Back in 1996, Macky and I liked the Backstreet Boys. But we all know that like really is an understatement. We underwent that teenage hormonal hysteria together—you know, the kind where we saturated everyone within earshot of the BSB brouhaha.

It was even worse when BSB came to town to perform in a small bar (that was before they hit it big in America). It upped the ante of the giddiness to the point of annoying. But there we were, total underages who thought about lying about our age since you had to be at least 13 years old to get in. Now we can't stop cracking up about the incident where an 11-year-old Macky tried to get smart with the bar manager by telling her that she was 15. It was a relief that Macky's mom was attending with us, so she vouched for the behavior of two stupid sixth graders.

Spare me the embarrassment of having to write about how we behaved during the mini-concert. We loved the show. But we all know that loved is an understatement. Anyway.

I remember that Macky and I often wondered then if we'd always like the BSB (and yeah, Nick Carter). We thought about how we'd be as grown-ups, what kind of music we'd listen to, and if we'd like pop music at all.

Almost 14 years after that concert, I found myself in Macky's room as we got ready to go see BSB again—this time for the This Is Us tour. Sure, we hardly know any new BSB songs, but we thought we'd get a good kick out of the girlishness the night was supposed to bring. 

It's funny because when we got to the coliseum, most of the girls were our age. I'm sure they have their own BSB story to tell, and that we were there for the same reason: nostalgia. For almost two hours, Macky and I—along with thousands of other BSB fans—reminisced about the good 'ol 90's. I have always loved the way the audience sounds when they sing along to concerts, so it was a pretty overwhelming feeling.

After more than a decade, I finally got the answer to the questions we had then. We'd always be the giddy girls, even if we're already waaaaay legal. The songs—tied to countless happy memories about our childhood—have become so much more than the usual 3-minute escape. Sure, we listen to other artists now that are so unlike BSB, but I don't think we'd outgrow the emotions BSB's songs stir.

The Back Story. Any of my good friends would tell you that everytime we have a videoke party, the first song I try to find on the songlist is "Tha Crossroads." By Bone Thugs N' Harmony, no less. Seriously.

While I was often disappointed in my quest, eventually I got used to the fact that no videoke operator in his right mind would include that song on the machine. Luckily, I was wrong; one was crazy enough to do so.

And so it was, last Friday, as we gathered 'round the rented videoke machine to celebrate my sister's birthday, my cousin found my goldmine. There it was on the songlist, "Tha Crossroads," and along with it came memories of sixth grade. It goes without saying that I wasted no time in punching in the code for that one.

Despite the crazily inaccurate lyrics, I tried to rap what I could. With the four minutes of that spit-it-or-die song and a bottle of beer I cradled in my hand, I knew that that was one of the most skewed definitions of happiness I've ever had. Sweet.

After my birthday trip last November, I was pretty sure I had a lot to write about. But then sloth got the best of me, and before I knew it, February 2010 rolled in without so much as a "Merry Christmas" or a "Happy New Year" for TOL. This is the most inopportune time to write (I'm in the office battling several deadlines for tomorrow). But I guess I could do staccato updates starting from October 2009.

Quit job. Drank. Planned bday trip. Movies. Awkward. Job interviews. No feedback. Joined Contest. Whatthehell. Won contest. NAIA. Photos. Malaysian Air. Malaysia. Kuala Lumpur. Bus. New friends. Putrajaya. Youth forum. Petronas Towers. Nasi Lemak. Shoe shopping. KLIA. LCCT. Cried. Seventeen. AirAsia. Indonesia. Alone. Domestic terminal. Strangers. Friendly strangers. Free dinner. Delayed flight. Mandala Air. Jogjakarta. Nasi Goreng. TransJogja. Prambanan. Kraton. I'm not from here. Epic rain. Stranded. Becak. Minibus left. Detour. Another friendly stranger. Ojek. Without a helmet. Yikes. Birthday. Borobudur. Buddha. Wish. Interview invite. More friendly strangers. TransJogja. Adisutcipto airport. Mandala Air. Bali. Sanur. I'm not American. I'm not Thai. Ubud. I'm not English. Pasar Seni. More friendly strangers. Market. Batik. Rings. Beach. Another friendly stranger. Massage. I'm not Chinese. Possible ear infection. Denpasar airport. Batavia Air. Jakarta. Bajaj. Emporium. Fever. Paracetamol. Emporium. Bread Talk. MTV. Sleep. Breakfast. I'm not Taiwanese. CGK Airport. Wi-fi. Yup, I'm Filipino. Peanuts. Philippine Airlines. Singapore. Stopover. Changi Airport. 20 minutes. Airport bookshop. The Graveyard Book. Boarding. Philippine Airlines. Manila. Home. Dinner. Job interview. Writing test. Another job interview. Job offer. Wish granted. Christmas shopping. Wrapping. Christmas. Reunions. New year. New job. Deadline. Tomorrow. Should stop blogging. Now.

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A year. Blog. Wow.

*photo from Sarah Bautista

On our sleeves, we wear the best traits this generation could ever come up with: well-informed, open-minded, innovative, optimistic, and passionate. And while apathy and distance form the yang to our values, I am quite optimistic that we'll eventually get the majority to fall on the yin.

Last week, I was given the privilege to participate in the Youth Engagement Summit 2009 (YES2009) at the Putrajaya International Convention Center. Along with 50-plus Filipino delegates, I got on a plane to Malaysia to converge with almost 500 participants from Southeast Asia.

A few weeks ago, hopefuls logged on to www.yesasia2009.asia to share their thoughts on change. A short survey was all it took to let one's concerns be heard, and a handful of those who answered were given an all-expense paid trip to join the summit.

Truth be told, the initial meeting with the Filipino delegates at the airport was quite overwhelming. The Pinoys have this inexplicable knack for taking too many photos, and it wasn't an entirely mellow affair. Everyone was animated, and one could only hope that the energy could be carried over to the conference.

Fortunately, most delegates were just as involved during the summit. It was refreshing to see everyone so driven in their own causes; clearly, youth is not wasted on the young. The organizers flew in a stellar roster of speakers, and each had an amazing story to tell. Participants were given time to ask questions, and they did. Some questions even traipsed on personal territory—someone asked Facebook's Randi Zuckerberg if she was single—but it was all in good fun.

I'm sure that everyone had a different favorite speaker. Personally, my favorite talk was from Twitter's Biz Stone; he was just very casual and relaxed. I also enjoyed listening to Sir Bob Geldof because of his amazing advocacy. Moreover, it was cool to listen to David Magliano's narration of his pitch for the next Olympics. 

For anyone who gets picked to participate in the summit, the event could well instill a sense of purpose in an individual. I knew I was going to be part of something that had a potentially massive impact on various issues. While the thought was nerve-wracking, I knew it was just about time that I got involved in something noble. To be amidst a group of young leaders was an empowering experience; the hope for better things was written on everyone's faces.

There were no workshops for interaction, and neither was there a group pledge that one would expect after a conference. But I think YES2009 still had that impact on the participants, because we were encouraged to spark the change from within. One is presented with endless possibilities for the future, as long as one is able to harness immense power.

Saving the world would be too much to hope for in just one day; after all, we have countless issues to address. But then again, starting with oneself sure sounds practical and doable. And then eventually, we can get the rest of the world to join in.

In an attempt to make our house look more like—well—a house, my sister and I agreed to weed out all the excesses. Our inadequacy to let go of trivial possessions is most likely hereditary. I've been told that it's almost impossible to find a space to walk on in my 80-year-old grandmother's room. On the floor are countless boxes of shoes, plates, silverware and perhaps pterodactyls, I presume.

I, on the other hand, have a knack for holding on to small reminders: notes passed in class, sticker photos of acquaintances, calling cards of reliable hair cutters, the like. It wasn't really much of a big deal back then, but now I have more than a decade's worth of these keepsakes. As crass as it sounds, most of those reminders are now trash. They've lost meaning over the years because—to be honest—I've lost touch with some people I knew then.

This is not to say that I could throw all these mementos away without even flinching. I did find some notable pieces—notable because I could still recall the stories they represented. Nostalgia is bittersweet; it reminds me of how things haven't changed when I wish they did, and how things have changed when I wish they didn't.

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We had chocolate shakes that with marshmallows (yuck, I know). We barely knew each other then. That dire situation forced us to have late dinner. That one time. We haven't eaten anything the entire day, except pride. After everything was done, we had a gluttonous dinner. Just right before midnight. And then we we were inseparable. Until one had to leave. To 11:53. A paper cocktail umbrella.

The one I got had cheese on it. We spent an afternoon buying materials. And painting the cups. And filling the bottom with stones and crumpled paper. And filling the cups with small styrofoam balls. And pulverizing the chalk. And drizzling glue and chalk bits on top. And coming up with the most insane possible award categories. To great laughs. A styrofoam bucket of popcorn. 

It was so pretty, I loved it. A classmate gave it to you. But I loved it so much, you wrapped it up and gave it to me. For my birthday. I didn't even know if I should use it or not. Because it was so pretty and delicate I might rip it apart. I did use it a couple of times. And then I kept it in my drawer because the rip was getting bigger. To surprises. A Japanese paper fan.

The ride then was cheaper. I was a student. I don't know if I remember it right. What the hell. The seats looked like wooden park benches, and the wind slapped our faces to tomorrow. There was a late show. We didn't like waiting. So we had to ride that wheeling tetanus. On the way home, you made me laugh. A helluva lot. We said goodnight. You still make me laugh. To stunted love. A bus ticket. 

It was one of those sudden dinners. I was raving about this restaurant. We had appetizers with cheese. We had a main course with cheese. We had dessert with cheese. I was ready to fart. It was either the cheese or the laughing gas. It was the 20th—my pay day. You found that out. So you egged me that I should treat you. I did. To spontaneous reunions. A receipt from that restaurant.

I'm keeping my fingers crossed that they do, because I already got two.

(I rhyme, haha.)

For as long as I can remember, Tuesday has been my most favorite day of the week. Fridays made me to look forward to the weekend, Saturdays meant I could sleep in late, and Sundays allowed me to take massive naps before I started the week again. 

But nothing had the same magic as a Tuesday; it seems I have that extra spring on my step on Tuesdays. A Tuesday is, for me, the oddest day of the week. A neither here nor there day—not even a midweek that would propel me to get through until Friday. I can't quite explain why I love Tuesdays, and I'm not sure people would understand this weird penchant.

I got a great prize on a Tuesday. I woke up knowing that it was gonna be a good day, and I was right.

I met my most favorite person in the world on a Tuesday. It was like a zoom in, dolly out moment in the movies.

I was born on a Tuesday. I don't know if I entirely believe in the planets and the stars, but I am ruled by Mars—impulsive, impatient, passionate.

Blame it on strange juju, but Tuesdays herald memorable things.

Bayanihan (pronounced [bajɐˈnɪhan]) is a Filipino term taken from the word bayan, referring to a nation, town or community. The whole term bayanihan refers to a spirit of communal unity or effort to achieve a particular objective. (Wikipedia)

It's been two days since the epic rain last Saturday, and we're starting to see the extent of ondoy's damage in the philippines. Up to now, some areas are still flooded. There is a seemingly unending list of people that still need rescuing. The number of casualties keep rising. The term nightmare is now overused to describe the ordeal, but rightly so, because no other word is more fitting.

If there is any good this has brought, we're starting to wake up and shake the sleep off our eyes. Bayanihan—a concept most Filipinos thought was already passe—has filled the metro with hope. people have trooped to schools and other centers to volunteer; they'll be assigned to coordinate, pack goods, and ask for more help.

TV stations have started their own phone brigades to extend their help. a while ago, a station announced that they were able to raise an astounding P40M yesterday, and the help keeps coming. Regular folk have also been clearing their closets of clothes, and pantries of goods that they can give away to those who've lost everything.

There is still a lot to be done, and in two days we're expecting another typhoon. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that this bayanihan high will last longer than any morphine ever created.

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If you'd like to help, below are organizations that would be able to take your donations:

Philippine National Red Cross                           

for local donors:

text RED(space)amount  (send to 3899 for globe and 4483 for smart; the service accepts the following amounts: 10, 25, 50, and 100)  

for international donors:                                                  

american red cross: call 1800-4357669 (ask how you can donate to the philippine red cross or visit http://www.redcross.org.ph/)

ABS-CBN                                                                               

hotline: 416 3641                                                               

sagip kapamilya: 413 2667 / 416 0387                                          

no.14 examiner street, quezon city (contact: ms. girlie aragon)           

bank: banco de oro, mother ignacia branch                                  

account name: abs-cbn foundation inc.                                        

account number: 5630020111                                                   

routing code for intl cash donations: BNORPHMM ABS-CBN Branch              

abs-cbn foundation us office: call 1-800-527-2820 (toll free)   

Tropical storm Ondoy brought us the highest rainfall since 1967. It's been raining incess antly since last night, and the three-hour rain this morning was equal to two weeks' worth of rain. Cars sank under the flood, and water has reached as high as 20 feet in some areas, forcing people to take refuge on their roofs. 

My mom and my sister were stranded on the road and in the mall for 12 hours. My cousin and her husband were caught in a serious jam at the bridge. A friend's house was flooded, and another one was stuck in the bus.

The whole ordeal is a nightmare, even for me who was warm and comfortable at home with my two sibs. There were no tv signals, so we just listened to online radio stations to monitor the situation. We heard people calling the stations as they pleaded for help in the affected areas.

This is perhaps the worst thing I've seen since the typhoon Milenyo back in college (but that's another story). The thing with this though, is that it made me value the basic things even more. Having shelter, food, and a family everyday is automatic for me, and I take them in mechanically. It's oddly funny how I needed a scare like this to put things in perspective. As I write this, my mom and my sister are finally safe at home. It was a huge relief when I saw the car wheeling into our garage. 

Also, there are stories of people extending their help to the strangers by rescuing them on rubber boats or providing shelter. Volunteers are now stocking up on food and clothes to give out to those who've lost everything.

Tomorrow's another day, and here's to hoping that we'll get brighter skies ahead.

The long weekend was just what I needed to shake things up.

We spent the Saturday at Marvs' place to celebrate his and Benson's birthday. Marvs cooked most of the food, and all I can say is that he could have been accused of stealing all the salt in the sea. While we complained of the possibility of gout, the salt posed a huge advantage later when we started drinking; it woke us up just when we thought we were getting tipsy.

They have rented a videoke machine (of course), which was manned by major belters (of course). (I, on the other hand, missed college too much—so it was alcohol that kept me amused.) In true college style, one of the neighbors—drunk, if I may add—threatened to call the cops on us. A plate of cold (and salty) spaghetti, and a promise to stop the shenanigans by midnight calmed the drunk neighbor down.

When everyone's gin buzz wore off, settling the sleeping arrangements was a matter left to the cowboys, but it was nothing that we couldn't handle.

Salty food + Alcohol + Videoke machine + College friends + Nostalgia = Great times. Oh, to be not so young but reckless.

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Pardon the randomness, this is free writing. Hahahaha.

If you could have any job, what would it be?

My friend (who is notorious for being brutally honest) asked me this today, and it scared the hell out of me.

Here's the thing: I've always wanted to be a travel writer. It was the ultimate job for me—the Holy Grail, the final chapter, the mountain summit, the end. I've mapped out a plan to get that job by the time I turn 30. When I conquer that goal, then I've done what I should. Next!

Here's the other thing, and it's both good and bad: I got what I want a good five years ahead of schedule, and I can see that things could only get better. On the other hand, I already got to the goal. And there's the rub. I am stumped about what to do next.

Of late, friends have been asking me if I plan to take masterals or some other workshop; almost all of them have taken/are taking/will soon take various classes to better themselves. My insecurities balloon when I have to admit that I haven't given those things much thought.

Perhaps that was my cue to get thinking about the next thing to add to—and eventually tick off from—the checklist. And perhaps a point crossed off should not represent the end of all things.

Perhaps there is such a thing as pseudosurfing. :D

It really wasn't a big deal to me whether I watched "Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen" on the opening day or not. However, my sister scored free tickets to some special screening last night, and I'm a sucker for (sensible) freebies.

(I digress. Last night at the screening, they were also giving out samples of a shampoo that stimulated hair growth. WTF?)

I usually get this instinct to hit anyone who drops spoilers on conversations. So I'm not gonna write a blow-by-blow account, complete with detailed descriptions of Shia LaBeouf's mangled hand or Megan Fox's anatomy.

I can only say this much: they jumped the shark on that one.

I think I did. Either it was really him, or there was another curly food connoisseur surrounded by eager Pinoy hosts in Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf last Friday.

I'm not really a huge fan of his shows (Or at least not as huge a fan of his shows as I am of "Miami Ink". But I digress.) I sporadically watch whatever it is on Discovery Travel and Living, so I am more or less familiar with what's on that channel.

Of late however, I have developed some sort of attachment to Bobby Chinn's shows. One particular episode has ignited the spark of my lust for Bali, and I've never been the same again. (I'm not giving too much away though; I feel it might preempt whatever it is I have up my sleeve.)

Anyway, back to the Coffee Bean last Friday. While I wasn't the biggest fan, I was a bit starstruck all the same, because there was Bobby Chinn, the guy that changed the entire course of my 2009.

I'm still a bit sore from the long weekend of traveling from town to town, but I could hardly complain. We (meaning the editorial team plus our contributors) saw amazing structures, stayed in a charming B&B and a resort, ate great food, and just had helluva great time.

Not everyone enjoys working on a holiday (and a long weekend at that). Most people would rather spend down time relaxing, but the funny thing is, I get paid to travel and write about the experience. I'm not raking in the big bucks (not yet, anyway), but I could marry my job right now.

Today at the office, we're listing down 101 uses of instrumental music. We've been racking our brains, but so far, we've only come up with a handful.

We hear instrumental music...

1. While waiting for the telephone operator to connect you to a local number

2. In the elevator

3. During retreat reflections

4. In spas/facial centers

5. In the grocery

6. In hotels

7. In TV dramas

We're stumped.

It always rains like hell when you're wearing killer heels.

On a day that you look like shit, you run into an old friend.

Our anthem is not a ballad for the narcissist. It is a march. It draws emotion; it is lively and proud.

I remember, a couple of years ago at the university, there was a meeting for the organizations' officers. The Philippine national anthem was sung to signal the start of the session. The singer—probably hellbent on getting her 15 minutes of fame—sang the anthem like a heart-wrenching ballad. After her attempt, a professor approached the mic and said, "I would just like to remind everyone that the Philippine national anthem is a march; it should be sung fast."

Tell that to Martin Nievera, who sang the beginning and the end of Lupang Hinirang like it was one of his sappy love songs. Tell that to Manny Pacquiao, who—despite being touted as "The World's Best Pound for Pound Fighter", whatever that means—still did not have the right to authorize Nievera to alter the anthem according to his (Pacquiao's) preferences.

I do understand where they're coming from. No, I probably don't.

There are laws to be followed when you're dealing with something that belongs to every Filipino out there. The anthem wasn't just theirs to modify according to their personal inclinations. They say that they wanted to touch the hearts of the Filipinos by doing that (supposedly) stirring rendition. What it did was the total opposite. See, by doing a new rendition, they alienated those who knew how to sing the original version of the anthem.

The intention is noble, I admit, but it eventually sounds obtuse when they try to defend the action. The anthem is unlike every other song out there that can be reworked/remixed/ruined.

Singing the national anthem in front of a large crowd is an honor, because it is then that the singer represents the nation that's filled with so much pride. When one is given such task, the singer should drop unnecessary showmanship, even for just 53 seconds. It should not be a self-indulgent moment where the singer shows off his or her singing prowess (and lack thereof—yes, the last note was flat, Mr. Nievera). There are a handful of opportunities for such vocal stylistics; just let the national anthem be.

Thanks to the grand inconvenience we call global warming, the weather in Manila these days is a woman on PMS: unpredictable and irritable. Torrential rains have intruded the supposedly sunny season, and the hassle trickles down to even the most trivial tasks—say, getting dressed in the morning. Since most everyone is left second-guessing about the wardrobe demands of the day’s weather, the scenario at the office can be downright confusing. Just this morning, I walked in before 9:00 wearing my woolly jacket; at 9:30, an officemate walked in wearing a tank top.

Obviously, there is something else than the bothersome issue with the wardrobe. The news today said that we’ll be expecting three to five typhoons in the next three months. Great. It’s not even May, and we’re already getting the June weather. The representative from the PAGASA said we could have a couple of days of sunshine before the weather turns gloomy again. The (not so) funny thing is that we've yet to release the summer issue our magazine. 

The bad weather has also foiled our plans for the weekend. We were supposed to go to a nearby beach resort up north, but then—not one, but three—low pressure areas will hit the country this weekend. No one will call that beach weather. The long weekend will be spent in the city, and that’s that.

I could come up with a list of why I abhor this weather. 1) People seemingly turn into gremlins and multiply; suddenly the number of commuters double. 2) I have to carry a wet umbrella. 3) I get extra sleepy. 4) The streets get flooded. 5) There is a greater possibility of power interruptions. Et cetera, et cetera, ad infinitum.

But while I feel like I am turning much like the weather—unpredictable and irritable—because of, well, the weather, there’s something that I do like about rainy days: a playlist loaded with Jack Johnson’s tunes. For inane reasons, Jack Johnson’s songs become even more euphoric when it’s cold and bleary. I guess it’s because you can sing Banana Pancakes with even more gusto. Perhaps his beach songs do the job of concealing the weather outside. Better Together, Breakdown, and Do You Remember were also parts of today’s soundtrack, and I almost forgot that it was raining. 

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I should be starting a brain fart series, because of late, my blogs are lost in transition. :D

I'm so thrilled that the album I've been producing for the band Sten Odenwald is finally finished. After months of toiling in the studio, the band's hard work finally paid off.

Titled Evidence That They Ever Existed, the album contains the title track, plus other potential singles like Scuffs and Tears, Bowlegged, and Grandelusions.

The band had to endure a lot of challenges, but they soldiered on. Below is their story on how the band and the album came about. Perhaps they can share a thing or two on how to form your own band, and eventually churn out a debut album.

1. Go to Wikipedia. Hit Random or click http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random. The first random Wikipedia article you get is the name of your band.

2. Go to Random questions or click http://www.quotationspage.com/random.ph3. The last four or five words of the very last quote on the page is the title of your album. 

3. Go to Flickr and go to Explore the Last Seven Days or click http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days. The third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

4. Use Photoshop or a similar software to put it all together.

5. Post it on FB and tag your friends.

So yeah, that's Sten Odenwald for you. I even went as far as forging their other singles. Haha. God knows if someone out there can also come up with make-believe songs with make-believe lyrics for this band.

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Because I wasn't thinking straight when I grabbed the photo off Flickr, I forgot to get the name of the person who posted it. So if—by any random chance—that person sees this blog in the future, or if anyone knows who took the photo, please send me a message so I can give you credit; for Sten Odenwald's album photo. 'Cause you know, it would be a bit of a controversy if the next big band is sued for ripping off their album cover.

We're gonna be doing the Earth Hour later, and that will be really interesting. I'm sure everyone knows the deal: we'll be switching off the lights for one hour starting 8:30PM in all the time zones. The worldwide event is like a global voting process—we'll all be casting our votes for the Earth.

By turning off the lights, we'll be raising awareness about reducing our carbon footprint. This effort already helps big time. 

On a lighter note, we can also do a couple of embarrassing things we wouldn't normally do when the lights are on. Among these things are:

1. Eating food that has already been on the floor

2. Picking your nose

3. Streaking around the house

4. Pulling a wedgie

5. Doing the chicken dance

6. Cheating at Monopoly

And here's a video by Nelly Furtado.

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I swear this is my most schizophrenic post to date.

I find the first day in a new job amusing and altogether freaky. I'm saying that even if I've already had three first days; I don't think I'll ever get used to the whole ordeal.

The first day can be quite amusing because the people you meet do not know squat about you. Ergo, you can come up with the biggest lies when you introduce yourself.

For starters, you can tell them that you’re a philanthropist. They let you go ahead with your story, so you weave this elaborate narrative about you donating an organ to this dying kid. You tell them about the difficult decision you made to give one of your livers to this patient, but then a smart aleck points out that everyone has only one liver—so there goes your cover. Anyway, the point is that you have a smorgasbord of stories/lies that can make you appear more likeable than you honestly are.

On the other hand, the whole experience is also freaky. While it is oddly exciting to traipse on unknown territory, one wrong move can give you a perpetually haunting nickname like—I don’t know—Richard Simmons or David Hasselhoff.

The good thing about the first day, though, is that it happens only once per job. On the second day, you’re not so shiny anymore—and that’s a good thing.

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And so on such days, I am a bag of nerves; I try to look for a momentary escape just to avoid a pint-sized panic attack. Yesterday, my relief came in the form of a Vienna Teng song that I heard from a laptop nearby. I instantly remembered how much I loved listening to Gravity in college.

Less than a week after the crazy videoke party, I found myself in the midst of another one, this time with my orgmates from college. And while I was with a different set of people this time, I realized that there was a pattern with the way we do videoke.

There are a couple of rules to do drunken videoke properly:

1. Rent a private room.

2. Ban the real singers from joining.

3. Look for Bone Thugs N Harmony's Tha Crossroads in the playlist. If they have it, attempt to sing it. If they don't have the song, mope.

4. Drink—get tipsy but not entirely drunk.

5. Key in boyband classics and Spice Girls songs.

6. Despite your mates begging to do otherwise, sing Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody.

7. Sound like the Bee Gees or The Undertaker. Sing using a too-high or too-low octave.

8. Keep a high level of schizophrenia with the song choices. Confusion is good when you sing a Coldplay song after Frank Sinatra's.

9. Sing louder when the attendant calls you on the phone to tell you that your three hours are up. It's better if you sing Living on a Prayer during this part.

10. Beg to do one last song before they kick you out.

The Oxford American Dictionary defines passionate as 

passionate |ˈpa sh ənit|adjective                                                      showing or caused by strong feelings or a strong belief. 

Clearly, they said nothing about having to have talent in order to be passionate, so there. I can call myself a passionate (albeit a wannabe second-rate, off-key) singer. Ha.

Last night, my officemates and I went to a local videoke bar and rented a private room. The funny thing is that at the lobby of the establishment, they have pictures of the different theme rooms. Choosing a videoke room isn't an entirely comfortable experience. I can imagine it's akin to choosing a theme room in a motel—no, I won't even go there.

Anyway, it oddly feels like you're off to do something illegal because when you go to a videoke bar, you assume a wholly different personality. You might as well adopt an alias. For a couple of hours, you are a popstar or a rockstar. (Personally, I prefer to be a popstar because it's so out of my character.)

Because of the personality shift, the need for privacy comes in. Obviously, not everyone is willing to go and sing (off-key) in front of total strangers who, if I may add, will not even remember your name, but will remember your vocal stylistics or lack thereof. Hence the need for the private videoke rooms, although I must admit that I'm still at a loss as to why the management saw the need to put themes for such places.

Singing is not for the weakhearted; I'm quite sure many real singers will tell us that. It is an entirely humbling process to put yourself out there to offer what you have, only to be judged by people. To be honest, I feel that passionate off-key singers are made of sterner stuff. They know they will be criticized for even attempting to sing (or more like squawk), but they just take all the punches and give the world the finger.

I have to say, though, that not all passionate singers are willing to shed inhibitions at the drop of a hat. In our case, we needed a whole pitcher of Dutch courage just to loosen the nerves. After a round or two of drinks, we were punching in the codes to the best songs you could ever sing on videoke: Backstreet Boys' I Want It That Way, Britney Spears' Oops... I Did It Again, Bon Jovi's Living On A Prayer, and the immortally damaging Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen.

Frankly, I can be quite territorial with the mic. I realized this after seeing the pictures we took; I was holding a mic in most of the photos. Call me selfish, but then again, that is how I become passion personified—I sing pop songs to show the world what I'm (not) made of.

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Notes:

1. For the record, we banned real singers from the videoke party. We just felt that real singers would take the fun out of our attempts to be ridiculous singers. Real singers would really sing, and we think that that is not in the spirit of drunken videoke.

2. The whole "How to" thing is inspired by Umberto Eco's How To Travel With A Salmon And Other Stories—really cool stuff in there. I'm imploring people to read it.

It all sounds so romantic, to be a Starving Artist, I mean. You believe in your craft with every fiber of your being, that you don't necessarily expect (handsome) compensation for what you do. You do what you do because there is no other way, because the stars have written your story that way, because you won't/can't eat/sleep if you didn't.

What you should realize about being a Starving Artist is that you have to fulfill two requisites.

To be a Starving Artist, you must be:

A) an artist

B) starving

 A ∩ B

I'm not a Starving Artist. I'm just starving 'cause you know, that's pretty easy.

Now I must work on requisite A.

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Brain fart.

"We've got it goin' on for years." — We've Got It Goin' On, Backstreet Boys

My best friend from high school lives one trike away from my house. (For the sake of tearing down cultural barriers, a trike/tricycle is a motorcycle with—you guessed it—three wheels. That doesn't mean that the vehicle is more stable with the extra wheel. On the contrary, the motorcycle with three wheels somehow brings you closer to your death wish. Such vehicles are usually used for ten-minute rides, tops; that's enough time for you to barter with kingdom come while your entire life flashes before your eyes.)

So anyway, my best friend from high school lives one trike away from my house, but for some reason, I haven't gone to see her in more than a year. And yes, I was a sloth (mind the 'O' and the 'H'); I guess I was always banking in on the fact that Macky lived five minutes away from my house, and that I could pop in to see her anytime. Naturally, I didn't pop in as I should've.

And so as atonement, I went to see her last Saturday. I was attending a party nearby, so I realized I should come round and see what she's been up to. The fact that I found the time to see her only because I was attending a shenanigan gives the gods of girly bonding and pedicure more reasons to stone me to death.

I'm not usually a sentimental person (or I would never admit to being one), but I have to admit there was some nostalgia when Macky made me listen to Backstreet Boys tracks on her ipod. These were songs we used to know by heart. It took me a while to recognize some of the songs' intros, but I soon realized that I still have the lyrics tucked somewhere in my brain. Whether I liked it or not, I could still sing along.

Macky and I go a long way back. I've known her since third grade, but we became thisclose in sixth grade when we became classmates. We had a bond because we had the same bad hair together. We watched our first concert together. (We watched the Backstreet Boys back in the days when they really were boys, and Nick Carter couldn't even vote.)

We became classmates again in high school, and up until I graduated, I knew that I couldn't fart in front of any of my friends except Macky.

We sporadically saw each other when we were in college, but I guess at that time, we were too excited to tell new stories that we hardly listened to each other.

It was different last Saturday. Our conversation, for some reason, was more serious. We talked about careers and frustrations; surprisingly, we also listened. The thing that struck me most was that the conversation didn't feel contrived at all. There was this odd sincerity that I knew we weren't just shooting the bull and pretending to like each other.

I can be quite the anti-social, and sometimes I don't attend get-togethers because I find them pretentious. But if there's something I learned from visiting Macky, it's this: she's one helluva saturating pop song that I can't ever escape.

Last Friday, I was tasked to look for a writer to go to the Batista interview on Tuesday. I'm sure a lot of guys would volunteer to do the interview in a heartbeat, but I've yet to find out what happened with the assignment.

They were expecting a guy to do the interview; it was, after all, about wrestling. I could only imagine their reactions if I told them I knew the ropes of the WWE. Quite a lot of people think it's so out of my character to know a thing or two (or quite a lot) about wrestling, but hey, I can be an oxymoron—or an oxystupid, as my friends and I say.

I guess my bipolar interests make it hard for me to write those self-introductions. Hmmm...

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And so it is that I must suffer this affliction of not being able to resist book sales.

I devoted this weekend to reading Holidays on Ice a David Sedaris book I found on the "Buy 1, Get 1" pile. (With the Sedaris book, I got The Bostons by Carolyn Cooke.)  

Holidays on Ice is one of the funniest books I've read in a long long time, and it's right up there with Umberto Eco's How to Travel with a Salmon and Other Stories. The former is the first Sedaris book I've ever read; I must admit that I was intrigued because I'm a sucker for Christmas. The book turned out to be quite a charmer; there are six short stories that depicted the insane hilarity of the holidays.

Now I have a handful of favorite lines from the book. Nothing quite beats Sedaris' sarcasm. 

"I would rather drive upholstery tacks into my gums than work as the Usher Elf."

"I then left The Slack Heap and walked over to ----------- & ---- ----------, where I bought a ------------------ for my daughter Jacki. (I'm not going to ruin anyone's Christmas surprises here. Why should I?)"

"Were I to receive a riding vacuum cleaner or even a wizened proboscis monkey, it wouldn't please me half as much as knowing we were the only family in the neighborhood with a prostitute in the kitchen."

"In the role of Mary, six-year-old Shannon Burke just barely manages to pass herself off as a virgin. A cloying, preening stage presence, her performance seemed based on nothing but an annoying proclivity toward lifting her skirt and, on rare occasions, opening her eyes."

"For those of you who don't know me, my name is Jim Timothy and, as you've probably gathered by my full set of God-given teeth, I'm not from around these parts."

"Having an unnatural attachment to her internal organs, Beth surrendered her scalp, her teeth, her right leg, and both breasts. It wasn't until after her surgery that we realized my wife's contributions were nontransferable, but by that time it was too late to sew them back on."

It's a tragical comedy, really.

I have this chronic inability to resist book sales.

I passed by National Bookstore today, and I saw that three of Nick Bantock's books were on sale. A Bantock book costs around PhP899 here, which is a good price for a visual feast. Unfortunately, I am a frugal person (or stingy, if you may), and I seldom pay for illustrated books' full price.

The cheapskate in me was ecstatic to find out that two of the Bantock books (Sabine's Notebook and The Morning Star) cost PhP200 each, and the third book (The Gryphon) was insanely reasonable at PhP75. The books were all in great condition. It couldn't get any better than that, so off I went to the counter to ring up my finds.

This reminds me of the time I found a hardbound copy of Caramelo by Sandra Cisneros for PhP99 at Powerbooks; I think that book supposedly costs around PhP500.

The Bantock books I got, though, are installments of a six-part story. The titles I got are books two, four, and six. Now I must go to another National Bookstore or Powerbooks and look for books one, three, and five at the sale bin. 

I am so ready for the hunt.

The weekend had the odd combination of Vday, Xbox, and Living on a Prayer.

We holed up in Kate's house in Antipolo and set up the console and peripherals there. Let me tell you, it wasn't easy. None of us had a car, so the best option was to take a cab from Makati to Kate's place. Here is the mad coalition of elements to make the attempt of finding a cab even more interesting: it was a Friday night, it was payday, and it was the night before Valentine's day. We were mad to make such an attempt, but hey, we're still alive.

I am not the biggest help when you need to tote the console someplace else. My small frame can only carry so much without keeling over. Good thing my friends are really more than just mere acquaintances (although we do have this joke that we are just mere acquaintances). Kate and Jay did all the hard work and carried pretty much everything just so we could rock on Guitar Hero.

The thing with video games, especially those video games with props and whatnots, is that they have the tendency to make you look stupid. And so once more, I had even more proof that we really are friends. I would have been cautious about looking funny, but for some odd reason, I threw caution to the wind. We looked like stupid schmucks with our first few attempts to play, but we did get the hang of it eventually. Our first piece worthy of flying high fives was Bon Jovi's Living on a Prayer. The aftermath was kind of funny and cheesy but endearing all the same.

We spent a good five or six hours switching among Guitar Hero, Scene It, and American Idol. At home, I can really be smug about being a constant winner on Scene It, but I was just pond scum when I battled against my friends. Also, American Idol was something kooky for me, to tell you the truth, but it was all good fun when we took turns on the mic.

We decided to call it a night (or a day—we finished at past 4am), but we just won't shut up. We did get some shut eye, but not until about 5am.

It's a Manic Monday tomorrow (or later), and I'm wishing the weekend could last a bit longer. None of us brought a camera to capture those antics, so I've decided to immortalize my non-Vdayish-but-happy-Vday through this blog. Bon Jovi is still singing in my head, so it will be a while before I forget this high.

I'm really no good at this—introducing myself, I mean. I never know which tidbits are interesting enough to merit being mentioned, and which odd details deserve to stay in my head. Seeing that introduction is a bit awkward for me, I realized that I've done two blogs without even giving that uneasy spiel. I am very much a deer in headlights about this whole TOL thing, but here goes.

I'm Kristy. I'm a Journalism major, but writing self-introductions really isn't my cup of tea. And so I've come to a conclusion that maybe I don't have to write random facts about myself in this entry. What I'll do though, is keep writing blogs for TOL; perhaps then I'll be able to share a bit of me through these entries.

Here I go.

I've never really been a huge fan of Valentine's Day. Or I guess I never really celebrated Vday like everyone else did. Call me weird, but I have a hard time keeping a straight face when a situation demands me to be sappy. My friends and I have this running joke that I must have a missing sensitivity chip. 

A friend once told me about the film Dancer in the Dark, and she was raving about it. She said the film was beautiful yet depressing, and she was sure that I would cry over Bjork's tale. We watched the film in her apartment. And while the film haunted me in ways that I didn't expect, I still didn't cry. Since then, I've been labeled as something akin to a cyborg.

It's not that I don't feel anything; I just can't seem to be comfortable with the idea of showing my emotions to a lot of people. (Ironically, I'm blogging my thoughts.) I'm not mocking those who wear their hearts on their sleeves, though. God knows how many times I've questioned the way my tearducts malfunction.

And so on Saturday, it goes without saying that I won't be with the happy sappy crowd (pardon the term); I'd still be happy though. My friends and I have made plans to go up to the cold city of Antipolo and tote the Xbox 360 with us. With Scene It and Guitar Hero World Tour on the console, I doubt anyone's gonna get disappointed. The marathon starts on Friday night, and the shenanigans will run for the weekend.

Where will you be on Saturday?

Billy was someone I grew up with. I think I was in second grade when my mom introduced him to the family. We would go on those family road trips, and Billy would always be there.

I was kind of queasy on long drives, and so I needed to sleep constantly while my dad drove for hours on end. When I was awake though, I'd hear Billy. I never really cared much for what he said during those trips. I was too young to care.

I was in college when I came across Billy again. It was more of a surprise, really; I was on my way to class when I found out I was listening to one of his songs. More than a decade after I first heard Billy Joel, I realized that I should have listened to what he had to say: "Where's the fire, what's the hurry about? You better cool it off before you burn it out. You got so much to do and only so many hours in a day."

Billy knew what he was talking about. Amidst the dramas of deadlines, quarter-life crises, trivial concerns and whatnots, Billy compels me to ask what it's all for anyway.