It was thirty-two minutes past nine. I finished reading my magazine. I'm not sleepy yet. I remembered I had to say something to someone, something I forgot to mention when we talked earlier in the day. I picked up my phone.
"I forgot to tell you something earlier. Have you considered buying a new jacket?"
"Why would you ask me about that?"
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4/30/2010
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4/22/2010
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It's a busy Thursday. American Idol went overtime, and I'll be in Boracay tomorrow, which is why I had to do half the things I should've done on Friday today, a busy Thursday. So, I figured, I'll just have a burger at Jollibee. I've been craving for a Champ for a week.
I was planning on texting Valerie when I get settled with my burger. I was supposed to tease her. "Have you seen topless photos of David Cook?" I thought. The goal was to make her conjure that image in her head, make her go nuts, pretty much the same way she did with those Kris Allen topless photos. I didn't get the response I wanted, because apparently there were some already.
So, back to the restaurant. I'm in the counter. The server comes up to me, and I give her my order. "Isang Champ, go-large ng fries."
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I was planning on texting Valerie when I get settled with my burger. I was supposed to tease her. "Have you seen topless photos of David Cook?" I thought. The goal was to make her conjure that image in her head, make her go nuts, pretty much the same way she did with those Kris Allen topless photos. I didn't get the response I wanted, because apparently there were some already.
So, back to the restaurant. I'm in the counter. The server comes up to me, and I give her my order. "Isang Champ, go-large ng fries."
Read more »
4/18/2010
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I finally bought the latest copy of Rolling Stone last week, the one with the cast of Glee on the cover. Unfortunately, the piece on the show itself was absolute crap. The writer decided to play the douchebag card and approached the interview like the cast - itself a motley crew of Broadway veterans and little-known names - are insignificant nobodies in high school. In the end, the writer exasperatedly told us of his set visit, where the interview subjects acted like he didn't exist. In a way, it was a good ending. Not redeeming, though.
But there was this one piece that I liked. I just read it today, after walking for an hour, eating breakfast and mopping the floor of the entire house. It's about surfer Clay Marzo, someone I've never heard of, and someone I wouldn't have heard of. So he's this surfer, apparently a really, really good one, the sort who'd do dangerous tricks in the water like he was born there. But, like every other person that fascinates me, he hasn't adjusted well to everything. All the attention made him literally hide in his room at one point. It's his Asperger's kicking in. If you're the sort whose shyness is beyond painful, well, that is torture.
I've always had a soft spot for people who are terribly misunderstood. You know, the sort that are actually pretty decent people when you look closely, but have something seemingly repulsive on the outside that just forces you to pull away. Clay is terribly anxious when he's on land. I think he doesn't really like the attention. He doesn't like to conform either. It took forever for people to get it - his parents have split, his sponsors have pulled out - but when they did, they just let him be, and he did just fine. Heck, he surfs good. Really, really good. Not that I've seen him. I just trust the fact that there's an eight-page spread on him on Rolling Stone.
Read more »
But there was this one piece that I liked. I just read it today, after walking for an hour, eating breakfast and mopping the floor of the entire house. It's about surfer Clay Marzo, someone I've never heard of, and someone I wouldn't have heard of. So he's this surfer, apparently a really, really good one, the sort who'd do dangerous tricks in the water like he was born there. But, like every other person that fascinates me, he hasn't adjusted well to everything. All the attention made him literally hide in his room at one point. It's his Asperger's kicking in. If you're the sort whose shyness is beyond painful, well, that is torture.
I've always had a soft spot for people who are terribly misunderstood. You know, the sort that are actually pretty decent people when you look closely, but have something seemingly repulsive on the outside that just forces you to pull away. Clay is terribly anxious when he's on land. I think he doesn't really like the attention. He doesn't like to conform either. It took forever for people to get it - his parents have split, his sponsors have pulled out - but when they did, they just let him be, and he did just fine. Heck, he surfs good. Really, really good. Not that I've seen him. I just trust the fact that there's an eight-page spread on him on Rolling Stone.
Read more »
4/16/2010
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After watching reality show contestants gorge on grilled shrimp as reward, I felt like having steak for lunch.
It was probably a subliminal thing, because unlike most days, I never spent five minutes in front of my computer thinking about where to eat. It was all just, "okay, we'll go here," and that was from the moment I stepped into the mall. It wasn't a swanky restaurant; it was a stall in a food court, although it was legitimate steak, and it cost quite more than my usual lunch budget.
"Mini New York cut," I said. "Medium rare. Rice. Pineapple juice."
Read more »
It was probably a subliminal thing, because unlike most days, I never spent five minutes in front of my computer thinking about where to eat. It was all just, "okay, we'll go here," and that was from the moment I stepped into the mall. It wasn't a swanky restaurant; it was a stall in a food court, although it was legitimate steak, and it cost quite more than my usual lunch budget.
"Mini New York cut," I said. "Medium rare. Rice. Pineapple juice."
Read more »
4/09/2010
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"I disabled my Facebook account for a week, not because I know you will tag me. I'm trying to avoid someone else."
Read more »
4/02/2010
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I'm just halfway through the long weekend and already I feel like I've run out of things to read.
I only have so many magazines to tackle, and all of them have already been tackled several times. You can imagine me holding last month's issue of Esquire, not knowing what to do with it, since I've already read the feature on Fort Hood, and I've already read the feature on Roger Ebert, and I've already learned that women are generally hard to understand, at least according to Anna Torv, whose four-page spread is the only reason I bought the issue in the first place. Which reminds me: I should never scroll down.
So, slumped on the sofa in the living room at forty-five past three, I ended up reading through the ads at the very end of the magazine. You know, the sort that looks cheaply done, the sort that gets sandwiched between the shopping information pages and the little blurbs at the very last page, the sort that sells vacuum cleaners and sporting paraphernalia and, in this particular case, a mail-order bride service. "Men, post your profile free! Let women write to you first! Receive hundreds of letters! Women from Brazil, Ukraine, Philippines" - and then I imagine a maid from one of the swanky subdivisions sneaking into the family computer, browsing through this website, and I feel sad.
Read more »
I only have so many magazines to tackle, and all of them have already been tackled several times. You can imagine me holding last month's issue of Esquire, not knowing what to do with it, since I've already read the feature on Fort Hood, and I've already read the feature on Roger Ebert, and I've already learned that women are generally hard to understand, at least according to Anna Torv, whose four-page spread is the only reason I bought the issue in the first place. Which reminds me: I should never scroll down.
So, slumped on the sofa in the living room at forty-five past three, I ended up reading through the ads at the very end of the magazine. You know, the sort that looks cheaply done, the sort that gets sandwiched between the shopping information pages and the little blurbs at the very last page, the sort that sells vacuum cleaners and sporting paraphernalia and, in this particular case, a mail-order bride service. "Men, post your profile free! Let women write to you first! Receive hundreds of letters! Women from Brazil, Ukraine, Philippines" - and then I imagine a maid from one of the swanky subdivisions sneaking into the family computer, browsing through this website, and I feel sad.
Read more »
Niko Batallones writes The Upper Blog.
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