Public Domain

Like he wasn't hot enough the first time...

Luke Walton will be included in People Magazine's 50 Hottest Bachelors.

I wonder if he has a publicist, or if it's the Lakers' publicists idea to do this? I've long lost my belief on things such as these when I found out how much of this really is publicity as opposed to truth.

I remember Jay McInerny (author of "Bright Lights, Big City") saying in an interview that his publicist was lamenting that she couldn't put him on some prominent magazines hottest bachelors list because he'd just gotten married. That he should sort of go clubbing more often to be seen.

First off, I can't believe that a writer would need a publicist. Second, that a writer needs that much build-up that he should land in the Hottest Bachelors list of anything.

Now it's sports stars. Gone are the days when they just play, now you have to cater to the media too.

A few interviews stating a little about homelife should be fine, but a publicity move such as this one...what will they be selling next? Underwear for Calvin Klein?

I remember when Jordan was just a baller and not a franchise. Now when you think about him, it's hard to not associate him with his shoes. Or his movies. Or various other endorsements.

So what will Walton do next? I wonder if LA Gear--which he already endorses--will come up with a shoe named after him. Or put him in a movie. Mineral Water commercials? Cosmo's hottest hunks? Seventeen mag profile? Or just that Calvin Klein underwear ad?

Things you didn't need to know

So Luke Walton swims naked in their pool while his dad is being interviewed...by the New York Times no less.

That's a picture I could use to help me with my cosmo book.

That Britney Spears has the hots for Luke Walton...

Must she grab every hot guy on the planet? Not that I ever liked Justin Timberlake (somebody shoot him. PLEASE) I thought she was annoying when she was younger and still cute, but when she grew up to be a slut...when are we going to get her off the airwaves?

Two nights ago, I saw her MTV--Toxic--for the first time. Not to see her, but to see Martin Henderson (think: Noah from The Ring) whom I learned had a small cameo.

It's interesting to see how the blondes of the revival bubble era of the late nineties grew up and became...girls.

Christina Aguillera fought her cutesy girl image and finally let the genie out from the bottle and revealed that she'd always been Avril Levigne. Or rather, a skank. At least she can sing. In the war between Britney and Christina--which should now be moot--she always won in my book, even with the cutie songs. You really have to give points to the girl who has good vocals and actually compeses her own songs.

Britney...will hound us in our elevators in the future. Hers will be the voice that you will annoy you as you stand in line at the store, at the bank, on the phone just after you've dealt with machines and foaming at the mouth as you wait for human contact. There's a reason why Simon Cowell hates her. Heck, it's so obvious why everyone hates her...come to think of it, I don't think I know anyone who likes her...

My mom, who saw the video with me, asked me why she was doing all these "things". I told her that her fanbase had grown up and she had to grow up with them. "So her fanbase turned out to be prostitutes?" she asked me. And I had to say "No ma, and don't say that. The prostitutes would be insulted."

Then of course, we have the two runner ups: Mandy Moore and Jessica Simpson. Those two are the poster children of synthesized and repackaged bubble gum pop.

Mandy Moore is finally moving out of her singing days and branching out into acting, now only doing cover songs to intriduce to a very gullible American teen public who were bred on all things post grunge. Granted, she's a decent actress who could emerge to be a good one. After the Wahlbergs, I try not to knock Poppers turned actors until the curtain falls. Marky Mark got lucky with Boogie Nights, but to have Donnie crawl out of New Kids On The Block...now that's talent.

Jessica Simpson...must be having a blast in her head. Ever have those days when you think "Life would be so much simpler if I had been blissfully ignorant"? Well, that's Jessica Simpson.

She did a decent job in her own role in That 70's Show, but since she played a bubbleheaded blonde it makes you wonder whether or not she was acting at all.

It would have helped if she was nice or had some talent, but i've seen no indication of that in the show whatsoever. But all of that could have been cut out from clever editing--the niceness, not the talent. I could walk in any Karaoke bar here in the Philippines and find someone who could do a pleasant if a better rendition of her songs.

It took the public nearly ten years to finally get sick of Mariah Carey. And it took Mariah ten years to finally get sick and take a break--we were beginning to wonder if you were human.

Since Britney has a quarter of her talent and isn't even close to her in looks (have you seen Beyonce, girl?) this tour could very well be her last. And may we finally see her albums in the remainder bin.

Though after Luke Walton, I wonder whom she'll claim to want next? We've seen her ask for Kasey Montero, HRH Prince William, Colin Farell...maybe, just for variety, she'll break up marriages and go for Brad Pitt. Or someone older, like Tom Cruise. Or maybe someone younger, like that kid from Malcom in the Middle.

The sad part is, even though she's leaving, Britney's kid sister is growing up to be like her. The good part is, bubble gum is out, and soul, jazz, and classic rock revivals are in.

I'd rather take Glam Rock than another dose of bubblegum pop.

Beam me up

If you asked me what futuristic invention I would love to be manufactured right now, I would have to say: the holodeck, the replicator, the transporter, and sonic showers.

Clearly the four top choices for any sloth like me.

Forget warp speed, or universal translators, or hovercrafts. Their regenerators and tricorders to heal, diagnose or scam things. Heck, who even cares about space stations. Others can have it all, I am sticking to my inventions.

For the non trek people: A holodeck uses lights and forcefields to create photonic images/holograms of whatever it is that you want: people, sights, simulations. You can program the characters to think, the places to feel and smell the way you want it, and run life like simulations of any scenario. You can run things such as holonovels and actually be in--say, Vampire Chronicles, instead of just reading about it. You can even be Lestat.

Replicators essentially changes the molecular structure of any matter into anything you like. You can turn a spoon into a fudge sundae, or use energy to create ala pobre steaks seemingly out of thin air.

Transporters--trekwise, at least--break you into teeny atomic particles which they can beam down to a location, then synthesize you when you get there. Sort of like hitching a ride on a ray of very powerful light.

A sonic shower rubs you clean in under a minute using sonic waves. Every dirt in your body gone.

If I could get all these, I would probably never leave the house.

Create my perfect holographic environment, along with my personal harem, replicate everything that I need, take ten second showers that probably comes with an exfoliate setting, and in the rare times that I do get bored and actually long for real human connection, I can beam over to any location in the world.

...This is probably why I was never born in that era.

What brought this on?

Someone from my Star Trek Group (don't even say it) posted an article he found on the New York Times about a team of scientists being able to transport/teleport a beryllium atom.

If that isn't a sign of aging...

As an aside, transporting--or teleporting in physics--doesn't necessarily mean scrambling your atoms and getting pieced back togther. It's more of copying your atoms from this place and placing it on the atoms in the desired destinations. The original form dies everytime you get to be transported, so there aren't any multiple copies of you running around.

Of course, if you follow trek, tons of things could happen that will lead you to accidentaly have a twin...but we're not getting unto that. (And the big moral dilemma on dying evertime you transport. Oi!)

Anyway...

I keep wondering if my kids will ask me what a DVD is and laugh at why we all seemed to buy these tiny discs. Ten years ago, it was laser discs. Now they shrunk to a fourth of that size and can hold more information for a cheaper price.

My dad keeps telling me what an 8-track is...I have vinyl, I have tapes, but an 8-track is completely lost on me. I think it looks like an old, old Atari game cartridge. I don't think we--or my dad--ever really owned one. He skipped that one, so I don't know what it looks like.

I keep thinking back to my first PC--a colored AT&T that had a total of, I think, six programs: a game similar to Tetris, Wordstar 4 (or 6, can't remember), Lotus 1-2-3, and Word Perfect. I was 11 and I was ecstatic.

We switched to a clone when I was 13, but I still pretty much just ran on DOS shells until I was 16. When my dad got his PC and I inherited the old 386 clone, I was pretty content...until I needed to research and then it was all over.

I used to be pretty good with computers. In a way, I still know more than the average, but nowadays there's just so much that you have to know and you need a whole four years to understand something that could be obsolete as soon as you're through.

I just hope that I'll never have to get someone to program my VCR for me.

Circa 1980

I was just watching the Micheal Jackson special they had on Star World last night and found out I had a red Micheal Jackson Beat It jacket.

It wasn't leather, pleather, or anything expensive. It was a nice ultra-soemthing fabric thing that my aunt sent from Germany and only wore about six times before I got too big for the damn thing (I was around 5, I think)

It's now somewhere in the Salvaton Army, along with this black mock croc belt that I had with a huge silver buckle. Early nineties fashion. Damn, I loved that belt.

Ahem.

Anyway, yesterday we took my grandmother out for lunch in Malate (former bohemian haven and now yuppie but wanna be Frank Zappa party district)

Went out wearing jeans, sneaks and a tee (no make-up) and someone mistook me for a high school student. Which is great considering that the NBA first drafts are now kids my age.

KIDS MY AGE.

The 90210 bacth are now busy setting up pension plans, the cast of Star Trek TNG are now this close to collecting them, while the Brat Pack-ers are buying Ferraris and contemplating their life as they hit their mid-life crisis.

So damn, yes, it's still great to be 17.

Over and under...

I went to see my aunt again yesterday. She was a lot stronger, had more energy. I think it was because she had so many visitors, she felt like she had to rise up to the challenge of entertaining.

My auntie Rene and uncle Helmut were there, the family doctor/friend, Doc Jombee, and various others.

I didn't get to talk to her at all, so I spent most of my time there dozing on the couch or reading a copy of Thousand and One Nights that I brought with me. I've read the popular stories (who hasn't?) but I haven't read the classic, so I thought it was a good idea to finally crack a book and see the stories that were not Aladdin. Besides, those must have been some stories to keep the King up for 1,001 nights.

Not to mention get him to marry her for good.

Halfway through Jombee dropped by and we had a chat about fishes, my hamstring problems, and scripts. I asked him if I could interview him because a film about doctors is always a good thing. It's mainstream enough.

At the end of the day a priest dropped by and we--with the exception of Jombee--had to turn our cellphones off in preparation of the private mass. It isn't the first private mass held there (we've had more than our share) but it's the first time that i'd met Father Jim.

At first I was reluctant to go to mass. I haven't been to since the Holy Week. I don't know why i've stopped observing the traditions. Maybe it's because I still have a lot to sort out with myself. Or maybe because I just don't know how to start my way back.

So yesterday's surprise mass too me...well, by surprise.

Father Jim was an Irishman. An old Irish missionary with a soft voice, gentle sermons, and a prediclection to underfeed his goldfishes. His sermon was even perfect for a prodigal daughter like me (won't go into details on WHAT)

I thought it was just cool of God to send me an Irishman on the day that I was contemplating on going back.

Denial is not a river in Egypt

Yesterday, I met up with a friend atthe mall to eat and run errands.

We've been friends for eight years and for the past two years, actually meet up quite often. So in a way, I know how he developed from a young man and into this...person.

He's known for having a unique sense of humor. So unique, in fact, that nobody gets it. But it's okay. He's proud of his sense of humor, he likes it, nothing wrong with that.

...Except that now he thinks he's funny.

Now Funny is a serious word with me. Making people laugh is probably one of the best perks in the world. It gives you this natural high similar to when you donate your liver or something equivalent to charity. It makes you fucking happy.

But the thing is...not everyone is funny. Everyone can tell a joke, but not everyone can deliver it right.

My friend not only delivers it wrong, but he stays and expects a tip.

Not everyone is a comedian. When I was debating, my favorite round was the humor round, simply becayse 9/10, I could make people laugh. I've never lost in a humor round, and I am proud to say that I'm pretty funny.

But I wasn't the funniest person in the team--far from it. There are a handful of people who can reduce you to stitches. And the College of Science Debating Team is--hands down--the funniest team in our batch. Even the blandest of team members can crack a sex joke that will make you fart (though I think the humor lies in him atually saying it) but I must say that we have four or five of the funniest people ever in my team.

The humor ranges from dry wit to slapstick, to just that unique brand of hilarity that my friend and teammate Glen brings. I won't even try to name it.

Being exposed to this, my standards of being funny are really high, and my friend...doesn't even make it up the first step of the ladder.

Usually, I can try and extend myself to actually understand his jokes so that it seems "funny". But my patience with his humor has been running low as of late, and yesterday was an absolute disaster.

After yesterday, I'm beginning to wonder whether it was wise to have "tried" to understand his joke and given him a false sense of funnies.

He was trying to tell some girl this joke that he told me which I thought was somewhat funny, and she just...didn't get it. He's tried telling other people too and they...never got it.

I told him that the joke was a hard sell, that not a lot of people would have found it funny because it was unusual.

It doesn't help that he doesn't have good timing either. He'll make a really caustic remark in the middle of a serious situation, probably to try and diffuse it, that cause a lot of the people to just go "That really wasn't funny. What the fuck are you trying to do." He not only tells the wrong jokes at the worse possible times, but he is often late in telling it.

So yesterday, when we were on the phone making arrangements to go to the mall and he was telling me the situation with "the girl", I told him point blank "Dude, you aren't funny."

That's Grade-A Kriszia Bluntness for you. When I'm pissed, the only tact that remains is that shred that will keep you from killing me.

I think he was stunned, but he recovered fairly quickly. I've tried to tell him before that he over-extends himself so much that it frightens people, but he won't believe me. Yet he still fucking wonders why other people are...wary of him.

I told him that not everyone was a comedian, that at least he tries to be funny, and that was nice of him to want to make people laugh.

Things got worse--of course--at the mall.

My crab sandwhich was late in coming, and I was already irritated with the bad service at the cafe we were in. He made this joke about the people still going out to kill man that they were going to put in my sandwhich, followed by a maniacal laugh. A freaky maniacal laugh.

The guy has his own laughtrack and he can't even get that right.

The conversation was pretty much that way throughout the meal. Halfway through, we were making some direct jabs at each other.

He told me that he wanted to do macrame again, and I told him that I didn't like the hobby when they made us do a pot holder in gradeschool. He told me that I just got the knots wrong, I told him I just didn't like it. He suggested making a tapestry, when I told him that it wasn't really my style. I couldn't see myself buying a macrame tapestry, much less take the time to do one myself. He said that I didn't have to use it, I could just give it away, which was--he stressed--the point of making things. The joy of giving it away. I just blurted "And who would want such junk?"

Really bad of me, I know, but he came equally hard by saying "And you can never finish anything anyway."

Oh, but it hurts!

So it's amazing that we still spent an extra hour and half together, with me mostly eating.

Luis--who's met him and doesn't particularly like him--claims he's autistic and suggests an intervention. Since he doesn't believe me, maybe he'll believe it if I gathered a group of his friends to tell him "Dude, you care so much that it's scary. It's no joke. YOU are scary. And we don't mean it in a funny way, we mean in a Charles Manson kind of way. But we still love you for trying and we just want to help!"

But none of his friends are willing to try...or are just too scared to try.

G-Mail

I was reading through Wil Wheaton's website and read that a lot of people want Gmail accounts.

I didn't know what Gmail was, but as soon as I read that it was 1000M--read 1 Gig I thought "Holy cow, I want one!". But it turns out that it's strictly invite only.

I know that Yahoo has upgraded it's services and that I don't really need that much space, but I thought "Invite only? How cool is that?" It's like a nerdy VIP Pass.

Anyway, it turns out that there is this site called gmailswap.com, and you put your name on a list asking for some lucky gmail account holder to dole out an invite.

I went to the site, excited as hell, but first decided to read on what exactly GMAIL was. So I went and found out that it's from Google.

Oh, that Gmail.

As it turns out, I already have one. I signed up for the beta last May when it was advertised on blogger. I didn't know it was going to become "INVITE ONLY". I just clicked on the link because my Yahoo account was just...getting too crowded.

I haven't used at all since I signed and now I feel like one lucky ass that I have one.

So I am now trolling the gmailswap site doling out invites. SIGH! If only they were Lakers tickets...heck, if only they were coupons for free use of a nice 4 Echo Sony Camera!

Pop Psychology

My friend Karen would be happy to know that I am well suited for her favorite movie.

Though I don't swear that much in public nor do I beat people. We do, though, have "The Wrath of Kriszia", consequently dubbed as "The Wrath of K" since Karen has the same charm...luck...power...whateveritisitworks.

It's when crappy people piss us off and the collective retaliates for us. We just sit back and watch things happen.

The funny part is...we may be friends of the collective, but we are never part of it. We are always either advising them or have fun with them, but never be with them.

Anyway, this quiz is from Quizilla (thank you Dino for the link). As psych majors, I don't know how much truth is behind this. Seems too magazine like to me. It's fun though. And when you're bored, even magazine quizzes are fun.


Fight Club!


What movie Do you Belong in?(many different outcomes!)
brought to you by Quizilla

All my lonesome

I have the house all to myself today. My parents went to check on our property in Zambales and won't be back until later tonight.

Normally, I would have been glad for the solitude but today is one of those days when you just feel like...talking to people.

I thought i'd myself a break and just veg out and watch TV all day. But I don't feel like watching anything and i'm too wired to write. I don't feel like going out, but I don't exactly want to stay in either.

Hot and cold, hard and soft, and nothing in between. That's me today.

Anyway, I just got the first wave of responses from my readership on my "fanfic" and they are ready to kill me.

I did a cliffhanger--my first real one--and they are absolutely ready to throttle me. It's one of those "they could have finally met, but he looked this way when she came out and so they didn't".

Some have said that they were disappointed with the end, since I hinted that they'd finally meet, while others have expressed "please!" to make them finally, finally meet again.

I guess is they're ready to kill me the suspense worked. I mean, that's what cliffhangers are supposed to do right?

I suppose watching The Bold and The Beautiful for three straight days helped.

Since i'm "crushing" on Luke Walton and in need of some sweets, soap and mush, I'm thinking more in the lines of hormones than a change in preferences.

I had to skip going to my aunts and going out to the Entertainment Expo at the end of the world because I have the beginnings of a cold.

The funny thing is, "the book" is now beginning to read like a blog. I have seperate diary for it and everything, and I'm even writing about how I do research on the topic. The cool thing is that I will get to interview my parents. It will be nice to look at them from another perspective: that of a writer and a source.

My mom is nervous, and so is my dad but he's trying to be tough about it by saying "whatever".

I hate that my aunt and my dad picked that up from me. "Whatever". Kid term. Now term. DO NOT STEAL. They even have the eye roll.

Anyway, i've been struck with Grateful Dead Fever (thanks to Mr. Lakers #4) and have been loading songs like crazy. Though I prefer the ones that they did with Bob Dylan. Luis told me that The Dead was Bob's backup band, and there is really isn't much difference in their singing styles.

We chatted a bit on their careers and I tried to steer clear of a full discography. Some things are better discussed on the phone and not on YM. I also got a lecture on adding boys because "they're cute" and having them turn into weirdoes (more likes yappy bores, really) six months down the road. Kind of like Gremlins.

He suggested a background check while I thought I just have to meet more people.

Oh yeah, I finally found out the name of the shapeshifting alien on The X-files. Brian Thompson. It's not overly important, I just...thought it was cool to know. After seeing him in so many things and just thinking of him as "that alien from The X-Files" I thought it was high time I know who he is...

Anyway, I am hooked on the song "Stuck In The Middle" by Bob and The Dead, so i'm playing that over and over. I still have Luis' Bob Dylan 3 CD box set--which I have to be VERY CAREFUL--so that's also in heavy rotation.

My dad brought home all these compilation CDs of folk mush music: Kenny Rankin, Stephen Bishop, David Pomeranz...they're alright, but there's only so much of them that you can take. There's a Best of the 60's mix that my mom is particularly obsessed with, mainly because it's got every song that they played on every mixer she attended in HS.

I find it weird that she still remembers the song she and her senior prom date danced to: Faded Photographs. I have one dance with JP during my senior prom and I don't even have a clue as to what song was playing.

I do remember that we talked a lot.

Anyway...i'm bringing in some rock--even though it's 60's and 70's rock in the house just to break the monotony. My parents don't like Linkin' Park and besides Ben Folds Five and Cake, they are the only (modern) band that I really listen to right now. Maybe Coldplay...

...

I really do need to get out and meet more people. Or better yet, I need an honest to goodness vacation where I can get out, meet new people. Somewhere far and cold. No big cities though. Sick and tired of cities.

Another day at the beach

I wrote--of all things--Chapter 14 of my fanfic.

Thirteen pages, the longest so far. It's annoying that inspiration for today came to my fanfic, and not some of the other projects that I need to work on.

I did find a nice premise that I might turn into a short because of it.

Put together, it may not be the best story there is. The chapters are written in so different styles that it comes off as episodic more than one long story. Which was my point anyway: to see if I could write consistently about certain characters if ever I needed to write for a telenovela.

I lack the histrionics that's needed to make a teledrama--maybe because I know what it's like to really be clinically fucked up and have things that don't happen to other people happen to the people you know or sometimes YOU.

Anyway, one of the writing styles I used sparked some inspiration and viola. Theme for a short pops out.

Now all I have to do is flush out a storyline. It could be an episode for that TV show I wanted.

But first, I have to go back to work on the book. My mom has already asked for updates, since my aunt isn't doing very well.

They're contemplating stopping the radiation treatments, since it may be prolonging her life but it also drains her energy. What good is a few more months if you can't live it?

Life is both complicated and easy nowadays. Sometimes it's easy to just go "I luve Lukie Walton XOXO" and be that ditz and just not care. That crush is probably the most normal thing in my life right now which is probably why i'm hanging onto it.

I wasn't kidding when I told myself that I would face a lot of adjustments for this year. For some reason, all the big things always happen every quarter: March, June, September, and December.

Oh well, here's to inspiration.

Need help?

Stumbled on a pic of Luke Walton on the cover of ESPN magazine. Shirtless in jeans, with the words Wild Child on the caps.

I felt like taking a cold shower.

There was also a pic of him and James Gardner with their girlfriends after the draft.

Worked better than a shower.

That's the way it is

The pistons have won it 4-1! New record! The only time a game has been won 4-1 on the hometeam!

Yay Detroit!

WTF are you doing?!?!

Okay, so it may be cheating, but I get my sappy inspiration not from novels or TV but from fanfics.

X-files were pretty good (very creative, good smut too...though I probably shouldn't have said that), Trek is okay, though few can hold a candle to The Files, and now I am currently reading up on Star Wars.

The Philippines is--and forever will be--Star Wars country. Maybe it's because three movies where the underdogs held a lot more weight than space faring people in a TV show, maybe they identified with Chewy, or the amount of skin showed by Leia (and later Amidala) is more than all the Trek TV shows and movies combined...I don't know.

I'm not a huge Star Wars fan, but I do love the movies. And I--deep breath--do not find anything wrong with the prequels.

Before you break my bones and stew me, let it be known that I did not go inside the theaters as a nitpicker nor was I there to review the merits of the damn thing. I was just there for the story, and though I didn't find both prequels riveting, I was at least entertained.

I think the duel between Master Yoda and Count Dooku was the best fight scene of all time.

We have a copy of it (el papa bought it) but we still saw it when it aired on Star Movies a few days ago.

The whole Anakin and Padme thing just gets to me. Maybe because Hayden Christensen and Natalie Portman have such great chemistry.

Plus, there's lot of Ewan there to watch, too.

But just in case I am beginning to sound too saccharine, I was mainly there to watch the story. I am already at the edge of my seat in anticipation on how exactly Anakin turns. Or how Padme or Mace Windu dies.

And crossing my fingers for another Yoda-action.

And since I was riding on a Star Wars high, I decided to check out some nice An-Ami (that's Anakin-Amidala romance fiction for you) fanfiction.

I know...I know slasher fic exists. Heck, I've read Tom Paris/Chakotay or Picard/Riker, even Kirk/Spock. The weirdest so far is Walter Skinner/Fox Mulder. It's not my preference so I don't read them but I do come across them--a lot.

Much like it's inevitable to come across Star Wars SLASHER fic.

Han and Luke? Obi-Wan and Qui Gon? ANAKIN AND OBI-WAN?!?!

Now that is just not right! You can toy with the 24th century populace of Trek of even the X-Files, since heaven knows weirder things have happened in that show than two guys having a go.

But you mess with the Jedi Order and that is just...wrong.

It's just...why? Something about it just seems sacriligous somehow. I don't know why this particular show bothers me more than the others. It seems homophobic but...why? It's the JEDI COUNCIL!

They can't even form relationships, much less turn gay!

This way of living...

So the Piston's are up 3-1. It was yesterdays news but JP and I only managed to talk about late last night.

We're both rooting for the same team, but just like a guy he's miffed that I am hooked on the game because of "a guy".

Luke fouled out, but he was still cute. JP thought it was pathetic, and I am beginning to get sick of myself, because I was just looking at a site with pics of him and reading comments from girls all over saying "LuKe, you are juz so Hot! Tsup!"

Uh-huh.

Know what? Maybe I will just be sticking to watching TV. After looking at the site, I'm beginning to think groupie. And what would that do to my sparking Daria reputation?

He told me that he hated my hair. I told him that it was okay because I hated his hair too. He smiled and blew me a kiss which he followed with a raspberry. See? That's why I love this guy.

Barry white was playing in the background and he was trying hard not to laugh as I yelled "Look here Japes! Look at the bunny!".

This was my fav pic of him that I took. I thought he looked like William McNamara--only darker and fatter.

Little Bro

He'll probably kill me, but these are the pics I took of JP last Saturday. It's a little dark, but it wasn't like that in Adobe Photoshop.

He doesn't have a good smile, but he does have a pretty good brooding look. This was payback for all the walking he made me do. I was surprised that he was so cooperative, but then again, with Mark and JP you'll never get bored.

Mark is a lot harder to shoot, but he does take a lot of self-portraits.

Not bad for my two big brothers.

What Five Days?

It's been a really long time since I felt like five days aren't enough.

Since some of my weekends have sometimes become "work days", i've often gotten confused as to what day it is and the days agenda. Even with my calendar, there are instances that I manage to switch meetings with people. All of us have learned our lessons and now they just call ahead to "remind me".

My mom and I had this argument on my not being able to 'do things on my own' for the house. She has this specific way of cleaning which she thinks I've picked up by mere genetics and keen observation. She didn't see the point why she needed to write some chores down, or remind me once in a while to crawl out of my room and do 'stuff' like look at the garden, notice that new vase, or...eat.

I told her that if I needed to write the things I needed to do, then she can very well bet that I wasn't going to remember her nit-picky instructions.

I often feel annoyed that I am such a...scatter brain. To say that I "have my head in the clouds" is an understatement. I am happiest when I just sit there and think, letting ideas flow through me; ecstatic when I get the chance to write them down and see them.

But the thinking phase is my favorite. Where an idea will just settle in I get this spark and I end up calling all my friends and going "Hey, what do you think of this idea?"

The working phase...needs a little bit more working.

I should have a full week, especially now that I have to take care of my aunt for two days of the week. Researching her material should also take one or two days for every week, depending on how many people I need to interview.

The key, I think, is time management.

Once I establish my momentum, I should be fine. I do my best when I am busy, and just fall flat when there is very little to do. Stress--at least, work related stress--has always been my motivator.

I just don't know how to manage all this. I feel like if I don't write it all soon, someone will come up with the idea and it'll be all over. It's done. It's like having an invisible deadline.

Oh well, the things you do when you love your job.

The Big Shoes

My parents and I went to see my aunt today, partly to visit and partly to help take care of her.

We talked while I was feeding her and halfway through I started taping our conversation. It was exhausting, since she was woozy from the drugs and I had to lead the discussion.

I was instructed to write the book at all costs. And since she already told a bunch of people to help me publish and advertize it, there really is no way out. I am doing this for her, more than for me now, and it's harder than I imagined.

At first, I thought i'd just drop in with my tape recorder and she'd spill out the whole story.

But after the radiation treatments and with her cranky and hurting...it's hard to just sit down and ask for an interview. I tried today, but she really wasn't up to talking about it. She was so tired that she wasn't in the mood.

Which means, I have to reconstruct the story from other sources, then come back to her to verify the facts.

My perspective in the beginning was find out the whole thing as I went along, with no preparation. I thought it better to hear everything straight from the horses mouth and not be polluted by much research. I haven't gone to the library or online for research. I have no clue as to the intensity of what went on during that time period, nor why it was such an import.

To me, it was the secret that everyone knew about. It seemed like we--the nieces and nephews--were the last ones to learn about it.

Now, it seems like I will be doing more research than I thought, and will probably incorporate my experience in the book.

We haven't discussed format, but my aunt--though in pain--is already rambling on how she wants it written. She drums it me like a lyric, and I follow it like a song.

It was an exhausting afternoon.

After her meal, I went down to the kitchen to fix myself a snack. My dad was watching Star Sports while my uncle was reading a book about saints at the dining table.

It was...surreal. All of us were there. Our family rarely gets together except during the holidays, but we're all pulling together for my aunt.

I settled in on the dining room table with my uncle, eating and reading a philosophy text that I saw on the coffee table, looking up once in a while to look into the game my dad was watching.

My uncle is one of those people who can answer everything in Jeopardy. He reads anything and everything. He's also exremely reserved, very quiet, and just keeps to himself most of the time.

The two of us get along really well, maybe because we both love to read, love photography, and I always asked him questions. And these questions turn into discussions, and I never once was afraid to tell him "I don't know".

One of the first things that you will learn in my family are the words "I don't know."

We'd be at the table during holidays and everyone would be at their own game of "21". Facts were thrown and asked, names were dropped, and financial woes were exchanged.

The kiddie table was not as knowledgeable but just as intense. Since our parents distinguished themselves among their friends, the expectation for us to do the same was awfully high.

At 12, you begin to feel the pressure; at 16 you start buckling from it. At 21, you turn to a panic when you realize that you are not up to standard.

A puff of smoke.

Which part of "Look up!" did you not get?

I told JP to look up. He did this instead.

Trying a freaky thing.

Too Legit

Technically, i'm a Knicks fan.

I know, the Knicks are gone. They have no new players and haven't been a threat for a long time. But in terms of sports, i'm a total yankee. Knicks and Yankee's for me, on yeah.

I've never been an athlete. In gradeschool, I tried the hurdles but we had some incredible runners and very little slots. High School, St. Mary's was volleyball country (we produced RP national team members) and I can't even fucking serve.

Volleyball was so ruthless in my school that I have now developed a phobia for flying balls the size of anyone's head. You don't know what it's like to be the unwilling receiver of a spike delivered by someone from the fucking national team because it's fucking required for PE. It's not fun.

But college gym basketball was fun, so that sort of lessened my phobia.

Plus, basketball is mine and Lara's bonding sport. We both like to shoot hoops while talking, sometimes even doing a little one on one.

So watching the NBA Finals (Go Piston's) wasn't exactly a chore. My dad and I tune in from time to time between shows to check out the scores, and usually stay on for the whole last half if the game is really intense.

Now I have a new reason to watch: Luke Walton.

Granted, he's not the cutest guy on the court (far from it, a bit scary sometimes) but he's definitely my type.

Sort of like, if he had computers skills and didn't play ball and just turned out to be a giant geek, I would still go for him.

I have a thing for the geeks.. I don't like masculine looking men, neither do I prefer those overly feminine ones that Brits and Japanese women go for. I just like...kind eyes. He sounds like he’s a good kid.

My dad thinks its nuts while my mom is convinced that I am entering a kind of neo-pubescent stage at this stage of my adulthood.

Going out more often, changing hairstyles, getting into clothes and discovering boys.

Only now, the hairstyle has been shorter, the clothes are getting to be a bit more expensive, and the boys have grown into men.

I think my dad is more annoyed with the fact that I am now eager to watch the finals because of Luke Walton than me going “boy-crazy” for the second time around. He claims it ruins things for him. Sort of like a little brother who thinks his sister has cooties because she now likes boys. You do not treat basketball athletes like you would the pinup boys in the pages of BOP. It’s destructive to their way of living.

As it is, he hates the fact that five minutes after Game 3 ended (way to go, Pistons!) I already know that L. Walton was born on March 28, 1980—which makes him older than me—was the star player at Arizona State and third in the draft.

Lara has her own “basketball weakness” in Vince Carter and a number of our local UAAP players, though Vince was her inspiration for trying out for the basketball team at Miriam College this first semester.

Good for her, since my only sport in college was debate. We were the only varsity team that got invited to Jocks Night and various varsity sponsored shindigs but were denied the perk of free meals from the university COOP.

Guess which perk I prefer.

Owing to my irrational obsessions, I keep wondering what Luke Walton would have been like as a debater.

I haven’t heard him talk yet, but I can imagine that him as a speaker would have been like listening to an oratorical giant. A 6’9 kid in a suit, passionately proving his case on globalization (favored topic of all). If his notes fell while delivering his speech, it would take a longer time for him to pick it up than most.

I would probably have to crane my neck when I look at him if he asks for a point during my speech (dream on, kid) I usually look at the desk and pretend to meditate, but if it were him askid I’d probably stare, stare, stare.

I already downloaded a picture of Luke Walton—a bust shot of him sweaty and smiling as he looks to a photographer during practice—which means I’m certifiably into him.

The only perk I’ll have from this is that all that watching will probably improve my game (I was a decent center, dammit) and it’ll irk my dad to no end that I am watching the Finals because of “a boy”.

The downside is that he plays for the Lakers. I hate the Lakers.

Shopping for Shoes With Boys

I went out with my friend JP today to go shoe shopping.

I'm beginning to think that the belief that guys HATE shopping is a myth, because all the guys that I know--with the exception of Mark--are meticulous shoppers.

JP actually offered to feed me at Pancakehouse just so I would help him pick out his new sneakers.

It's a funny quirk that the two of us have, considering that he has a girlfriend, but he always drags me along when he's about to buy him shoes. For some weird reason, he's never satisfied with a shoe purchase unless it gets my approval.

We met at the mall at around one o'clock, and he offered to pay for lunch. He bought me my usual power lunch at Pancakehouse--bacon waffles, tenderloin steak, and potato salad--just to prep me for the days event. He got the growing boy meal of sirloin steak, two cups of rice, and managed to down a taco (he told me later on that he was full and wanted to give me the taco, but didn't actually think I could eat more...he knows better know)

The meal itself was uneventful. It was just basically me updating him on what happened on the workshop while eating our meals. Me talking a mile an hour while he listened and chewed.

So it became some sort of mystery on why the two of us finished our meals at almost the same time (I took a couple of minutes longer since I had to polish a waffle).

Afterwards, he told me that it wasn't the bill that frightened him, but more of my appetite. Just where does all tha food go?

"I don't understand. You ate more food, yet we finished at almost the same time. You were talking most of the time, but...heck, I saw you cut it into little pieces. You didn't fucking gobble it up...How in the world did you do that?"

But before we could figure that one out (because I for one never question how I eat) we had to solve another dilemma: his shoes.

...

Now, shoe shopping is serious business for most women and I am no exception. But I am a fast shopper, so regular shoe shopping for me takes 30 minutes to an hour.


But if you're shopping for trainers...that's a whole different thing. My foot is a hard fit (I'm a flat footed supinator, duh) so I make sure that I get the proper shoes for the right sport for the right amount of money.

JP told me that he wanted shoes that he could play basketball in and at the same time use on the treadmill. A basketball shoe was out of the question, since it's not a good idea to wear them other than for playing ball. But since he wasn't going to be playing ball all the time and would most likely be spending more time running on the treadmill, I thought a nice set of cross trainers were a good compromise.

We--or rather I spent the first half of the afternoon looking at cross trainers that were comfortable, fashionable, durable and suited to his feet. I am extremly pedantic when it comes to choosing sneakers, since I know how easy it is to get injured by wearing the wrong shoes.

All that went to hell when JP just decided that he was going to ditch the b-ball, spend more time at the treadmill and would most likely be wearing his sneaks with his casual wear.

In short: quit the scientific crap and just pick one that's fuckass cool.

We were both tired from all that walking around (we did a sidetrip at the video store while he meditated on what exactly it was that he wanted. I bought "From Here to Eternity". Classic.) and I just dragged him for a round of guerilla shopping.

It took me 30 minutes to find the perfect shoe that would match most of the outfits--excuse me, clothes--that he owned (thank God I know his style). But that one didn't have his size, so we went to my second and third chose, which were both essentially the same shoe but different colors.

That took 15 minutes, but we finally, finally, bought the damn thing. After seven frigging hours.

One shoe for seven hours. I would say that it's him, but Luis spends above three or four hours whenever he buys his shoe. And he doesn't even take a girl and he already knows which stores he's going to, plus a clear idea on what to use it for and if it'll match his wardrobe.

So it's not just girls after all, guys can be shoe people too!

We got home, dead tired, talking about game four, the Piston's (he's rooting for them too) and Luke Walton: the merits thereof, how he's the spitting image of his dad, and I-can't-believe-you-have-a-crush-on-him.

He doesn't like the Lakers either.

He hung around at my place for a bit and I brought out my camera, taking some pics of him. I thought he'd be an interesting subject, since he's cute and he has that brooding expression.

Two hours of being moved and bossed, he got tired of posing and we both headed out to take pics of my street at night. The lighting was pretty good and I made him pose again so that I could add dimension to my subject.

It was an interesting evening that ended up with him falling asleep on my couch. I ended up calling up Mark to convince him to wake up and just go to bed--at his place.

See? Guys can be all-shopped out too.

Whoa, There

I was getting bored with the old template and decided to change to this newer, sleeker, and hopefully better looking template from Blogger.

This also allows me to post pics, which I thought would be more fun.

I'll be re-organizing the links since I don't go to some of them anymore, also adding a few and updating those who resurrected themselves from the dead.

Tell me if something bothers you and i'll see if I can work on it. The codes for the template are hecka clean, but they're a bit confusing too.

Man, I have to catch up.

And who might you be?

I was surfing for horror and thriller festivals today on the net, hoping to find some platforms to send our films.

Halfway through, I noticed on the entry forms that they always ask for the director's biography and never the writer's.

Now that just plain sucks.

Usually, it's the writer's that are stuck at the bottom of the barrel, which is ironic since everything starts with them. What's even sadder is that when the Story Writer is overshadowed by the Screenwriter.

The whole concept came from the story writer, but for some reason, the script was either changed too much or he was tied with another project so he couldn't do the script, thus a script writer was assigned to write the words to the story.

It just annoys me to hell that you lay awake at night just thinking of a good story, hand it over to some guy and he...well, he gets all the credit. I mean, it's his interpretation and it's his vision that you see, but stil...it's not solely his idea.

Oh well.

Hopefuly, when I get some paying work as a writer and save some money, I can take a course on filmmaking and learn how to direct myself.

But then again, horror is very hard to direct. It's a stroke of luck that I actually found a director who happens to be pretty good at this and is willing to work with the writer on set. That rarely happens.

Hopefully, the final product will come out very well and we'll do pretty good at some websites.

Anyone up for PAs? I still have two more movies in my head, and I have some directors who actually want to shoot it. I need all the help I can get with this.

Really, I am not kidding.

Prepping

I am scheduled for a shoot on late June and early July. And since I am also listed as a producer--the only producer--it means I have to do the prep work.

I have to find: location, equipment, and if my hunch is correct, do the foley work.

So as of next week, I will be in search of a high rise condo with an indoor fire exit (duh), preferably with a garbage chute (duh2) . Also, a nice digital camera with mondo editing capabilities.

We could do away with a home DV, but we've been weaned on the 4 Echo Sony DVs (200k, baby!) that we used at the workshop. The only friend I know that has it is Martin, who lives all the way in Baguio.

If i'm going to shoot there, I would use our family vacation house and write a script that would suit the area. Must take advantage of the mountains and the woods, and the creepy silent darkness found only in provinces after dark.

The director has already cast the actors, though we have no cameraman. The people we worked with at the workshop were tained pros, so I have no idea if we can pull off the same shots. With our luck, I might end up being the cameraman too.

Poor girl, not only do I make her run, but I make her scream in this short. The story is pretty freaky. I've pitched it to some classmates at the workshop and although I knew it was good, I didn't think it was that scary. Either I tell a good story or it really was chilling, I don't know.

Maybe they were humoring me.

Anyway, i've seen the actress that we've hired and hopefully she can scream. She was frigging scary when we made her a killer at the workshop short, but one thing I know, not everyone can deliver a bloodcurdling scream.

And "the scream" is essential.

We once had this oratorical contest (you would remember this, Xarra) when I was a senior where the whole class had to recite a play, poem, scene...or something. It had a cut to a scene where a blind girl was raped.

During the eliminations, we had a classmate playing the blindgirl scream. It had to be convincing, since our class didn't want to have any rape scenes (we were so PG 10), and the scream would have to provide a suffecient allusion.

And sufficient it was. Boy can that girl scream.

It was the most powerful, hair raising, bloodcurdling scream that I have ever heard. EVER. I think that's what got us through, her scream. It set the tone for everyone, and the judges were shocked into their seats.

Then a day before the event, she had larynghitis. She neither talked, sang, or screamed for a living, but for some reason her throat was sore mere hours before the main thing. She ended up joining me in the prop team (for the people busy with so much else and couldn't practice, since this was Activity Week for my school and I had 4 other projects to do)

Her last minute replacement delivered a pretty good scream. A decent scream. It was a scream worthy of her as a replacement. Heck, I can't scream like that, nor can other people.

But it wasn't as chilling, or bloodcurdling as...the other girl. When the other girl screamed...She had raw emotion behind that scream, and when she let it rip it sounded exactly like she was terrified.

Fortunately, it is not my job to motivate talent in any production, it's the director's.

Walk the world for me...

I re-read "Eric" by Doris Lund again, in preparation for my writing my aunt's memoirs.

Eric was one of those books that I never forgot. It was required High School reading for most American's, so it was included in one of Reader's Digest condensed books.

My aunt had a copy that my dad inherited, and the summer of 1993 was the year I read a lot of books.

I'd just discovered writing and was teetering between young adult books like Sweet Dreams and Sweet Valley High and the all the other books found through the rest of my house. I read everything that I could get my hands on that summer. I spent my days rollerblading with my cousin and the nights just reading and writing.

I was 12 when I got my hands on "Eric". It was the first condense book story i'd ever read. Doris Lund was such an amazing writer that I felt like I was there with them, desprately hoping with her family that Eric be cured of his illness.

Re-reading it now, more than ten years later, gave me a greater understanding and a broader perspective to what the characters are going through.

It's obsessive, but i'd cast Eric as Robbie McNeill in my head, since he was blonde, 6'2, great with kids, and interested in athletics.

That I was doing it for research de-sensitized me for the best of three hours. When I was 12, I was a basket case through most of the pages. I'm amazed that there aren't any watermarks as proof.

Now, having a sick relative dying of cancer and a picture in my head, I was simply amazed that I held up.

Not a day goes by that I'm not reminded that all this could be gone. Whenever I close my eyes at night, I know that there is a possibility that I may not be able to open them tomorrow. When I walk home, I know there is a chance that I may never get home. Crossing the street, I'm always aware how easy it is to get hit.

I told my dentist of an exercise once: Press your face to the mirror, then slowly retreat back. Then look at your world. Stop for a moment and think--that is a chair, that is a table, that's the sky and this is your hand. Don't think beyond anything but what you see, don't make any associations. Someone made all this possible, it isn't you, me, or any one we know in this earth. It exists, it is matter, and we don't know how.

But someone does, and he can take it all away again.

I think I scared him, but he asked if he could call me anyway. He was young, cute and impressionable. But after saying that, all I could think of was "heck, he dies too."

We all do.

In the book, Eric said something about him not really minding that he'd died at 22. He was sad to leave the people he loved, but he expressed that in a way, this was better than punching the clock for fifty years until he got his gold watch. That he'd done and seen so much at his young age than some people had at 50 or 60.

Sometime near the end, he'd asked his mother to walk the world for him. To see things that he no longer had the strength to see.

I already feel like i'm on borrowed time, but tomorrow I guess I'll be seeing things through my aunts eyes. And every time I look at something, i'll ask myself "will this be the last time?"

And just for a minute, just for her, i'll say "Nope. I have all the time in the world."

Shipping Out

Not for the first time, I am contemplating moving out.

The thing about living with your parents is that you have to go by their rules. And their rules are not always conducve to a writer who's concentration can be broken by the drop of a pin.

I don't know why other people can concentrate better than I do, or how some can just focus but I have a hard time doing both.

The only time I get to focus is when I write. Typing away at my keyboard or scribbling in my pad gives me the most unbelievable high. It's hard to be distracted from that and when I am, it hurts when that feeling is insulted.

I know they don't mean to, they just don't understand.

It's difficult to explain to some people how it is. The best way I can describe is that it's like living in a vacuum where you hear nothing but your own thoughts. There is a scene in your head and you hear a narration.

You have to catch that narrative and write it down without thinking. Edit later, write now. To correct them is to ask where they come from. You don't have time to bother with that, because when you do, you lose it.

It seems easy, and in a way it is because I love it, but it's frustrating when you lose the words.

In a way, doing this now is more like work to me than when I was at Ecogov. My time with my friends were great, but workwise I never felt like I was needed. Most days, I felt like I was doing a class research paper and just tagged along with whatever assignment was there.

It wasn't...work. It wasn't easy, but neither was it difficult. I never felt any sense of accomplishment, mainly because I couldn't figure out my role in the scheme of things.

Now...well, now I don't work for an office, I don't have a boss, and my assignments are mostly tentative (read: not sure how much money I will get out of it) but it's...well, it's work. I get up, do research, and write. It's hard, but each paragraph that get's me closer to the story that's shaping in my head is satisfying.

The irony of it all is that if I were still working at Ecogov, I could afford to move out.

Working at a coffeeshop, the best I can hope for is a roommate and the hope that I won't be as tired after my shift.

If it were me, I wouldn't want to work in a coffeeshop, but both me and my parents don't believe in handouts. As my friend Luis is fond of saying when I bitch about my problem, "You gotta do what you gotta do". I'm hoping that I actually make it.

The Happiest Place In The Mall

Rhem and I hung around the mall later today (or yesterday) as we both ran errands and caught up with each others lives.

He gave me a copy of Fedora Ver. 2 to replace my Knoppix and antiquated RedHat and looked around at our limited array of PDA's at the local mall.

I needed some rechargable batteries and rabbit ears, since I broke my TV's antenna and lost my cable when I moved rooms. I've been obsessing about watching the original Twilight Zone with Rod Serling and so I finally caved and just schlepped over to the hardware store to get my things.

Our mall just underwent a renovation, so the hardware store moved to a bigger space at the Annex. We hadn't seen the new one, so the two of us happily trudged over to explore.

I hardly go to the hardware store, mainly because I love it.

For some people it's The Body Shop, to others it's shoes, and to a great many it's the grocery store.

For me, the hardware store at the mall is like entering the video shop. I need it, love it, and I cannot go out without buying something.

I go in there, and suddenly there are a wealth of things that I need: batteries for every battery operated thing in my room, a new flashlight, those mats, aerosol paint for my next project, those cool bags that are virtually indestructible and maybe a new socket or bolt.

I love the hardware store. It's like being in a confectionary, you just can't get enough of what's in there. My parents are the exact same thing. I don't think i've ever seen them leave the mall without going there, much less buying anything. Once, my mother almost bought me a tent because it was on sale at the hardware store. My dad buys me little gifts from the hardware store.

Heck, my aunt's 18th birthday present to me was an exacto knife, extra blades, and a micro tool kit. I thought it was the coolest present. It was a great set, and I say WAS because my dad borrows it so often that he might as well OWN it.

Anyway, as soon as Rhem and I went inside, my our faces lit up (hardware store junkies that we are) and I immediately zeroed in on the flashlights. In my opinion, you can never really have enough flashlights. Someday soon, I will buy myself one of those pen sized maglights (in metallic orange) and stick to that. But right now, I am enthralled by those colorful plastic ones that just look like Maglights and cost 80% less.

There was some guy there doing a demo on a steam press iron, and for a moment we thought the TV was tuned in to the congress trying to open the damn ballot boxes.

The proceedings on how and when to open the damn ballot boxes has been elevated to entertainment in this country. Personally, i'm concerned, but watching them go through the whole thing in television is akin to watching paint dry. They suck (mostly because of that stupid Atenean, who the Jesuits are condemning by now, i'm sure) but they'll get the boxes open eventually. I just want to know who the next president it.

Though if they're having trouble prying open one of the boxes, I'm sure I can get them something to open it.

The hardware here at the mall always has something on sale, so the tools can go really cheap, and the cutters are always superb...

Limbo

This has to be it.

Currently listening to an mp3 of David Cassidy's "I Think I Love You." Yes, that David. The Patridge one. The one that sings, although the Hasselhoff one does kind of...sing.

I find the song therapeutic. The lyrics rhyme, the tune is campy, the message is straightforward, and the opening bars remind me of theme songs from shows like Tales From The Crypt.

I've listened to it so much since last night that I frigass know the lyrics to this song.

And since I'm in such a generous mood, I'm going to share my psychosis:

I Think I Love You
( The Partridge Family )

I'm sleeping
And right in the middle of a good dream
Then all at once I wake up
From something that keeps knocking at my brain
Before I go insane
I hold my pillow to my head
And spring up in my bed
Screaming out the words I dread ....
"I think I love you!" (I think I love you)

This morning, I woke up with this feeling
I didn't know how to deal with
And so I just decided to myself
I'd hide it to myself
And never talk about it
And did not go and shout it
When you walked into the room .....
"I think I love you!" (I think I love you)

I think I love you
So what am I so afraid of?
I'm afraid that I'm not sure of
A love there is no cure for
I think I love you
Isn't that what life is made of?
Though it worries me to say
I've never felt this way

I don't know what I'm up against
I don't know what it's all about
I've go so much to think about
Hey! I think I love you!
So what am I so afraid of?
I'm afraid that I'm not sure of
A love there is no cure for
I think I love you
Isn't that what life is made of?
Though it worries me to say
I've never felt this way

Believe me
You really don't have to worry
I only want to make you happy
And if you say
Hey, go away, I will
But I think better still
I'd better stay around and love you
Do you think I have a case?
Let me ask you to your face
Do you think you love me?

"I think I love you!" (I think I love you)

"I think I love you!" (I think I love you)

"I think I love you!" (I think I love you)

"I think I love you!" (I think I love you)

"I think I love you!" (I think I love you)

Diagnosis: Crazy

How do you tell someone that they need psychiatric help?

Really, how do you open the subject of recommending professional help to someone. I must have missed that day in school, because I cannot remember how.

I remember there being instructions on how to break bad news to a person gently so that they don't kill themselves soonafter, or how to counsel someone without influencing them with your personal advice, but not a how-to on how you tell someone that they're nuts.

Maybe it's because this is a job done on the other side of the fence (duh) and not a "psychologist" thing to do.

A friend of mine from way back high school is falling apart. Again.

In the ten years that I've known her, i've never known her to have a year off from the histrionics. She's that kind of gal.

Today, I spent close to 20 minutes telling her that she is a wonderful person and that she didn't need to go to enter the convent again just because she couldn't get it one with her boyfriend.

She was sobbing and drinking and breaking into a million pieces, and I was here Manila trying my best to will some sort of mental support all the way to Davao.

If only sanity could be grafted.

Half-way through the conversation, she sniffingly asked me why this was happening to her, since she wasn't a melodramatic person...

I wanted to swallow my cellphone and just laugh. Now wasn't the time to be blunt. She was in another episode and I didn't want to do anything to provoke her.

Once, a friend called me when he was placed on academic probation. He was drinking gin and going on and on about life and how it screwed it. And right in the middle of a narration, he suddenly said "I'm going to kill myself." then hung up.

Something inside me knew that he wasn't going to do it, but given his state of mind and me being just a kid, I went nuts anyway. He wasn't answering when I called back and I didn't know his address. I wanted to throw up with worry.

He told me the following day that he'd passed out right after he hung up. I smacked him for making me worry.

My friend was at her wits end, so even though the statement amused me, I shut up.

It's sad that I have to recommend she see someone, but she wasn't listening to me anymore.

She's got a 10% chance of having kids, she's probably frigid, and has a great fear of commitment. Which is expected since she came from several generations of broken famillies.

...

Just in case you're wondering, I do have friends with normal famillies, just not normal friends.

Our lives are exciting. I don't think i've ever been friends with anyone who was...normal, or never had anything extraordinary happen to them before they were 16.

It's sad that I should make it an example, because it was a very serious event, but when my cousin was whining about her nearly dying when she gave birth...it was pedestrian for me.

It was a grave situation, but to have seen my friends go through worse, to know my life and theirs...it was hard, but it was no longer different. I wouldn't say it was easy, or that I'm dismissing it as nothing, but...it's nothing new for me.

At least she had her kid, my friend won't even believe me when I tell her that she is still a woman even if she can't have any children. That she will not die of cancer before she reaches 30.

I'm sure the shrink will tell her the same thing, but having an office and diplomas on the wall should make her more convincing.

Again, it's not my job to put her back together, she has to do that on her own. But i've seen her press that self-destruct button so many times since we were fourteen, that I wonder if her life will ever get better when she keeps predicting that it can only get worse.

It's like an oraboros, a snake eating it's tail. She does it over and over again. I can hope that one day she'll finally find that someone that will convince her to stop, because that someone sure ain't me.

Scheduling

Had my meeting.

It was...interesting. I am now asked to write a feature length story--not a script, just develop the story--and a producer credit for a short and associate producer for a feature length.

Exciting news, but for a small company, being a producer simply means "helping to scrounge money".

A task that is, in the beginning exciting, but really is too much for a lazy arse like me.

Yes, I admit it, I am one lazy bum. I hate moving, except when I walk.

I despise going out, but love getting ready. I don't like having to go to parties, but do enjoy it when i'm actually there. I hate meetings, but I like the food (???)

Scheduling is a bit tough, because I also have to do "the book that will make or break my writing career" for my aunt (who is dying, btw), my "cosmo book",and develop the story that I pitched to my guru before someone else gets the same idea.

And have I mentioned "working for Starbucks"? Because I have to do a no-brainer because I'm not popular enough for such things as "Advances" yet.

To say I am confused is...an understatement.

The schedule...is not a lazy bum schedule. The schedule...is frightening me. The schedule...needs a lot of work for it to become a reality.

Which means, getting up early (earlier) and being punctual (that's a real word?)

Heaven help me, because I went away for five days and came back feeling like a different person. It's still me, but all these people who've suddenly come into my life make it feel so...different.

I'm hoping that things pan out enough so that I can finally--just finally--do what I want.

Stay home and write.

I just realized...

I just realized that I hate meetings. I have already cancelled one and have two left for this week and I absolutely despise it.

I also found out that I am, yet again, out of clothes. With the amount of going out that i've done and no doubt will be doing, I have to shop--fucking again--so that I don't fall back into the pit of jeans, a shirt, and running shoes.

Then I have to shop for a new bag to fit my stuff in--pads, index cards, camera, gunk for my face and assorted pens and notebooks. In short, a nice little ditty where I can pack my home office.

Also in newfound demand is a perfume and cologne--scents should match the mood, they said. Okay, so one for everyday, one for going out, and one for when i'm feeling sporty.

Just a thought, have they ever done one called "bitchy"?

First Loves

My little cousin Lara had her first boyfriend.

It would have been a cute situation, since she's only turning 17 and this is her first relationship and she's getting out into the world, etc. etc.

The bad thing is, she didn't tell us that she had one, and he turned out to be some psycho.

Shit that doesn't happen to other people happen to me, the same goes with some of my aunts, and now my cousin is learning the same thing.

I'm disappointed that she didn't tell us, but i'm not judging her for what she did. Heaven knows I've kept--and still keep--worse secrets than that.

What annoys me and even frustrates me is that she doesn't recognize the severity of the situation.

In most cases, this would have gone on without a hitch. Not all 17 year old kids threaten their exes and her friends when she breaks up with him, and they most certainly do not threaten slander through the net and even have the audacity to tell my aunt about it.

My mom told me all about this the day after I came back from the workshop, as soon as I'd woken up, been fed, and settled back into earth somewhat.

We were discussing the events at the workshops over some Mussel Chips (you have got to try those, they are amazing!) when she brought this up. My first thought was "I go away for a week, and this fucking happens?"

Of course, I acted cooler than that and just asked her what in the world my cousin was thinking for hooking up with such an idiot.

My mom gave me the details, but did not really pass any sort of judgement. Mainly because I'd yet to hear my cousin's side of the story.

It remained "The Topic" around the house, since my aunt has taken a turn for the worse and is in the hospital getting some radiation, and we had to worry about Lara's welfare. So "The Topic" brewed for two days before I finally got to hear "her side".

I took Lara out for pancakes when we went to visit my aunt last Sunday, and...what I heard really just...disappointed me. Annoyed me, scared the shit out of me, and just...opened my eyes to the realities that she is growing up.

For the past two years, Lara has sort of been my baby. If she didn't tell me what was happening in her life, I was informed by somebody. If she needed something, I knew about it and tried my best to provide it.

In those times that I lived with them, discipline was provided by me and I was pretty strict. She was easier to handle at 15 and even 16, but now...

Now...well now, I am dealing with a 17 year old who's hormones are zinging around with a mind that's somehow welded shut.

It took some clever interrogation from my part to pry the whole story out from her, and suffice to say neither of us were very happy after the facts spilled out.

Like any hot-blooded teenager, my cousin is into boys. Add her charm, her exclusive school upbringing, and this...naive attraction to the opposite sex, and you have yourself a catholic school girl newly sprung out of exclusive school jail.

If you came from an all girls school, you would know.

That she would put herself in a situation like that just made me want to reach over and smack her, for her not to understand the situation and learn from it...makes me want to throttle her.

What's sadder is that my mom and everyone else has given up on her. After this fiasco, and her recent rebellious behavior, everyone has labeled her as a flake. Actually, the words they used were worse than that, but I refuse to say it in reference to her.

That made me feel worse, their having given up on her.

So she's misguided, so she likes to flirt, the girl has no idea what the hell she is doing.

My aunt is 60, times were significantly different from when they were teenagers to Lara's time. Heck, the boys nowadays are different from the ones I met then!

I feel like smacking her around, just telling her that you do not just go out there and start laying on the charm to any idiot who gives you attention.

I myself indulge in a little harmless flirting, it's fun for a good time. But it frightens me that she would go into these things without using her head. With her, it comes naturally, and that scares me even more.

There is a fine line between teasing and getting raped, and you have to be careful not to cross it.

She is slowly getting to that phase where she is teasing, and I don't think she's aware of it. And that just fucking scares me.

She has to understand that you don't flirt to lead people on, that sometimes this hurts people. It amuses me and frustrates me that I have to be the one to explain all this.

It kills me that she won't listen, that this situation--which hasn't been resolved yet--does not scare her. That she won't believe me when I tell her how easily things could escalate, if the guy wasn't put under control.

And now I have to manage things from both sides of the fence.

I don't want my cousin saddled with some sort of reputation--not by my family, and not by affluent friends. I don't want them to write her off because she made a mistake when she was 17. This isn't the kind of mistake that you should live with for the rest of your life.

On the other hand, I want to make her realize the situation, of how things are and where they are heading. And I have no idea how to make her understand short of just being blunt and possibly shocking the hell out of her.

My cousin is probably the only one I treat with kid gloves, mainly because I don't want to hurt her. But if she persists on this irrational behavior that she is exhibiting, then I am going to have to put my foot down and be the vicious cousin turned governess again.

And that's the thing...I am just the cousin. I am not her mom, she is not my daughter, and it is not my job to be raising her.

But it still feels like it's my responsibility anyway. That I should provide better guidance, especially now that this is happening.

OPTIONS

For the first time in a long time, I have options. Choices. The oppurtunity to make decisions that will help me move my life forward in the direction that I want it to.

My life has pretty much been a conveyor belt since I left school. It was moving from one situation to another, just trying to get somewhere, anywhere. Maybe my life didn' seem as destitute to most people, but getting away from "day to day" and onto "the lesser evil" took a long while.

Now...well, now I at least ask "which one is better?"

Of course, it still a long way off from where I really would like to be. I'm not even halfway there. As Luis put it, I got my big toe on the door, so even if i'm not completely in, at least the door is now open for me.

It's strange, getting...here.

Writing for movies. I never once saw myself doing this. I mean, I saw myself writing, since I love it, but writing for a living? Holy cow, what a privilage.

Just the idea that people liked my work was great, to have them ask for my work...it's the best feeling ever.

So great flying aside...here comes the hard work.

I've got two script options for a short--for free, and a book option--also for free. Which means, I will be peddling my work for no pay for a couple of months and wait for the returns. Not everyone can be Stephen King or Micheal Crichton and ask for an advance, though I'm lucky that I don't have to chip in for the production costs for the movie and just have to pay for my own damage fees as I write the book. Hopefully, some rich philantrophist friend will see my suffering give me a lift to places (or allowance, I really need allowance)

Such is the life of the starving writer.

I still have enough in the bank to support myself for the next few months, but just to pad expenses and have some semblance of savings in the bank, I do still have to work part time in a coffee shop. Besides, the need for some new electronics has just gone higher.

I'm not in the stage of needing a laptop yet--at this moment, I just need a PDA with a lot of storage--but I can honestly say that I am at least getting there.

I'll be doing a lot of writing out of home, maybe some travelling. I still like writing on paper, but having to lug around my index cards and development notes and reams of legal pads can be...annoying. Which means, I have to save up to buy a decent laptop in order for me to work on the go.

Maybe it's their way of payment, but the director of the scrips i'm about to use has asked me if I could be on set when they shoot. Usually, directors hate it when writers are on the set, and so do most writers. It's usually frustrating for the writer when they see the dailies and it turns out to be completely different from the image that they formed in their own heads when they were writing it.

And the same goes to the director for when the writer goes to him to argue.

It's like the situation my friend had on his roommates for the workshop.

The directors class at the workshop had the good fortune of being able to room together (one that me and my writer pals could have used, since we were slaving over scripts for the better part of most nights) Or was it?

Two out of the four students had the egos the size of Voyager.

It was like rooming Steven Spielberg and George Lucas. Or Scorsese and Coppola. They could not understand each others (in their opinion, brilliant) directions.

It was hell on their roommates, but it was entertaining for the rest of us to watch. It's like Celebrity Death Match--live action!

One of them eventually got frustrated and went home, and the other one...well, he ended up facing my wrath.

Frustration is one of the worse emotions. From my experience, it's the only one that can make you feel so mad and helpless that you'd feel happy if you could chew off your own hand.