t break any of their rules including - and this was on the tour reminders - not entering the restaurant topless.

On day 2, there were team building activities, physically grueling challenges that we journ majors refer to as “painful.” Excruciatingly painful, the kind that leaves you wondering later if oxen have been partying on your back - there was a four-way tug-of-war, a log race, and a range of other superb activities, and they warned us not to do “direct assaults on the marshals.”

We spent two nights in Dos Palmas, and there had been bottomless booze and countless cameras, concepts that are dangerous by themselves but taken together become monstrous entities. Want proof?

Update: It's amazing how many photos were taken BEFORE the vacation began.

Swedish Vid FTW

2010-03-20T07:24:00.000-07:00

This is one of the best viral videos I've seen...

Signs. Some can be legen... wait for it...

2010-03-19T21:01:00.001-07:00

...dary. Legendary.

The next time you head to Racks, remember, it's all "gud."

Yep. NO Keyboard Detected! Just... erm...

Watch out, there's falling... well...

They feel strongly that this should be illegal.

Jeff, who has seaweeds for brains, needs a life

2010-03-15T22:42:00.000-07:00

Sorry if this is not new to you, but I haven't been a member of Facebook for very long. In fact, I had viewed the social network the same with the same glasses that I had for, say, cockroach droppings. I know those things are there, I just didn’t like thinking about the subject.

Eventually, if anyone gave it enough thought, there’d probably be something to observe. (“those things look like black pepper?” or “did you know that image results come up first when you type in ‘cockroach droppings’ on Google?”)

But anyway, I’m trying to make sense of the whole social thing now, and man, have I been missing out. I mean, if anyone told me about what the news feeds read like, I’d have jumped on day one.

“X (or a random name, like Nicolas) commented on his OWN photo.”

“Nicolas commented on his OWN status message.”

“Nicolas has NO FRIENDS. Help him find people he knows.”

There are few ways to beat that in terms of making someone look like a complete loser, and this is something I am deeply, deeply interested in.

The thing is, these things are not accidents. They’re not missteps – they are calculated moves designed to make people more social, more cutesy, more actively engaged in commenting on anyone’s picture about the latest in flower-growth. And when those feeds are not there, people worry.

But then, what gives? If you’re Facebook, why pull your punches? If you’re willing to make someone look like a complete dope for not being social enough and not understanding the concept of captions, why not tell Nicolas that he needs a clue , and that he’s a complete dope who needs an IQ bump to get the concept of captions?

See, what facebook needs is a good subordinate clause. Or three.

“Nicolas, who is a knuckle-dragging jizz-wit™, commented on HIS OWN FREAKING photo.”

“Nicolas, who has the IQ of mayonnaise™, commented on his comment.”

“Nicolas, who has no life at all, needs your help finding friends.”

Bricks. N. Leaves. Anawangin, Baby!

2010-03-07T01:31:00.000-08:00

Roughing it.

It’s a trend that’s catching fire. Nope, not roughing it, per se, but the wording, although roughing it is no slouch either, and what you’d find is that as more and more people rough it, you see an inordinate amount of leaf pictures, shots of bricks, etc. missile-locking their way into your consciousness.

And the social networks – what did we ever do before social networks – have a nice little feature that emails people and tells them, “hey, your social network male-buddy-sorority-sister-daughter-friend has posted nice little pictures of bricks ‘n leaves, (BNLs) wanna have a look-see?”

Of course, male-buddy-sorority-sister-daughter-friend knows that if he/she/it showed you BNLs in person, literally walked up to you and showed you the latest in cement-drying technology, you’d show him/her/it what it would feel like to have an artery removed.

But he/she/it is not showing you the items in person, and the BNLs are not the point. The point is that what’s taking photos of these BNLs are powerful devices, DSLRs, devices known to capture details as little as miniscule blood clots causing cerebral aneurisms that block logic functions, including those that tell people enough with the leaves already.

But, anyway, roughing it. Catching fire. Not the travel style. The wording. The staccato. On every. Freaking. Thing.

News articles. Blog entries. Micro-blogs. Micro-blog news articles. News blog entries. Random coughs.

The thing is, there used to be dignity in staccatos. And DSLRs. And bricks for that matter, but that was before people collectively figured they should point their cameras at them saying “look at me, looking at this.”

So for all of you posting more leaves and more bricks, let’s take a moment, and celebrate all your leaves, and all your bricks, and how the synergy of the forms encapsulate not just the considerable beauty of those items, but the perspective of the brilliant artist behind the lens that makes rendering that beauty possible. And let’s further rejoice at the defamiliarization that occurs with the otherwise ordinary object, now immortalized by your perspective, like it has undergone object apotheosis. Really, let’s celebrate it here. And then stop.

Because we’re happy that you captured the beauty of your 4,387th leaf, but like it’s been said by other bloggers, it just forces us to think about what you’re compensating for, and how small your penis must be. And we’d prefer not to think about your penis. Really, we’d rather not.

Anyway, with that out of the way, we went to Anawangin last week for beach-drinking, leaf-photographing action. Anawangin looks like one of those places you’d see in monster flicks – it’s an island with a forest right next to the beach, and at night it gets pretty dark, close to pitch black. There’s no electricity, and you can either sleep in the open or inside a tent. Think LOST, minus the polar bears and time travel.

Now, if you’re looking to go there, here’s the least you need to know:

They have a lighthouse, and most tours recommend it. Not. Worth. It. You can get the same experience as going there by running up and down your favourite stairs five hundred times, and then shooting some photos of bricks at Intramuros.

They have a separate beach, Camara, recommended if you want to swim. Not. Worth. It. The beach is rocky, and the view isn’t exceptional. You can get the same scrapes you’d get there by falling off a ditch. You can get the rock photos from Manila Bay.

They have a nice little camp where you can set up tents by the beach. Best. Drinking spot. Ever. Camp is like the environment equivalent of Quinito Henson – a string of really bad clichés. Think breeze blowing away the cares of the world, with the stars lining up to make the experience right, with the sand caressing your feet and blah, blah, blah. To get the same experience, at a minimum, I’m pretty sure you’d have to do several Vicodins.

Photos here.

San Diego, baby! Sagada, baby! Columb... erm... (Part 2 of 2)

2010-03-06T21:22:00.000-08:00

Shortly after the Sagada trip, the company sent me to the US for slightly over a week. It was a quick trip, but it felt longer. It consisted mainly of me

a) freezing over, and
b) watching people navigate using GPS systems that never shut up

Those blasted UPS systems are amazing. They command you, demand things from you, basically tell you you’re an idiot when you don’t follow it’s directions, and sometimes even when you do. “Turn left in three meters,” it would say. And there’s a wall to your left in three meters, so you opt to, well, not go left. “Recalculating,” it would say, with some scorn. The device continues to say that for the next five minutes, before it tells you to turn left off of a bridge and onto nothing.

If you’re built to withstand the GPS onslaught, you’d find that San Diego is a really nice place. Offices next to beaches, quick access to everything, wide roads, great restaurants, and lots of places to go see. Columbus was…

Oh, look, gotta go. But pictures ahead.

Blog Entry San Diego, baby! Sagada, baby! Columb... erm... (Part 1 of 2)

2010-03-06T21:21:00.001-08:00

I’ve been on what is, for me, a bit of a traveling spree. It started a couple of months back, when we went to Sagada, a quaint little town where the people appear to be from a bygone era, the views appear to jump out of postcards, and shopkeepers appear to be on crack half the time.

The town is proud of it’s heritage, with all the subtlety of a jackhammer - you get a sense, when you’re there, that everybody’s proud of this place on a scale that doesn’t even register on your system. They talk about the history of the place with a confidence that you rarely see, and they are very protective of that place. And there is much protecting to do. One restaurant, for instance, indicates in an obvious manner that there will be “no taking of pictures.”

No, it’s not “do not take photos IN here.” You can shoot yourselves half to death, and they couldn’t care less. There will be “no taking OF PICTURES.” People literally swipe photos off of their walls.

It is rampant enough, it’s so commonplace, that they feel it warrants putting a sign reminding people, say, stealing pictures off of restaurant walls is not very nice.

Now, if you’re wondering, like I wondered, what would motivate people to actually go into a small town, travel hours over hours to get to that place, and literally grab a photo off of someone else’s wall, I blame all of this on yet another proud tradition the place protects, which is pretty much doobie.

But the point is, protective of the pretty place, and man, it is pretty. It’s pretty around the Kiltepan viewpoint, which sets the standard for beautiful places where you can fall to your death. It’s pretty around the Bomod-ok, a waterfall several stories high that will take your breath away. Before you get there, that is - the mountain trek is over an hour, with hardly any flat surfaces. And it’s pretty around Lake Danum, which looks like it was sculpted into reality, and which, for some reason, refused to let rocks float when you throw ‘em at it.

Pictures ahead.

Next up, San Diego and Columbus.

Hear Ye

2010-03-06T21:20:00.001-08:00

This past week my earphones stopped working, finally settling the debate in my head that unlike underwear, you cannot use the same earphones for decades. It sounds extremely trivial, but I love those earphones; over the past year and a half, I have become increasingly reliant on that nifty little device.

“That is the bat island,” a tour-guide would say. “It’s called that way because there are lots of bats.”

At points like these, something in your head triggers. The brain has a way of coping, of course-correction, faced with this type of sheer lunacy. So you smile, knowing you’re going to be all right, and the people beside you hear a desperate rustling. “You can’t see it because of the rains but that’s the Starfish Island,” the tour-guide would continue, this time intending to do cause nerve damage. “It’s called that way because...”

Aaaaaaaand Coldplay.(Or if you prefer, Bonnie Tyler)

That’s the thing about earphones; you can elect not to finish that sentence.

So when my earphones finally gave out, there was some pretty heavy nostalgia, followed by a speedy trip to CDR King.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty happy with the way earphones work. Earphones are friends. You grab em, latch them onto an MP3 player, pull the cord and snap the earpieces on, and boom, Viva la Vida. (Or if you prefer, Total Eclipse of the Heart)

Tech stores are sporting a new trend, a dangerous trend, a trend that endangers the very fabric of technology. The items are called earbuds, and they are built for people who - saving precious seconds in the hygiene department - intend to clean their earwax while listening to music.

Here’s the thing - they work almost exactly like the earphones do. You grab em, latch them onto an MP3 player, pull the cord and snap the earpieces on, and boom, the earpieces FALL OFF. You wonder about this for a second, your brain going, and I’m quoting in verbatim, “huh.”

So you pull the cord and snap the earpieces so close to your eardrums that any form of movement will cause deafness, and hope that you remember never to, under any circumstances, keep the earpieces within 20 feet of any surface, unless that surface for some reason requires globs of earwax.

I say this is an outrage. I say we stand up to this before the gadget encroaches our very primal need to not listen to people talk about their bowel movements. Or to pretend to be listening to music while actually taking notes. What do you say? Come again?

The vaguest entry in the history of entries

2010-03-06T21:18:00.001-08:00

I’m not going to talk about what I’m talking about because talking about what I’m talking about entails talking about what I’m talking about in a way that I can’t talk about it. But if, through reading that, you’re thinking, “he’s yammering like crazy so it must be kind of important,” then you’re right, and you’re probably thinking about what I’m thinking about, and you’d know that I’m really, really happy right now.

Dos Palmas, baby

2010-03-06T21:17:00.001-08:00

I just came back from Dos Palmas, home to an array of things you will lose yourself to - a magnificent mangrove beach, a plethora of Rico Yan references, and souvenir items that declare, “God created women and pearl as well.” And as with so many of these trips, the story starts out with the airport, where we arrived after using up enough batteries on digital cameras to run a small village.