I’m Cool In Spite of the Longest Notes I’ve Ever Written in My Almost 20-Month-Long Call Center Life

 I have a feeling all the Twilight cosmic powers out there connived to make my life miserable today. Or at least, tried to make my life miserable today. I am assuming this is the karmic force that they’re trying to shove up my ass for lambasting their sissy story up there in the deity status yesterday.

But no, I will not say I have been grievously affected, or at the very least, that my pessimistic spirit has been dampened by the unfortunate event that transpired today. And yes, I stand by my verdict that this much-ado-about-nothing American novel is still overrated.

While I type this, my eyes are stinging from protestations of only getting four hours doze that would mean inevitably hoarding the call center vendo with cups upon cups of Nescafe black coffee without sugar to combat the drowsiness later. While I shudder at the thought of having to sleep through a call later and mumble about troubleshooting steps incomprehensible, the crow’s feet lining around my eyes and the accompanying hollow spots below these two windows to my soul seem to remind me that I’m going to have one tough night this Saturday shift.

Allow me to relay what happened.

As you could very well remember, this morning was supposed to be our schedule for the screening of the cinematic adaptation of the wretched novel in Greenbelt. The plan was to while away the two hour grace period (we log out at 6AM; the movie starts at 8AM) by polluting the Makati air with videoke shrieks of redundant OPM covers and cheap Western pop shindigs. I didn’t know if that plan pushed through for while my teammates may have already robbed the ATM boxes of its oodles (a hefty sum withdrawn per transaction; it is our pay day and 13th month at the same time), I was being crucified inside the gawddamn call center building trying to extend my patience to the nth degree for some SOB who, in spite of the obvious Thanksgiving flair filling the air, still managed to tinker on his computer when everyone else was busy preparing to cook the friggin’ motherfuckin’ turkey.

In the tradition of Vantage Point montage, let us return a few minutes before my prolonged incarceration in the freakin’ 4th floor computer station:

I have always trained my reflex to press the logout button as quick as possible when the shift is at its dying minutes because I don’t want any long calls extending my shift for that day and yes, Virginia, because I am avoiding the ominous heavy traffic when the clock strikes seven. Imagine my horrors then when two minutes before officially logging out of the phones, my AVAYA phone beeped and registered a motherfuckin’ clusterfuck call from some cursed, gawddamn Occidental state.

At first, I kept my cool and answered the call without any hesitation because it was holiday in the US and the queue was kept to its lowest; I only had three calls so far averaging around 15-17 minutes and I needed another call to at least lower down my Average Handling Time (I know, this already sounds like a call center gibberish but let me explain: Every call center agent has some metrics to meet to determine how well he is performing. AHT is one of them; you take calls in the quickest time possible, you get an A for the AHT metric. In lay man’s term, AHT is one of the subjects that you need to pass and the metric would be your class card.) .

What I assumed as a simple connectivity issue for the customer became a complicated, multi-layered issue that opened the Pandora’s box and all its evil entrails. Lo and behold, my 13 minute AHT target had gone down the drain and I found myself beating my personal best for the longest notes that I’ve ever written in my almost 20-month call center life:

►as per repeat contact rule, did not capture email address
►found the following notes from the last agent:

cant connect
661XXXXXX
Jerry Ng
ngsonthehood@XXXX.com
error in UDI
cx has RCA DCM425
powercycle
internet cable link - green
cx was trying to update
antivirus - CA
ipconfig
192.168.1.100
cx is connecting a nonXXX
linksys router
bypass router
76.87.169.132 - valid ip
ping rr ip - transferred
error code 65
sent 4, received 0 100%loss
checked CA - warning update
failed
ping www.XX.com - 100%loss
ping IP - 100%loss
ping default 76.87.160.1
gateway - 100%loss

LA North TRB397250 OUTAGE
advised cx to check internet after 2 hours
gave ticket #

►spoke with Jerry, husband of account holder
►checked udi, modem is now online
►cus is using a Linksys router not provided by ISP
►asked cus to bypass the router
►asked cus to powercycle modem
►checked physical connections, ok
►tried to access other sites, no go
►ipconfig, 192.168.100.1
►arp -a, ok
►checked physical connections, ok
►no router connected
►checked lan, ok
►both ip address, dns server address obtained automatically
►checked nic, ok
►ipconfig, 76.87.169.132
►ping yahoo.com, connection failed: error code 65
►checked firewall
►cus has ETrust Armor anti virus
►but getting warning: update failed
►asked cus to open it, no go
►same error message
►cus tried to update ETrust anti virus at the help.XX.com website, afterwhich the problem started
►will uninstall ETrust via add/remove programs
►restarted the pc
►opened ie, cus got website
►directed cus to twcurl.com to download security software
►cus not yet registered to the new security software
►authenticated mac id
►reset master email password
►registered cus for the new security software
►gave the new license key
►walked cus thru the steps of downloading and running the installer
►restarted pc
►opened ie, opening too sloooooooooooooooow
►ping yahoo.com, 68.180.206.184
►opened ie, browser still opening really slow
►asked cus if he experienced a lot of pop ups opening lately, cus said none
►checked security software, attention needed for anti-virus, anti-spyware and firewall
►asked cus to hit on secure now for the three components
►firewall secured, but anti-virus and anti-spyware still needs attention
►asked cus to open advanced settings of anti-virus
►enabled real-time protection, ok
►did the same thing with anti-spyware, no go
►anti-spyware still getting attention needed
►asked cus to hit on secure now for the anti-spyware, ok
►was able to secure all of the components
►scanned the pc for spywares, found 104 spywares
►quarantined the spywares
►opened ie, cus got website but still pretty slow
►asked cus to check the speed
►download, 9834kbps; upload, no go
►working on it for too looooooooooong now
►used a different speed test site
►download, 9836kbps; 968kbps
►informed cus that speed is okay
►optimized browser, ie7, taking a looooooooooooong time to clear the cache and cookies
►restarted pc
►checked net connection, now much faster
►connected Linksys router back
►did sequential powercycling
►opened ie, pcbd
►ipconfig, 192.168.1.101
►ping yahoo.com, no go
►explained to cus that the problem would have to be with the router
►advised cus to contact Linksys router tech support
►gave the router oem number
►cus wants to connect back directly to the modem
►bypassed router and directly connected modem
►powercycled modem
►checked connection, ok
►tried other sites, ok
►referred to online help site
►educated cus about sequential powercycling and other tips on how to optimize the speed
►cus understood
►no further assistance

I finished the call about 15 minutes before eight o’clock. At that time, my exhaustion and my hunger for snooze have taken whatever curiosity I had left to check out the movie version of the The-Sissy-Novel-That-Must-Not-Be-Named. By that time as well, I’m pretty certain my teammates are already at the Greenbelt cinemas, already giddy and all, ready to be thrilled by the kilig moments of that forgettable B-list movie about a sissy fanged boy who cannot even bite the female protagonist’s neck (for crying out loud, he IS a vampire!) and a young beautiful bitch seemingly high on marijuana for salivating over the male lead.

So what’s the next best thing to do? Being the SSDDish that I am, I smiled at all the mishap that happened (that deviously mischievous smile that told you there’s something for the inning and you would die never knowing the evil secret behind the grin), deleted the unfortunate event in my system, bore the brunt and delighted my subconscious with a sumptuous Shrimp Surfer breakfast.

I’m cool and your Twilight karmic powers cannot unleash the freakin’ crabbiness lurking within me, much more make my life miserable, because I have my bloated ATM card to dispense and nothing can change the fact that your friggin’ motherfuckin’ double douche bag recycled sissy story still sucks!

Loser!

Uh, Stephenie Meyer Who?

 I just don’t get it. 

All this unjustified adulation over a sissy read about an immaculate fanged boy’s and a pretty young bitch’s love story is overrated. Okay, so I’m risking myself to an avalanche of hate mails from shrieking teenage girls but the hell I care! Go screw your mother-fuckin’ Twilight tits. LOL! It’s a good thing I’m not from the US as I am aware the ridiculously large fan base is mainly situated in that side of the globe. Also, this blog is only religiously perused by a handful few – me, my friends, and my egotistical, narcissistic alter ego. So I think I’m pretty safe to lambast the novel.

On with the rant, shall we?

What is it that pre-pubescent Eves find in reading a book about a sappy love story whose plot is as lame as the title of the book itself? Have not they had their fill of similar, recycled reads involving the same stupid plot across all media? It’s pretty much a rehash of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, only sprinkled with a bit of vampire action here and there. For me, the only brilliant vampire story churned out that would qualify for much-deserved acclaim is Anne Rice’s Interview with the Vampire. That one kicked ass, really! But this one? For chrissake, it doesn’t even compare. It’s as trite and banal as perusing over a love story pocketbook in vernacular - yes, that one with orgiastic moans and steaming sex scenes come halfway in the narrative.

Don’t get me wrong. I tried but tried in vain to read Stephanie, err…Stephenie Meyer’s (See, even the correct spelling of the author’s name skips my mind, only shows how repugnant the novel really is; well, at least to this pessimistic blogger’s point of view) overly celebrated book. Curious about why apparently is it getting a lot of raves from shrieking dormitory girls and sentimental mama’s alike, I browsed thru an e-book copy of the novel and boy was I dazed. Was it really dazed? To put it bluntly, I was hallucinating over a verbal barrage of flamboyant sentences that I had to stop reading before I could even go past the denouement. Almost all of the sentences were giving me a headache. This Miss Meyer author, I have come to conclude that she has an odd penchant over adjectives and adverbs and everything polysyllable. Case in point: What I would normally write as “I love you” would have a Meyer translation of “I charmingly adore you with all the throbbing veins in my bivalve coronary organ.”

And I haven’t even started on the characters yet. The female protagonist is portrayed as someone who ogles over a handsome boy-slash-dashing vampire every time they meet. Yes, I know that this Bella girl is smitten by the looks of this beautiful Edward, so can we please move on with the story Miss Meyer? No need to be redundant and reiterate the same observation over and over again. And what-the-fuck, have you ever seen a vampire that does not kill his prey, much less bite at his victim’s neck? I tell you it is too lame and unless you want to reminisce your Sweet Valley High pocketbook romances, then I advise you to chuck the novel right out of your window.

So yes, Virginia, I abhor this overrated Twilight novel and I am disgusted that it is even touted as the next Harry Potter. How  dare these tasteless, incorrigible literary swine! It’s not even fit for comparison to begin with. Rowling’s characters has depth and breadth and they breathe a life of their own. They’re only creations of fiction but you’d know they can be real. They’re likeable and you can relate to their fictitious dilemmas. Meyer’s, on the other hand, are too one-dimensional, cardboard box marionettes that certainly would never exist in real life or even be reborn in the next after-lfe. Somebody wise once said that fiction is a mirror of reality, it is an adaptation of what really happens in the genuine society. If this is is the argument, ergo Twilight is not a fiction. Or at it’s worst, a bad adaptation of reality.

This 28th, my company is taking all its call center agents to the cinemas for a treat and guess what we’re watching? You got that right, the screen adaptation of this lackluster Twilight novel. Apparently, our company has caught this Twilight bug and has decided to jump into the bandwagon. Our schedule in Greenbelt happens to be just after our shift and being the nocturnal vampire that I am,  I can’t think of a better way to deal with my loving company’s act of generosity than to sleep thru the movie till the credits begin to roll.

 Lights, camera…Twilight! Zzzzzzzzzzz….

Go Screw Yourself You Mother-fuckin’ Double Douche Bag Bitch!

Today is supposedly my rest day and if I get it right, rest days are meant for relaxation, calmness and all that Zen shit. You take it easy, wind down from the week’s events, and free yourself from the corporate incarceration of your cliched young, urban professional lfe. You lie down and become a Greek bummer god eating the best-tasting ambrosia in the mountains of Olympus.

Curiously enough, after rudely being interrupted from a deep slumber by the fuckin’ road drilling of those DSWD worker bastards just outside the window (a clear indication that, along with the way-too-commercialized Christmas spirit,  2010 national elections has finally arrived) and having a little fuckarow with my dear bitchy sister over money (dear Gawd, could you skip days 26 and 27 and go straight ahead with 28) and job prospects (yes, Virginia, my sister, in spite of her impressive credentials and her glossy PRC ECE professional badge, still remains to be a job hunter up to this day), I am tempted to dump the occurrences of my sleazy life today into the recycle bin real quick. The world’s weight appears to be on my shoulder and I just can’t feel like my usual self today. All the bubbly mantra gone down the drain. The intoxicating cheerfulness and zest to live finally ceasing to work. Angst…just angst with the world and all its narcissistic, pathetic, couldn’t-care inhabitants.

Shame.

I don’t like to be lost in the usual crowd because I’m afraid I won’t find my way back. All the people I care for look up to me like an adulated pop icon. My friends who had bouts of weakening problems say some of the strength and will to live they get from one piece of bloody fighting warrior that is me. A close pal, whom I have cutely called my “baby”, lost her father last year from a disease whose cure still remains to be in enigma up to this very age and she confessed it helped that I was there to ease the pain. Although I remain to be horizontally-challenged and thus, appearing to be willow, yielding and weak in character, people I know say otherwise. That, in their Google search of a person who refuses to be conquered with the wicked ways of the world, results of the humdrum engine points to the very personification of my existence.

Geez! What a pathetic way to boost my slowly-decaying morale! Maybe they were not looking far enough. Perhaps they were blind to see my flaws. I’m a mortal, not a freakin’ immortal god.

And so I rant. And rant with all the angst that I could muster. I am about to succumb to the abyss of despair and solitary insanity and I don’t care if I lose this shallow “heroic” title accorded by some friends. All these fuckin’ probs are slowly eating up my system. Several times I have tried to fight back, to resist defeat, to make an enormous effort to turn the ugly tides, and several times, I have been successful in my campaign. But the world has this ugly, hideous way of rubbing all the bad luck in you, I guess.

You know, when a person is bent on displaying a “king-of-the-world” mantra, fate curiously always finds a way to dump all the trashbins in your revolting face. Is this the wicked way of the world? You resist, it desists. You become optimistic, it makes you pessimistic instead. You fight back, it stabs you at the back.

I hate this fucked up life. Makes me morose and defenseless. So life’s a bitch and you have to be more bitchy to win. Welcome to SSDD, welcome to my life!

Time Turner Number 6: *The Love Bus

I’m beginning to feel inebriated…not by the spirit of booze but by the feeling of love.

I suppose I should be thankful to whoever rules this limitless cosmos because SHE has finally come, right? SHE, the woman I have come to realize is the cause of my being, the breadth of my narrowness, the fire in my numb coldness, has finally entered the realm of my ethereal consciousness. SHE, who has come to change my cynical personality, who has made me a clone of the very people I then despise for being crazy slaves of amorous feelings, has plucked me from the tree of narcissistic selfishness.

But now, I am in deep sorrow and in constant agony. For the woman I have finally learned to love at long last doesn’t believe in my altruistic revelation. SHE has struck me with the dagger of distrust and hesitation, burying the sharp glint of flightiness into the core of my hurting soul. If this is love, then I dare say I wish I wouldn’t have felt it at all. For the pain and the agony of waiting is slowly, little by little, inch by inch, tearing me apart. SHE said this is only a passing of my fancy, a temporal feeling that will no sooner fade than the leaves of fall.

But I say this is not. I am certain about it and if it need be that I will have to wait for the end of time, for eternity, for an orange to grow in an apple tree, then so be it. I will not yield. I will wait even if it means forever. I have only one wish - that is for HER not to tell me to let go. Because if that accursed and unfortunate time brings to pass, I will drown myself into the mire of solitude. Even if it crushes my soul, even if it hurts, I will bring HER wish for me to depart from HER sphere of consciousness into being. If that will give HER peace and bliss, then I will be more than willing to suppress my own happiness.

This is the ultimate rule of love - if the person you love bids you adieu, in spite of everything you tried to make HER change HER will, then never hesitate to let go. Even if your world suddenly becomes ruined. Even if your being inevitably collapses. Even if your world crumbles. Because it is HER wish. It is HER ardent desire. If it will be the only thing that will bring HER happiness, who are you to hold it? 

Now the bus is already in motion. Slowly, it will progress. And where the uncertain destination will be, the passenger should not care. As long as he knows that he has made it clear where he wants to go, as long as he is not told to get off the bus, he must never lose hope. He must continue to hold on to his ardent desire to make it to the destination he has declared to go. He must not be bothered whether the uncertain final destination turns out to be the place he has wished to be in from the start of the tour or a deep ravine that will forever take his soul into the abyss of solitude and despair.

 *I wrote this post when I was deeply in love with one woman in college. I knew it was love because I did crazy things that, under normal circumstances, I would not even try firsthand. I trashed my serious, don’t-mess-with-me persona in exchange of her whims and fancy. I courted her, gave her flowers, did all those stuff every guy does to make a girl swoon. But her test was too hard and long that I gave up and lost all hope eventually. Only to  find out after many months of se paration that she was falling for me already and had I not say quits before, we should have been in a relationship by now. Talk about life being a bitch.

Kokey Monster, Where Art Thou?

I’ll make this quick. 

It is running late and my stomach is grumbling like hell so I need to vent this out ASAP and hit the apartment later before I die of hunger.

On with this hasty post: I am saddened by the fact that Ferbert of famed Kokey Monster blog has suddenly decided to be in hiatus. When I tried to hit the link on my blog, I was redirected to a page blaring forth this message of indefinite exit:

Hello, Goodbye

I say high, you say low. You say why and I say I dont know, oh no. You say goodbye and I say hello

-THE BEATLES

For whatever reason it may be, the Houdini act is making me delirious. Okay, it is an exaggeration. But truth be told, I miss the hydrocephalus-infected alien from outer space and his distinct observation of fuckin’ life’s random idiosyncrasies. Gawd knows my blog-hopping would never be complete without that blog.

So dear, old sir Ferbert, if you’re reading this, heed this plea: get out of your friggin’ hibernation because blogosphere wouldn’t be the same again without your ass-shitting poignant verbal diarrhea. It needs a wicked chronicler  like you.

So help me Gawd!

Addendum: Ferbert of the idiosynscratic Kokey Monster blog has finally heeded my plea. He is back (and I hope it’s for good) and apparently into just Shakespearean theatrics. Motherfuckin SOB, you scared the shit out of me you green hilarious alien! Welcome back!

Daring and Dreaming in Delightful Dasol*

Dasol is a beautiful bitch.

It is, with its virgin territories and unexplored confines, enchanting, captivating the three travellers who, for three days,  escape the city of fumes and traffic and stupid drivers who blare their horns like hell. These three travellers, who are bound by friendship forged in college, have gone back home in the province to celebrate the recent Board passing of Melong Mabilog. Gawd knows how much nosebleed their Fruit Friend has suffered in reviewing for The Cursed Course. And what better way to honor that than to throw out a splash in her native home town. So they travel by bus and savor the smell of crisp, provincial air that emanated from a moving scenery of verdant mountains and clear blue seas and swaying elven trees.

It is, with its wooden houses and nipa huts isolated from one another, mystic and melancholic. It takes more than two hours for the three travellers to arrive at their destination, much to their chagrin, and in the eyes of the first timer in the triumvirate, the trip is as nauseous but exciting as Baguio’s zigzags. The houses are not closely knit like Tondo’s domains and when the sun sets and cicadas begin to sing, people in the streets grow scarce. Such eerie picture reminds you of one haunting scene in a Shake, Rattle and Roll movie; where the mysterious long-haired lass from the barrio walks in her little nipa hut, the kind of hut which, you are pretty sure, houses gory bottles of blood neatly lining up in stacks and vomit-inducing human entrails hanging like medals on the wall, takes off her clothes and applies a liberal amount of her secret “manananggal” oil to her naked body in preparation of tonight’s prey hunt. The three arrive after a few minutes of whirlwind romance with the devil that rides a tricycle, giving them a free Bench Hair Fix Salon make-over reminiscent of  Son Gokou clone, and the dead silence of Dasol’s solitude greets them.

It is, with its people in festive mood, fertile and flamboyant. When the sky grows dark, the inexplicable dread and anxiousness melt down much to their relief and the merriment begins in the cool and refreshing abode of Melong Mabilog. A celebration it is not unless a bacteria-filled microphone is seen being passed around from one thirsty, trying hard song-belter to another. The Big Four (three travellers and Melong Mabilog), after fattening their arses from different viands that might have been written in a book celebrating a hundred and one creative ways to butcher a pinkish pig, gear towards becoming Dasol’s Next Big Singing Sensation. They become mad and rowdy, unleashing the Jekyll and Hyde in them, and they sing their lungs out like tomorrow marks the coming of Armageddon. They miss this ruckus, the kind of bashing that you can only get when you’re in the province, and they think about their boring lives in the Big City down south; they think about how fuckin’ shallow and understated and monotonous their lives are when they go back but they try to shrug it off and in the most non-condescending way tell Manila to eat shit.

  It is, with its bellydancing bottles of GSM and Red Horse, inebriated and philosophical. The videoke box, without showing any signs of tiresome hoarness, continues to churn out melodies of yesterday’s OPMs and foreign band acts. The Big Four are downing quarter-filled glasses of GSM mixed with the best chaser available and in the process, pollute Dasol’s still pure air with shrieks of emo Calling covers or in Manggang Piko’s case, the alluring Aw’s of that Mexican sexy actress who bombarded this country with her hot hip sways. Already, Manggang Piko, after several turns of hard drinking, is delusional and dreamy. He remains and sings in his Kelly Clarkson effeminate voice while the rest continue to talk about things mundane and otherwise important. Now, as has always been the case, we have three men standing (or more appropriately, two men and a woman standing) battling over the next Long Neck, each one determined to prove that his or her alcoholic tolerance shoots a projectile that outlasts the other two. 

It is, with its bad case of alcoholism and booze craving, thirsty for more. Sensing the night is still as young as their yet-to-be-curtailed innocence (except perhaps Kuya Kalamansi; he is, by all standards, already a full-fledged adult), Big Four wash away the GSM intoxication with a cold, breezy bath. They wish to drown the intoxication at Dasol’s clear, blue seas but the old folks prevail in haunting their thoughts with the gross picture of Manggang Piko helplessly being dragged by the waves to the mermaid’s lair. Manggang Piko has always been frail and his health always in the doldrums, which explains why there is much too fuss over a hefty activity of overnight swimming. Melong Mabilog becomes grumpy and she diverts the looming bad mood to a post-GSM session of bloody red Carlo Rossi.

It is, with its child-like naivete, clumsy but not stupid. Big Four try to open the bottle of wine without any cork screw to open it with. Blame it on inebriation. Or maybe just sheer Survivor reluctance. But the seemingly insurmountable dilemma at hand cannot dampen their inebriated spirits. They use any pointed object imaginable to get the friggin’ cork out of the bottle’s neck but the cork, as if taunting them for becoming alcoholic bastards, refuse to yield. They huff and puff like the big, bad wolf in that stupid children’s story where the protagonist, in her bloody red parka, cannot even distinguish the difference between a canine and a human. Each takes turn in opening the bloody bottle, alternating a knife, a fork, and a nail pusher to no avail. Sensing defeat, the last standing Three give up and prepare themselves to sleep but lo and behold! Manggang Piko, in a last-minute attempt to open the damn bottle, becomes a hero and succeeds in sinking the cork to allow the wine to flow. They celebrate and toast and drink their bloody arses to eternal intoxication, never mind of the rest of the folks are asleep as that wretched Disney fairy tale princess. 

It is, with its picturesque scene of Amorsolo backdrops, reminiscent of the past. The Big Four, in the middle of their merriment, talk about how time flies so fast. They remember the good, old days when college meant receiving allowances and skiving off boring classes of ugly instructors and whiling away at the Bonuan beach cottage like lazy Greek gods. They look back at how their once unconnected lives become intertwined with the others to pave the way to a clasped fellowship of belligerent booze and heaving heartaches and determined dreams. They become philosophical and look back at that things that once were, inviting thoughts of what if’s and if only’s until the cool breeze lulls them all to sleep.

It is, with its beauty unchartered, delightfully charming. As the sun rises to the east, the Big Four decide it is high time to explore Dasol’s virgin seas. There, they wade in its clear, blue waters, its contents filled with Poseidon’s creatures, and exclaim about how fuckin’ Boracay is overrated and over-crowded with too many foreign pedophiles and sex perverts and social climbers. But here in Dasol, this piece of sea is theirs and theirs alone, no worries about sharing it with others or running bare naked even. They wiggle at their toes and move their legs in slow mo like Neil Armstrong in one of the moon’s craters. They ran barefoot in its fine, pearly white sands as well, the grain tickling their soles like how a baby powder soothes a baby’s skin. At one point, they marvel at how a small jellyfish, devoid of any spine or backbone, flagellates its frail but dangerous tentacles to get as far away from the shore as possible. Like running away from home. Or maybe becoming independent for the first time.  Similar to the Big Four and their early beginnings in the city of fumes and traffic and stupid drivers who blare their horns like hell.

By tomorrow, they return to Manila. And surely they will miss Dasol, this pretty enchantress. But no worrying about that right now. They live the life one day at a time, share the laughter and fun under the sun, and wiggle their toes in clearest of clear waters this side of the Pacific.

So Dasol is a beautiful bitch  and with its captivating beauty, they have been helplessly hooked. 

*When I went home to the province  for a one-week leave from work, part of the itinerary that I was not able to follow religiously was to visit the town of the Dasol, Melong Mabilog’s home town. It was my first time to visit such place and the beach is totally incredible. Such is the advantage of a beach that has yet to be exposed and exploited. Wicked! 

Melong Mabilog - recently passed the CPA Board Exams, currently in search of a high-paying-salary job, is urged to become a corrupt BIR employee emptying the nation’s coffers without shame.

Kuya Kalamansi - the oldest among the Big Four peers but in denial of his true age in spite of the obvious evidence - receding hair line and thinning hair, claims to be the youngest looking and the most “baby face” among the batch, Melong Mabilog’s beau 

Manggang Piko - the monicker is attributed to his prominent facial feature, will join the yuppie tag real soon, one of the most amiable among the group, will wait for Lio Loco next year for a one-year review in preparation for the CPA Board Exams

Para sa Utol Kong si Sean*

Congrats! Engineer ka na!

Hindi ko pinagsisisihan ang desisyon kong ipagpaliban ang pagrereview ko para makapagtapos ka ng pag-aaral. Wala akong pagsisisi na naging call boy ako una sa Baguio at ngayon dito sa Makati para makapagtapos ka at makapagreview sa Maynila. Maski na alam kong sa lampas isang taong pagkagapos ko sa pagiging hilaw kong Amerikano sa telepono eh di malayong makalimutan ko na ang pinag-aralan ko sa Accounting. Okay lang ‘yon. Mas mahalaga sakin na makapagtapos ka at maabot mo ang mga pangarap mo. Sa pagpasan ko ng tungkuling tinalikuran ni daddy, pinangako ko na sa sarili kong mauuna’t mauuna ang kapakanan niyong dalawa ni mommy bago ang ano pa man. Na sa tingin ko’y natupad ko naman di ba?

Congrats! Engineer ka na!

Noong una, asar na asar ako kay mommy dahil hindi man lang niya tayo kayang pagsabayin. Nagalit ako dahil puro na lang siya salita. Naaalala mo ba yung mga panahong kababalik lang niya ng Pinas galing abroad? Sabi niya, pag-aaralin niya tayong dalawa sa private school. Sabi niya, maski anong school sa college at maski anong kurso ang gustuhin nating kunin, kaya niyang tustusan. Tayo namang mga uhuging kuting, naniwala agad. Pala, ang kahihinatnan eh ipupublic din ‘tong mga gifted neurons natin. Dami niyang pangako na puro pala bula. Kaya nga sabi ko sa sarili ko hindi pwedeng ganto na lang lagi. Nagsumikap ako para hindi mo na maranasan yung mga naranasan ko nung nasa college pa lang ako. Di bale nang magutom dahil wala akong pambili ng pananghalian basta may baon ka lang. Di bale nang saktong pandalawang araw lang ang dapat sana’y isang linggong baon ko para may maiakyat lang si mommy para sa allowance mo. Di bale nang di ako umattend ng acquiantance namin para lang makasama ka sa educational fieldtrip niyo sa Maynila. Di bale na ‘ko para lang sa ‘yo. Dadalawa na nga lang tayong mag-utol. Sino pa bang magtutulungan?

Congrats! Engineer ka na!

Sayang lang at hindi na naabutan ni Cool Granny Carmen ang napipintong tagumpay natin bilang mag-utol. Tanda ko pa. Sabi niya no’n, napakaswerte pa rin daw natin maski na nawalan tayo ng materyal na yaman sa pag-alis ni daddy. Kasi binigyan daw tayo ni Lord ng gifted genes para batakin ang mga hamon ng buhay. Dahil sa sobrang himutok, nasabi ko sa kaniya dati na kung na kay daddy sana tayo, kung pumayag lang si mommy noon, malamang sa malamang eh baka sosyalera’t sosyalerong conio na tayo sa Ateneo at La Salle. Alam mo ba ang sabi ni Cool Granny Carmen? Mauuna raw ang hirap kaya wag raw tayong mareklamo. Pasasaan ba’t sarap ng nakaririwasang buhay raw ang aanihin natin balang araw. Sadya raw ganun ang tadhana. Hindi ako kumibo noon kasi ayokong maniwala. Sa isip-isip ko, makabagdamdamin ang tinuran mo Cool Granny Carmen pero ang words of wisdom ninyo ay hindi makapagtatahan ng kumukulong sikmura at hindi makapagtatapos sa dalawang batang henyong pinagnakawan ng sandigan at kailangang kayamanan. Ngunit ngayon eh napagtanto ko na rin ang lahat. Malaman pala ang malupit na banat niyang yun. Iyon at iyon din ang naging kalasag ko sa tuwing tila tinatablan na ko ng pagod at pagkabagot at di-miminsang pagtatangkang isuko na ang lahat dahil sa tingin ko eh napakalaking responsibilidad ang sapilitang iniwan sa’kin ni daddy at di ko na kayang tiyagain pa ito. Kung nasaan man si Cool Granny Carmen ngayon, pihado akong matuwid sitang nagmamatyag at gumabagay sa’ting dalawa. Hawak ang isang boteng shoktong (paumanhin, hindi ko alam ispelingin ang pang-matandang alak na ito), may Cool Granny Carmen rest in world and eternal peace!

Congrats! Engineer ka na!

Pag umuwi tayo sa probinsiya, hindi na ako ang laging bida tulad ng lagi mong ikinayayamot. Pag-uwi natin dun, ikaw na ang bukambibig sa buong compund, sa buong block natin. Hindi ka na ma-OOP. Dati-rati, pag may importanteng lakad sa ating pamilyang extended, sabi mo laging ako ang sinasama. Ikaw hindi. Kasi kamo ako may trabaho, samantalang ikaw eh isang hamak na estudyante pa lamang. Pero ngayon…ngayon, ikaw na ang bida pag-uwi natin. Kasi licensed Electronics and Communications Engineer ka na. Sa madaling salita, mas bigatin ka na kesa sakin ngayon. LOL!

Congrats! Engineer ka na!

Ilang araw pagkatapos ng oath-taking niyo, magkakatrabaho ka na. Mabibili mo na maski anong gusto mong bilhin. ‘Yung hindi kayang ibigay satin ni mommy, makukuha mo na. Mapapalitan mo na yang cellphone mong lagi mong idinaraing sakin. Bibilhan naman talaga kita eh. Nag-iipon pa lang kasi ako. Sabi mo sakin, maski na yung tig-isang libo lang na fake Nokiang China phone. Ayoko. Kasi gusto ko, pag binilhan kita yung gusto mo, yung hindi ka mahihiyang ilabas kapag nagtetext ka sa daan. Ano na nga ba yun? N70 ba yun? Pero malamang sa malamang, mauunahan mo na kong bilhin yun pagka nagkatrabaho ka na. Di bale, bili na lang tayong laptop hane?Congrats! Engineer ka na!

Proud na proud ako sa’yo dahil may utol na kong professional. May mailalagay na rin tayong malaking karatula sa compound natin, yung may malalaking letrang kulay silver tsaka black sa parang hugis kuwadradong aluminum ata yun. Dinaig mo na nga talaga ko ngayon. Nung nasa hayskul pa lang tayo, lagi kang kinukumpara sa ‘kin ng mga teachers natin. Na siya namang kinaiinis mo. Kasi maski anong gawin mo, lagi na lang nakabuntot ang kadakilaan ng kuya mo. Hehehe. Lagi na lang si kuya, si kuya, ang nayayamot mo pang sabi. Ako lagi ang bida, ikaw  laging pumapangalawa. Maski na nung grumadweyt kang valedictorian, kakambal pa rin ang pagkumpara kung sino satin ang mas magaling lalo na’t pareho tayong nanguna at magkasunod na batch pa. Ngayon, nasa ‘yo na ang huling halakhak. Naungusan mo na ang kuya mo. Ikaw na ang nagwagi. Professional ka na eh.

Congrats! Engineer ka na!

Kung alam mo lang kung gano kasaya ang kuya mo ngayon. Lagi kitang binibida sa mga kaibigan ko, sa mga kakilala ko. Nung gabi ngang lumabas yung exam results, bangenge ako nun. Napatumba namin ni Pareng Gerald ang apat na litro ng Red Horse kakaantay ng results. Chineck ko ng alas nuebe. Ala pa. Balik ng apartment. Tagay. Tiningnan ko ule ng alas-diyes. Pucha! Ala pa rin. Balik sa bahay. Tungga ule. Nagtext ka ng alas dose y medya. Sabi mo, “Kuya, pumasa ako.” Naknamputeek! Nabasa ko alas kuwatro y medya na. Pero hindi na ko nakatulog nun. Sino ba namang kuya ang mahihimbing ule sa pagtulog matapos niyang malamang pasado na ang utol niya?

Congrats! Engineer ka na!

O yan, abswelto na ko sa’yo ha. Sarili ko naman aasikasuhin ko ngayon. Balak kong magresign next year sa pagiging call boy para paghandaan naman ang dapat sana’y matagal ko nang tinapos na propesyon. Magwa-wanyir review ako. Gusto ko kasing mag-top sa CPA Board. Hehehe. Tayog ng pangarap ng kuya mo no? Parang sarangggola ni Pepe. Yaan mo nang kuya mong mangarap. Malay mo, di ba? Patataubin natin mga nagfi-feeling-feelingang Ivy League schools dito sa Maynila.

Congrats! Engineer ka na!

Pero wag ka munang mag-aasawa ha. Kinausap ko na si Jon. Pinauna ko nang marami pa tayong pangarap para satin, para kay mommy. At naintindihan naman ako ng boypren mong Magna Cum Laude. Ba’t nga pala Bossing tawag sa’kin nun eh pagkalaki-laking tao. Laking bulas nga eh. Mas malaki pa sa ‘kin. Sabi nina Pareng Gerald, ala raw akong panama sa laki ng katawan niya. Sabi ko naman, ala sa laki ng katawan yan. Pag galit ang tao, galit talaga. Pareho ang tingin sa lahat. Sabagay, mabait naman si Jon eh. Alam niya yung hirap natin. Pero hanggang ngayon, hindi ko alam ba’t ikaw nagustuhan nia? Siguro, kapareho mo lang kuya mong makarisma. Wahehehe. Ayos lang sakin ang date-date niyo. Basta wag lang kayong gagawa ng bagay na ikasisira ng tiwala ko. Malaking bata ka na. Malaking bata na siya. Alam niyo na ang mali sa tama. Kaya behave ha. Higi’t lalong wag na wag kang magpapakita sakin na puro tulo-uhog. Good shot pa naman na siya sakin. Heaven knows I’ve done know wrong but Gawd knows what I can do. Hindi yan threat.

Congrats! Engineer ka na!

At congrats din sakin. Kasi sa wakas, magkakalablayp na ko! May pang-date na ko eh. Yahoo! Magpapainom ako!

 *Nakatutuwang isipin na si Jessica Zafra, ang tanyag na manunulat ng aklat-seryeng Twisted at kilalang kolumnista sa pahayagang gumagamit ng Ingles bilang midyum, ay nagsusulat din pala sa wikang Filipino. Bilang tugon, naisipan kong isulat ang kathang ito sa wikang bernakyular, bagaman at gumamit ako ng ilang piling salitang banyaga na mas maiintindihan kung pananatiliin sa orihinal  nilang baybay at mangilan-ngilang salitang kolokyal.

Pahabol: Oo, ang larawang kasama ng akdang ito ay larawan namin ng aking utol. Minarapat kong burahin ang mukha ko, hindi dahil duling ako o mayroon akong maitim na gilagid (maganda ang utol ko, magkapatid kami; kung marunong ka sa Math, may ideya ka na kung ano ang hitsura ko. LOL), kundi dahil mas gusto kong tago ang aking identity bilang blogger. Liban sa mga malalapit na kaibigang pinagtitiyagaang basahin ang laman ng pahinang ito, nakatitiyak akong anonymous pa rin ako sa mundo ng blogospera. Yun lang.

Time Turner Number 5: *Reality Blabber and the Ignoramus Buffoons

It’s Monday. I feel blue. I feel like not going to school. I feel like not attending the gay monologue of Piggybacking whose bloodshot eyes are as deep as a freakin’ zombie’s. I feel like abstaining from the tortuous therapeutic sessions for insomniacs. I feel like lying down and giving myself a break. I feel like watching TV.

Click. 

Oh, it’s me. On the idiot box. Right in the middle of two gansta inhumanoids. On a bus. In the middle of heavy traffic. On my way to school. At my left is someone who appears to be more dim-witted than Ed, Edd, and Eddy blendered. Whose face would remind you of a complete asshole prototype, minus the stinking drool and the ogre voice. His phone rings. A melody from hell fills the air. He reaches the phone in his pocket but waits for the bloody piece of ringtone to finish its ding-song sequence before answering it. Show-off. He speaks with that shuddering drunken twang. “Oi, pare. On the way na ko pare. Oo pare (Laughs). Sige pare!” Pare…pare my ass! This guy’s one of the “most stupidest” I’ve ever met. Most stupidest - putting myself on his empty, rotting coconut shell. I like the sound of that. The ignoramus looks at me. I look at him. He looks at his cellphone, staring at the LCD for quite some time. Like it was the first time he received a call in his entire life. Sheesh.

The other one (on my right), I suspect, is  illiterate. And probably will die tomorrow of lung cancer. How I wish. He puffs his nicotine-filled stick despite the yellow sticker on the wall that reads: NO SMOKING. Any person who has mastered the English alphabet can comprehend what the sign means. Unless, of course, he is an alien that speaks an indecipherable gibberish. It means giving the other commuters a fair share of clean air - if, indeed, there’s still any. He puffs again. This time, a thicker screen of smoke shrouds my view. My eyes become blurry. I breathe. I cough. I look at him. He looks at me with that what-are-you-looking-at sarcastic face. I glance at the yellow sticker on the wall. He puffs again. Ignoramus’ phone rings again. And he waits for the ring tone to finish.

Click.

Two girls in the library. Talking. Chatting. Their noses are closely attached to the pages of thick books. A perfectly striking pose of studious academic learners. A perfect disguise for a nonsense pathetic chatter. Girl Number 1 anxiously asks Girl Number 2 about last night’s wretched tear-jerker.

G1: I didnt watch (name of sappy soap) last night. Had to finish this pesky assignment.

Girl Number 2 willingly starts the rant. With brimming excitement. With overflowing ardor.

G2: OMG! You missed one half of your life! 

G1: Really? Why? What happened?

G2: (Name of male lead character) has finally kissed (name of female leadcharacter) on the lips. (Giggles) As in it was so sweet and romantic and all. And (name of female lead character) said she loves (name of male lead character) after all.

G1: Awww…Too bad I missed that episode. So what happened next?

Girl Number 2 shrieks. Feisty librarian eyes on them both. Girl Number 1 and 2 meet their doom.

Click.

On a public utility jeep. On my way home. The driver is voicing out his opinions on politics. He says he’s not against the 12% VAT. “Two percent lang nama. Nagrereklamo agad.” Intellectually stimulating. “Tsaka di naman ako kumakain sa Jollibee.” Very intellectually stimulating. He looks at me for approval. I give him a blank stare instead. I reach for a twenty-peso bill and give it to him.  He gives me a rusting faded gold coin in return. I look at my change and then look at him with slit eyes. “Manong, estudyante.” He pretends not to hear.  I repeat what I said. This time, with more audible, impatient voice. He responds. He gives me the additional two pesos. I receive the coins and look at him with pure loathing.

Click.

At a department store. I’m looking for a shirt to buy. Friendly Saleslady greets me. “Good Morning. sir!” I proceed to look at their displays. She follows. I take out a red shirt with black sleeves from a file. Friendly Saleslady quips, “Sir, maganda po ‘yan.” I look at her. I force myself to smile. I put the shirt back and walk in other aisles. She follows. Again. I look at her. She smiles. I take out another shirt with black and blue design infront. She utters. “Sir yan ho. Maganda rin yan. Bagay sa inyo.” I force myself to smile again and put the shirt back. I walk in another aisle. Away from her. She still follows. “Sir, ano po bang size?” I walk out of the shop. Friendly Saleslady is not friendly anymore. Freindly Saleslady is already annoying.

Click.

Again on a bus. It’s already getting late. And the wind is becoming chilly. I sit beside a man and a woman who appear to be inseparable. They remind me of that tree-clinging tarsier in Bohol. Lovers, I utter. Sweet. The woman suddenly takes her arms away from the man’s body. She becomes uneasy, moves her behind, andgets a tight grip on the man’s shoulders once more. The man responds by leaning his head on hers. They become distracting. The man then turns to be uneasy on his seat, moving here and there, and proceeds to finally nestle  the woman in her arms. The woman reacts by embraving him tighter than ever. They become anoying. The woman moves restlessly. Again. She lets out a moan. She places her head on  his chest. The man cuddles her with the tightest clutch he can muster. He becomes a human lizard. He kisses her on the forehead. The woman moves. They become irritating. I transfer to another seat at the back.

Click. 

At a fastfood restaurant. My stomach is grumbling. I queue in the counter. A crew with a pen and paper  in hand approches. “Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to (name of fastfood restaurant)! Ano pong order nila?” I order a meal.”Number 7. Dine in.” He quips, “Sir, baka gusto po nilang i-try yung (name of food product promoted)?” I stare at him. If looks can kill, then he’s dead by now. I want to ask him if he’s deaf or something but I try to stay calm instead. “Hindi. Yun lang.” “Sir, baka gusto po nilang gawing large yung drinks nila. Additional P5 lang po.” I look at him again. I try to stretch my facial muscles and smile at him. I turn my head from left to right. He gives me the order slip and vanishes from my view. I wait in the long queue.

Click.

In a radio station. The DJ’s on cue. He’s blabbering nonsense. Incomprehensible. He cracks a joke. Complete with that crazy laugh-out-loud sound effect.  I feel morose instead. He reads the text messages from the listeners. “O, wanted daw. Boy Textmate. Naku, magtago ka na!” Laugh-out-loud backdrop ensues. “18-21 years old. Thoughtful, caring, and cute. Uy, ako yun ah!” Laugh-out-loud backdrop follows. “Text (cellphone number). O, text niyo ha. Basta wag niyo lang tawagan.” Laugh-out-loud backdrop comes afterwards. I get a headache.

Click.

Inside the classroom. It’s examination week. Five essay questions to answer. One hour to say your piece. I’m halfway from finishing the second question. The Tibak Instructor begins to be a chatterbox. He says Arroyo is corrupt. He says our value is slowly degrading. He says the taxes he paid  are going only to the pockets of unworthy officials. I look at him. He’s disturbing me. Us, fifty souls. I try to ignore him.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Yadda. Yadda. Yadda. I stop writing. I’m on my third question. I can’t seem to speak my mind due to his loud annoying verbiage. He says we should be aware of the things happening around us. He says we should be responsible citizens of this society. He says the whole country is going to the dogs. I look at him again. He’s getting on my nerves. I try to get him off my system.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Yadda. Yadda. Yadda.  I’m on the fifth question. But I’m having a hard time stringing my thoughts. The blabbermouth is pain in the ass. He says he’s disappointed with the way student leaders perform their functions. He says the SSC seems to be mum on the TFI issue. And he begins to narrate his crusade as a student leader back when he was still the SSC President of the university. He brags his accomplishments. All of which we have heard for the umpteenth time. All of which we have learned by heart and memorized like The Lord’s Prayer. I try not to hear. I concentrate on the last question.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Yadda. Yadda. Yadda. At last. I finish my piece. I instantly submit my paper. He looks at me. I look at him with pure abomination. He tries to open his mouth. I get the better of him instead. I get out of hell before he could even mutter a single word.

Click.

*These real occurrences happened during my last year in college. I submitted it for our college paper and after getting published, the article got a lot of raves from friends and fiends alike. They clamored for a follow-up, which I willingly obliged to do. Part II of this will be published in a future Time Turner.

Beer Bakasyon

So I’m The Great Procrastinator.

 I thought I’m way over that stage. The disease has always been one of my  distinct trademarks way back in college. I review a day or two before examinations ensue. I finish balancing freakin’ debits and credits a few hours before submitting the worksheet for yesteday’s assignment. I write the editorial half an hour away from the deadline. I submit the feasib draft to the smooching professor a few minutes before she dismisses the class. I love to work under pressure and that’s the way I’ve always liked it. For some reason, it brings out the creative juices in me.

It is no surprise then that until today, when I thought I am already a responsible adult (although, truth be told, my age still hangs on the bracket for the adolescent definition as per the United Nations charter) and earning my own keep at that, I still carry the same irresistible college shit. When I went to a seven-day hiatus in the province, free from dumb Occidentals and oblivious of fake American accents, I wrote a list of things that I thought I ought to do to make the vacation worth my while. The backlogs were:

1. Drink a lot of booze.

2. Visit my grandmother’s grave which I haven’t done for two consecutive All Souls already.

3.  Meet up with high shool friends whom I terribly miss and whom I have not seen since Gawd-knows-when.

4. Finish reading two Gaiman paperbacks, one of which was lent by a teammate; Eros Atalia’s celebrated vernacular wisecracks (the Palanca guy is being compared to Bob Ong; though I think they’re two different souls with different stories to offer); a book entitled The Mark Of Man given to me by a friend who is concerned that I am already becoming a chauvinist pig; a thick Numerology thingamajeesm lent by another teammate who, after reading my If God Had A Name post, thought that I needed some Professor Trelawney enlightenment; and revisit Harry Potter’s saga in Book 7 to feed the HP freak’s hunger in me (I still think the protagonist’s scion’s names were too lame. Albus Severus Potter? C’mon!).

5. Go to Baguio and have a much-anticipated gin-slash-beer drinking session-cum-reunion with my Baguio big brothers whose company I likewise terribly miss; the inebriated chorus of us all  reverberating across the whole mountain air, ignoring the barangay watchman’s warning, reliving yesterday’s OPM bands through Kuya Charlie’s guitar, complete with the majestic dripping fog of the highlands makes a wicked picturesque scene.

 6. Visit Baby Cat, together with other Tropang Haysters, to celebrate her recent CPA Board Exams triumph in the virgin, clear waters of Dasol. (She is planning to fatten her wallet b yhaving her employ at BIR - Makati. Way to go Baby! When you get bloody rich, teach me the tricks of corrupting the coffers trade for soon I will follow your footsteps. Of course, I am just kidding!)

 7. Finish the blog post about our recent team-building in Tagaytay. 

8. Keep in touch with cousins who, like me, have deserted the ancestral compound in the province to search for greener pastures in the Idyllic City up north or in the Hasty City down south (or maybe, just to stay away from the looming stagnation and bondage that provincial life has to offer).

9.  Have some quality time with my cute little nephews and nieces who, the last time I chanced upon ,  were gaining weight like pigs groomed for the next big wedding and were balooning in such alarming proportions. 

10.  Rest. Sleep. Lie down like a dead-tired Snorlax.

Guess which of these ten have I accomplished perfunctorily. A dismal two out of ten. Gawd, am I a stupid slob! All that happened during that seven-day grace period from exasperating callers and lifeless circuits and dead monitor celluloids was for me to be happily accompanied by cold Red Horse  booze oozing with ant-sized cold sweat. I dub thee the Seven-Day Beer Bakasyon. Which also explains the noticeable relapse from the last post to this one. And to which, in grand freakin’ diminutive GMA fashion, I am terribly sorry. Jeezuz, my prose is even becoming lame and lazy. Two successive dependent clauses standing alone. Shoot me!

Nonetheless, I will make up for the lost time. Over the next few days, I will torture myself to wake up at four and endure the repercussions of a five-hour doze and wrap up the over-delayed posts that  I ought to have blogged by now. I deserve to be harassed by hot Nescafe cups in the call center vendo (number 1: pure, black coffee, no sugar) to become adroitly awake during my nocturnal shift because I ate my own words. For my sacrilegious resolve to blog at least two posts per week has been shamelessly broken. But that’s no reason to cry over spilled milk, with or without the Chinese melamine scare. I work best when I procrastinate and I orgasm with creative juices when pressured. 

Stay tuned.