STORIES, STORIES

I was listening to Jonathan Coulton in an interview over at The Nerdist the other day, and he was saying something about how we should look at our current jobs and think of them as THE job of our dreams. Until we get to the Actual.  I don't really hate the work I do at my job. I only hate my job because I need it. Everything else is fun and games, especially since I work with my closest friends. Cigarette breaks at work are like extensions of our hangout sessions. Hopefully soon I get to do what I've always wanted to do. Which is... Erm... Nothing. I found this note on one of the desks in the teacher's room. I was gonna put a post-it note above it that says "Please do not post notes here. Thank you." but my co-worker Tasneem threatened that if I did, she would put a post-it note on top of mine that would read "Please do not put snarky comments here. Thank you." And that would have been funnier. So no. We have 10-year-old telephones with 2-day-late ...

Umberto Eco 's The Name of The Rose FINALLY. Uff, it took me forever to finish this book. Just try reading 500 pages of this: Meanwhile, the obstinate insistence of the chthonian voices did not let up, as if the threatening presence of enemies, of the powerful who persecuted the people of the Lord, remain unresolved. Until that Neptunian roiling of a single note seemed overcome, or at least convinced and enfolded, by the rejoicing hallelujahs of those who opposed it, and all dissolved on a majestic and perfect chord and on a resupine neuma. And that's just two sentences. "Chtonian"? "Resupine"? "Neuma"? It felt like I was back in uni, with my required literature reading, except I embarked on this resupine neuma of cacophonous asymmetry voluntarily. (Also, did I not sound so smart just then? Big words FTW!) I shouldn't have been so surprised, though, because I came across Umberto Eco through my literary circle back in uni, when all we did as...

I subscribe to a few funny bloggers. One of my favorites, Dooce , featured the topic of bumper stickers on her blog's forum. What's the funniest bumper sticker you've read? Here are some that made me hose myself: (from her blog) "If you get any closer, you will need to wear a condom." "Jesus Loves You. Everyone else thinks you're an asshole." and "Dear God, please protect me from your followers." Us over here in Jeddah, we don't really get to see bumper stickers. The closest we ever get are those unfortunate but no less hilarious stickers you would find on guys' cars of their names (usually "Medo" or "3abood" or something), or of some cheesy line they got off god-knows-where ("Forever by you", said one, in huge print across the back of a brand new Lexus). Sometimes though, you would come across accidental profundity. Like this one. *** I also read Mo Twister's blog . Funny guy. Cocky, a bit of an as...

I'm sorry, did you say "Yummy"? Okay, this entry is not about the real Mrs Ronan Keating pictured here , because we all know she stole him away from me, that WRETCHED BITCH. Also, before I begin my inspirational story, I would just like to point out that there are moments like this blog entry that I am so thankful I didn't put up my picture and my (real and official) personal details on this blogsite. This is all incriminating evidence that would totally kick me out of that "cool" circle I imagine to be the president of. Anyhoots. I was 14 when I started my 2-year obsession with boyband Boyzone. By obsession here I don't mean the usual omg-boyzone-teenage-shrieking obsession. I mean like I was PSYCHO OBSESSED with them, I KNEW EVERYTHING about them, I stalked them, I knew their families' names and birthdays, what brand shampoos, toothpastes, the works. Kinda like how I am with my boyfriend. Cough. Now, if you were a slave to the boyband mainstream l...

If there's one thing about artists, it's that money is not (always) an issue with them. That's probably why most artists are perceived to be poor. My father is an artist. Therefore, he is poor. I am constantly conning my dad to give me his money. Therefore, I am poor. *** I didn't get much support from my parents career-wise. I didn't have a stage-mom egging me to get good grades. In college, even though my father paid for my education, he never once asked to see my grades. I got the occasional, non-committal "so how's school" phone call, but that's about it. In retrospect, it was nice to have had that kind of freedom. At the same time, words of support and encouragement are also alien to me. Which is why today is a milestone. For once, my father looked up from the book he was reading (which, this time, was a 400-page book on how best to play bridge - nothing special, except he doesn't and probably has never played bridge, ever) and told me the...

From the show "My Boys " I was looking for an image to use as eye-candy for this entry and I came across this picture, which led to my watching an episode of the show. It was chuckle-worthy but meh. Which means I'll go and watch all 3 seasons. The show is about a girl and her circle of guy friends, which was alright, except that it was all just.. a little too clean, considering there are 5 guys there. Not that I'm saying that guys are nasty. Wait, what am I saying? THEY ARE. So yeah, I'm watching the show and I think to myself, hey, this reminds me of myself and my gazillion guy friends. (Yes, I had to make it about me.) I mean, this is EXACTLY like me and my college circle. That's EXACTLY what I looked like. And look, that guy on the far left is my friend Mike. That guy on my left is my brother Brendan. Guy on my right is my high school buddy Kenny. They're even wearing the exact same clothes. Hmm. ANYHOORS. The best thing about being the one-of-the-guys ...

I remember a guy I met so many years ago, maybe 6 or 7 years back. His name was Macky. I met him in Makati when I got a job offer at a call center (I was looking for a job to support my clubbing, as my parents wouldn't. Haha). Macky was the only other person out of the 28 candidates for the position who also got a job offer. We stayed at the HR office signing contracts, doing the first part of the training session until well after sunset. The most natural thing to do after that was to grab a bite to eat, maybe chit-chat. But he was broke. I was broke. I didn't have any money. I only had cigarettes. I couldn't invite him back to the apartment I shared with my brothers, even though I saw he was so hungry his hands shook. I myself was so hungry my hands shook. But I couldn't, because we didn't have food at home. We were gonna go to my uncle's house for dinner, because that's what we do on the days we finish our allowance dry - go to our uncle's for our mea...

My favorite word at the moment: Etho I read something about this in university, in one of the libraries at the AS Hall. It was raining that day, very hot outside. The lady outside the library who made photocopies for 25 centavos per page I think it was, was on her lunch break. I didn't have money for lunch. I had a shitload of reading backed up for 2 literature classes. I had one highlighting pen, neon green. I had a couple of cigarettes in my crumpled Marlboro soft pack; I was saving them for a colder moment, when I would need a smoke.  I remember all of this vividly, because I wrote it all down on a piece of yellow paper. Pretending I was writing a paper, like everyone else in that library. I felt like I was the dumbest, stupidest, most brainless piece of kak within a 500-mile radius. I wondered how I got into the university when there I was, already struggling with my studies, freshman college, and all my batch mates seem to be breezing through every single fucking class. And th...

Man. I finally found it. I came across this essay in 2002 for one of my Creative Writing classes. I still wish I could write something like it. WRITE LIKE JAZZ. by Brian Tucker Bim-do-bam-bap. Man, I write like jazz. I write like Billie Holiday crying sweet, unhappy love songs and Coltrane on rained-in Friday nights when inspiration is low-man-low, and motivation is rent. Dig this crazy, splayed finger, tap-tap-typing like Thelonious on ebony and ivory, and hear me scream something like bip-do-bam-bap as a new paragraph reveals itself in the form of cool. It's not in the broken-down line breaks or half-hearted metaphors that my thinking takes shape. It's in the unheard rhythm of an author stuck somewhere in the unholy limbo-middleness of black, white and unread all over. Bim-do-bam-bap. Do you feel that acoustic jibber-jabber splashing out of the verb choices and similes left understated and overdone? Can you feel the pulsing percussion of a long-winded, hyphen-crazy, thesaurus...