Like Clockwork Orange

Procrastinating Like There's No Tomorrow

2008-12-14T12:57:00.006+03:00

I'm not an exception. I have a hundred tasks to do and I don't know where to begin.

It's Sunday and I woke up at 9am to have an early start. The early start became 11:30am since I dozed back to dreamland as soon as I hit the snooze button on the alarm. By noon, my early start began rather slow as I counted drips on my improvised coffeemaker for a full-bodied dark mug of coffee. I got impatient and decided to make a latte instead, assuming that lattes are three-fourths milk. Coffee chugged down, face chilled. Time-check: 1pm.

'I need to do the following things', my mind kept on scrolling this on my line of sight. 'I should make a list,' I thought. Make that thing for mum. Make that thing for school. Make that thing for the team. Make that other thing for the school. Make one more thing for the team. And so I sat down in front of the computer and made photo collages for my Friendster account.

Editing my photos and posting it on Friendster ate most of my afternoon. But one thing leads to another when you're online. Before I knew it, I was already wiping off some unworldly specimen just in time for Kala's buzz in YM. `You haven't been blogging,' she said. After a quick chat, I logged on to Blogger at exactly 6pm. Thanks for bringing it up, Kala.

Now, here I am with a hundred things to do. I lie. Only four of five things. But these are major, lose-your-job-if-you-don't-comply things. I don't feel any sense of urgency nor panic. I figure, I still have a hundred hours left before bedtime, so what's a nice movie to watch?

Out of Gotham

2008-11-01T14:17:00.011+03:00

The kids were all excited for the much-hyped Halloween party. I'd like to think that I did not give it a lot of thought but I can't deny that I spent close to 500 bucks just to make my 5th grade class beaming with happiness. There was only one thing left to do on the 30th of October--cram for a costume.

I had a short list. Shrek, too green. Hulk, too buffed and too green. Barney? Too purple. Zombie, possibly. The Joker, perfect. The Joker is the costume of choice for last-minute people. All I needed were white face creme and mum's liquid eyeliner and checkered vest . I locked myself in the classroom, put on make-up for about 10 minutes and borrowed my student's tie (in exchange I made him up as The Crow).

The Joker is out of Gotham and the Batman is not the only one having some Cantonese action. Now that it's all over and the rushed look was a hit, I think it's time for a few (excuse me for saying this) 'shout-outs' ew. I'd like to thank myself for my hair and make-up. And I'd like to thank ExpertVillage for their crash course on The Joker look

The Tourist

2008-10-26T08:27:00.006+03:00

How to spot a tourist: a map, a camera, a bottle of water, cargo shorts, rubber shoes, big backpack (or worse, a belt bag), possibly loads of shopping bags, overly giddy smiles, and a whiff of designer perfume with base notes of sweat and confusion. These things I try to avoid when I go to Kowloon , Hong Kong . The last thing I want is to be labeled a tourist, I don’t know with you but “tourist” does not sound too positive to me, i.e. a poser. Besides, I’m part of the ‘local’ crowd now—legal aliens marooned indefinitely for the promise of a brighter future. How to spot a ‘local’: settled and bored.

I’m on the routine now. Spend six months on the territory and you’re bound to know the tourist spots (and try to avoid it or at least go there discreetly), know which buses to take and which trains to transfer, where to shop cheaply, and know a few Cantonese sentences to get you by through the day and perhaps get you hooked one lonely night in a bar.

Culture shock here is not when you see a bunch of old Chinese folks doing flawless Tai Chi every morning at the park or being amazed (or nervous) around a gang of tattoo-clad kids with extreme fashion-forward `dos. Culture shock here is when you see a flood of Filipina domestic helpers along sidewalks at Central on a Sunday. One is guaranteed of this tear-jerking moment as random flashbacks of Milan , Anak and Caregiver overwhelm the first-time visitor. I’m used to the sight though. Like me, they’re already ‘local’.

Urban legend has it that Filipinos are more hard-working abroad. After more than a year as an OFW I’ve completely dispelled myths that Flips are lazy. Take away the trisikad, tricycle, trisiboat, multicab, jeepney and the occasional habal-habal and see the Pinoy walk. Here in HK, Filipinos adapt to the system without much qualms. We walk, we fall in line, we alight on designated bus stops and we don’t complain. This energetic and disciplined lifestyle reflects on one’s performance at work. At the end of the day, I’m tired but proud of myself for surviving yet another day without the usual conveniences.

So I get used to the absence of a nearby sari-sari store, tipid packs, and E-load and embrace a culture that has been perfected through centuries. Start the fireworks and throw the confetti, I’m a `local’.

And as part of the routine, when the work is done, the `local’ goes back to his quarters through a sea of lonely, weary workers on crowded walkways and trains, opens the door to his apartment, throws his bag on a corner, collapses on the bed, picks up the phone, and calls someone back home.

How to spot a tourist: a long face, phone cards and two mobile phones.

Work It

2008-10-24T20:47:00.011+03:00

I hate to admit it but the long silence, despite all or any of the reasons, was nothing more than just me hitting the wall. It certainly took me awhile to get back because I was afraid to face the blank white space.

I hope the header is symbolic enough. I have arachnophobia. I have a new template. If eating freshly popped fear is easy for you to understand, we're transmitting brainwaves in the same frequency.

In any case, I'm back (yet again), with new harder equipment, a faster wireless connection, and a stronger sense of commitment to my blog. It should be better now, I think or else I'll have to give you the finger (video by BaratsandBereta).

Not Too Far From the Tree

2008-06-06T05:00:00.006+03:00

Teaching has always been part of my agenda. My idea of it involved college students, a night schedule, one creative subject like TV Production or Theater and a very cool professor. The day I walked inside the Primary 5 classroom, I knew I only got one of my requirements right and I'm holding on to my cool no matter how other teachers view it or no matter how much the kids test my boiling point.

Ladies and gentlemen, I don't fit the type but yeah, I am a teacher. Highly respected (I call the kids dude or bro), well-regarded (our 'handshake' is the knuckle rub), and all-knowing (does anybody have a calculator?) teacher.

Since day one I've made recess and lunchtime a PSP open-tourney, taught them Rent's Season of Love in Music class (maybe next year I can show them the movie and have them close their eyes during the strip show), played basketball with them during PE and called it hoops, and told them to go crazy on a piece of paper for their Visual Arts class. If you thought Robin Williams' unorthodox professor in Dead Poets Society was rebellious then you haven't seen me sing Crawling with my students while holding sour gummy worms.

My teaching style might be too racy for some but I think it's the only way to get more kids to listen. Boring teachers only get the attention of the smart ones. But what about those who are always distracted or daydreaming? You only need to watch an episode of Late Show with David Letterman to understand what I mean. Annoyances are sometimes necessary to keep your audience focused, imagine the irony. Back in my primary school I'd always look forward to classes that my favorite teachers handled and they were the ones who knew the language of my generation.

When I was in fifth grade, my dad taught my PE Class (funny how life comes to a full circle sometimes). He was one of the cool teachers. I guess I can give him props for that. Like they say, the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree, but personally, I prefer the "shit doesn't fall far from the ass" analogy. Bun intended.

Sidetracked

2008-06-03T16:24:00.003+03:00

I was on my third week of my two-week vacation back in Davao in December and enjoying every minute of it when I asked my mom, quite casually, if I can work in Hong Kong instead. What began as a conversation piece quickly became a serious plan that the very next day, I filed my resignation from my mid-east stint.

I’m in Hong Kong. It’s official. I’ve been trying to keep it secret for several reasons. One is because my boss’ er ex boss’ son reads my blog and I don’t want them to get the wrong idea because I wrote an entirely different explanation in my resignation letter. Another was because I had to wait for certain formalities here in HK. But now that everything is quite settled, and Lee has agreed to keep mum about my whereabouts, I’m seriously going back to blogging now.

For the past three months I’ve been a semi-bum because I’m not allowed to work and receive compensation. It sucks. After having a busy and ‘happening’ life, it was hard to go back to being a slacker.

More than a year ago I was on my way to becoming a filmmaker. Well that was the plan anyway. But I had to put that on hold and go to Qatar. Now, sidetracked yet again, I’m here in Hong Kong living, according to Kala, the dream city and dream job. But that’s not my dream. I’m still hoping that I’ll get to that goal. I’m on the longer, more scenic route (I’ve always chosen that option in one too many psych tests).

Being sidetracked is part of life and those who say “you’re in control of your own destiny” are just plain lucky.

It Used To Be So Simple Then

2008-05-28T16:38:00.004+03:00

I feel like a stranger in my own skin. I lost the rhythm and I might have lost the drive, too. But I’ve been meaning to face the blank page once and for all and I have to say that it took a lot of guts to even begin a sentence. So, I’m thinking baby steps.

As far as I can remember, even before my Choose Your Own Adventure days, I have always wanted to write. Doogie Howser, the father of blogging, I think, inspired me to keep a daily journal. Okay, it was more like a yearly thing. Okay, fine, it was more like an if-I’m-in-the-mood kind of journal. Like Clockwork Orange is already a feat if you really think about my writing habits.

I reached 30 last May 4 and it was a slow climb to midlife. I think I’ve reached a plateau so I’ll use this time to get ready to ascend my peak (big thanks to my life coach for the optimism.)

So yeah, the secret is out. I’m 30. I might as well be dead. Let me see a show of hands, who of you here has reached this age and thought that we are merely kids in wrinkly skin and bad arthritis and that, more than ever, we are more accountable with our actions because apparently, we are ‘adults’? For example, a naked 3-year old kid in public is funny and cute whereas a naked 30 year old man in public is asking for jail time or the straitjacket.

I miss the days when I answered to a teacher and not to a boss, when I received allowances and not salaries, when problems were limited to maths and not life goals. But I’m happy at the moment and unless you’re starving or stuck under rubble, you really can’t complain.

Where Was I?

2008-01-02T11:57:00.000+03:00

I’m back on the blog. After a very long silence I think it’s about time I let my readers know, if there is anyone left, what happened since I stepped on the plane that took me home. To hell with the unpublished entries (yes, I’ve had quite a few lined up), to hell with the “12 Things I’ve Learned in Qatar” series, and to hell with past sentiments. What’s important is right here, right now. Now, where was I?

I was away from blogging, and the only reason is because I was back to my old life. I started Like Clockwork Orange the day I left the country but now that I’m back I didn’t feel the need to blog. It would be unfair to abandon it just because I’m enjoying my vacation. All my patient readers have followed me through my downs, it’s only right to walk them through my ups.

There’s not much to say except that I’ve been partying and eating a lot. Drinking every other day is still not enough to flame the breathalyzer after a year of almost zero alcohol. So I’ve been hanging out with friends, alternating between coffee and beer. I’ve been sleeping during the day and roaming the scenes at night. In short, I’ve been a total slacker.

So, there you have it—instant recap of weeks of absence from the blogosphere. I’m sure I’ll come up with a more detailed post one of these days. What’s important is you know I’m still alive. I’m taking this opportunity to jumpstart my blog, it’s the new year after all.

Token Pinoy

2007-11-17T19:17:00.000+03:00

I have never partied with a multi-racial, multi-national, multi-cultural group before so when Nasser invited me to join a bunch of Qatar Living regulars I was a bit hesitant but I knew I would never pass on the chance.

Nasser was already at the bar, an Indian band was playing songs that didn't quite fit Qatar--covers of animal sounding bands anthems like Scorpions, Eagles, and Def Leppard. After introductions I was sure Nasser didn't pick the place (one flawless Oprah impression did the trick!).

I thought I'd feel out of place but the group was as warm as a freshly baked pie. There was an American, a Canadian, a couple of French guys, a Greek, a couple of Flips, and Nasser, the only Qatari. A few other fellows came and went, at some point there was an Indian and two Iranians (yes, there are gays in Iran). When the other Flips hopped to the hipper bar I instantly became the token Pinoy.

As the token Pinoy I played my part well, I asked a lot of questions, although shyly at first, then I eased up and talked to my neighbors. As the token Pinoy, I tried to crack a punchline every now and then. As the token Pinoy, I drank faster than everyone else--I keep forgetting that the tagay system did not apply there.

When the night ended, Nasser was so wasted but decided that shaving and having been compared to a Persian (cat, that is), were all worth it. He asked me if I was alright because he thought I seemed 'different' from the 'blogger' that he read and the 'blogger' in person. I could've showed him the first two minutes of The WineKone's Launch Party Afterthoughts had it been on Youtube already. He asked me if I had fun. I said I did.

I did. And I found out that being the token Pinoy wasn't such a big deal after all. It was just like having Nasser as the token Qatari, or Erin as the token Canadian, etc. In the end we were just a bunch of guys that probably didn't have anything in common except for a unified mission of having a good time.

By the next weekend, I was already working my way up as part of the regular cast and meeting other regulars as well, including a token Indian, a token Australian, a token Moroccan, a token Brazilian, a token...

Old Haunts

2007-11-01T18:44:00.000+03:00

It was a little over 3PM when we got to the cemetery, all ten of us, dressed in black and searching for a place to do a photo shoot. It was almost the end of the semester and the last of the Major subjects before some of us would go on to internship. Van's Advance Advertising group--composed entirely of our barkada--was named Witches and Wizards and we're doing the shoot for their company profile. Why I wasn't part of the group was because of my own idea. Our instructor wanted 9 members per group. I suggested we draw lots. My suggestion bit me.

By that time at the cemetery, we were already inseparable. People either loved or hated us but we didn't care. We made so much noise in Masscom, upped the department's standards (we believe that, but don't take my word for it) and shook the competition between ourselves and our classmates. Each of us had our own abilities to contribute to our growing group. Our backgrounds made us unique but our group moved as one.

Counterclockwise from right to left: Jasbabe the Diva, Anthony the Performer, Ruby Jane the Beauty, Jap the Writer, Haguia the Brain, Arnold the DJ, Gio the Rockstar, Carole the VJ, Van the Model, and Mae Ann the Politician.

Our group broke stereotypes at school, we aspired for innovation in our work and never settled for anything less. What was impossible was achievable as long as we helped each other. It was almost hard to believe that a group of friends could be intelligent, talented, creative, popular, beautiful, spiritual and still know how to party.

It wasn't always fun. We had our share of fights, misunderstandings, debates, stand-offs and cold bouts but we'd always kiss and make-up no matter how short or long it took.

A year after the cemetery pictorial, our group grew bigger as more people joined us--Bien the Diplomat, Don the Partymeister, and Derf the Joker but he's a TV personality now so all respect should be given to him. There are several other people but the ones I mentioned are essentially the heart and soul of our barkada, our second family, at least that's how I saw it.

One blog post is not enough to summarize our group's colorful history so I'll just end it with a video from the Jologs archives. We are not dead but in this season of remembrance the departed are not the only ones worth remembering.

12 Things I've Learned in Qatar: #12 - Walk, Ride and Drive at Your Own Risk

2007-10-28T07:52:00.000+03:00

In a month I'll be a year old in Doha. I thought I'd look back and list the things I have learned the past twelve months in what I wittingly call: 12 Things I've Learned in Qatar.

#12 - Walk, Ride and Drive at Your Own Risk

A confession: the first time I rode a taxi in Doha, the driver charged me QR50 for a trip that, I later found out, would've cost only 15 bucks. It was one of those old yellow taxis. The good thing is that they're all phased out now.

After that incident, I began walking. City Center to Suoq: an hour and a half. Al Sadd to Bin Omran: 45 minutes. Al Rayyan to TV Roundabout: one hour. TV Roundabout to Corniche: 35 minutes. At first I tortured my feet but it didn't take long to build up my endurance. I've walked during the winter at 15 degrees, and midday summer at 45 degrees. The two main reasons would either be lack of money or lack of taxis.

As the months passed I realized that some private cars would double as cabs. It's tricky though; you have to know the usual fare to a particular destination because some of these guys overcharge if they smell tourist. Fortunately or unfortunately, there were some instances that the driver wanted a different fee. A kind brush-off usually does the trick and you get a free ride. There were also good samaritans, but I always get cynical when I think about those people.

I thought that with all the walking and ranting about Qatar's public transportation system I'd be begging for a car. Nah. At least once a week (and I'm being kind here) there's an accident in the city streets and chances are it's a major one. Hummers flying, Land Cruisers in total wreck, and smaller cars reduced to a tin can ready for recycling. The body count is constantly ticking despite the strong campaign on road safety (further reading on Qatar Traffic Accidents at Qatar Visitor). I've only driven once in Doha and it was a weird mix of freedom and certain death with SUVs impatiently beaming their headlights behind you, ready and perhaps eager to crush you unless you get out of the fast lane in three seconds. Once in a while, road-related statistics headline the papers, begging really, telling everyone to SLOW DOWN. That's not all. At the end of the day, you go online, run your plate number on the government's e-Service site and find out you've accumulated fines way past your monthly salary (of course I'm talking about my measly pay). Ouch. So, no thanks, I'll walk or take a crowded bus instead.

Qatar is a fast-developing country but maybe some drivers misunderstood the 'fast' part. The roads here are generally wide and well-paved but it seems that accidents are waiting to happen just around the corner. Those with vehicles should be luckier than us commuters, but somehow I feel safer walking than driving. If only Doha has a better public transportation system--LRTs, more taxis and buses, and better pedestrian walkways and shaded bus stops--going around the city would be more fascinating.

Now, if you're the kind of driver who has a death wish, please, kill yourself in the confines of your own home and help keep the roads of Doha safe.

Charge Me With DUI

2007-10-23T10:28:00.001+03:00

Thursday night. I'm down to my last hundred and last few ounces of sanity. Self-proclaimed fag hag Johanna called; said a girlfriend is celebrating her birthday at Qube and they need a bodyguard. I'm thinking Kevin Costner and she's thinking Jap. It didn't take long to persuade me. I'm broke but I've got a quarter bottle of cheap vodka sitting in my closet. I told Johanna I'll meet them at the club after I pre-party in my room.

Sugar-free Red Bull, 7-Up Free, and bottled water on my table. Not much of a choice. I took two generous shots of vodka 7-up, straight, barely mixed in a paper cup. I was smiling silly as I brushed my teeth and waved goodnight to Khalid. I crisscrossed my way to the bus stop and counted the amused knowing smiles of passersby. I waited for a taxi. I wished a private taxi would pick me up before I wore off my high. And just like a manipulative scene from the Ocean's 11 franchise a private taxi pulls up in front of me almost immediately.

10 minutes and 10 riyals later I'm standing outside Qube trying to figure out the new entrance. Enter through the hotel lobby, a voice from somewhere. I started to walk and caught a glimpse of another lost patron; told him to join me. Tall, chubby, buttoned-up Lebanese picked up my pace and handed me a Red. Thanks, but no. I took out my Lights and as I lit, I saw a tattoo on his arm--a sorry little "F". Nice tattoo, must stand for your name, huh? He misunderstood because he said it means 'I love my mother'. He moved closer and there it was, just below the "F", a faint line of Arabic script. When we got to security check, I unbuttoned F's shirt, told him to loosen up and wished him luck with the girls.

Johanna's troops weren't around yet so I decided to sustain tipsy, headed to the bar and had a beer in less than five minutes. Lights flashed and my smile widened. Who said I was lonely? No one could tell. The girls arrived, I counted four and I greeted happy birthday to two before I got the right one. Dance was their plan and with inhibition fading with each burp, I gladly strutted with them. We danced like a tribe, their big bags--in the middle of our circle--our bonfire. Almost an hour on the dance floor before the girls got drinks. They tabled me like a gigolo and gave me a beer, I'm losing it with each sip.

After another bottle of beer I was already laughing for no reason. Destination: dance floor, again, but I needed more fuel. I went to the bar and asked for Corona Extra. Loud music. Corona Extra. The bartender mouthed some words to confirm my drink. I said yes. I ended up with a big glass of vodka, some other alcohol and cola. Sweet! Back to the girls and go crazy.

Men from all over the world have already invaded my tribe and the girls kept chanting, brushing them off, the men got all the more challenged. This is where I come in, the reason why they asked me to go out with them in the first place--to protect them from men who won't leave Qube without pussy. Instead of pushing them out of our circle, I sexy-danced with each man who tried to score with my girls. They danced with me for a few seconds then moved away and decided to stalk another group instead. Lovely tactic, and everyone in my tribe is safe and happy. Everyone.

Lights on at 2:30 AM. The girls have left a little earlier. I barely made it to a cab, cursed every roundabout on the way home. Puke was threatening with each step to my room. I made it. Stripped, resigned to the spinning room, slept.

I woke up at 4PM, fresh, without the smell of alcohol (the wonders of vodka) and just minor cigarette stench. But I limped all the way to the bathroom. I probably tore a tendon from all the grinding, I didn't feel it while dancing under the influence.

I'm No Kurosawa But...

2007-10-20T20:29:00.000+03:00

I find myself in a room, standing, watching busy people moving furniture. I have a blanket wrapped around me, I think I'm naked, I think I'm sick. Someone calls me and asks for a hand with a bed. We lift the bed; its posts hit the ceiling. The girl at the headboard starts to recreate a scene from a horror movie, I'm thinking The Exorcist but for some reason she registers like Monique Wilson with gray, muddy eyes and seaweed hair. We laugh and start lifting again. Any time now the director will shoot the scene. We put the bed down. They look at me. They're waiting for the blanket. I think I'm naked.

I'm walking, orange pillow in hand. I think I'm headed to a club. I arrive at an old building made of wood. Pillows are not allowed not even orange ones. I fold the pillow and turn it into a nice gift box with nothing in it. I suddenly have the urge to pee. To my right, a restroom sign—that way. I go to it and find myself on a rusty roof. This is the way. The restroom is on a roof. A wire fence separates the roof from the toilet. Climb over it and pee. I touch the chicken wire and get electrocuted. I squirm in my bed. I pull my hand from the wire and hit the dog beside me. The dog bites my hand, starts to chew on it. I struggle to save my fingers, sharp pins pricking my thumb. I flinch in my bed.

I'm taking a shortcut back to the club. The street is depressing, dark, gloomy. Peddlers line the streets, selling hope. A man is walking towards me. He throws something, a fan in red and white. It has feathers, it has wings, it's a bird. The bird flies in slow motion, four furry balls in different colors orbit it. The man snaps his fingers and the balls drop to the ground and bounce back to the air and turn into birds. The place fills with color from a continuous magic bird multiplicity. I want to buy one of those. I ask the man, but I look around and I'm alone.

I need to go to the club but I don't think it's a club anymore but someplace safe. The street I'm walking on is deserted. I look back and see a giant slob of a man in caveman loincloth holding a giant mortar and pestle combo instead of the usual mace. It's an ogre. I think he's after me so I walk faster. He grinds as he walks. I'm back at the wooden building; the ogre is closing in on me. I enter slowly. I'm safe.

I'm in the suburbs. Some kids on bikes breaking chocolate milk bottles. I find a park with some colorful but peculiar looking small statues. The statues look like alien blobs with hints of a face but not much of a body. They start to move and play then stop still again. Move and play and then keep still again. Statue dance, literally.

Near the park is a tall tree. It's almost like a balete but its ropes are thicker and they move like an octopus' tentacles—fluid, calculated movements. The tree is full of fruits that look like tennis balls but in dark green felt. There's a perfect hole on the ground beside the tree and the ground slopes down to that hole. A tentacle gently picks a fruit and softly rolls it on the smooth ground. The fruit rolls into the black hole. Silence. Then a rumble. The ground starts to shake and sea waves blast through the edge of the park and flood the alien statues.

Another tentacle grabs a fruit. I think I have to stop it from rolling into the hole. I run toward it, I fail. There's a cupboard full of toys beside me. The toys come to life as the ground shakes. I grab a garbage bag and wait for the toys to jump into it. I trap them. I think I need a huge amount of glue. When the toys are all in the bag, I'll fill it with glue, they'll stick together, I'll be safe.

Wake up, I think I hear me say. Lying on my bed, I open my eyes and see myself kneeling in front of me. I'm inches away from my own face. I switch views, I see myself on my bed, groggy, drunk; I'm the sober one. I switch views again and I see the sober one say something. I can't hear the words. I hope it's not something bad. I see myself smile at me. I wake up.

Out of Type

2007-10-16T22:22:00.000+03:00

Sometimes I tend to box a person into a certain character. Once in a while, a never-before-seen trait jumps out of that box and it's either pleasant or disgusting, but it's always a surprise.

Like how Mustafa insisted that I let him drive me to Villagio even if it's far and out of the way. I was ready to wait in the sunset and spend 15 QRs on a taxi fare when Mustafa saw me near the office. He told me to get in the car without even asking where I'm headed, which made him either genuinely generous or downright stupid. He didn't flinch when I told him I'm going to the mall--the far one--but I think I felt that we both braced ourselves for a long uncomfortable ride. The trip wasn't bad. The conversation we had was trivial but it wasn't forced.

He was leaving that evening for Saudi Arabia for a sort of pilgrimage. He may be an ass sometimes but you got to give him props for being religious. I was mildly interested with the topic and found that I had enough questions for him until we reached Villagio. At the entrance, and in between religious discussion, he asked me which gate I wanted to be dropped off, without blinking I told him "Virgin". He smiled as if he smelt instead of heard the word.

As I got off the car I thanked Mustafa and told him that his driving greatly improved from life-threatening to minor-injury levels. I wasn't kidding either because it was the first time I sincerely felt comfortable with him as the driver. He said it was his pleasure, and it felt like he sincerely meant it too.

Meanwhile, I've discovered something dangerous about Edmar's character. I thought he's just annoying sometimes with his brand of 'small talk' that blindsides you just when you were thinking how lovely your day was going. I do try to ignore that, err him, and I can live with it no matter how hard he tries to magnify the mundane into a catastrophic problem (ie no sleep = cancer, too short haircut = chemo therapy).

But to make up stories about people? I think he has crossed the line from boredom to insanity. He told me that Mustafa and Hosam, had a brawl in their room one evening. My journalist instincts started to ask him questions, and while he couldn't answer most of my questions to save his story from the trash--how he saw it, who told him about it, etc.--I still believed it enough to be worthy of tabloid space.

So I told the same story to Khalid and he told me that Edmar had told him the story already but claimed that it was only a joke, something he made up. Two things bothered me: 1. Why didn't Edmar retract the story when he told it to me, and 2. Why would he cook up something like that in the first place?

He knows that Mustafa and Hosam are two figures in the office who are least liked. Pitting them against each other would make an interesting fight on MTV's Celebrity Deathmatch. Still, a 27-year-old guy doesn't make up such bogus story in a supposedly formal office setting. Unless, he has an agenda. Could it be that he only wants me to smile? Could it be that he wants me to react and quote me on that for the Egyptians?

His motive is still vague. For all I know, he might be bored. But like I said, maybe he has crossed that line already. He does have a history of drug use and who knows how far gone his brain cells are now.

It's surprising how you discover more and more about a person even after several long months of being around them. I wonder if I also surprise them, too. I'm sure some readers have been surprised about my posts or comments in this blog.

Maybe it's too soon to put a person in a box. You never really know a person until you really know him. What I hear, see, and read about a person is only what he wants to reveal about himself. But what I should be in the lookout for are those unguarded moments when more good or bad traits spring out of the character. Nobody's perfect, but it does make a person interesting. I'm writing about two guys, and you're reading about them. Yep, interesting enough even when they're acting out of type.

Desktopped

2007-10-14T12:25:00.000+03:00

I know I said that I'm not doing tag games anymore but what can I do? "So unimpressed but so in awe, such a saint but such a whore. So self-aware, so full of shit. So indecisive, so adamant." (Come Undone by Robbie Williams). Trust me, I sing that song with all my heart.

Gypsy tagged me. She said something like get a screenshot of your desktop and show and tell. Here is the show part:

Here is the tell part:
There's nothing much to say. It's a mess. I get a dozen emails a day for my boss and most of those emails have attachments. It's easier for me to locate the attachment on the desktop. The attachment stays there for a week before I move it to a "Desktop Items" folder which means it's been a month since I moved anything.

The wallpaper is quite obvious. I'm currently on the fifth season of Six Feet Under. I am such a fan when I'm into it. I'm not satisfied with my Six Feet Under theme ringtone; I need a visual.

One thing I like about my desktop is the Yahoo! Widgets toolbar. It's on auto-hide mode so you can barely see the black strip on the right side of the screen. It pops up when you hover the mouse on that area and you can get instant access to weather reports, horoscope, international time, and calendar among other things. My favorite is a comic strip widget that generates my daily dose of funnies.

That's how lame my desktop is and how messy, too with icons literally over the top. The tag game ends here, by the way. I'm burying it, six feet under ground.

A Mouse's Trap: Ramblings of a Domesticated Rodent

2007-10-11T22:58:00.000+03:00

A Hole New Beginning

The new hole rendered the room an entirely different view. I had to find my way again. New scents—citrus and mint—made it even harder for me to retrace my tracks. I made new ones, wary that there would still be booby traps on my old trail.

The human was smarter than we thought. Or maybe my cousins were just stupid. Mice can be stupid that way, giving in to urge rather than to reason. I have been raised well enough to know that I have to earn my meal. A piece of cheese doesn't just happen to stick out of nowhere. If life were that easy, then it's not life at all, it's quite the opposite actually and I have seen my relatives' insides splattered on walls because of this. And the cheese? It became the sole witness to the gruesome event. Another thing I hate about my breed is that, more often than not, we never learn.

That is probably why I found myself inside the human's room again. Uncle always reminded me that humans are the enemy. The curse of the middle-class mice. Rats in the ghetto have to watch out for cats, while we in the suburbs have a bigger enemy. I would've preferred cats myself because they're stupid. But humans are the thinking kind. Weaponry is essential in their home. BB guns, traps, glue, poison, flip flops, and basically anything they can get their hands on. No wonder our kind jumps with a mere snap of human fingers. But like I said, while humans are smart, it does not help us a bit that we are stupid. We smell cheese and we abandon all fear.

Forgive me if I speak lowly of my kind. I feel that I am above them. I'm educated and I found a way to control my urge. Every time I cruise the human's territory, I stick soap crumbs up my nose to sanitize whatever seductive smell that dares to entice my animal instincts.

The human had every right to abduct my cousins anyway. I told them to take only what is due to us. Anything outside the bin was off limits. I knew that if we stuck with this, we would have had an unwritten understanding with the human. He might have gladly watched us feast on delicious green bread if we only followed the rules.

But my cousins were arrogant, uneducated, rat-bred monsters. They ate packed food, they left feces everywhere, and worse, they disturbed the human while he slept. That probably did it for him. I too would be annoyed if some ant decided to run up and down my tail.

The last time I saw my cousins, they were stuck on a piece of cardboard, trying to claw their way out of glue. They were shouting apologies to the human and while he heard, he didn't listen.

I hate to admit it, but now, I'm glad that my cousins are out of the way. I have a new hole and I am the only one who can enter the human's room. To be honest, the reason why I am here is not because of food. If I may be direct without being accused of being a hamster, I have a certain admiration for the human. I feel that we have a lot in common.

We both love to read. I'm no bookworm, but reading Nutrition Information excites me the way paperbacks excite the human. We both love films. Art house films to be exact. None of those crap that Mickey and Jerry star in, but films that depict rodent life truthfully. Flushed Away remains to be my favorite, it's so accurate I almost thought it was a documentary.

We also both love to eat. Needless to say, mice are walking digestive systems. It is our luck that humans have larger egos than stomachs. More often than not, they buy too much food that end up in the bin. They think they're hungry, but what they're really hungry for is attention.

And that's another thing that I have in common with the human. We're both lonely. We're lonely because our hunger for attention is never fed. There is no one to watch a movie with; share a bag of chips with; and at the end of the day you sleep alone and the pillow does not hug you back.

This new hole is a new beginning for me. I hope to introduce myself to the human. And to do that, I must first establish trust and understanding. I have to respect the limitations and take care of the room as if it were my own pad. It's possible to be friends with humans. My mother knows that, too. Why else would she name me Ben?

Indian Invasion

2007-10-09T07:53:00.000+03:00

Two cups of yogurt. Creamy, almost sour and cold. Layered with preserved blueberry and good bacteria. A minute of happiness when I eat it and 24 hours later, 30 seconds of blissful bowel movement. Two cups of yogurt were waiting for me inside a locked refrigerator to which only I held the key. Right after the Indian school dismissed their noisy students, I rushed to the peace and quiet of the second floor, unlocked the ref, peered inside, and found a light bulb and lots of chilled air.

I stood there and wondered what kind of monster devoured my precious. How am I supposed to defecate now? I looked at the bin and sure enough, the yogurt cups were there, along with my two cans of Pepsi Max and a bottle of milk all empty, cheap stuff I put in the ref to save me from a five-minute marathon to the store. I narrowed my suspects to the Indian school students (and / or teachers). The only other people who have access to the ref are Khalid and Edmar. It couldn't have been Khalid because our friendship has reached charity level. And Edmar doesn't like yogurt.

A quick experiment proved that the ref lock was as tight as Paris Hilton's vagina. Anything that fit in it did the trick. And those rowdy students could have done it on a dare.

This isn't the first time that Indians made their presence felt. I get my laundry done at the shop next door. Kala wrote about her experience with Indian laundry shops so I was already expecting their 'system' which is basically: dump your clothes and come back a day after tomorrow. No listing, no counting, no weighing. Just your name so they can bill you correctly. The rest of the business is put to good faith (and a couple misplaced socks every now and then). What I didn't expect though was that they'd label my clothes, not with my name, but with the name of the guy who handled my laundry. My wardrobe is now owned by a certain "VAN".

I can see it now, me spending extra time in the can because some Indian guy ate my ticket to a satisfying dump. So I sit there, longer than usual, staring at the seam of my pants and figuring out if Van is short for Vanesh, or Vanij, or Vanadev or Vanamalin.

Forget Her

2007-10-01T02:49:00.000+03:00

I wasn't sure if it was a full moon already. The park seemed aglow in florescent light, almost like dawn in fact, quite unusual for a place that's notorious for its dark corners. I glanced at the moon to be certain. It's not a perfect circle, its halo also premature. Still it was fine enough for a walk along Corniche--an escape disguised as an exercise. I found a spot and decided to master the lyrics to a new fascination: Jeff Buckley's "Forget Her". His voice is like no other. Too bad he's singing with angels now. I sat there watching the faint waves of the sea, singing in a concert in my head but A capella to the world. I wondered who broke Jeff's heart when he wrote the song. Now that he's gone, I'll never know. But for me, the lady in question is none other than Qatar.

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Forget Her by Jeff Buckley

While this town is busy sleeping
all the noise has died away
i walk the streets to stop my weeping
‘cause she'll never change her ways

Don't fool yourself
she was heartache from the moment that you met her
my heart feels so still
as i try to find the will to forget her somehow
oh i think i've forgotten her now

Her love is a rose pale and dying
dropping her petals and men unknown
all full of wine the world before her
was sober with no place to go

Don't fool yourself
she was heartache from the moment that you met her
my heart is frozen still
cause i try to find the will to forget her somehow
she's somewhere out there now

Oh my tears are falling down as i try to forget
her love was a joke from the day that we met
all of the words all of the men
all of my pain when i think back to when
remember her hair as it shone in the sun
the smell of the bed when i knew what she'd done
tell yourself over and over you wont ever need her again

I have to be honest. As my Qatar anniversary approaches, I'm more confused than ever. After my vacation, I don't know whether I should come back or move on. Maybe I'm just "fooling myself" into thinking that I like it here. But maybe I do like it here. I think I do like it here. Maybe I don't want to go through another adjustment period. There are so many things to consider, all pointing to a way out. The only thing holding me back is of a selfish nature--I'm holding on to the familiar, the expected, the routine. A year is quite short to be starting all over again. Should I really forget her?

The Absence of Maps

2007-09-30T08:24:00.000+03:00

I arrived from school one afternoon and found my stand-in grandmother pedaling her sewing machine, piecing together random fabrics to make a quilt. My 8 or 9-year-old mind could not establish the connection between "Singer" and "sewing" and thought that maybe for some people, like my stand-in grandmother, the annoying clang-clang of the machine's wheel was music to their ears.

We called my stand-in grandmother "Nanay". She took on the responsibility of raising my mom (her niece) when my mom's mother went to the States. She was never married and never had children. I assumed that her vitiligo made it impossible for her to find a mate. She had white patches all over her body as if the melanin got confused whether she was Asian or Caucasian and it decided to give her the best of both worlds, except that she ended up looking like a freak. I always thought of her patches as continents--her skin a map--but I never mentioned it to her because she might not like the idea of me naming a patch of albino skin as some secret paradise island.

The rest of the neighborhood also called her "Nanay" because she was a retired nurse who became the midwife to all of the baranggay's pregnant women. This irony was last seen in the Star Cinema movie A Love Story. Nanay, however, didn't have her own Aga Mulach.

As soon as I entered her room I collapsed on the floor together with my big backpack filled with thick textbooks which could have been thinner and lighter if it weren't for the large elementary font. My teacher referred to those books as our future. Each day, I carried my future on my back, quite certain that the only future in store for me was a trip to the chiropractor.

I tried to look pained to get some sympathy in the form of Jellyace or Mallows, but a heavy bag could not compete with the troubles of war that Nanay had to endure as a little girl. She was also stingy. Either way, it was a lose-lose situation.

"We are going to write a letter," she told me that afternoon I arrived from school. A grimace from me. I was looking forward to cartoons on our black and white TV especially when rumors went around at school alleging that the Smurfs were blue! I had to see it for myself and letter writing would ruin the investigation I had planned.

We always wrote to her sister, my real grandmother, who lived in Chicago. Lola Chila, name derived from Kastila (Spanish), seemed to answer our letters in dollar cheques and this encouraged Nanay to write more often than she should. When Nanay ran out of sad stories to write, she turned to me.

Nanay put aside the unfinished quilt and converted the ugly sewing machine into a table. She took a couple of onion skin paper and told me to sit on her lap so that we could begin writing. Onion skin paper was invented for old, stingy, single women who went to great lengths to save on postage stamps. There was no clear use for it other than to reduce the weight of an already seemingly weightless mail. You'd think that with all the dollars her sister sends her she could at least buy some scented stationery but Nanay valued every centavo that not even Hello Kitty could sway her. She'd even use onion skin envelopes if they were available, or onion skin stamps for that matter.

"What am I going to write to her?" I asked Nanay although this question was just a formality since she'd do most of the writing anyway. I sat on her lap, she folded the paper in half, took my small hand, put the pen in my hand and began writing using my hand as if it were a large deformed pen. I don't know how she got away with it, saying to her sister that I wrote the letter when the handwriting looked a lot like hers only chunkier. I did not even dictate to her what I wanted to write and she did not even bother to choose words that a third-grader might use. The situation transcended any acceptable form of ghost-writing.

Towards the end of the letter she asked me if there was anything I wanted from Lola Chila. "Toys! Lego! Tonka trucks! Matchbox! GI Joes!" I exclaimed, finally feeling that I was part of this activity and not just a dummy. She hesitated for a bit and as she led my hand on the paper, I got confused because she spelled 'toys' as 'B-O-O-K-S'. My hand wanted to write a comma after 'books' but she already lifted my hand to a new paragraph. As early as 8, I already knew I had to fight for press freedom.

We ended with "I miss you" and "hope to see you again soon". I haven't met my Lola Chila. She left way before I was conceived. Still, we closed with those words and Nanay moved my hand to sign my name. Looking back at it, the letters that "I" sent to my Lola Chila when I was a kid were 50% Nanay's perception of me, and 50% fiction.

The only thing I looked forward to the letter writing was the mailing process. I liked lick-sealing the envelopes and the stamps. I liked dropping the envelopes at the post office mailbox. I liked our trip to the post office that ended with a quick snack of puto-cheese at the Central Market plus a take-home pack of pinipig. If I behaved, the pinipig would be the cold variety produced by Magnolia Ice Cream.

When we got home, I heard the only clang-clang sound that pleased my ears, one that came from a sorbetero. I asked Nanay if she could give me 50 cents so that I can grab a cone of the most delicious treat that came from a cart loaded with dry ice, salt, and a creamy blend of skimmed milk, sugar and traces of amoeba. She called it dirty ice cream but for me, dirty was a small price to pay for something so delectable.

She did not give me the measly 50 cents. I pleaded, negotiated, begged, cried, wailed. The fainter the bell sounded, the louder I cried, hoping that if Nanay wasn't about to give in, at least the ice cream man would hear an interested customer and turn back while I continued to convince her. She held her ground and I eventually accepted that she was the most inconsiderate stingy spinster in the city. I entertained the thought of her dognapping a hundred and one dalmatians but that might be a bit over the top.

Several months passed. After mailing yet another letter, Nanay flopped on the sofa as soon as we got home. She did not get up since. Her diabetes got worse in the following months. I wasn't at the hospital when she died but the people who were there said that she kept on asking for me and my brother during her last few hours.

Aside from the modest savings account, her quilts were the only possessions she passed on to us. Months following her death, I'd play with the sewing machine trying to recreate the clang-clang sound that I associated with Nanay. It wasn't music but I somehow found it comforting.

When I was 8, I regarded Nanay as a difficult person. But now, her ways seem sensible and fair. She had been difficult for the right reasons. Her guidance played a big part in shaping my mom into a strong-willed and independent woman. Her strictness towards me made me self-reliant instead of a whiny spoiled brat. She provided the map for our growth as a family and had she lived longer, I'm positive that she would've continued to guide us to the right path.

Nanay has moved on and there's no question as to where she is now. Her patches as white as an angel's wings; her destination etched like a map on her skin.

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Nan's Song by Robbie Williams

This Season at the Office

2007-09-28T01:59:00.000+03:00

The cliffhanger (if there was any) for last summer's run of the office left my cult following at the edge of their rotating computer chairs. OK, sue me if I'm hyping my office like a TV series but I can't help it. And besides, things are heating up, ironically enough, just when the first mild chills of winter are in the air. Summer saw the entry of Edmar into the office. He provided the comic relief as Khalid and I stood our ground against the resident villain Mustafa. The season ended with Khalid flying off to Sudan, still uncertain of his return, while I was left to confront the newbie Hosam in an all out cubicle war.

This season, expect more twists: Edmar's character evolves and becomes more shady. He starts to befriend the dark side. Is he spying for the force? Is he a confidant of the villains? Or is he a bored freak who wants to see if we blend when he presses the pulse button?

Khalid returns this season. A bit of a spoiler since I already mentioned him in a previous post, and already, he and Mustafa are at it again. With Hosam and three other new Mustafa recruits strengthening the Egyptian team, it will be interesting to see whose dick has the most piss.

Office relationships will be stirred as Khalid will question Edmar's loyalty to the force, the boss will doubt which people are loyal to him, and a new Filipina secretary will be the object of desire for some of the men or man or Edmar.

Meanwhile, a new Indian driver, whose name is too hard to pronounce or spell, will provide the brief moments of laughter ie: "When wife and Edmar fight in street and mobile hit the head up and I am tension".

For subplots, Edmar's wife is four months pregnant, the Indian classes resume, and I'm down to my last 4 Gigs of hard disk space.

As for me, I will have a minor role, one that will focus on a new sideline. But I'm telling you now, even with that small role this season, I will set the cliffhanger as the series closes--will I stay or will I go?

Dusk

2007-09-23T17:53:00.000+03:00

It's exactly 6PM as I write this. I've pressed the play button on my walkman phone and it's now playing Paul Weller's "You Do Something To Me" off the playlist I entitled 'Dusk'. 'Dusk' was previously known as '6PM' but since I rearranged the tracks and added more to the list, I decided to rename it. And what's this fascination with this time of day? 6PM is not just a playlist, it's a realm of memories.

How I came up with a 6PM playlist was easy. I remember as a kid, I'd often walk home at dusk, because any minute later would mean an angry grandma. I'd pass by sari-sari stores or houses with men out on their front yard drinking Gold Eagle Beer or Tanduay Rum (you can tell by these drinks what kind of neighborhood I grew up in), and they'd always have a radio on. This was pre-videoke. What amazed me was the kind of songs these radio stations played. At 6PM, it was always classic slow rock and power ballads like those from bands like Styx or songs like Caravan. Jukebox music right in your own home. Since then, when dusk comes, I'd always crave for songs that have a distinct guitar riff or a lonely bar room feel with an affected lounge singer. A bit bluesy but not quite, more like dreamy. To give you a better idea, here's a portion of my playlist:

Or better yet, here's a close enough clip of what I mean (the song is in the list too). It's a scene from Y Tu Mama Tambien, just before the threesome did the nasty. The song is called Si No Te Hubieras Ido by Marco Antonio Solis.

It was dusk when I met my first lover. We were both 15 and in love and nobody knew about it. It was a summer affair in which I learned how to drink beer, smoke, and dance. I didn't flip out when it ended. I considered it as my initiation to a mysterious world and I passed with remarkable colors, that I never knew existed. I remember writing an uplifting short story when we ended our relationship. I also remember that it was when I started to write about people without using pronouns.

It was dusk when Ryan, my best bud in high school, and I would go to Capitol Lagoon and talk the night through because none of us wanted to be home. We'd exchange mythologies of the doomed love affair of the two golden statues that marked each side of the Lagoon's pool. The lovers are so close yet forever parted because some artist thought it would be dramatic if the female statue would eternally wait for her hero.

It was one of those talks when I first came out. It was also the last of those talks. Years later, I'd disproved my own mythologies about those statues and instead thought of them as a haunting metaphor for all my relationships--whether it be family, friends, or lovers, we'd always be parted by bodies of water.

It was dusk when I'd drive the long highways of Davao and find myself in different cities in an hour. Aimless driving, aimless thoughts. I remember that the goal was to chase the horizon until it was time to go back. With only a good soundtrack on board, I'd make my way through towns that shrunk smaller and smaller with each mile away from the city. Seeing those towns, I thought I didn't want to go back to my life. Simple living meant simple problems. But then the tape runs out, the last stick of cigarette evaporates, and perhaps the last can of beer turns into burp, and I'd snap out of it, drive back home and try to catch Frasier on cable.

It's that lazy guitar riff that brings back a thousand memories. It doesn't matter now if it was happy or sad. It's just memory. Neither a positive or a negative. And the songs, they are notes that mark the sunset--the very moment when we stop to think: what have I learned today?

Two in One

2007-09-20T23:20:00.001+03:00

For lack of anything better to write, I'm going to bore you with two self-indulgent tag games (aren't they all? as if blogging in itself isn't egotistic enough =P). One's from Jay and the other from Joey. I'm not tagging anybody else after this because I'm a member of the Chain-mail Death Squad. I'm not a spoil sport that's why I'm doing this now, but, let this be an advisory, this is the last time I'm doing it. Tag games might be fun for some but it just isn't my thing, I don't dig it. And the only digging I'll give it is a grave. Anyway, thanks to Jay and Joey for thinking about me after they did the tag. I know it's not your fault, guys. It's a conspiracy, I know.

5 7 weird things about me:
1. I'm convinced that I go mad during full moon.
2. I am aware if and when I snore.
3. I count random things when I wait.
4. I tremble when I'm angry.
5. I often contradict myself.
6. Because I often get nosebleeds, I know the instance I get one even before the first drop of blood escapes my nose (I can actually hear my veins pop).
7. And probably because of my frequent nose-bleeding, I'm not grossed out by blood, in fact, I'm fascinated by it. A bleeding corpse by the side of the road, I can handle...but I don't have the guts to see a well made-up body inside a coffin.

Three things that scare me:
1. Spiders
2. Scorpions
3. The Exorcist

Three people who make me laugh:
1. Yeric
2. Pooh (not the bear)
3. Conan O'Brien

Three things I love:
1. Camera
2. Computer
3. An audience

Three things I hate:
1. Sugar (trying to avoid it)
2. Spyware, Adware etc
3. Organized Religion

Three things I don't understand:
1. Accounting
2. E=mc2
3. Jealousy

Three things on my desk:
1. Candles
2. Printer
3. Neck tie (yes, it's not on my neck!)

Three things I'm doing right now:
1. Talking to Khalid about a just-concluded stand-off between him and Mustafa
2. Tag 'game'
3. Holding pee.

Three things I want to do before I die:
1. Write or direct a full-length film
2. Write a book
3. Fulfill at least one dream for each of my loved ones

Three things I can do:
1. Write
2. Sing
3. Swim

Three things I can't do:
1. Balance on a tightrope (or any circus act for that matter)
2. Part the red sea (or any miracle for that matter)
3. Suicide

Three things I think you should listen to:
1. Your conscience (not the Safeguard kind)
2. Your ancestors' spirits
3. Trip hop music

Three things you should never listen to:
1. Your ego
2. Your cool rebel friend (ie me)
3. Voices inside your head (except for your conscience)

Three things I would like to learn:
1. Mind-control
2. Taoism
3. Capoeira

Three favorite foods:
1. Baby Back Ribs at Bob's Bacolod (I gave up pork, but I'll eat this one!)
2. Chicken Inasal at Chicken Deli also in Bacolod
3. Triple Mousse at Calea in Bacolod (the City of Smiles should be renamed City of Great Food)

Three shows I watched as a kid:
1. Regal Shocker
2. John en Marsha
3. Todas

Three people I'm tagging:
1. Ryan Gosling
2. Ewan McGregor
3. Colin Farrell

Riding with Strangers

2007-09-17T11:25:00.000+03:00

A few weeks ago, I started to ride the bus. I avoided it for good enough reasons--I didn't know the routes and it didn't look comfortable since it was full most of the time. But my cash was depleting faster than the ozone layer so I swallowed my pride, marched to the long line which pretty much became an informal free-for-all wrestling match on desperate humid nights, and found out that riding Qatar's public transport wasn't as bad as I thought, especially if you have Elton John's Tiny Dancer on loop during the ride.

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It turned out that I can get a bus from the office direct to the end of Corniche, where I frequently go to anyway, and save 12 QRs - just enough for cafe latte at nearby Costa Coffee.

Going home was a risk though. Since I usually go out late at night, there's no way I can get a bus back to the office because the last bus leaves at 11pm. This means I'll have to take the cab, but, for some reason, all Karwa taxis disappear after 2 or 3 am. There's another alternative: private cars that moonlight as cabs. But this is tricky because you never know who's the driver or the pervert.

At around 2:30 am last weekend, a guy, probably in his late 40s driving an old SUV stopped beside me and asked if he could give me a lift somewhere. Pervert, I thought. I was certain about this because his longing eyes were short of a wink to be officially flirtatious, more so because it was his second time to stop and I pretended I didn't see him the first time that he did.

But I looked at the time and I knew this was my chance to go home. I asked him how much he'll charge me for the fare just to make sure he understood that I needed a ride and not an orgasm. He laughed it off and told me it's free.

"Where are you from?" he asked "Philippines," I said "and you?"

"Lebanon."

"I've recently found out that pure Lebanese people are Catholic, is that true?"

He made the sign of the cross and smiled "Well, 50% of pure Lebanese, probably. What's your job?"

"I'm a secretary. You?"

"An engineer."

"I thought so. Engineers have a way of dressing up. Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot to ask your name. I'm Jake," I lied.

"I'm Basil," he probably lied.

After a few roundabouts, the conversation became interesting and sensible. Small talk about family, work and fate. Small talk but talk nonetheless. And how I missed talking.

When we were near my office, I told him if there's anything I can do to repay him. I was hinting at shawarma or cold drinks beside the office, anything to keep the good company and conversation longer. He said no as he would hope that somebody would give him a free ride in the future should the need arise. Good man. Great heart. And he believes in Karma, too.

I asked him to stop a block away from the office. I told him thank you again and found myself stalling as I put on my headphones, all the while looking at him, this time with my longing eyes, to which he softly replied: You're welcome, good luck on your journey. Now you might wanna get out now so I can go home. (And that's why I believe in Karma).

Monobully

2007-09-15T09:48:00.000+03:00

When I'm on the road or at a coffee shop I sometimes check on my Yahoo! Mail account using my mobile phone (since I'm poor and can't afford a laptop). Anyway, last week, I saw an ad on the newspaper about QTel offering premium services for Yahoo! and Gmail starting at QR50. I didn't understand what the fuss was all about since Yahoo! and Gmail emails are free. That was until I tried to check my email two days ago. To my surprise, Yahoo! Mail and Yahoo! Messenger won't open.

The price of monopoly. It seems that QTel and its newly-launched Mozaic mobile internet service blocked access to these email giants in order to cash in on a service that's supposed to be free! And this is on top of the charges you get from opening these web pages on your mobile. Unbelievable.

The same is true for the taxi service. One ride could cost you up to QR20, almost equivalent to a car's full tank.

If this happened in the Philippines, expect to see mass demonstrations throughout the country the next day, or at least a flood of txt protests. But in rich Doha, the locals couldn't care less. What's another QR50 for the affluent anyway? Most of them have cars anyway. The underpaid expat is the one affected.

I can hear them say, 'then go home you silly expat, we don't need you here'. But I think they do. Who else would run out of the shops to get their orders when they honk? Who else would wash their clothes, making sure to separate the whites from the blacks? Who else would water the pathetic grass to make this place look less like a desert? Who else would answer their homework and take home exams? Who else would pour cement on their walls or detail their cars or pave their roads so they can effortlessly crash their cars?

That's right. Think about it. Without me, life will still go on for them because they are rich. But at least without me, that's one less customer for QTel.

Ba De Ya

2007-09-10T16:27:00.000+03:00

I remember watching When the Wind Blows when I was younger and I remember imagining how peaceful and quiet the world can become after a nuclear bomb explosion--total destruction equals peace. Last month was crazy and I think it's all downhill from here. And while I struggle to fill this blank space on my screen, I say to myself that this is not a block but a sense of peace (or emptiness) and surely, I can write about that.

I remember November last year when I started this blog. We were trying a new coffee shop called Barista and I took a picture of Yeric and Ezer using my then new Walkman phone and bragged how I've instantly uploaded the photo to my blog. It was one of the last few nights I'd spend with them before leaving for Qatar and it was the start of Like Clockwork Orange.

I remember quitting smoking after breaking up with my lover. I figured that if I was going to quit one bad habit, I might as well quit smoking too. And eating pork. And taking sugar. I patched things up with my lover not long after the breakup but it was only a month ago, after effortlessly avoiding cigarettes for almost two years, that I started smoking again.

I remember my short-term plans and how my future seemed sad but bright at the same time. It's almost a year now and the bright part has somehow faded. I fear that I may have wasted a whole year for nothing--not even the simplest of targets achieved.

I remember thinking a few nights ago that maybe I am wrong--that there is no plan, there is no destiny, that life is, unfortunately, random and all of us are just waiting to win the lottery; while those who have already won might be so arrogant as to say that it is all their hard work and not luck.

I remember now that Jayclops commented in my last post that "(Office politics) sounds familiar". After he confirmed that he wasn't talking about himself, I began to think that maybe I'm repeating myself. My whole life is a déjà vu, constantly looping like an overused character in one too many Stephen King novels.

I remember realizing last night before going to sleep, that I don't have one thing that I am very good at.

I remember wanting to write a poem about my dreams and how I think these will never happen because maybe I'm part of the other half of the world's population that will serve as the example--the sin, the ugly, the lesson to be learned.

I remember how me and my friends loved to sing in videoke bars (or was it just me) and somebody may or may not sing one of the videoke anthems, Earth, Wind and Fire's September, and depending on our mood we'd either love or hate both the song and the guy who did the number.

I remember just now that I'm supposed to make up a moving excuse for not posting for so long when the truth is I was doing back to back marathons of Six Feet Under and Weeds.

I'll save some of my memories for future posts or for when the time comes for an inevitable montage like the my-whole-life-flashed-before-me kind of thing.

Ba De Ya, it's September, do you remember?

Bitch in Heat

2007-08-28T21:22:00.000+03:00

Today was a good day to kill someone. After the adrenaline rush in my last post, I thought I was ready to write something light. But this morning, I was faced with yet another pisser that goes by the name Hossam. He confirmed for me, that a pile of shit with a necktie is simply a gift-wrapped turd.

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I proceeded with my day as usual, although I was already a bit on the edge because I wasn't able to sleep the whole night on account that I walked from Costa Coffee to the office which was a good two hours from 2AM till 4AM. Add my pinoy pal scratching the surface of my crankiness with his usual annoyances. In between that were the boss and Mustafa passing work like they're feeding pulp in a paper mill, expecting me to churn out glossy pieces of A4 from the stinking crap they come up with. By noon, I was ready to explode.

Hossam is a newbie to the office. Three weeks old but already a hotshot since he is Mustafa's best buddy. Hossam and I never really got along well. He has issues and they extended to me.

For some reason, I feel that he hates my guts. I don't mind, you can't expect everybody to like you. And he's the last person I'd want to be friends with anyway. As long as we kept to ourselves though, there wouldn't be any problems. But this morning, Hossam decided to cross the line, invade my space and claim it as his own.

Here's the scenario: I was busy working when Hossam barged inside my office and asked, and not in a nice way, for some letterheads. I proceeded to print five. At the table in front of me, my officemate Abdalla asked for help on his computer so I went there, leaving my post empty while Hossam waited for the printing to finish. After a while, Hossam started tinkering with my PC without even asking for my permission. He was unaware that I was already giving him the WTF look. He then left the room. A little bit later, he was back again, and said that he needed eight more letterheads so he used my computer, without asking me again and that was the time when I snapped, calmly.

"Hossam. Please do NOT use my computer without asking permission," I said slowly so he would understand simple English. His arrogant reply got me trembling so bad I wanted to punch him in the face the way Shia LeBouf's character in Disturbia punched that Spanish teacher. "This is not your computer, this is the office's computer, this is not only for you, this is for everybody."

What. The. Fuck. Is he sick? Obviously, the concept of privacy is lost in this dimwit. So I told him and not so calmly this time, "Hossam, is it so hard to ask permission? I don't go to your computer and use it at whim! I'm not forbidding you to use my computer, all you need to do is ask, I'm right here in front of you!"

"Hey, the boss asked me to do something. This is for the boss I'm doing, if you have a problem, talk to him!" was his reply. "Oh, I definitely will!" I said. And that was the end of our spat.

I think I don't need to tell you how I almost unplugged the computer, bring it to Hossam's table, and throw it on his head. I talked to the boss though and told him that one of his golden boys was stinking the office with foul behavior.

Hossam and Mustafa always seem to get props from the boss. In fact, when I told the boss how a piss-off his favorite rookie was, I hinted that he tried to defend the twat by saying that he "did ask Hossam to do some things for him," to which I replied "But that doesn't give him any right to use my PC without my go signal because we both know what kind of sensitive information we have in there," then I gave him the wink wink and I'm not referring to my porn collection either. The boss has emails that only the two of us know of. "Please teach your boys some manners to go with their suit and tie," I told the boss and left his office. God knows what the boss said to Hossam after I left, but I bet it's something short of dealing with a naughty baby--there there now, don't be naughty again next time or papa will get angry, OK?

For the Nth time, I don't really care about office politics and these guys simply don't get it that I don't want their jobs nor have I aspirations like them to become a boss. I just want my peace and quiet and a little respect (how pink is that?).

Malu Fernandez is Not a Pig

2007-08-25T09:55:00.000+03:00

Thanks to my friend Martin who forwarded the email containing the now famous Malu Fernandez article entitled "From Boracay to Greece" (page 30 and page 31 of People Asia Magazine), I am in the mood for some ranting. Quite timely for my NC-17 Rating anyway. But I suppose I should say something, being in the Middle East and all, even if I'm one of the last people to know about this outrage.

Before I actually react to Malu's article, let me say that (even before you point it out to me) I am aware that, like Malu, I have written humorous posts at the expense of others. But, unlike Malu, I am not a paid writer (not even a pro blogger) so I don't answer to an editor or to sponsors.

It is not to say though that I am irresponsible. I have a good idea of what is acceptable and what is not--stick to the truth, avoid generalizations, minimize attacks. And one thing I always remember: when I point out the silliness of people in my posts, I make sure that they don't get to read it.

So what's the difference between this:

Edmar is the kind of Pinoy you don't want the other races to base their Flip stereotype on. It's not good to judge the book by its cover, but a couple of amateur tattoos can tell you a lot about the person. He hails from the northern part of Luzon. He's the kind of Filipino that Rex Navarette makes fun of in his routine--wer for where, soaf for soap, etc. Although Edmar is a blast to talk to in kanto-level conversations (ie "nakakain na ako ng tao" or "I have eaten a man" -- a statement that can only come from a post-fried brain), I'd avoid speaking to him when other officemates are within earshot for fear of being accused of racism.
-Jap@Like Clockwork Orange (a lousy blog)

and this:

The duty-free shop was overrun with Filipino workers selling cell phones and perfume. Meanwhile, I wanted to slash my wrist at the thought of being trapped in a plane with all of them… On my way back, I had to bravely take the economy flight once more. This time I had already resigned myself to being trapped like a sardine in a sardine can with all these OFWs smelling of AXE and Charlie cologne while my Jo Malone evaporated into thin air.
-Malu Fernandez@People Asia (an International Magazine)

Admit it, the former is funny while the latter is simply insulting. Therefor, I claim my right to rant about Ms Malu Fernandez.

Malu is not a pig. A lot of bloggers and vloggers have called her Ms Piggy or Oink Oink, but I refuse to call her a pig because even though she resembles one, she is still human. The issue here is not why this jet-setting socialite flies economy and cannot afford a much-needed liposuction so she can fit in a sardine-can airplane. The issue here is how she addressed millions of Overseas Filipino Workers (OFWs) and millions more of their families back in the Philippines.

I guess she has her reasons. But I don't get why she should be embarrassed to be trapped in the same space as OFWs. I'd be embarrassed to be trapped in the same space with Paris Hilton wannabes who think that Jo Malone EDTs and a few visa entries stamped on their passports can get them goddess status in Greece.

Before she made an apology, she had the audacity to justify her article:

In the end, Malu Fernandez 'resigned' from her jobs at Manila Standard and People Asia so we're supposed to feel sorry for her.

I actually feel sad for Malu, because no matter how much perfume she sprays on her body, no matter how many designer clothes she buys, and no matter how many air miles she flies around the world, she is still a Filipino--born in a third world country. If she wishes to be of another nationality, maybe we should gladly accept her renouncement of her citizenship.

I just hope that for Malu's sake, fate won't let us share a plane ride because I have a feeling I will accidentally spill hot soup (and the rest of my in-flight dinner) on her face.

For Adults Only!

2007-08-23T10:20:00.000+03:00

After all my self-censorship--policing my language, restraining my fingers from typing four-letter words that start with 'f' and end in 'ck' (trust me, you can't find fack, feck, fick, fock or fuck in this blog...until now of course), and veering away from subject matters concerning sex, fornication, drugs and extreme violence--I still get this:

Now I know how Joey Reyes felt when he marched along the streets of Manila shouting "Live Show is not porn!" and asking the president not to ban the critically acclaimed film which was locally known as "Toro".

"Like Clockwork Orange is not porn!", I shout. But it won't change anything. See how they rated my blog:

This rating was determined based on the presence of the following words:
jap (7x)
shoot (2x)
fags (1x)

'Jap' is my nickname and not a racial slur. 'Shoot' does not incite violence, it's a film terminology, and 'fags' is a Brit slang for cigarettes. Much as I would like this blog to have an 'R' rating to add a controversial feel to it, it seems silly now that the rating was based on words that are not controversial at all.

So, I'm thinking that maybe with this post, I'm going to earn my 'R' Rating, in or out of context.

Here goes:

I watched Vagina Monologues before and enjoyed it so much that in my speech class, back in college, I performed Penis Monologues as my finals speech presentation. I sucked at my 'Penis' act but the teacher gave me a good grade anyway. I didn't give a rat's ass about my grade. I was glad that boring class was over. All the girls did in that speech class was put on make up that made them look even more slutty. Thanks to the mirror in each cubicle (which was supposed to guide students on proper mouth openings), girls used it to check out themselves, boys used it to check out the girls, and gays used it to check out their mouth openings and how it would look in the event of a blowjob.

I hope that was dirty enough. Do I deserve it now?

A quick follow up: after posting this, I just upped my rating to:

This blog is too hot for primetime!

Care For...

2007-08-21T11:14:00.000+03:00

"Would you like to join me to care for?" Khalid asked me as I was filling up my bottle from the office water dispenser. I stopped half-full, puzzled by the question. "Care for what, Khalid?" I asked. I eventually found out that he wanted to go to Carrefour (karfur/karifor French for 'crossroads' ), the hypermarket at the mall. He needed to buy some things because he had reached his own crossroads and had decided to leave Qatar.

Like me, and most foreign workers in Doha, Khalid is fed up of promises that were never kept. Lured by the prospect of good pay and a secure job, we gave up a big part of our lives in order to help keep another country's economy running smoothly only to find out later that it's not worth it. Throw in nasty office politics and it completes the disillusionment.

During his last few weeks in the office, Khalid mastered the art of ranting as he spoke of the scheming others and how they're `taking over the office'--conspiracy theories that are slowly becoming real. When the thing that keeps you hanging on to a job is your concern for your boss, the last thing you need is a fit of jealousy. So when it was obvious to Khalid (and to everyone else) that Mustafa is the boss' golden boy, he decided that it was probably time to go home to Sudan.

Personally, I don't care about the office anymore and how these people are running the show. I've had my moment under the spotlight. I got my increase but they also tripled my work load so I'm basically the same overworked, underpaid expat. I've accepted my fate and I am patiently waiting for my contract to end so I can move on. I keep in mind that at least I'm better off now than my first six months here.

But ask Khalid and he'll tell you that he can't wait any longer. The sooner he's out, the more intact his pride is when he goes home. This office can take away his job and his salary but it cannot take away his pride.

I never got to join him at Carrefour, but I did see the things he bought. A new suit, shoes, and watch. And for the family, a blender (wtf?!) and a flat screen LCD TV. He needed to look like he didn't make a mistake working in Qatar. Dignity seems to count a lot in his country.

The day before Khalid left, Edmar and I invited him to a Filipino restaurant. Had it been another officemate leaving (particularly those who hail from the land of pyramids), the boss would've taken the staff to a lunch buffet. But last Sunday, it was only the three of us. As it turns out, the two people I make fun of in my blog sometimes; the same two people who annoy me sometimes--are the same two people in the office whom I truly care for.

Thanks for Rubbing It In

2007-08-07T15:42:00.002+03:00

Tactless people annoy me. Sometimes, this is the downside of friendship--tactlessness. So when my Pinoy pal told me that I'm spending way too much time in front of the computer, I knew he has entered the comfort zone and there's no turning back. He'll forever terrorize me with reality like Boy Abunda's mirror glaring back at me whichever direction I face.

Edmar, our office/tea boy, is fond of pointing out the obvious, only in more exaggerated terms:

I work as a sercretary/media & communications officer/ accountant thus the computer is my best friend. Edmar barged in my office and said "Pare, lagi ka na lang sa computer a!" (Buddy, you're always in front of the computer!). I smiled and said "Yes, that's true". I wish I could barge in in his kitchen and tell him that he's always making tea and coffee.

One time I was in the kitchen talking to Edmar and I stretched. Then, with a ghastly reaction, he alarmingly said "Pare! Ang laki na ng tyan mo!" (Buddy! Your belly is huge!). I smiled and said "Yes, that's true", although I find it unfair that he has the same expression saying that line as how he would react to a natural calamity. I mean, I never come up to him and say "Pare, ang pangit mo!" like it was the apocalypse.

I drink a lot of water and he says "Pare, water therapy tayo ngayon a!"

I wake up early and he says "Pare, ang aga mo naman!" (Buddy, you're early!)

I wake up late and he says "Pare, late ka na nagising a!" (Buddy, you're late!)

I eat late and he says "Pare, mamatay ka na nyan sa gutom!" (Buddy, you'll die of hunger!)

I eat on time and he says "Pare, lalo kang lalaki nyan!" (Buddy, you'll get bigger!)

Man, I'm annoyed but there's nothing I can do. "Pare, na-iirita ka na ata a...at wala kang magawa!"

Brain Rape

2007-08-06T19:55:00.000+03:00

In the dream, I was headed to a video shoot. I knew it was a dream right away because how on earth would I be carrying Angel Locsin, playing the part of an angel with cheap crepe paper wings, while she, supposedly, tried to save Richard Guttierez from an inevitable career plunge? I was certain that it was a dream because I was carrying Angel but at the same time I was operating the camera and going for a crane shot--how else can I be in two places at once? I played along because dreams are not real anyway. Not unless it becomes too familiar; then you know it's time to wake up.

The shoot ended in a wrap party. Every one of my friends were there. I was so happy. So ecstatic, in fact,that even if they closed me off from the party in some producer's house, I walked home alone but literally jumping for joy. I realized later when I woke up that I dreamt this part because of a recent comment I made in Gypy's blog about having a job you love.

Then, as I was walking gleefully along the dark streets of Qatar (my only clue were the lightning fast cars on the road), a car chase straight from Grand Theft Auto ensued. Up ahead, an SUV flattened a dozen lamp posts before it crashed on an island.

The driver, dressed in black, got out of the vehicle and walked towards my direction. I sensed his ill intentions so I hid behind a palm tree that obviously only covered half my body. The guy in black approached me and pointed a gun at me (this is what I get from watching Zodiac the other night). I only got to plead twice before he shot me on my chest. I got angry and promised that I won't let him get away with it.

To my surprise, he chopped my head off and put it in a box then he went to a cargo truck which was loaded with the same box he was carrying. I followed him in spirit, meaning to scare him off with my ghost. When I tried to reach for him I found out that I wasn't following him as a spirit at all but as a headless body!

That was the time I woke up. With a smile. And the first relevant thing I saw was a pile of textbooks on my bedside table. Some Qatari student had asked me to do his research work. Although he's paying for it, I still can't help but feel a bit brain raped.

The metaphor was too clear to be dismissed. Believe me, there's a thin line between dreams and reality.

Lost in Tarjama: Arabic for the Pinoy

2007-08-04T21:44:00.000+03:00

As with any new language or dialect, the hardest part in learning it is not the new characters or letters, it's keeping a straight face when your teacher says a new word but translates to something bad or funny in your native tongue.

Like our ancient Baybayin, the Arabic alphabet reads like the alibata or the Tagalog abakada. There is no link between Arabic and Baybayin or Tagalog but coming from this language, it was easier for me to understand the concept.

The Arabic language does not have vowels in the standard alphabet which consists of 28 consonants. Words are formed as you would imagine an SMS message devoid of vowels to maximize the alloted space. For example the Arabic word for "girl" is BINT but since they don't spell out vowels it is only written in Arabic as BNT or بنت. It's confusing because the beginner might read the text as BaNaTa so to aid the student in sounding off the word correctly, vowels, in the form of orthographic signs, are placed on top of the consonants.

The Arabic language can sound scary to the uninformed ear but once you get used to it and open your mind and listen to native speakers, you'll find that it is beautiful and quite easy to learn.

One thing I had to remember early on was that the Arabic alphabet does not have a letter "P". I noticed this when I first arrived in Doha because my boss can't seem to decide whether to call me Jaffy or Javvy. He simply cannot pronounce the letter "P". In place of this, the "B" is sounded off thus, pen becomes 'ben' and paper becomes 'baber' and "Jap, please pass the pen and paper" becomes "blah". Check out how my nickname is spelled out in this particular thread at Qatar Living where Arab speakers even type "b" instead of "p" making my handle sound like a kung fu move.

And so I started learning the alif, ba, ta, tha, etc. I can say that I've mastered 80% of the Arabic alphabet (reading, writing and sounding off), with the exception of a few letters that demanded glottal stops a'la Regina Spektor or what the judges in American Idol term as vocal gymnastics. The ع ('ayn ), for example, looks deceivingly easy to pronounce basing on the guide but in reality resonates like somebody choking from between your legs.

To learn several letters quickly and be familiar with some words, my mu'allim taught me some words that were simple enough to write and read and remember. Other words though are unforgettable because of the inevitable crossover of languages. It's good if two words from different languages are almost the same in sound and in meaning, like bantaloon=pantalon (trousers), but what if it's something dirty?

I almost laughed at my mu'allim's face with a generous serving of spit when he gave me the word for the day. "Today, I'm going to give you a word that is very important to Qatar, it means 'pearl'," my guru said, writing the word in Arabic on a piece of paper. "Now repeat after me," he said. "Lu'-lu'". I almost died of stifling one of the best laughs of the year! "Lu'lu'" mu'allim said again because I have stayed quiet for a few seconds. With lips quivering, I repeated a fast "lu'lu'". (For those who don't get why I found Lu'lu' funny: Lu'lu' means masturbate in my Ilonggo dialect).

I thought the worst was over. "Now what if you say "the pearl"?" mu'allim asked. "Al Lu'lu'?" I guessed. "No, it's lu'lu'-ah. Again, lu'lu'-ah." (now he's just commanding me to masturbate him). I wanted to share to him this funny coincidence but I figured he might get offended since a lot of Muslims treat their language as Holy so I decided to keep it to myself...but share it to the world.

I'm now reviewing the Arabic alphabet and will be having my exams soon. Next month we'll probably be doing grammar and more words.

It's back to pre-school for me. Meet my classmate.

Emergency Bonding Night

2007-07-31T22:40:00.000+03:00

Mustafa, concerned of Edmar's condition, sped through the highway at 11:30PM. What should've been a five-minute drive to the hospital took forever because he kept missing the exit and we had to go all the way back and try Mustafa's sense of direction again. He blazed past speeding cars while Khalid, Ehab and I mentally wrote our last will and testament at the back seat. Finally, our novice driver got the turn right and I've never been so relieved to see the blinking lights of an ambulance parked outside the Emergency entrance of the hospital. We arrived safe albeit shaken.

Tonight was indeed the most unlikely of nights. Five guys—working and living in one office complex—who never really got along together, found themselves cramped and sweating in a car just so they can save Edmar, who was exaggerating a case of high fever (straight men can be the biggest babies).

We all got out of the car and marched slowly towards the Emergency hall. It was a busy night for the hospital. We went past several ambulances with medics unloading stretchers and bodies in temporary life support, and past teens with their loud mouths and car-accident injuries. We were all amazed with what we were seeing while Edmar made baby steps behind us. Before we entered the hall, Mustafa stopped Edmar and told him discreetly, "Rashid, you have to act sick, don't look too normal," and like a good actor on cue, Edmar trembled as we watched a guy, bleeding on a wheelchair, roll by us.

Mustafa accompanied Edmar in the waiting area. And we waited. For two hours. The rest of us waited at the lounge where we entertained ourselves with the different people that came in and out of the automatic sliding doors. At one point, out of either boredom or stupidity, Khalid asked whether the sliding doors are magnetic.

I was busy counting morbidly obese Qataris (who were probably getting insulin shots in the middle of the night) limping their way to the Emergency room when Edmar called on my mobile. "Pare, tagal dumating ng doctor. Pahingi naman ng tubig o."

After asking for directions from a Pinoy nurse who was trying to disguise his Ilonggo with awkward Tagalog, I made my way through the long empty hallways of Hamad Hospital in search for bottled water. On the way back, I thought about the public hospitals back in the Philippines. I missed buying from the street vendors because they always set up their stalls at the most convenient spots and these were never more than a few steps from the main entrance. I missed having to walk through hospital hallways and see patients instead of emptiness because then you could have casual conversation along the way like: "Lola, how is your TB?" or "Pare, did you get that gunshot wound from a riot or a stake-out?" or "hey, can I write my name on your cast?". I also missed the nurses who were always ready to give their diagnosis thus the cue for the doctor gets shorter and shorter.

I finally got back to the waiting area but I didn't see Edmar so I just gave the water to Mustafa then I went out to join Ehab and Khalid who found a nice spot on the freshly spat-upon grass. I handed them drinks and Khalid said something like: "The Sudanese…and the Egyptians (turning to Ehab) are the best doctors in the Middle East." I saw a Pakistani nearby raise his eyebrows. I wanted to throw my candidates in the hat but I could only think of one person: Manny Pacquiao. I couldn't possibly win the payabangan contest. Khalid's men save lives; my guy beats the crap out of Latinos so Khalid's doctors can practice their profession.

Ehab, who looks like a young Sylvester Stallone, was sweating like Rocky. The night was so humid. He revealed that he is a Jackie Chan fan and can't get enough of Rush Hour. He almost drooled on his tie as he enumerated reasons why he adores the action star.

We talked about films for a while and I asked Ehab if there are any good Egyptian comedy films he could recommend. They both delighted themselves in telling me a couple of jokes from a movie of a famous comedian Adel Imam, probably the Mid Eastern Mr. Bean since their jokes included a reenactment of a scene concerning Adel in a zoo, a lion, and an unlocked lion cage.

They both laughed at their own jokes while I laughed at them. I was going to tell them green funnies when Mustafa and Edmar got out of the Emergency room and joined us. Ten patients in two hours with only one doctor.

In no time we're at the back seat again but this time not as quiet as we were when we first arrived. Ehab boldly said that Mustafa is a careless driver. Khalid agreed. Ehab said that everyone else thinks so too. "Why do Qataris drive so fast?" Khalid asked. "Maybe they can't wait to go to heaven," I answered. They all laughed except for Edmar who's officially suffering from tonsillitis.

I guess I finally found out what kind of jokes tickled the Muslim mind.

But the biggest joke of the night was from Qatar. Because for an extremely rich country, it doesn't give a flying f#@$ about the health care department. Much like the Philippines but at least we get to have hallway parties in our hospitals.

We arrived at around 1:30 AM. Edmar felt guilty for bothering us but we all agreed that it's mafe mushkala. After getting inside the building, we disappeared into our own separate rooms. Bonding night is over.

Tipsy

2007-07-28T01:43:00.000+03:00

Six bottles of beer ago, I was shaving and pre-partying with an XL can of beer while listening to Robbie Williams proclaim he's the world's most handsome man. Pre-partying with Rob is highly recommended because his ego is contagious. Five bottles of beer ago, I was waiting in a long line of party goers to Qatar's worst club (but the only one I've been to anyway) Qube--at least the guys behind this bar know that Q is followed with a U...most of the time. Four bottles of beer ago, I was moving from one dark corner of the club to another, trying to get the feel of the place but mostly bumping into sweaty bodies. Three bottles of beer ago, a smile popped up on my face and stayed there. Two bottles of beer ago, my world turned, gravity lost its hold and rays of green laser light beamed for me and only for me and I felt each ray as it touched my skin. One beer ago, I was dancing but mostly bumping my sweaty body into people who have just arrived. Now, I am the universe, and I go to random guys and whisper to their ears magic words that will never be known (the way Brian Kinney must've done to patrons of Babylon), and they smile and we hug and dance and I proclaim 'I am tipsy', as only a drunk guy would admit to.

I went to Qube alone last Thursday and got slightly wasted. I may or may not have gone home with someone. I couldn't remember. But I did remember smiling, all through the night, and that's what's important. The place was crappy but paradise was just a few beers away. After almost a month of harder work, pay-off, no matter how cheap, was necessary.

There is joy when the only thing you think about as you go to bed is the flaming aftertaste of alcohol and you swear never to do it again as the room starts spinning and you fall asleep. I can't wait to go back and be numb again.

Firewalled Friends

2007-07-27T17:57:00.000+03:00

I remember some time ago when I was in Boracay, the topic of working there came up. "Wouldn't it be nice to work in Boracay?" was the thought that went around the group and for a while, I thought about the endless summer on the majestic beach, the glorious sunset each day, and thousands of people from different countries that you will meet. And then, I felt sad. Sure you'll meet a lot of people, but you are bound to go through the feeling of being left behind over and over again as tourists come and go and go and go. Everyone is moving. Nothing is permanent. Friendships are offered, accepted, but never kept. From that time on, I felt the sadness of the locals and those working on the island and how they must guard themselves not to be too involved with the tourists. Any friendship they can offer comes with an imaginary firewall thus, no one gets burned. Here in Qatar, the expat life is quite the same.

I'm the kind of person who is not quick to join groups or organizations overseas. For example, yesterday, I was invited to join an org for Ilonggos. I politely smiled but I doubt if I'll ever attend a meeting. A common dialect is simply not enough reason to group yourselves together. I still believe that one good friend is better than a dozen so-so friends.

Aside from my foster family and officemates here, I only have five friends, some good, some so-so. I've tried my best to further develop my friendships with the so-so friends but it's stuck. I'd like to think that I'm a fairly nice guy to hang around with and some people still answer my messages so I'm thinking that they still like me. But I can never get them to be good friends--the kind you can spend comfortable silence with, or someone who will finish your food for you when you're full, or you can be bitchy with when you need a punching bag, or sing and have him sing the backup vocals, or someone you can laugh with at the corniest of jokes, someone you can use, abuse and love.

Not in Qatar. Here, people stay for only one reason: to work. Without the oil, nobody would ever dare come here. And since most people here are foreigners, you would be apt to keep things temporary. Portable radios, DVD players and laptop computers. Inexpensive furniture, disposable wares, mid-priced cars. Lots of acquaintances, a dozen shallow friendships, and very few good friends. The less attached you are, the less hurt you'll be when people leave. And in this place, they do leave.

I can be unfeeling when I want to; heart hard as stone. I've had my own share of heartaches and it taught me how to build firewalls in an instant. But I don't want to quit. If I meet a friend worth keeping, I keep it. A lot of my friends (from around the globe) can attest to that. Distance is not a factor, time is not a factor. What counts is the love that you put in. And no matter how far apart, or how long you haven't seen each other, you are confident that the friendship has remained strong.

"[There are] no good friends, no bad friends; only people you want to be with.
People who build their houses in your heart." -from "IT" by Stephen King

I have my lumber, nails and hammer. I'll be building my house in your heart, but first, we'll have to do something about that firewall. Now where's that wrecking ball?

Wasted Orange

2007-07-21T21:00:00.000+03:00

I found this a few months ago, but it is only now that it seems ripe for posting in this blog.

Signs of Impending Depression

2007-07-17T10:25:00.000+03:00

I find myself in the toilet, crouching to wash my hair with the same hosing device used to disintegrate fecal residue on hairy assholes. I spray my hair, careful not to let the nozzle interact with my head as I am sure that a mere millisecond of contact is enough for unworldly organisms to set residence on my scalp and claim my entire head for whatever planet they come from (Uranus is one that comes to mind). I bow to the toilet seat and memorize the stains on the white ceramic and I know that today, the brownish, nutty protrusion on the bottom left side of the bowl is a temporary stain and it is my nature to compulsively spray on it until it comes off, then I can enjoy my Herbal Essences shampoo and wonder if it'll smell as good if used in an upright position.

My morning shower takes about 20 minutes. It takes 30 minutes on days when I find it amusing to sit on the bowl and ponder on whether I should take a shower or not. Interestingly, taking a shower always wins. Dressing up takes around 15 minutes. It takes 30 minutes on days when I find it amusing to sit on my bed and ponder on whether I should wear my socks already or wait for my feet to dry. Interestingly, waiting for my feet to dry always wins. Since I have learned to ignore both the ear-bleeding noise of the construction site next door and the useless murmur of the alarm clock, and I've been having amusing times on the toilet bowl and on my bed, plus the fact that the tie takes me about 5 minutes, I find myself at the office at 8:45 AM instead of the usual 8:00.

I stare at the computer screen, and for some reason, no matter how hard I flex my psychic abilities, it wouldn't work on its own. So I turn it on manually and try communicating with it again using my omnipotent brain. Nothing. So I proceed with the usual password entry and listen to the following standard Windows greeting that somehow echoes in my mind as "Hahaaaaaaaaay". In my head I hear a commotion--voices in panic, wanting to get out and be set free. I gather enough strength to tell each nagging voice to behave and cooperate with me for the rest of the day, promising them that if they do, they will get treats from the grocers nearby.

The time between 8:45AM to 1PM is a blur since I switch to auto-pilot mode and do my daily routine. After which, I go back to my bedroom and have a light snack while intentionally letting crumbs fall off from whatever processed carcinogen-laden food I have to the floor so that the cute light-gray mouse, that has specifically chosen my room to recreate Disneyland, will get cancer. The mouse shows up, I scare it away and I take a nap.

When I wake up, I freshen up quickly and go to lunch. The desert heat has effectively eliminated my restaurant choices and I settle for what's available beside our building. I order my food and sit at the same table. I try communicating with my meal, instructing it not to participate in any reverse osmosis organized by the revolting Gastric Union that might ensue in the next few minutes. I survive the coup attempt at lunch and proceed to the grocers to fulfill my promises to the voices in my head.

One of the voices picks a liter of juice, another picks a sweet treat, another voice picks a wafer. Curiously, the voice with the wafer also buys mobile phone load. I find out later that the load is put to waste as text messages, that were sent out, rarely got replies.

I spend the rest of the night in front of the computer alternating between work and personal stuff. For each email for my boss, I refresh my blog in the hopes that a new message or comment will surface. I count the time difference and reason that most people I know would be sleeping at the time but five minutes later I refresh again, positive that at least one might be awake. No one.

I go up to my room at midnight, have a light snack again and read a chapter or two from a book which I try to stretch the reading until the end of the month when I can afford to buy another one. Then, I switch off the light and put on Mandalay, the same CD I listen to every night to lull me to sleep because it is soothing as it is depressing. Just when "Missing You" reaches its chorus, I feel like crying. Then I hear a faint rustling. I focus my attention to this rustling sound and confirm that it's the mouse.

I fall asleep while thinking of strategies on how to gid rid of the mouse. Tomorrow, I will trap that mouse and torture it the same way it has tortured me. Tomorrow, I will grab it by its tail and laugh at it and smash it until I see its cute eyes comically dangling on its tiny nerves. Then, tomorrow, I will flush its remains down the toilet bowl, and should there be bits sticking on the ceramic, I will compulsively spray on it until it comes off clean because it is my nature.

Tied Up and Smothered with Blood and Gore

2007-07-08T20:12:00.000+03:00

The lights went out at 9AM. I took a couple of candles from my room, brought it down to my office, lit one up for my boss and the other one I put on my table. By elevenish, we pushed through with the weekly meeting even though it was dim enough to lose Khalid in the dark. From last week's nine attendees our office staff count reached 17. Men in ties. Yes, including me.

By noon, I called up Johana, a self-confessed fag hag, for lunch and coffee. And finally, at the mall, after the blackout at the office, after the surprise population explosion, after a heavy meal at the Filipino restaurant, after a cup of mint mocha, and after engaging in heavy flirtation (bordering into sexual harassment, really) with a Lebanese working in a perfume shop, I went out of the mall, found a van, and got myself sucked.

Bloodsucked, that is. The Red Crescent (it figures why they don't use Red Cross in a Muslim country) was holding a blood donation drive. I have always wanted to donate blood but never had the chance to do so back home. I dragged Johana to the Red Crescent van and convinced her to do it with me. No, not sex but the bloodletting. Good intentions aside, I had hoped that they can classify my blood because I don't know what my blood type is. Unfortunately, they can't do it in their van. I went ahead with the donation anyway and watched as my blood flowed through the narrow tube and slowly filled the blood bag. Somehow I found this relaxing if not mildly erotic.

The next day, I thought I'd mellow down from the halloween motif--orange tie on black shirt--and grabbed an earthy color from the new set of clothes that hung from my disposable cabinet. When my boss saw me, he congratulated me again for finally looking like an executive. I smiled and told him that I'm glad I put a smile on his face, otherwise my 500-riyal shopping spree would have been put to waste. Already, I had supplied the proper tone to my new look--smartass.

It turned out I had every right to be grumpy. The accountant slash registrar slash cashier left the office for a month-long vacation and I was given two out of three of his tasks. They would have given me the registrar job as well if my Arabic was good. Thank God for small miracles.

The task at hand is daunting. The accountant was so old school that he did everything in scribbles on manually-lined graphing paper. I told the boss right away that I'm not up for the job. It's ironic that I hired an accountant to do all the gory stuff for my biz back in Davao while I'm here doing accounting for somebody else's biz.

The effects of multi-tasking are glaring. For one, I haven't attended to my blogging ritual. I also felt a bit of stress. It might be the tie. It might be the bloodletting hangover. It might be the horror of facing numbers. I'm celebrating an early halloween and they're not giving any candies.

Put a Cam in Our Office and We'll Head to the Emmys

2007-07-01T19:06:00.000+03:00

Khalid's idea of private talk is speaking to another person alone in a room and in a thousand decibels. "YOU KNOW, THESE EGYPTIANS ARE REALLY BAD!", Khalid said as soon as he settled in his seat inside my office. After his first sentence, I closed the door so nobody can hear us talk although it was really an act of hope.

For almost an hour, we sat there talking in the dark as Khalid had abruptly interrupted my nightly Youtube session with his nightly rant. I thought of suggesting to him about starting his own blog, but I figured he'd have a hard time spelling "www".

Khalid is the King of randomness. Anybody who has said in his profile that he's the kind of person who can talk about anything under the sun can talk to Khalid. He talks so randomly but strings it together in one breath that you start to erase your caffeine high speculation and confirm your schizophrenia diagnosis on him.

For your consideration, dear members of the Jury, presenting exhibit A: a section of the transcript of our conversation:

K: I hate these people, they are not good, they
are bad. You know, my brother-in-law called me this afternoon and they told him
that I was not around. But I was and they did not tell me.

J: Maybe
they didn't see you around and couldn't leave their desk to find you.

K: But they know that I am around because I went with them to pray to the
mosque. They are bad. I don't trust them. But I met with my brother-in-law
because I need to buy things for my parents. Me, I don't think I will marry
soon. Because women, they are the devil. I cannot be left alone with a woman in
a room because I will do something to her. It is the nature of man. And if you
don't do anything to a woman, she will think you are not a man. But my sister is
going to Sudan for a vacation, I'm going to send my parents something special.
Because you know, parents, they are second to Allah. If you disrespect your
parents, you go to hell. If you disrespect your mother, you go to hell. You
know, the mother, you cannot call her by her name, you have to call her mother.
If you call her by her name, you go to hell. This is because she cared for you
for nine months and after you were born, she fed you with her breasts. For two
years you sucked her breasts. Because a mother's breast is better than any
scientific formula because it is from nature, it's natural. And so, it has to be
for two years. But after two years you have to stop sucking your mom's breast.
This act is called...in English it's called....I can't remember it...

I wanted to suggest "perversion" but because the conversation was
starting to sound wrong and I had become uneasy, I tried to change the subject
back to Mustafa.

J: So, do you still talk to him?

K: These
Egyptians, they are all like that. They are bad. Don't you think?

J: Actually, I think that a person can be good or bad regardless of race.
If a Filipino stole from you, I wouldn't want you to assume that all Filipinos
are thieves. If a Sudanese did a bad thing to me, I'm sure you wouldn't want me
to generalize that all you people are like that. So, I think that race doesn't
play a part as to why he is bad.

K: Yes, I know what you mean.
You are kind, and sincere but you are a romantic. The thing is, it's in their
blood. Ok, goodnight, I have to evacuate.

Khalid left the room hurriedly but by 'evacuate', he really meant "to defecate". Hitting two birds with one shit, as it seems.

The next day (yesterday), we had our first organizational meeting. For the first time since I started work here seven months ago, we found all nine staff members cramped in my boss' office. I was excited since I suggested this bit of exercise. Unfortunately, they weren't going to speak in English just for my sake. I was outnumbered. So I pretended to understand anyway until it was my time to speak.

"I'm just happy that we have this meeting. And I'll be looking forward to this once a week so we can have a chance to air our suggestions and concerns. My only request is that each person should have his own office stationary set, from staplers to notepads. It's essential to make work faster by not running off to another desk just to get punched," I said and noted the nods and smiles everwhere. "That's all," I added feeling proud of myself.

Mustafa spoke last. And although I don't understand Arabic, I got the gist of his little speech. The mere mention of "New Horizon", our rival training center, meant that he was broadcasting his big plans for the future. I almost cursed myself for coming up with that stupid office stationary set request.

I said almost. As I looked around, none of the staff was smiling or nodding his head. I got the people's vote for most adorable officemate, yipee! And right then and there, I decided that in future meetings, I'll give any big idea directly to the boss--to whom it will matter most anyway--and air suggestions that will benefit the team on staff meetings.

Today, our accounts guy told me to get the office stuff from the nextdoor bookshop. Without looking away from the computer monitor, I asked him "now?" And he confirmed. So I told him "ok". Two hours later I'm still online. I guess everything's back to normal and running smoothly.

On Middlemen: Somewhere in the Middle

2007-06-28T20:37:00.000+03:00

Vince and Stuart were dancing to "Spanish Eyes" when Stuart said, "Fancy staying the night?". Vince thought it was expensive knowing that they were in a posh hotel but he decided that they might as well try 'threes' again. Stuart smiled and whispered "cut out the middleman." They then made their way out the crowded ballroom, past the hotel lobby until they reached the grand staircase. Then, they both went up to the hotel room.

The UK version of QaF (special thanks to my mom who sent me the complete 10-episode series) made up for what it lacked in length with heartfelt performance and touching moments. If the scene above seems vague, let's just say that two's a company and three's a crowd, thus, "cutting out the middleman". I've given enough spoilers so that's the farthest I can go. (UK:US, Vince:Michael, Stuart:Brian)

I went through all that trouble to arrive to this point: I'm currently a middleman, the straight kind anyway.

I've officially gotten involved into trading various products and commodities like Liquified Natural Gas, Crude Oil, LPG, MAzut100, Cement, what-have-yous. When my mom first introduced me to this world I was as confused as Ashley Simpson doing the hoedown.

Then we started communicating with my aunt from the US and it turns out that she is also into trading. I couldn't help it, obviously. I know that my boss is always looking for products and I have an aunt who's always looking for buyers. Like pieces of a puzzle falling into place, really.

Eventually, well, more like a day later, I found myself e-mailing people from all parts of the earth and sending information that I only have a vague understanding of. I never knew, for example, that ASWP meant "any safe world port" or that LOI stood for "letter of intent". I'm learning at least two new acronyms a day and so far, most of the alphabet is now covered. My illusion of trading, that it's as simple as buying chocnut from a sari-sari store, started to fade into a more serious reality--the right information in the wrong hands could be very dangerous.

Before all these though, I was already aware that some people think that middlemen are not necessary in any kind of business. Back in college, I had this classmate who felt strongly against job placement agencies that he decided to put up his own Security Guard Agency to help protect the common gardo versoza. He said, that unlike other 'parasite' middlemen, he'll make sure that his agency will not take advantage of the job-seekers. I wonder if he stuck to his strictly 5% cut up to this day.

I sympathize with him in that view, but I also understand that a lot of people won't trust a service worker, especially a security guard, unless he's from a certified agent.

I don't know. As a middleman, I can't say that I am a parasite. Okay, in trading, a middleman gets paid in ridiculously high amounts of moolah but my aunt's contacts wouldn't have known about my boss if I didn't give the extra effort to mention to her that "hey, my boss does oil too". I see it as being the right person at the right time with the right amount of conscience--said amount leaning towards negligible. And don't tell me you would naively say you'll settle for a hundred dollars when they're waving a six-figure commission in front of you.

It's an easy job, this trading thing. You sit in front of a computer, send and receive emails, act as a channel of communication. My aunt says that I can retire early if any one of these deals gets closed. But my boss was quick to say that there will be a lot of inquiries and only one out of a hundred will get signed. I'm 'channeling' three products as of the moment. So far so good, and if not, then there are still 97 chances to go.

Oh, and if you still can't take Vince and Stuart out of your mind and wondered all this time what they did after they went up to the hotel room, highlight for spoilers: they only slept. If you know QaF and want to watch the scene, follow this link, otherwise, don't bother.

Emerging Bloggers Emerge on Ten Emerging Blogs Post

2007-06-26T18:23:00.000+03:00

The day I posted my candidates for the Ten Emerging Influential Blogs of 2007 was the day my blog had the most clicks ever. From a sad average of 20 clicks a day, it rose to 67. A couple days later, it was back to reality.

I can't wait to post 2008's list. LoL.

Edmar Is Here

2007-06-24T08:49:00.000+03:00

I was trying to be comfortable on my bunk bed while listening to Kat's usual complaints and Van and Derf were exchanging jokes about Sulpicio lines, entertaining Louella and Arnold who resigned to the fact that we picked the wrong ship and decided to be typical Filipinos and laughed at the situation we're all in. After bitching about how awful Sulpicio Lines' ship was and agreeing that we have boarded a ghost ship for there were no passengers except us, we directed our attention to the PA system which, playing in mono, gave life-saving instructions that could be useful in case the rusty ship turned into a submarine; that's if the instructions were clear. Then, the last two Spanish words that survived the history of the shipping industry, "puera visita" blasted three times through the PA system, except that it came out as "pwira bisita, pwira bisita, pwira bisita" (you can tell that at this point, the announcer was proud of himself for speaking in Spanish, if Spanish had a Bisaya influence). We echoed the phrase until we got tired of it. Finally, as we settled in our bunk beds, we took turns reading vandalism from the walls of the cabin. One particular vandal became special to us and will always be remembered. You would, too if you've read it yourself. Written in bold letters, patiently scribbled using a blue point pen up to 72 pt size in what appeared to be Arial with Grunge Scratches, was this confusing declaration: "Edmar Is Here!".

What made it more funny was the fact that earlier on that trip we were convinced that we have boarded a ghost ship. There were only two things possible with "Edmar is Here": one, that Edmar skipped English class quite often, and two, Edmar's ghost was there (or is here, according to Edmar).

Dateline: Doha, Qatar. Edmar is here. Really here. He's the boss' maid's husband. He arrived three months ago and the boss transfered him here in the office for two weeks now, thereby stripping me off of my title as the only Filipino working in the office.

Edmar is the kind of Pinoy you don't want the other races to base their Flip stereotype on. It's not good to judge the book by its cover, but a couple of amateur tattoos can tell you a lot about the person. He hails from the northern part of Luzon. He's the kind of Filipino that Rex Navarette makes fun of in his routine--wer for where, soaf for soap, etc. Although Edmar is a blast to talk to in kanto-level conversations (ie "nakakain na ako ng tao" or "I have eaten a man" -- a statement that can only come from a post-fried brain), I'd avoid speaking to him when other officemates are within earshot for fear of being accused of racism. While it's casual in the Philippines to refer to blacks as negros, Edmar doesn't realize that the term became a #1 hate slur the moment he boarded the plane in NAIA, thus, I panicked when he talked to me in Tagalog but uttered the word "negro" in front of our Sudanese officemates! He doesn't hate the Sudanese, it's just that he doesn't have a filtering system installed.

On his second month, Edmar converted to Islam and has since introduced himself as Rashid to Muslims here in the office. Abandoning Christianity, however, doesn't mean turning your back on infidelity, smoking or thoughts of violence. Being the officeboy prone to abuse involving tea and coffee, Edmar gets to meet everyone working here and has already formed his own (so far accurate) generalizations about our officemates. Not a week goes by that I won't hear him announcing to me that he will punch this guy or bludgeon that guy.

"Jef, sarap sana tumira, ano?" ("Jap, delicious if hit, what?" would be an Edmar translation; formula derived from "Pareho ang numero = The same the number") Edmar said to me the other day, reminiscing his junkie days while he was preparing tea for some guests. Edmar is probably on withdrawal as I write this.

At one point, I actually asked Edmar if he ever boarded a Sulpicio Lines ship. He said no. I was disappointed. But that means the search is still on for the real Edmar. For now, Jap is here.

Office Policy or Death of Freedom?

2007-06-18T08:58:00.000+03:00

Two nights ago, I watched The Devil Wears Prada again and I thanked my angels that I am better off than Emily err Andy (Anne Hathaway). After watching it, I was inspired to write about "Jobs that pay the rent" but it all changed last night when Mustafa, the new recruit a.k.a. manager wannabe approached me and asked the thing that I dreaded most in a 9-5 job (8am-12midnight if you're me): "Jafer, how do you feel about wearing a suit and a tie to work everyday?"

My friends, put your seats back in the upright position and make sure you have your tray tables stowed (Tyler Durden's words out of my mouth), we're in for a bumpy ride.

But first, a little introduction to our new recruit, Mustafa.

Mustafa is from Egypt. He's around 25 years old, tall, good-looking, fit, smart. He calls himself engineer although I doubt if he passed a ~~BAR~~ BOARD (thanks to Yeric for the correction) of some sort. But there is no denying that he is good in his field which is computer (and IT) and he is aggressive, determined, albeit over the top. He dresses like a stockbroker and acts like one too. Cocky, demanding and manipulative (if any of these statements can be grounds for libel, I'm telling you now, my blog is often exaggerated that it borders on fiction).

However, last night wasn't fictitious at all. In all fairness to Mustafa, in the two months that he has been in the office, there were a lot of changes. For one, the clients (i.e. lazy Qatari college students who let other people do their book reports which poor Pinoys like me are more than willing to accommodate) doubled. The IT classes tripled (but then maybe because it's summer), and we got more printers working at the same time.

We should all be happy that he's around. As I've observed though, most of the staff were not happy. I have listened to everyone's qualms about Mustafa. Before the incident last night, I was quite neutral with the Mustafa issue because I was mostly unaffected by his actions. In fact, I admired him for bringing forth change in the office and I figured that my officemates are unhappy because they are simply afraid of change.

"Jafer, how would you feel about wearing a suit and tie to work everyday?" Mustafa said. My smile turned into an expression that said "are you kidding?" and I said, "are you kidding? No!"

Before you slap me with my own words and accuse me that I am afraid of change, let me point out a few reasons why I refuse to wear the Wall Street prescribed outfit to work.

1. I believe in freedom. The littlest policies can spell oppression and the moment somebody imposes their fashion on you then it's a revolution, baby. I am not a glam guy and my taste in clothes may not be runway material but my clothes speak of who I am, it's my personal expression.

2. I don't believe that a suit and a tie will dramatically improve my work. Brains don't come in polyester and cotton.

3. There are proper places where one can wear suits and ties. Were our office involved in trading stocks at the 48th floor of Mustafa Towers, by all means. But if your office address is at Suoq Al Kowari (Al Kowari Market) where your next door neighbors are photocopy centers and a bookshop, you ought to play it smart and get real.

4. Here's a management tip, happy employees mean happy clients (read the bit "On Hiring Experts"). I've already talked to the rest of the guys in the office. They too don't like the idea, they feel that wearing such heavy clothing will not be comfortable and will surely affect their performance.

5. We're in Qatar. It's bad enough that it's a desert here and Mustafa had to rub the heat in by suggesting we all wear winter clothes...in the summer!

6. If he's too concerned about how the employees look, then we should hire fashion models. To hell with talent and degree.

Agree? Suddenly I'm reminded of a scene from The Devil Wears Prada where Andy ranted about her work to Nigel (Stanley Tucci) to which he replied "you're just whining".

To Mustafa's "defense", a snippet of our conversation:

Jap: No, Mustafa, not a chance. You won't make me wear a suit and a tie. (To
those who know me, as early as this line, my lips were already trembling and my
eyes wide opened...it's the coffee).

Mustafa: Yani, (an Arabic
interjection, not the musician) it's a nice thing to wear to the office, yani,
one way we can look presentable.

Jap: Are you saying that I'm not
presentable?!

Mustafa: La, la, la, la, (he's not singing, he's actually
saying "no, no, no, no") yani, you see, we can get big companies to partner with
us if we wear suits and ties, it's one of their requirements.

Jap: Which
company? Fashion TV? I don't see how one can assume that good clothes equal good
service. I don't have to prove my worth by wearing your kind of clothes. I have
been working here for six months now and I have proven that I can do my job
effectively without a tie.

Mustafa: I've been working as a manager
alhamdulilah for ten years (is he kidding me? he must've been 15 then) and yani,
all people look up to somebody with a good appearance.

Jap: (I don't
even know why I continued with this conversation) I am sure they will prefer a
hard-working man over a good-looking one (unless it's Brad Pitt of course).

Mustafa: Yes, but we are professionals and we should dress accordingly,
and we can get more clients this way. Is it too much to ask if getting clients
would mean that you will be getting QR10k later on?

Jap: Ten thousand
riyals? Well, I'll wear a skirt if you want if I'm assured of that salary! But
I'm not getting even half of that amount. Are you saying that you're wearing a
suit because you're getting that much?

Mustafa: La, la, la, la (to the
tune of 10k?) I'm not getting that salary, but we can if we wear a suit and tie.

Jap: (Imagining how ridiculous the conversation was becoming, I decided
to end it) Look, I will not wear it. If for some reason I am not fit for the job
because I don't wear a tie, send me back home.

Mustafa: La, la, la we're
not sending you home, we'll talk about this with the boss. Yani, you can tell
him how you feel about this and we'll ask him his decision.

Jap: Ok.
(Walk out).

Right, bring up the boss card. I am not afraid. I have a speech prepared for the boss, it goes like this:

"A man's wisdom is not measured by the length of his tie. Respect doesn't come
with shoulder pads. Your good actions, values and principles--these are the
things that will earn respect. If you have these, you can walk naked and still
have dignity. But if you've done something bad, you can cover yourself up with
the most expensive clothes but people will still see your shame." Cue background
music. Fade to black.

That is why I am a self-proclaimed scriptwriter. It sounds cheesy but it's true.

I stayed up all night thinking about this damn suit and tie proposition. I am not immersed in my wonderful world of Jap. I know that some of you are thinking that I'm a big baby and I am not fit in the professional world, that I'm not thinking "professionally".

Alright, fair enough. The thing is, it is not even a rule...yet. It was just a suggestion, and that is why I'm airing my sentiments while I still can.

In the end, when the boss decides that I should wear the suit and tie anyway, I will, with a heavy heart, I suppose but I will.

I will wear the suit and tie, but I will choose which color. They will be sorry that they even suggested the attire in the first place. I will contact Kuya Germs and borrow from his wardrobe, I will also wear it all black to signify the death of freedom in the office. Watch out, Mustafa, the bitch is back.

ONETOTEN: The Top 10 Emerging Influential Blogs in 2007

2007-06-12T00:29:00.000+03:00

I've started serious and steady ( it's like a relationship, I know) blogging six months ago and I didn't care much about the "blogosphere" until now. I don't know if I'm a fair judge for this list since I can still count the blogs that I have read but I suppose it won't hurt to pay the good deed forward (Ms Jojie aka Dabawenya Jud! included me in her list. Thank you, Jojie. It's a one in a million chance but one vote is better than no votes hehe).

My apologies, Ms. Janette Toral, for adding yet another ten to the dozens of lists you get everyday. Tallying the Top 10 Emerging Influential Blogs in 2007 ain't easy so I'll try my best to make sure that all my nominees are blogs that have only started anytime from August 1, 2006 to the present

They say "you are what you eat," but in the blogosphere, you are what you read.

10. Is that noise coming from my head? - I like to believe that I am dark and mysterious but after reading Adobobo's blog I suddenly feel I'm sunshine. What I like most (aside from the thought-provoking posts) is the unique template. It's simple, nothing too fancy nor annoying, but it drives home the message that one should beware because parts of your body can bleed anytime once you click on her blog. On her last post, my heart almost bled.

09. Mindanaobloggers - fresh. Although it was made for the Mindanao Bloggers Summit, I'm pretty sure that this blog will run for a long time or until all bloggers from Mindanao get abducted by aliens. Not too many posts in here yet (it's only a few weeks old) but that's beside the point.

08. Continuum - I'm glad Joey started to blog again, and in a new environment too! I was torn between his Letters and another favorite but ultimately his honest and daring posts won this spot. Since I came to Qatar I censored myself-- avoiding certain issues and topics that might be damaging. That's why it's fun (and empowering) to read Continuum. Oh, did I mention that he's my high school batchmate?

07. Himantayon - A recent discovery this one. This blog pokes fun at our mistakes. We're all guilty, we're not perfect after all. So be a good sport and laugh with us. This is my official blogosphere "de-stresser". The guys who thought about this are genuises.

06. Manokan Express - Jinoe, another high school batchmate of mine, takes his 'cue' from the famous Bacolod chicken BBQ. His posts are always positive. The topics he discusses are helpful too. I always make it a habit to check his blog to get my dose of optimism.

05. Bakla Ako, May Reklamo? - No apologies. Take it or leave it. It's a blog with an attitude and a lot of pink-useful information. The more I say something about this blog, the more I'm taking away from the slap-on-your-face title, so I'll just leave it at that. BaklangAJ, you rock!

04. Gibbs Cadiz - another recent discovery. I told Gibbs that even if it was my first time on his blog, I can already say that it's one of my favorites. Gibbs' passion for the performing arts and film is undeniable. I delight in reading his posts because you can rarely find play reviews or insider report from the Philippine stage scene.

03. Dabawenya Jud! - i'm not just returning the favor here =) I like this blog because of its original content. While most of us grab pictures from the internet, Jojie displays her own shots (she's a pro after all). The photos are superb and the posts are refreshing to read (must be because of Jojie's fun adventures).

02. Ang Dabawenyo - Probably the most "influential" on this list. Blogie has about five hundred blogs running at the same time and still he gets to write in his personal blog (Blogie Blog) =) He earned this spot the day he invited me to join the Davao Blogs listing. Thanks to him, my blog got more clicks and I also got connected to other Davaoeño bloggers.

01. Pinoyfilm.com - I'm Pinoy and I love films. This blog lacks the personal touch but it's loaded with information.
Now, the question is, why didn't I nominate myself? Hmmm, tempting. Nah.

Raise the Alarm

2007-06-07T11:35:00.000+03:00

It's 5AM, in the Middle East, a foreign land for you and you're awakened by extremely loud noises, what goes into your head? Still half asleep, I thought of the very images from war-torn countries I frequently see on CNN. Could it be that a tank has just blown up the restaurant outside? The defeaning blare went on. Perhaps it's a large machine gun with bullets the size of Coke cans tearing away rooftops. But there are no people screaming so maybe it's an out-of-control dump truck that keeps on slamming the gigantic steel bins by the sidewalk. At 5:10 AM, it dawned on me, the racket came from a bulldozer/driller digging on hard ground.

Five minutes later, I was already up. I couldn't stand the noise.

The funny thing was I just bought a digital radio alarm clock--the ones that you can program to wake you up with your favorite radio station (QBS 97.5 FM cause it's the only English FM station in Doha--it sucks, but what can you do?) blasting instead of the usual irritating, throw-in-the-bin-if-you-must battery-operated alarm.

That night, I set the alarm for 6:00 AM. The next morning, I realized I didn't need the damned thing that cost me 100QR. Why? Because the owner of the vacant lot right beside our building decided that it's time to start construction...on the day I bought the alarm clock, and an hour before it even did its job.

Six consecutive days now I've been an early bird. I have planned to do so anyway hence the alarm clock. But I also planned to wake up in a nice way with a smile on my face.

The boss is pleased with my early-bird status. Unless I get used to the banging and clanging, I'll be up and about at 5AM, whether I like it or not.

Mobile in a Coma

2007-06-03T23:20:00.000+03:00

I woke up early yesterday to take a shower before the sun boils Doha's water system. When I entered the bathroom I was tempted to finish all my laundry including the ones I wore to bed. The washing machine was just there anyway, and by the time I finished my morning rituals my clothes would have spun dry. I took off my shirt and shorts and dropped it into the washing machine. I observed as the hypnotic drip of the water filled it up. Then, I took a shower, not minding the unusually loud bump-bump of the machine.

The wash was a bit slow. I have already dressed up, packed my overnight stuff and prepared to leave but the washing machine hasn't sung its "I'm done" ring tone yet. So I figured, I should text my mom while waiting. My cellphone wasn't on my bedside table. I panicked.

I ran to the bathroom. I opened the lid of the washing machine. My clothes were already spinning dry. I grabbed my shorts, reached for its pocket and tugged my phone out. It was amazingly dry! It should be cause the machine spun it 50revs a second.

Then I looked at my mobile closely. The LCD screen is full of water! Imagine my anguish. My companion, OW, lifeless. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to cry. There goes the music. There goes the RSS feeds. There goes the cool factor.

Until now, my mobile is still in a coma. I hope it's not terminal.

Preparing for Hell

2007-06-01T11:58:00.001+03:00

I used to enjoy the best weather back in Davao--no typhoon, no drought. In the summer, the hottest temperature would be at 36°C but it could drop to 20 or 18 on some nights. But last week, I had a preview of the Middle East summer. Standing on a treeless sidewalk with the noon sun beating down on me through a cloudless sky, I only had two thoughts going through my head--one, God bless me with a taxi soon, and two, I'm never marching out in 45°C again without sunscreen. Doha's temperature isn't the only thing heating up though; with changes in the office taking place, it looks like it's going to be one sizzling summer.

The thing about Doha is that, public transportation sucks (this city could use a few jeepneys, if you ask me). And anything connected to public transportation (ie waiting shed etc.) is close to nil. It took me 20 minutes to get a taxi and 2 hours for my baking skin to go back to its un-red and un-sore state.

My mom's boss arrived last week to discuss business with my boss who conveniently went AWOL the day my mom's boss came to Qatar. I was left to attend to them. And with no transportation availble for our use, I found myself volutarily reheating my already lechon-crispy skin.

My boss only resurfaced a day before my mom's boss decided to leave. By then I was already well-done and ready for the Ati-atihan festival.

I've been spending a lot of time out of the office because of our guests, which is a good thing cause the boss wasn't around anyway and there's no use moping around the office and listening to the pissing contest of my officemates.

When my boss finally arrived from wherever he went, he dove straight to business and fixed a lot of things that have been left hanging.

First, he settled some things with my mom's boss. Now, they have a sound agreement and it looks like their rocky relationship is back on solid ground.

Then he reaffirmed his promises to me and which he also put into motion. He started to get rid of my roommates. To do this, he asked that the double-deck beds be removed from my room (tonight is the first night that I have the room for myself).

He also gave me an increase as promised. I don't know if he's still going to hand me the salary he "saved" for me in the last six months cause he said I've been getting my requested salary all along but he kept half of it each month so I'll have spending money in case I want to go home.

It seems that everything is pointing up but it also looks like there's hell to pay.

He booted off my roommates but now, they're questioning why I get to have my own room while they sleep on the sofa. Perhaps I can tell them that they can write their own resignation letter and hope that the boss will give in to their demands as well. Or if they weren't such shitty roommates then I wouldn't have minded them being around.

I got my new "high" salary and the boss was right. He told me that I would spend everything once he gave it to me in full. And I did. I shopped a lot. I'm down to my last five hundred QRs and I still have a full month to go!

The boss also confirmed my new role as the office's banker. I'll be leaving my post at the reception counter and move to a real office, the one with a door and a nice mahogany table with a leather chair. With great power comes great responsibility. The task at hand is daunting. I'm not good in Maths or Accounting and my Arabic is limited to six letters. How then can I balance sheets, keep books or write receipts?

It's all happening quickly but my mind is frozen (or baked). I haven't written the minutes of the meeting that my boss has requested since a week ago. I haven't even blogged for a long while. And with all these is the rising temperature (a radio jock announced that it hit 50°C today). If I'm going to hell I might as well get used to the heat, I suppose, but for now, there's hell to go through this month, I'm quite sure of that.

After this adjustment period, I might need a good break. To where, I don't know. I need to reboot, restart, refresh and keep it cool for the summer.

My First Tag Game: Proudly Philippine Made

2007-05-24T00:56:00.000+03:00

Day after day I click on blogs and I see more and more people drastically changing their content to accommodate a fast-growing phenomenon called "blog tag games". Whoever started this is probably the same genius behind the now famous "Don't Read This" Youtube chain-comments or the "Forward this or else you die" chain-emails. It's just a matter of time before these "blog tag games" become terroristic acts really and include outrageous threats. But anyhow, there's always a first time for everything. Thank you Blogie for the initiation. This is probably a good way to gauge if the people you think are reading your blog actually read your blog.

Without further ado, here are three things that make me proud to be Filipino.

1. EDSA People Power Revolution

I was too young then when it happened but even if I wasn't there to witness it first-hand I can still feel that overwhelming sense of Filipino pride everytime I hear the theme song "Handog ng Pilipino sa Mundo" (sad to say they only play it during the anniversary). The song sums it up. It is the Filipino's moment in history, his contribution to the whole world. I just hope that these politicians will pick another venue the next time they do the "people power" thing so as not to trivialize the original EDSA.

2. 7K+ Islands!

A lot of Filipinos don't realize this because they are used to it, but to people born in large continents, the idea of 7,106 islands is unfathomable. In the office alone, I had to show to my Chinese or Sudanese officemates video clips of the islands to prove to them that I was not making it up. I myself pretty much appreciated this only here in Doha when, everytime I say the fact, my audience gets wide-eyed with wonder. And why not? Countries in the Middle East (Qatar included) are "making" islands because they are not blessed with such amazing natural treasures.

3. The Festivals

Filipinos are fun-loving and creative people, so creative in fact that we need to express it through Festivals, countless of them. Whether it be for nature's bounty (Kadayawan Festival - Davao City), or to uplift the community's spirit in times of tragedy (Masskara Festival - Bacolod City), to honor a saint ("too many to mention" applies here but one good example is Sinulog Festival - Cebu City), or to dispel rumors (Aswang Festival - Capiz City), Filipinos are apt to organize grand and colorful festivals. Almost every city in the country has its own fiesta. It's not impossible that soon there will be a festival happening somewhere in the country for every single day of the year.

So that's it. It wasn't that bad after all. My turn to tag 10.

I'm sorry guys, don't bother with this if it ain't fun for you: Kala, Maxie, Jinoe, Portia, Joey, Hani (of course it has to be "Three Things That Make Me Proud as a Paki" for you my friend hehehe), Roa Ming, Andie, Lola Odette and Maui Pacquiao. Ignore if you must, no biggie.

The Ghosts are Knocking Again

2007-05-22T10:29:00.000+03:00

It must've been around 5PM when I heard the faint knocking on my bedroom door. My room doesn't have any windows so the only light that kept it from being pitch black came from the cracks of space of the AC unit. I was alone in my room. I wasn't expecting anybody, so instantly, I felt suspect. I hesitantly approached the door and tried to ask who was knocking. No answer except for three more soft taps on the door. I opened the door slowly, placed my feet as a doorstop and allowed just enough opening to see who was on the other side.

I was already thinking of worst-case scenarios and the worst thing that could happen was: someone would try to grab me as only a hand could fit through the opening, then I would close the door and slam it on the hand, thereby hurting it which would cause it to retreat and that would be the time I would close the door, lock it and call for help.

But when I opened the door, there was no hand, instead, there was an old lady, all wrinkled in the face but with neatly-fixed gray hair. She wore an old black dress with a pink collar. She looked lost and sad. When I opened the door, she instantly leaned closer such that her face was almost going through the door (I didn't think of this scenario! what to do?!). I felt my heart race. When she was close enough I saw that she had completely black eyes, then she said in a raspy voice "I need a typewriter," to which I hastily replied "No, I don't have," and quickly closed the door but careful not to slam it for fear that she might get offended and decide to grab me anyway.

I stayed for a moment more then slowly went back to bed to resume my nap. That was when I woke up. Yes, it was a "dream". To me it was more than that because this has happened several times. It was not an outrageous dream sequence. It seemed more like an out-of-body experience (OBE).

I have never felt scared of this building where I work and sleep. The interior looks like a funeral parlor and it's extra ghastly at night but I believe that monsters or ghosts have a sense of geography. For example, I can only laugh at the thought that while walking in the desert, a manananggal ("remover" in English) might suddenly swoop down on me and eat my heart. A white lady would appearing in one dark corner would be a joke since most women here wear black. Such concepts do not exist here in Qatar.

But the knocks tell me a different story. The first one came from a lady. There are no specifics, I only know the gender. But while I was on my bed, I "awoke" slowly (or maybe this was the OBE part) and I saw her silhouette on the door. The door was wide open and she was just standing there looking at me. Then I went back to sleep (or to my body).

The second one was particularly funny. I was on my bed as usual then I "woke up" when all of a sudden the door swung open and revealed an Arab man shouting "wake up" repeatedly amid the clanging of a bell-like sound. I actually woke up and laughed a bit and texted my mom about it at three in the morning. At first I thought the man was my boss but now I realized that he wore Arab clothes and not Sudanese clothes.

The third one was weird. As usual I was on my bed and "awoke" because someone was caressing my penis. I looked up and saw the same lady I saw the last time. Still no details on this lady. I just know that she has shoulder-length hair. She disappeared a few moments after I "woke up" and then I actually woke up.

The fourth was the only scary one. I was on my way up to my room. After turning off all the lights in the office, I went up the dark stairway. When I reached the top I paused on the hallway leading to my room. The toilet door at the far end was slightly ajar which allowed a faint fluorescent light to illuminate the hallway. I froze because I felt that somebody was waiting for me in my room. And I knew that my body was back there sleeping, and somebody was already there beside me, waiting for my spirit to return. I decided to make a lot of noise on my way to my room, so much noise that I woke myself up.

The old woman from yesterday was the fifth "knocker". I don't know why they have to knock in my room and why they need to knock when I'm asleep. I've always wanted to see a ghost but I hope they'd show up when I'm really awake.

How Was Your Day?

2007-05-20T20:17:00.000+03:00

There are a lot of things happening in a day while you're in it, but on routine days, "OK" should be enough an answer.

I woke up and started to press my clothes. It took me twenty minutes to finish pressing a pair of pants and two long-sleeved shirts--this means that I need at least one full day to finish pressing my wardrobe that's now piled up inside a big plastic bag. Tomorrow then.

I went downstairs to the office. From the stairs to the service kitchen, I uttered "Assalamu Alaikum" six times. I made my coffee and did small talk with Khaled. I timed my conversation with him. Small talk with Khaled starts with the weather and mutates to religion in five minutes.

Today, the topic was "buying a girl". Khaled asked me how he can buy a Philippine girl. I told him that if he buys a Philippine girl, he'd be buying a prostitute. What he meant by "buying a girl" was giving a dowry. I explained to him that Philippine girls only need to fall in love (if it's still true anyway). "We Sudanese do not believe in love," he said. I almost pursued the generalization but then I remembered that this was the same guy who didn't know what a "candy" was (seriously). I shrugged and wished him luck in finding the right inflatable. "What's an inflatable?". But I already pressed my ignore button.

The boss' wife called. Another rush job. "Take pictures of the new resto and make stunning profile in less than six hours," she said. If Donald Trump decides to retire, she or my boss can host The Apprentice. They are fond of giving short-notice challenges. I rushed to the resto's location with the boss' brother, I can't find my camera crew so I left without them.

After an hour, I was back at the office. Young Yang approached me. "I'm leaving tonight," he said smiling. I see fireworks and a grand buffet. Everyone must be rejoicing that he's leaving.

Young Yang is notorious for creating trouble. This 21 year-old Chinese kid's English vocabulary consists of the most offending words formed into the most politically incorrect and insulting sentences. Everytime he opens his mouth, eyebrows cross. Just last night he got the Indian receptionist pissed because of simply being Yang. Shouting and table slamming ensued. He'll be back in two months though. I asked him to buy me DVDs in China. "Yes, in China, only 3 riyal, this DVD. Maybe you want PS2? Or something a game maybe? What moooweh you want?" I wished it was longer than two months.

The other Yang, masseur Yang, passed by us holding his right side belly. He had his appendix taken out. I haven't seen much of him in the past two weeks. Sometimes I wonder if he's just a ghost now.

I finished the profile in less than two hours, got it laminated and had an early dinner.

Half a chicken heavier I went back to my desk and checked my vitals.

Guests come in and out. Calls answered, transfered and dropped. Forms filled up, visas printed and the boss arrived.

A few minutes later, my mom buzzes me in YM.

Mommy: How was your day, pangga ko guid?

Jap: OK.

Hedonism and Digital Karma

2007-05-17T09:10:00.000+03:00

I've been listening to Skunk Anansie's "Hedonism" for a long time now but I haven't really brought myself to googling the meaning of the word. With karma asking for my dues last night, I finally came across Hedonism in a thick Ethics book.

Epicurus was the Greek dude who came up with this concept of Hedonism--the pursuit of pleasure or happiness (spelled with an "i"). Like other philosophies, this Thought also became hotly contested by the ancient and even modern nerds. Meanwhile, some pervs today cling to the idea and put fun twists in it like Sadism or Masochism and Suicide. Hey, whatever gives you pleasure, right? But knowing all these gave the song a whole new meaning and I find the lyrics brilliant even in its simplicity because of Skin's affecting interpretation of the concept and haunting rendition of the song. (The one below is the acoustic version).

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Anyway, back in college, I passed my Ethics class without attending it. My Ethics professor was Van's family friend and he agreed to give me a free ride. Now, after two years, I'm learning Ethics again. This time, it's for real. Van always says that nowadays, Karma is digital. Mine must be on a 386 computer cause it took two years before it caught up with me. Looks like I'll be earning the 85 grade the professor gave me after all.

I only have a week to read all five hundred pages of boring college textbook and write a comprehensive book review. Whoever reviews textbooks? Well I guess Qatari colejialas do. A certain Maryam called me up and asked if I can write a book report for her. I charged her QR200. Alright, I admit, I prostituted myself. I need the money, OK?

I should get back to my reading. So far it's interesting. And Karma, if you're listening, "I hope you're feeling happy now."

I'll Be Gone Til November

2007-05-15T15:47:00.000+03:00

I woke up early yesterday because I knew the boss would be at the office early too. I knew this because the previous night, I gave him my resignation letter. And if there's one thing I know in the six months that I've worked for him, he keeps his early mornings free for tea and the sometimes unexpected meetings or, as the case presented itself, resignations.

I went down to the office from my room at 7:00 AM, anxiously waiting for the result of my letter like a father waiting for his first-born outside the delivery room. The boss wasn't around so I went out to grab something to munch just so the butterflies in my stomach would stop sucking on my intestines.

When I entered from the back door, after chowing down a 2-riyal chicken sandwich, I saw the boss at the far end of the hall holding his mug of tea. He was headed toward his room. For a moment we stopped right on our tracks, the several feet between us seemed like miles. Two gunslingers at the break of dawn, one was holding a black mug, and the other was trying to tongue some chicken sandwhich remnants in between teeth. Western music played in my head.

I searched for signs. He smiled at me = he's in a good mood. He's not using the mug I gave him = I'm headed for Hong Kong. But then he's always in a good mood if he's earlier than everybody else. And he has stopped using the gigantic mug, er beer stein, I gave him since the day the office boy had to put two tea bags just to balance the flavor with the water.

"Assalamu Alaikum, kef Javee?" The boss said. Suddenly my western soundtrack crossfaded to belly dancing music. Six months and my boss still doesn't know how to say my name, this I thought as I sat on his office sofa. Come to think of it, except for the boss' kids and the Flips, everyone else says my name differently. Javee to my boss, Jafer to his wife and the rest of the Chinese, Pei Ja Roong to some Chinese, Javis to some officemates, Jafar to the office boy, and Jeff to the maid's husband.

"Did you read my letter?" I asked him, but of course he did. I'm sure his wife also read it. His son even read it. It's just a matter of time before everybody gets to read it and then they'll encase it in glass at the national museum as one of the rare three-page resignation letters that actually worked.

"Yes, I did," the boss said matter-of-factly after sipping tea. "What you wrote were true and reasonable," he began. He explained some points, clarified some issues, made some adjustments, released some promises and asked, well, pleaded, for me to stay. I felt relieved. A big weight was taken off my chest, and also that piece of chicken meat between my teeth finally came off just in time to save me from an embarassingly wide and chunky smile.

Wyclef jean & the ...

For the first time ever, I actually looked forward to work! My spirit was renewed. I was overwhelmed because I was ready to leave for Hong Kong. I didn't even spend my mom's birthday present just in case I needed to buy my ticket to freedom. That's why when the boss agreed to my demands point by point (and something more) I said yes.

I'll be gone til November then. Six months more. Is half a year shorter?

I went out of the office feeling great and loved and important. Later that day, I found out from my spies that my boss and his wife discussed my situation until late in the evening.

Meanwhile back at the office, three separate and loud arguments boomed around the office halls. People were crazy. I don' t know what they were talking about. I savored that moment, that for the first time, I was the happy worker around the office. No troubles for now.

Moda

2007-05-14T23:28:00.000+03:00

My mom, being a true blue Ilonggo, fancies the word "moda" which means "fashionable", "fad", or "the in style". When we moved to Davao, she didn't care much about Bisaya and when she's around my Bisaya-speaking friends, she'd start off talking in bad Tagalog, and give in to her Ilonggo roots by the time she got to her second sentence. And everytime she'd say "moda" my friends would secretly laugh because "moda" is Bisaya G-speak for "mother".

Like most Filipino mothers now, my mom is proudly OFW, and like most OFWs my mom has a story to tell. What I will tell you though, is the day we baked a cake.

I was probably around 8 or 10 years old, when my mom decided to try her baking skills. And why not? She bought new measuring cups and she borrowed my auntie's oven (or was it an improvised double broiler, I cannot remember). It was the perfect time to bring out the rusting mixer from the cabinet and use it once and for all.

She measured each ingredient carefully. She tried to look like an expert baker but when she turned on the mixer, jolted and said "Ay, kalbo!", I knew that she was a noob and she was hanging on to that recipe book for dear life. My role was to lick all excesses from the bowl and the spatula. This served two purposes, one, it helped for a quick wash, and two, the official taste test.

The taste test was sumptuous. But to carry that same taste after the fire test was a whole new ballgame. My mom panicked when, after three hours, the top half of the cake still wasn't done. We've already used up all our toothpicks and have graduated to using forks to see if the cake was ready. We stopped pricking when we officially made the supposedly flat spongy surface looking like a moon replica.

Finally, we made it. We made an edible pair of leather boots. The cake came out overdone on the bottom part. Only 20% of the cake was cake. The rest was, as I've mentioned, edible leather boots. The texture was so tough but I devoured it as if I was Hannibal Lecter on a face buffet. I seriously loved it. It was the most delicious chocolatey goodness I have ever tasted.

What I'm saying is, my mom is different than most moms. She can't bake, but she passes on recipes for a better life. Her hands may be hard on dough but her touch is as soft and warm as freshly baked bread. We only see her once a year but her voice is always loud and clear as if she has never left our side. She hasn't read us too many bedtime stories but when we chat she'd tell the most intriguing real life anecdotes that can put my blog out of business if she decides to blog herself.

My moda. She's different but I wouldn't want a different moda. I love you mom, happy Mother's Day.

Random Resignation?

2007-05-14T00:15:00.000+03:00

Mothers' Day. 10PM. I find myself at Coffee Beanery, reading Love and Other Near Death Experiences, a novel about life's randomness and how the simplest action can lead to major life-changing events or death. On the table is my White Cafe Mocha, and one whole chocolate cake for the boss' wife. I have been reading the same sentence for the past ten minutes. I finally stopped reading the book. I bookmarked the page using my folded-up resignation letter.

After half an hour, I was already inside Lee's room and he's reading the three-page letter. For those who have already filed this kind of letter, you'd know that a three-pager is quite long for a simple resignation. Yes, it was a personal letter and that's why I went to the boss' house instead of at the office.

I told Lee to give it to his father. I didn't want to be there when he arrives. I'm not a coward. It's just that I don't want the boss to speak right away after reading my sentiments. I want to give him the chance to formulate his reply.

I left the cake for Lee's mom. I find it disturbing to be giving a good news and a bad news to my employers at the same night. At the back of my mind, I thought it was a cunning idea (if I had planned it anyway) to have the boss' wife root for me as he weighs my demands.

I'm ready to leave Qatar though. I have set my mind when I put my name on that letter that I will accept whatever the outcome. Honestly, I expect that he wouldn't give in to my requests. The only thing that's sure is that there will be a major change, and such change may be sooner than I would expect.

Lee walked with me out of the house. We saw his mom turn at the street's corner so we dodged out of sight. He couldn't go far though so I went alone. "Good luck, man. And enjoy the shuffle," Lee shouted as I trodded out of the compound. He has been reading my blog, my big fan (so he said).

Ah, the purely random shuffle. I have forgotten about that. OW has been in the shuffle mode for more than a week already. Is life really random?

I took out OW, selected the "Doha Nyts" playlist and played Vienna Teng's "Gravity"--the first on the list. I haven't played this playlist for almost four months now, I thought. Then, I pressed "More Options" on OW, selected the shuffle option and turned shuffle off. I've had enough randomness for six months. It's time to regain control of my life.

God, Clarity and the Muse

2007-05-09T20:54:00.000+03:00

After my birthday, I've decided to let it go, to stop ranting and to get through my remaining days in Qatar as quietly as possible. But some voices are just too loud to ignore.

The other night I had a conversation with God. I was doing my nightly walk and passed by a Mosque. I promised my mom that I'd pray on my birthday, and since I didn't do it I thought I should at least give a shout-out to God or Allah, whichever name He preferred here anyway (it would depend on His passport I suppose). I did not stop and pray, it was more like, I was praying while walking, but directing all thoughts to a minaret and hoping that the speakers protruding from the windows also held a microphone so God can pick up my thoughts.

I asked for clarity. I realized that in six months, I did not achieve anything here. I complained most of the time and made some people feel bad while I did that. I asked Him to at least give me purpose or the sense of it. Before you give me 40 Days and a book (and a complimentary key chain and t-shirt), spare me, I'm not that lost.

I said I had a conversation with God. A conversation means that a message was sent and a reply was received. I say that because I think He answered me. Right after I left the green on the Mosque's compound, Natalie Merchant's "Wonder" played on OW:

"they say I must be one of the Wonders of God's own creation, and as far as they see they can offer no explanation. I believe fate smiled and destiny laughed as she came to my cradle. Know this child will be able. Laughed as my body she lifted, know this child will be gifted. With love, with patience
and with faith."

Merchant, Natalie ...

Of course I brushed it off as a coincidence. OW was still on shuffle mode and it's not like I'd deliberately play it just to make it all cinematic and force goosebumps on my skin. But then, as I walked farther I met the PC Guy who was trying to convert me, and while it's not unlikely that I'd meet him there, it was the first time that that happened.

I'm crazy, I know. I'm not good in math but when I add these two together I can only assume that my prayers have been answered (damn! I wish I had prayed for a million bucks! Clarity. What a loser. LoL). The instances did not offer me a particular message. But the assurance that I was heard and acknowledged was enough.

Then, this morning, I woke up with a solid idea. I'm going back to my writing. Not blog writing but scriptwriting. And I have to do it before I leave Doha. That will be my purpose here!

Enough ranting. Enough complaining. I don't care anymore that I woke up sweaty today because my friggin Chinese roommate has low tolerance to cold temperatures and has turned off the AC just as the dawn's heat was creeping up. I don't care anymore that last night the boss made me write emails at 11PM. I don't care anymore that the office is impossibly loud today with thousands of people talking er shouting in unison.

Actually, I do mind that last one. Shut up, people! I'm trying to think now. The muse is back and she only has two weeks on her visa. I need to write while she's still here. I need to write while I'm still here.

The Shuffle

2007-05-06T23:31:00.000+03:00

Tonight I got out of the office at 9:30. Before, I would've felt guilty leaving my post while the boss is still around. But now, I don't care. The office has been a crazy place since the very start. Its lack of organization or even the simplest system results to disgruntled employees (yes, including me--surprise surprise ey?) who can't wait to get away permanently or temporarily. That's why it was a good decision to walk to a distant cake shop to get sapid sweets while listening to Orange W (for future reference, this is what I'm calling the Walkman phone from now on or better yet, OW). OW was on shuffle mode and it got me thinking, how does shuffle work? What brilliant technology is behind it? Is its randomness an act of fate or simple mathematics? Then, back to reality where our own shuffle in the office has happened yet again.

I've been a victim of the famous iBoss Shuffle a few times and I know how it feels. Without any advance notice he'd just tell me to go to the internet cafe and take the shift there. His employees are just songs on an iPod, play, pause, skip, stop. Tonight though it was somebody else. And I feel sorry for this Nepali guy, our office boy, because he gets shuffled just cause some smart a$5 at the internet cafe needed some detention.

Yep, the office also doubles as a boot camp. Got some staff that needs spanking? Send them to us, free of charge. We'll even send our best office boy in place of your man while he cleans toilets in our office. The shuffle lasts for a week or a month depending on the damage done by said staff. And while the boss thinks he's got it all figured out by taking disciplinary action, we get our schedules disturbed and tasks doubled because we need to "train" the piss-offs.

When I got back to the office, the boss had left and I found the next-door PC guy (guy who works at the computer shop next door) lounging on our side of the court. Two nights straight now I would find him sitting in my comfort zone so I had to ask. "I'm working here now" he said. See? The office's "system" is so random that you never expect what's going to happen next--a secretary goes AWOL, a PC guy gets recruited--and the boss doesn't even bother to explain the turn of events. We figure it out for ourselves.

Then PC guy told me the whole story, from his whole miserable year under PC Boss to how my boss saved his career two days ago by offering him a job here in our office. "So how's your boss as a boss?" he asked me finally. I had a lot to say but didn't. I didn't want to spoil his fantasy job. And besides, my story needs a case of beer and sizzling sisig and PC guy, being Muslim, won't even tolerate a Non-Alcoholic Bud much more a minced pig's head on a hot plate.

"I noticed that you like to read, yani, so what do you like to read in, yani, particular?" PC guy said nodding at the book I was holding. I know where it's headed, he's going to convert me, he wants me to read the Quran instead, I thought. But I'm glad I was holding the right book, one that has a deceivingly friendly title but with an attitude: Love and Other Near Death Experiences. I almost laughed when I showed and read the title to him.

He talked a little bit more but in my mind I already pressed the mute button and spaced out. If the boss can do it, so can I. I watched PC guy's mouth move but there was no sound or maybe I refused to accept any sound. Tonight, it's my shuffle working. Stop, play, pause, skip.

Birthday Gift Came Early

2007-05-01T23:44:00.000+03:00

It's still three days before my birthday but already somebody gave me a wonderful gift. I just found out today that I've been listed in Qatar Visitor's list of Best Blogs in Qatar. The news comes as a surprise because I have never expected other people to read my posts except for my family and friends. I can only hope to extend my readership outside my circle and it's a slow progress. So, to the guys in Qatar Visitor (John is it?) thank you so much for the recognition. You've made me feel welcome not only to the world of blogging but also to Qatar.

Also, I would like to thank Derf for the truly fabulous header he made me (there are three actually). I'll be using them in the months to come. Derf, I'm still working on the button thing. For some reason blogger won't display linked images. Anyway, it's complicated but will figure out a way to do that soon.

Special thanks to Blogie for adding me to the Davao Blogs RSS feed, I truly appreciate it my friend.

So I guess that wraps up my blog sponsors hehehe

If any of you wish to give me gifts, I'm still accepting presents until May 31.

Crescent Over Cross?

2007-04-29T23:20:00.000+03:00

The second most asked question for me here in Doha is: "Are you Muslim?" (the first one is: "Can I get your number?" LoL). Seriously, after asking my name or nationality, the next one is the religion question, it's like filling up an application form everytime you meet a "brother". Sometimes I want to say that I am Muslim if only to stop them from converting me.

Conversion. Muslims stress that it is your own free will to convert. However, more and more people are trying to woo me to their side.

Every month, one guy would make it his mission to win my soul for Allah. Not that it's a bad mission, but I sometimes feel that they're missing the point. I'm not religious to begin with. I don't believe in religion. I believe in God or Allah. But I find religion too contrived a set-up.

Islam is a good religion. It may even be the religion. I've read the self-help books on Islam and there are very convincing points. But then, there are the sexist issues (ie men can have more than one wife while women are expected to be faithful to their husbands), and that, for me, can never be justified by any Holy book.

Missionary Styles
Don't get any dirty thoughts. Any Muslim can be a missionary. I thought I'd recall some first-hand experiences I had with some of the more persistent missionaries.

Missionary: Boss
Style: Give and Take
It's obvious that the first person who'd want to convert me would be my boss. During my first month here, he would bring me to big lunch gatherings with his friends. I admired the locals for their hospitality and warmth. A nice plan to attract a Christian. Then came the gifts. He gave me two sets of jalabiyas so I'd know how it feels like to be conservative, clean and pure. It felt nice to wear those clothes in public because it gave me the feeling that I belong. So what went wrong with the boss' plan? Nothing. I was stubborn, he was impatient. Soon enough, he grew tired of waiting for me to say "yes" to Islam. He doesn't bring me to lunch anymore, and no more gifts too.

Missionary: Officemate
Style: Press Release
Next to try his magic wand on me (well that sounded gay LoL) is this old officemate. He didn't try hard. He just told me a story on the day before Christmas. He saw me looking lonely and he asked me my tragedy. "It's Christmas" was all I could say. Then he told me a story of how generous and understanding Muslims are. I can't remember the exact "parable" but it ended with this Christian guy supposedly being cared for by a Muslim (might be their own version of the Good Samaritan). "So, tomorrow, I'll bring you Chicken and you will have your Christmas celebration," he said, so full of passion that I could almost hug him for being so kind. Christmas came and went. So did New Year. Even Eid passed. Valentines day zoomed in a heartbeat. But that chicken never came. A tall tale, if you ask me.

Missionary: Mr. Writer
Style: Convert to convert
Probably the best style ever. I wrote about Mr. Writer in Night of Coincidences. I was ready then to become a Muslim. Problem was, he was too busy converting other Christians that he rarely shows up to convince me further. Mr. Writer is American. He wrote several books on the study of Islam. Impressive studies. And there is something about a convert that puts you at ease because he knows what it was like to be a Christian.

Missionary: PC Guy
Style: Audio-Visual
One of the PC Guys next door was probably bored that one day he came up to me and asked if I was Muslim. "OH?! WHY NOT?!" was his horrified reaction, as if I was the only one left in the world who hasn't embraced Islam.

PC Guy then shared his Sura audio tracks and demanded I listen to them even if I couldn't understand Arabic.

Then he gave me a Quran. He placed the Holy Book on my table and gave me specific instructions to wash my whole body before reading the Book. When he said "whole body" he made a hand scrubbing gesture on his private area and stressed it again: "whole body". I told him I got it.

I wanted to move the Book from the table to the shelf, but he stopped me from even touching the Quran and told me to wait till morning when I have washed my "whole body" (yet again doing the wax-on wax-off motion on his crotch).

Everyday since then he'd ask about my progress. I didn't read much. Didn't even listen to the audios (it creeped me out). Finally, I told him that it's not a far fetched idea because my mom is a Muslim and that there is a big chance. He asked me why my mom didn't convince me to become a Muslim. I told him that my mom wants me to discover the beauty of Islam on my own much like she did before. He never asked me which Sura I was reading again.

Now, the boss' brother has ventured into the conversion idea as well, but he hasn't unleashed his style yet. I'm tempted to tell him to take a number or get in line.

I wish I could just be rude and say that I don't care much about religion . But I'm sure it would only make things worse. In fact I don't care so much that tomorrow I can convert to Islam and it won't make a difference to me. But I do believe in spirituality. And I'd rather not have a religion than be a hypocrite. I'm not saying that everyone who has a religion are hypocrites (a lot of people can actually live by the Book and I admire them for that), what I'm saying is that I'm not a saint, and I don't plan to be one anytime soon.

It's My Party

2007-04-28T15:25:00.000+03:00

TUMULTUOUS. Such is a word that only has a vague meaning when you read it. It is only now that I fully understand the word. Now that I felt it. The tumultuous past few weeks, that shall inevitably lead to the climax of my life chapter entitled Doha, have been a time filled with personal struggle--of body, mind, emotion and soul.

I have kept my promise not to cry here. It wasn't easy. I had to continually remind myself that my sadness is nothing compared to the sadness of others here working in worse conditions. Still it is my sadness and I thought that maybe, I should break that promise come my birthday. It's my party and I'll cry if I want to, so the song goes. I just might.

There are so many things going on in my head and heart that any sad word or song or picture can bring me to tears. But I've developed this habit of stopping them halfway. Imagine an unconsummated orgasm. It stings my eyes. It stings my heart.

For instance, I was in Hong Kong Airport five months ago and I'm lugging around this large tube full of rolled-up Hong Kong posters. I complained that of all presents for the boss, my mom thought of such a bulky thing to give. When I arrived in Qatar, the boss proudly framed and hung these posters in every room around the office walls. This morning, I arrived at the office with a heavy feeling (which seems common nowadays) and plopped on the sofa fronting the reception counter. I plugged my earphones, listened to some recent downloads and got lost in my own sad world. Then, Jewel sang: "it's 4 in the afternoon, I'm on a flight leaving LA, trying to figure out my life, my youth scattered along the highway". And I looked ahead right in front of me and there, in it's faux golden frame, is the poster of an aerial view of Hong Kong International Airport. Cliche as it may seem, any good director or editor filming my life won't resist the urge to dissolve from my point of view of this framed image on a wall to my actual POV of the same view as I have my little happy ending with the plane touching down in Hong Kong. Now, tell me if that is not worthy of a single teardrop. But I did not budge. Not just yet.

Books, movies and music seem to offer false hope but I bite into it because at this point, believing is better than dreaming. Believing that things will work out fine. Believing in karma once again, that surely, something as tumultuous as this will have its equivalent word, one that also means vague until you actually feel it: calm.

It's my party.mp3

ONETOTEN: The Ten Pros

2007-04-22T21:06:00.000+03:00

Finally. I never thought I'd actually come up with a PROs list but my "career" situation in Qatar does have some good points. I just needed some time to screen these and make them competitive when pitted against the CONs. A heads up: you won't find "Doha has the best shawarma" in the list.

10 Sucky as it may seem, I do have free accommodation. Normally, one might need to pay 800QR (Php 11,200) for bed space or 2,500QR (Php 35,000) for a single room plus electricity and water consumption charges. That, and you need to buy your own furniture.

09 My room is on the second floor of the office. While this can lead to abuse (ie long office hours), it also means that I don't have to pay for transportation, which is pretty steep as one taxi ride is usually around 15QR (Php 210).

08 Food is cheap here as long as you don't convert it to peso. In relation to a basic Qatar salary (which i don't have, by the way), one won't have a problem with food because it's affordable and they usually have big servings in almost every place.

07 Alcohol is restricted. I like to get drunk once in a while just to let loose, but lately I found the value of non-alcoholic drinks. I get to save money by not partying and save myself from embarassment.

06 I got back to my writing and reading. No TV and less movies, I have no choice but to go old school in the entertainment department.

05 Culture. Or the lack of it. To date, it's the longest time I've been out of the country. I've learned a lot in the months I've spent here from geography to sociology and to, most of all, dealing with people from different cultural backgrounds. It's priceless education.

04 Honestly, it's weird that for a self-proclaimed rebel, I find Qatar, aka Prohibition State, closer to home than any other foreign land I've been to, thus I would prefer working here than, say, Hong Kong (no offense mom, I love you but Hong Kong is too cosmopolitan for your laid back, Brokeback cowboy son LoL). I can blend in with the crowd. I can communicate better. The weather is like a hotter, sunnier Davao (no typhoon, yey!) And the food agrees with my system (no more chicken allergy, yipee!).

03 This is a rich country so there is always the possibility of a better job with a better offer. The only question is: when will it knock on my door?

02 My boss does make some sort of effort to make the office a better place to work in. Every week there is an improvement, interior-wise, so MAYBE the staff can expect some salary increase when he's done splurging on carpets and furniture.

01 I have definitely settled down here. I have learned their ways. I have gained friends. I have gained a family spin-off even and I am not lost (in Qatar) anymore. Although it wasn't hard to adjust, I still think that such adjustment period should only come once every decade or else risk being called a nomad.

There. It's done. PROs vs CONs. I need your opinion, dear reader. Help me out. Which side wins? The Pros or the Cons? Write your name, your answer "PROS" or "CONS" followed by your reason for selecting answer and other comments you might have. I'll raffle replies and pick out a winner. A special prize awaits. ;o>

ONETOTEN: The Ten Cons

2007-04-17T22:05:00.000+03:00

It's been going through my head like an incessant house loop: I should move out of here and stop the abuse.

Today, the boss gave me yet another task and I don't know if I should be flattered or frustrated. The task involves, ironically enough, handling money. So before I do a Psycho split and take the money and run, I need to figure out things first.

If I'm really important and trustworthy, then why the small pay? But if I'm expendable then why do I get all the more important tasks?

With my mom positively offering me a job in Hong Kong, the battle between Pros and Cons gets even stiffer. Here then, to make life easier, is my list of Cons for Staying in Qatar.

10 I should move out because I hate sharing my room with two obnoxious (but extremely kind and cutesy friendly anyway) Chinese guys who sleep naked and stink the depressing windowless room with their unwashed butts, while they savor the Kim-chi-like stench of their own breaths to dreamland.

09 I should leave because even though I only have one boss, in reality, I work for a lot of people like my boss' associates, partners, guests, and clients (yes, this is why I sometimes refer to this as an abuse). I work for the immediate family too: wife, brother, kids. But I don't mind working for the family, it's not mandated, it's expected and they've been kind to me so there, don't flame me Lee LoL.

08 There's no point in staying when at the end of the month the Chinese masseur at my boss' health clinic earns more money than I do and that's all he ever has to do—massage some bodies (then he'd happily announce that he got "five ten ten ten" (QR500) as a tip from the Emir).

07 It would only be stupid if I stay because my mom has to send me money just so I can survive here. Can you imagine a guy working abroad and he's the one receiving money when he's supposed to be the one sending it? So in other words, my mom helps pay for my existence here so I can work myself to death.

06 I should take the next flight out because this job does not make use of all my skills and brain.

05 I should quit because I recently categorized my blog and discovered that all posts which were tagged as "work" were also tagged as "rant".

04 I must resign because my business needs me...or as it seems, I need my business.

03 I need to leave because my heart is aching and longing the company of my family, friends and loved one.

02 I have to move on because I'm gaining weight and I'm seeing clouds of depression hovering over me.

01 I should find a happier place and job because the one I have now is turning me into a closet smoker.

The Pros will follow soon, it won't outnumber this list because it will also be a "ONETOTEN" list LoL but we'll see which side is heavier.

But, number one—damn! I was in the closet and now I'm

Quality vs Quantity

2007-04-16T09:27:00.000+03:00

Otherwise known as the 1800 Abs, 300 is a movie that not only shows the battle of Sparta vs Persia but also of Quality vs Quantity—a battle that transcends time and that now exists in almost every office in the world.

I had a long weekend. A minor rebellion on my part because the boss spoiled my once-a-week off with one of his last minute symposium. Just imagine a Friday in Doha—lazy, like the typical Sunday in other places, quiet, save for speakers everywhere blasting once in a while reminding every Muslim that it's Al Juma'a—then all of a sudden, the boss drives me to the office and tells me that in two hours, at least 30 guests will arrive to attend a presentation.

I had to help set up everything from preparing the Powerpoint and moving furniture to preparing snacks and drinks. Not quite the rigorous training of a Spartan warrior but nonetheless a task that demanded every bit of skill I had to offer.

Work claimed my afternoon holiday so before it owned my evening as well, I decided to escape the boss' clutches. Only a handful people showed up, mainly because of short notice. I got my release on the grounds that I don't understand Arabic and the whole presentation would not make sense to me.

I rushed to the mall and watched Letters from Iwo Jima, a film that featured bad Japanese acting, predictable musical scoring and cliché staging of scenes. I normally adore Clint Eastwood but this one is easily not his best. I'm beginning to think that Marty deserved the Oscar after all even though The Departed wasn’t his best work either.

Anyway, I went home (to my boss' house) at around 1AM and was glad to find out that he wasn't home still. The next morning, when I was supposed to go back to the office, I stayed in bed and took the day off, hence the long weekend. In the evening, I went back to the office only to drop off my bag and headed to the mall again to watch 300.

It blew me away—the abs, the texture, splendid cinematography, heart thumping editing and superb yet subtle special effects—it was almost immaculate…until Xerxes showed up. He looked like an S&M drag queen without a wig. RuPaul could easily play the part and with more spunk and pizzazz too! 300 was a bit like Letters from Iwo Jima in the sense that both films narrated the struggles of a small army. The scene where Persian ships docked by the thousands was similar to the invading battleships of the US Navy reaching the shores of Iwo Jima. But that's the only similarity. Iwo Jima bored me a bit, 300 kicked ass, Persian ass.

So essentially, 300 is a battle of Quality vs Quantity. The same battle I face in the office. My boss would get pissed if I sometimes report at 10AM because he expects me to be in as early as eight. I work for 16 hours on most days and it's safe to say that I average at 12 hours a day. He'd get angry if I'm late. He's counting the hours and not the quality of work I put in.

Well he can complain all he wants. As far as I know, and I'm making this a semi-official announcement, my days here in Qatar are numbered. I believe six months is a long enough show of patience and resilience. I don’t aspire to become a millionaire but I only want what is fair. Like Spartans, I have my pride. And it doesn't matter if I lose this battle, what matters is how I fought it.

I'm moving out on May 27th, unless a tasty offer miraculously comes up. I will probably try it out in Hong Kong before going home to Davao. It's still a long way back but my spear is sharp and my shield is strong. Damn right I don't wear armor because I have immaculate abs. OK, I'm dreaming.

The Aftermath

2007-04-12T10:57:00.000+03:00

It would be silly not to move on, but I have to admit, my little misadventure last week has started to turn feelings of hurt into hate.

Last night I felt ill just by being around the office. I had to get out. So I took off, on foot, and an hour later I found myself at the mall, drenched in sweat. I gathered myself in the washroom before retreating to my favorite spot at the coffee shop where the kind people (kabayans) allowed me in, despite the fact that they were already doing the closing ceremonies. They probably noticed my lost-and-confused look so they provided me the sanctuary I needed. The waiter didn’t even bother giving me the menu. He just asked me "the usual?" and to which I nodded in answer before the question even made sense to me. When it did, he was already at the counter mindlessly summoning the espresso factory. I felt glad to have finally found a place that served me "the usual"—a feat that took more than two dozen consecutive cups of White Café Mocha Grande before they labeled me as one of their predictable patrons (the last time I had "the usual" was at Basti's Brew in Davao).

"Bakit ka mag-isa sir?" the waiter who looked like his name was Noel or Nestor or Hernani asked when he served my coffee. Sometimes, people don't know the polite way to say "what a lonely life you have". But he can't corner me. "I'm always alone when I come here," was my lame retort. Noel/Nestor/Hernani excused himself. He probably didn’t want to play bartender to the bummed out drinker.

I sipped my coffee faster than usual. They cut off the music, there was no time to read a book, and as the last customer, I got a lot of "hurry up"-glances from the crew. What a sad night, I thought. I was ready to just sulk in the coffee shop chair and wallow in my misery. I was ready to suffocate with self-pity. I paid 18 Qatar Riyals to do just that. Then, I started to feel impatient. I started to think random things and how I hate being alone in the coffee shop, or how I hate being there in the first place. I went there because I couldn’t stand the office. I couldn’t stand the office because Arabs kept coming in and out. Then just like that, it occurred to me, I hate Arabs.

One Arab man attacked me and he turned me into a racist. They could all be the same underneath the white clothes—all violent, harmful and camera-grabbing men.

I hope this is just a phase. I don't want to be the racist in a place where I'm part of the minority.

I took a taxi home. No surprise, the driver is Indian. It's becoming a habit. I should stop it soon.

I arrived at the office and started writing this post while the Chinese talked loudly to each other. The Chinese shout when they talk, even if they're just millimeters apart. It seems to me that the Chinese either have really bad hearing, have no respect for other's ears, or they simply have cockroaches crawling up their asses that every so often they feel the urge to scream.

Maybe I'm just being overly sensitive. It's because I'm a Filipino. See, even to myself, I'm a racist. It freaks me

Turn the Other Cheek

2007-04-08T22:39:00.000+03:00

I almost thought that Qatar would kill me with boredom. That was until last Thursday, when a pissed off Arab decided to shake me from my humdrum existence and threatened to place me in Doha's most wanted list just for taking pictures of a truckload of furniture.

Since this is my blog, and I am biased to what is generally right for me, I point a finger (not the finger) at my boss for placing me in deep shit.

Early Thursday morning he called me up and told me to proceed to the industrial area for a special assignment. I got there with four other men. I saw my boss already waiting on the parking lot outside a big warehouse. He handed me a digicam and told me to secretly take photos of a truck which was loaded with furniture and clinic equipment.

I only had a vague thought that maybe the owner of this warehouse didn't like the idea of people taking pictures. I started snapping secretly. It was not easy to do since a dozen eyes were trained on me wherever I went. It was just a matter of time when someone would alert the authorities.

I decided to take my last shot. I knelt behind a car and aimed my camera at the license plate of the truck. Click—the blinding flash of light slowly dissolving to reality. I previewed the shot, smiled and was satisfied. My job is done.

I was starting to get up when I saw a big man charge towards me. I have barely stood when he hit my arm, grabbed it, forced the camera out of my hand and pushed me. It was only then I knew the full extent of the secrecy clause.

The assault took less than 10 seconds. All I could afford to mutter was my boss' name. Then I found myself pointing at the man who attacked me. In an instant, my boss was already running towards the man and hitting him like crazy. People from both sides of the team converged on one spot in the parking lot. It was hard to make out who was winning. In my mind I pictured out a cartoon brawl with nothing but clouds of dust and outstretched arms and legs. I just stood there and did nothing, holding my hurt arm like a true wimp.

Finally, the fight subsided and they all went inside the warehouse to settle some things. I waited outside, worried as hell because of my clumsiness. I blamed myself for causing the ruckus. After a few minutes, one of our people came up to me and told me that we should move it right away because the police were on their way to arrest the guy who took the pictures (ie me).

My mind panicked while they drove me to a nearby restaurant to "hide" me. If I were to be given only one phone call, should I call the Philippine embassy or my mom? If I dropped the soap in prison, should I pick it up or let it slip? I was also searching for a word in the midst of all these. The word only made itself known when I finally got my bruised self safely back to the office. The word is unfair.

It is unfair that I'm bruised when I'm overworked and underpaid. It is unfair that I'm placed in a situation that could endanger my life (what if that man decided to pull a trigger instead of a punch?). It is unfair that after all the trouble, what I hear is "I should've fought back!".

And for a while I thought that maybe I should've fought back. Maybe I should've held on to that camera, took a nice square punch on that man's face, stomped on his feet, smashed his head on the car windshield, threw dust on his bleeding forehead, pushed him on the ground, jumped on top of his stomach, ran over him with a car, and took a picture of his deformed face as a souvenir while he bled to death.

But I grew up singing to Kenny Roger's Coward of the County (my Dad's idea of parenting is making me memorize folk songs), the lyrics of which goes something like:

Promise me, son, not to do the things I've done.
Walk away from trouble if you can.
It won't mean you're weak if you turn the other cheek.
I hope you're old enough to understand:
Son, you don't have to fight to be a man.

The Chinese swore they could've defended me with Kung Fu if only they were there. I don't doubt they could. Even the boss fought back. I guess it did him good because he got his camera back with the pictures still on file and he got rid of the police.

I showed my bruise to my boss and he said, not to worry, because he made that man's lips bleed. I should feel better, I suppose. But I'm sure he only did that because he was more concerned about getting his camera back.

My boss asked me the other night why I didn’t fight back. I couldn’t answer him at that time. I just smiled at him and shrugged.

But now I know why I stood still. It may sound like a sissy boy excuse but I don't care. And in one satisfied tone, albeit bruised, here's why I refused to fight back and decided to turn the other cheek: My mom raised me well.

Hally Pott and Other Chinese Tales

2007-04-04T00:30:00.000+03:00

Last night, the somehow new Chinese guy, Yang, called my attention. He wanted to show me some pictures on the Internet. I looked at his monitor because if I refused he would eventually twist my neck anyway and won't stop until my eyeballs were firmly aimed on the screen. He showed me a picture of Yao Ming and asked me if I know the guy, I mean, who doesn't, right? Yao Ming was in mid-air. The basketball that he held touched the ring while his balls found a warm spot on another player's face. Before I knew it, Yang was already pointing at random pictures and asking me if I know "Ren" (Rain) or "Hally Pott" (Harry Potter). I knew it could take forever so I went up to my room and slept, escaping his wrath. Little did I know, the Chinese curse was far from over.

For Being Thoughtful, I Got a Scolding

I woke up with a throbbing headache and a fever. I took Panadol and still went to work because it's payday. Around 10AM, the boss' wife (Chinese, just so you know) arrived. I greeted her with a wide smile because I was excited to hear her praises for a job well done on the restaurant menu she had asked me to lay out. Last night, I thought it would be nice to give the finished menu to her husband (my boss) so she could use it right away. Then, she asked for the menu. My smile turned from genuine-glee to I'm-f*ck#d. I realized that the boss probably forgot to hand her the menu, and it's probably sitting in his car somewhere in the desert, probably at the northern tip of Qatar!

Before I could say "I'm sorry", she already had a head start on a scolding. Mild but still on the totally-pissed level. She let me go with a stern warning. I took another Panadol.

For Being Helpful, I Got an Ultimatum

By noon, more Chinese came. Both the daily ration of Chinese buffet leftovers and the business people guests. I don't eat the food they deliver anymore. Like an expert on mahjong tiles, I already know what the lunchbox holds just by feeling the cover.

Abdul (Chinese, just so you know) asked if he could have some documents printed. I'm always willing to help Abdul because he's kind and generous, that is, if he's not busy and cranky. Today he had a mix of all four adjectives. Anyway, he handed me a flash disk and I told him "you already know that my computer is allergic to flash disks", because for some reason my PC cannot read the g*dd*mn things.

I found a solution for him though. Even if he didn't get to use my computer, I showed him how to print from his station using the network printer.

Glad that was over...(one)...(two)...(three), Not! Soon, the boss called me in to his office where he was just wrapping up a meeting with the Chinese. They all looked at me like they already knew what the boss was going to say. "Is there a problem with your computer?" the big guy asked.

I looked at Abdul because I was certain he had something to do with this, "there isn't a probleh.."
"Change it." the boss snapped.

I tried to argue, but the boss wouldn't let me win, especially not in front of his guests. So I just surrendered. He gave me until the weekend to change the computer to the "best" one in the office. What he really meant was change it to one that does not have a flash-disk allergy.

For Being Friendly, I Got a Youtube-News-WTF-Factor-Worthy Video

Finally, my day was ending with no more troubles. Then the guys (Chinese, just so you know) from the massage clinic arrived: Yang, the somehow new Chinese guy and Wang, the really new Chinese guy.

Wang installed a new chat program on my computer that automatically translates English to Chinese and back again while you chat. Coolness. For the first time since he arrived a month ago, I got to hear Wang's thoughts on soccer, music and more soccer which made me glad that it took him a month before he found a way to bore me. But he's sweet because he said that he is thankful that I became his friend.

And for that, he handed me a VCD, and told me to play it on my computer. Lo and behold, it's Wang's personal photo-video album--set to music, featuring pan flute versions of John Lennon's Imagine and Elton John's Sacrifice, the kind of musical scoring you can only hear in Pinoy porn.

At first I was amused to see myself in one of the photos. But after three minutes, I looked at the time left and gasped when I saw the total running time: 21:31!

Incidentally, and I'm not making this up, I was going through Rotten Tomatoes' Worst of the Worst Movie List, before Wang tortured me, only to find myself watching the most dragging video I have ever seen. Each picture stayed there for 6 seconds before slowly dissolving into another picture. It would help if the pictures were interesting. But most of the pictures were self portraits of the artiste in different downloaded frames (name of source website included on the frame).

It took around five songs (from out of nowhere, one was the theme from "Chariots of Fire") to complete the run of photos in his collection.

It was clear right then and there that I was under the Chinese Ju-on. Or maybe it was Chinese Karma for poking fun at Hally Pott and Ren.

So, as punishment, I sat through the whole 21 minutes and 31 seconds, yawning discreetly, humming through Sacrifice, and crossing my fingers wishing that such day will never happen again.

Road Trippin' to Al Ruwais

2007-03-30T20:31:00.000+03:00

Yesterday, my boss tricked me into going with him to a two-hour road trip to the northern tip of Qatar. I ran out of excuses so I decided to go with him just so he could get over with all the excitement [ie "you have to go to our farm and breathe fresh air!"]. Just outside the city limits, the long stretch of highway dissolved into the horizon so I played some tunes and expected a boring ride towards the desert.

Road Trippin'

The purpose of going to "the farm" was to give some new Chinese guests a tour of a grand industrial plan that will rock that side of Qatar in five years or so. I texted my mom about this but she didn't seem to care. She was more keen on seeing photos of me in the actual desert so she kept reminding me to get my camera ready.

Along the way, I realized that the north's deserts are gone. No sand dunes (if there were any before). No vast areas of sand. Just large vacant lands waiting to be planted with villas and buildings. The only "desertful" characteristics were the palm trees, desert grass, and the promise of a camel because of camel crossing signs that showed up every five kilometers as if reminding us that we might bump into one any moment. I wanted to take a picture of the road sign but I figured that with the sun setting, the boss wouldn't like the idea of a photo op, and besides, I knew I could google it.

[The photo was taken someplace else. The road we traveled on looked a lot like this except for the outline of a mountain on the background.]

We finally reached the northern tip after almost two hours. There was no great view to behold. What greeted us was a small port, a few bopping dhow s and some fisherfolk assembling gigantic fish cages. Boring.

We stayed there for fifteen minutes then headed to "the farm". "The farm" turned out to be three areas of fenced-in land. Inside one "farm" were some two hundred doves of different varieties. The other "farm" had fruit stuff. And the last "farm" was a vacation villa which was powered by a generator since we were too far away from civilization.

The Chinese guests, all prim and proper businessmen and woman, were relieved when we reached the villa. We waited ten and a half years for food to be served. When the caterers finally came in with the food, I noticed the fake amused smiles of the guests as they observed for the first time how an Arab dinner was served: on the floor. They couldn't imagine how such a nicely and expensively decorated villa could leave out a proper dining hall, but before they could come up with theories, they already found themselves kneeling in front of a huge tray of bukhari rice topped with half of a roasted lamb, yes, that's how huge the tray was!

The Chinese acted weird. First of all, an exception was made for the Chinese woman, because under normal circumstances, she's not really allowed to dine with men. Then they all looked grossed out when the host dug in the rice and served the guests using his bare hands. When the host handed out a slab of meat to the lady, she was quick to grab her plate and avoid contamination. I have to admit, I felt the same way when I first had my Arab meal but they were out of line, they even took pictures! They probably think they found a highway sideshow. I freaked them even more by licking my fingers and digging into the best parts of the lamb.

After dinner we didn't linger for the usual tea and small talk. The Chinese were literally running for the exit door. It was considerably late anyway and the power generator finally complained by fluctuating the current.

On the way home, I realized the trip wasn't so bad, I did have fresh air after all and the bukhari and roasted lamb were the best I've ever tasted by far. Too bad not a camel dared cross the highway while we were on the road. But on the long drive home, I was just glad to see a strange yet at the same time familiar sign that can only mean we're back in the city:

Dad's Somewhere Out There

2007-03-26T08:49:00.000+03:00

On my 9th birthday, my Dad woke me up early in the morning and told me to fix my ears on the radio. He left for work and the whole morning I waited patiently by the radio like a good boyscout. Just before noon, the DJ announced my name on the air and greeted me a Happy Birthday (greetings from your Dad) then a dedicated song followed. It was the theme from An American Tail. I didn't have a party since we didn't have money for parties. But that was one of the most memorable birthdays ever.

Ever heard of the expression "speaking of the devil"? Well, I posted my last entry, and today, I got an email from my Dad. I guess I spoke too soon. But in the spirit of fair journalism, here's what my dad said:

Ja, how are you, son? I got your mail and thank you for that.
I misssed you so much Ja. I just want you to know how much I love you. I know how hard it is to be away from your home but that's how life is. Be patient and always trust to God your everyday life and be friendly especially that you're a stranger to that place. Avoid getting into trouble ha.
I tried to call you on the number that you gave me but I can't get through. And also give me Josh's number too so I can call him.
Ja, I'm getting too old and weak. The only thing I'm asking Lord is to see and be with you before I totally close my eyes. I hope and pray we can spend time together and share every moment that we haven't did before. God knows how much I love and care for you, son.
Take good care of yourself always and be happy with what you have for now.
May the good Lord always guide my sons and protect them from any harm and danger.
See you next mail son, I love you as always.
Love,
Daddy

Okay, so I don't know what happened. I've never known my Dad to be religious but now he seems to be speaking in tongues. People change, I guess, but then again, he's in the US and Lord knows what other uppers they have there aside from 7UP. I'm just kidding. I know he's sincere about this. My Dad can really get mushy and it creeps me out.

Maybe he's exaggerating a bit when he said he's getting "too old and weak". First of all, 55 is not really too old. And second of all, if you still manage to pop out some jizz and get a woman pregnant at that age, you're not exactly weak.

And apparently when he said "always guide my sons," he was actually referring to the five of his sons. And I only know my three other brothers. I can imagine his latest 3-year-old kid growing up and getting traumatized when he finds out later on that there were others that came before him.

My dad gives me good material. I just might consider a career in stand-up comedy.

So that's it. I spoke too soon. My bad. Dad actually made a decent reply. Now, please excuse me while I walk outside and listen to this
Somewhere Out There

WB, Dad, Tyler's Been Looking for You

2007-03-21T12:45:00.000+03:00

As if disconnected from YM and signing back again, my dad, whom I haven't seen since New Year 2000, suddenly emails me again after a five-month silence. Everytime my dad comes into view, I could only think of this passage from Fight Club, and boy, isn't Tyler Durden right?!

"This is the first generation of men raised by women. Me, I knew my dad for
about six years, but I don't remember anything. My dad, he starts a new family
in a new town for about every six years. This isn't so much like a family as
it's like he sets up a franchise."

[My dad, in a nutshell. Welcome back, dad. Tyler's been looking for you.]

Exactly a week before graduating from high school, our Christian Living teacher thought it would be nice to write a letter to our parents. Since my mom was in Hong Kong at that time, I had to write one for my dad. I didn't see the point because my dad did not live with us anymore. But I wrote the letter anyway thinking it would be only for God to read. The next day, I was surprised to see my dad at our class' year-end retreat. And when we were instructed to read to our parents the letter we wrote, I knew I was in deep trouble. I only made it past the second sentence, after that, I broke down. My dad ended up reading the letter by himself. I almost felt ashamed I wrote it. He explained to me his side of the story and after that, for the first time in my troubled teen life, everything was clear. Nothing changed between me and my dad after that letter except that I have found respect for him and finally understood his actions. A year later I moved from Bacolod to Davao without him knowing. And three years more, my dad flew to the US without me knowing.

December 31, 1999. I was standing on the vacant lot beside my dad's duplex in a low-class housing community, observing that in the city outskirts, the stars seemed brighter. My dad found me in the dark, and before I could throw the cigarette I was holding, he asked for a light. He puffed and told me to quit smoking already (insert laugh track here). He thanked me for buying two cases of San Miguel Beer. We talked for a bit. He apologized for not being the ideal father for me and my brother. I thought it was the alcohol talking but I told him everything was cool anyway. He hugged me and just like a good TV moment, my two younger half brothers came running toward us and said that we're counting down to the new year in a few minutes. After three days, I flew back to Davao and didn't have the chance to see my father again.

For the past few years my dad has been emailing once in a while, mostly to greet us during birthdays or holidays. He would call once in a while, mostly to give Western Union details, and each telephone conversation would always end with "thank you" and "I love you"-- heartfelt, believe it or not.

But five months ago he stopped communicating with us. And in his recent email he said that he just got his internet connection back, but that does not explain why he hasn't called. I wrote him back and told him that what his almost-thirty-year-old son wanted from him, more than anything, was a father-figure (in terms he would understand, of course). It was quite a long email, a feeling of deja vu while I was writing it. I told him that I am now based in Qatar. I told him updates about my brother. I told him to give me a call, Western Union or no Western Union.

His reply was two lines long with three periods and a question mark. My mention of Qatar did not even seem to matter to him. I gave up analyzing his reply and decided to look on the bright side. At least he's still alive. [I heard his franchise has gone global.]

Basically this entry explains why I love Fight Club. Or maybe I'm just saying that I'm glad I finally heard from my dad. Whichever the reason, I'm still closing this post with another passage from Chuck Palahniuk's debut novel:

The mechanic says, "If you're male and you're Christian and living in America,
your father is your model for God. And if you never know your father, if your
father bails out or dies or is never at home, what do you belive about God?"

I found out that this doesn't apply to American males alone. Whatever, at least He's still alive.

It Can't Be True, Can It?

2007-03-18T11:03:00.000+03:00

"Charlieeeeeeee, candy mountain, Charlie. Chaaaarrrrrrlieeeeeeee," eerie unicorns persuading Charlie, the other unicorn, to go with them to candy mountain. If you haven't seen this popular piece of youtubeness (joyness), watch the video below. But if you're the impatient type, just read the spoiler.

So Charlie went inside Candy Mountain cave, was attacked in the darkness and woke up only to find out that his kidney was stolen. An old urban legend but made especially for kids or for those in need of a good LoL.

I remember a few weeks ago, the Chinese guys in the office dragged my unwilling arse to the dinner table and made me join their happy little picnic of kiwi fruit, mandarin oranges and fake beer--the NA on the label means Non-Alcoholic but until now I don't understand how beer can be NA when it's supposed to be A. It's like decaf coffee. What's the point, right? But wouldn't it be nice if they came up with Non-Deadly cigarettes? Getting off track. Back to the mandarin oranges and fake beer--which I thought was just a drunkard's worst nightmare but turned out to be true. Getting off track again! ARGH!

Fake beer. Can we just talk about this? No? OK. The Chinese guys were so sweet but a bit dumb. They wanted me to join their little picnic but, despite the foreskin, they didn't have enough foresight to see that I'll be OPed in five minutes.

I delighted myself in peeling the kiwi (not the foreskin!) and thought how many brown-skinned fruits were actually green inside. Not too many. Then I focused my attention to Yang. Everyone else was listening intently as he pounded on each Chinese word he spoke. I saw Chinese characters float in front of me and for a while I thought about Rosie O'Donnell. The tale sounded intense and dark. And like Lola Basyang, he ended his mesmerizing tale in a shroud of mystery that left his audience silent for a minute.

"Uhm can someone translate to me, please?" I broke the silence, kiwi in hand.

"It's about this guy," Jimmy, the only Chinese guy around who can speak English, started to explain, "whose kidney was stolen because," he stopped short because I interrupted.

I told him I already know that story. It's an urban legend. It's not real. It's possible it can happen but not under those circumstances. I wanted to explain to them that the story is too complicated for a kidney heist. I wanted to tell them that kidney robbers would not look for victims in bars because chances are, bar-kidneys are drenched in alcohol and they're better off looking at NA places like Qatar. I wanted to convince them that it is so not true but I decided not to burst their bubble and just shut my mouth and ate my kiwi.

Two days ago Lee showed me the Charlie video and afterwards insisted that the urban legend was true because his father told him about the kidneynappers when he was younger. Oh well, anything to keep the kids in the house.

The man-in-the-iced-bathtub-sans-kidney is probably the mother of urban legends. But there's another one that's popular for Filipino overseas workers, especially those working in the Middle East. It's "The Rape of the Clean Shaven Man". It tells the story of a Filipino who went to look for an honest job in the Middle East and was raped by an Arab man in the desert for no reason. The moral of the story? Grow a moustache. The thicker the moustache, the stronger your protection against rape.

It can't be true, can it? And don't tell me that a friend of your friend has first hand experience.

Just to be clear though, why I shave has nothing to do with this urban legend.

Like a Perfect Day for Bananafish and Clockwork Orange: The Blogger Crossover

2007-03-13T03:12:00.000+03:00

The phone rang four times before I heard a strange panting and moaning on the other end. "Ahhh, ahhh, uhhhhhm, haaaa, wheeeew, Hello?! Haaaaaaa, whooooh," the small voice spoke in between heavy doses of air. My mind began picturing her in bed, covered in sweat and with a charming French man from whom she most certainly attributed each pant and moan. Her one hand probably handcuffed. She did, after all, txt me earlier that she has a story to tell about a pair of cuffs. I hesitated for a bit, afraid that I might have interrupted a very private event. "Kala?" I finally asked. But I had to know so I asked "Kala, are you having sex?"

She laughed and still panting said "I just got off the treadmill!" Right, like anyone was ever going to buy that! We set an eyeball for the next day and I told her to continue what she was doing.

That was my first phone conversation with Kala, the blogger who stumbled upon Like Clockwork Orange while searching for info about Qatar. Naturally, after she posted comments on my blog, I read her posts. I suddenly felt unworthy of her presence in my sphere, but I wanted so much to be rubbing elbows with such a great writer.

So you can imagine how excited I was last Sunday. I braved the sandstorm and headed for City Center. In my head I can hear Spongebob chanting over and over again `I have a new friend, I have a new friend'.

I arrived late and for a moment I was worried that she got tired of waiting and left. But there she was, sitting on the green Starbucks chair, cuddling a book, Lolita, like it was a fragile baby. I walked up to her and waited for her to look up and stand before I hugged her. "Human touch!" I exclaimed. I haven't been hugged for a long time and I forgot how warm and comforting it feels. A little longer and I would have broken down but it was just a quick friendly hug, a gesture that, for me, means 'welcome to my world'.

The world outside the blog, of course. Bloggers are not just persons chatting on the net. They are well-formed characters and with depth. When I read a blog, I view it as a series, a sitcom or a drama, depending on the theme, and the blogger leads the cast.

Thus when Kala and I met, I can't help but think of a crossover episode between two shows. Think about Ally McBeal appearing on the set of The Practice. Or Angel kicking vampire ass alongside Buffy. You get the drift. But whether she writes about this crossover or not is entirely up to her. I'm milking it as much as I can! [ LoL]

We exchanged gifts the instant we met. She gave me a Haruki Murakami book called Kafka on the Shore and I gave her some divx movies and a dirty comic strip that Martin forwarded to my email.

Anyway, we talked. A lot. She paid for lunch, I paid for coffee and dessert. Then we went to her apartment and talked some more. It was an interesting talk because most of the time we picked up from where we left off from the blog posts so the narrative was easy to follow.

She, of course, detailed the handcuff incident that happened at the airport when she arrived in Doha. And she introduced me to Mahmoud the [male] robot. Mahmoud has his own passport. I told Kala that I think Mahmoud needs a sexbuddy more than a passport.

Then, Kala showed me brilliant French comic books, Bande Dessinée or BDs, and I mentally shot myself for giving her that dirty comic strip earlier that afternoon.

Soon the light outside the building faded and it was time to go back to our tasks. Kala had to cook and I had to go back to the office. The crossover episode ends.

While I was waiting for a taxi, I told Kala that we should take a picture of our first meeting.

The start of a beautiful friendship?

In any case, somehow I know that there will be more crossover episodes. And I have yet to meet the entire cast on her show.

A High School Story

2007-03-11T11:00:00.000+03:00

The plot was almost like the Drew Barrymore movie: One evening, I suddenly found myself in High School. What do I do to fit in?

We were five in the car. The boss' wife was driving and Lee, her 15-year old son was seated at the front complaining every two minutes how late we all were for the food festival. His mom complained back that he should've worn his jacket (translates to hoodie) because it would be freezing at the open field. I sat silently at the back trying not to mind the out-of-nowhere punches I was getting from a three year old nymph. Meanwhile, the maid said she can't wait to stuff food into the empty container she brought. I thought it's too Filipino of her to bring tupperware to a party.

Finally, we arrived at The Cambridge School and in parenthesis, "A British Style International School", and you thought schools aren't in fashion. Lily, Lee's younger sister, greeted us at the front gate with her friend Tina (Lee calls her Tuna cause she's a bit flaky). Lee went past Tuna without a word. They had a falling out a week ago and their cold war was getting colder by the day.

We all rushed to the food fair with our contribution of Chinese Noodles and Dumplings. But don't ask why they placed it on the South Africa table. Lily then showed me her display of overpriced bracelets and chokers and told me that before I choke on the price, I have to remember that proceeds will go to charity.

For the most part of the evening, I essentially just went around the school grounds, leaping from one table to the next tasting all sorts of food. Around the world in 80 bites you might say. I may sound biased but the best table, food-wise, was the Philippines. If Doha wasn't too strict, I wouldn't be surprised if I saw a whole lechon with a crispy, golden-brown grimace, displayed in front of muslim parents who were always apt to ask whether the food was halal or not.

The entertainment sucked but watchable as high school kids hurl and strut like it's their moment in the eyes of God. I would check on Lee once in a while because he was so excited to see his friends rap and breakdance. I'm more excited to see the band play. But at least both of us agree that the ~~Lebanese~~ Palestinian dance routine was just gay and annoying.

I got bored after two hours of eating and roaming and watching but I also felt high schoolish again. I suddenly felt the urge to do something rebellious. I stormed out of the school and looked for a grocer. Twenty minutes later (I still held that rebel mode after all that time), I was back in high school, smoking in one corner of the field and rocking with the school band.

The band was singing Wonderwall by Oasis. And somewhere in that open field, Lily was counting her bracelet sales, Tuna apologized to Lee and he "sorta" accepted her apology, the maid was discreetly filling her tupperware with Beef Caldereta, Lee's mom was having a blast seeing the little nymph dance around and I was on my fourth stick of Marlboro Lights.

The host of the show introduced the band's last song, and that was when Lee approached me, he caught me smoking and he gave me the WTF look. I just told him I felt like being a kid again.

Lee's mom and the rest of the family left early and Lee and I had to take a taxi. He was shivering. The night turned out to be freezing and he probably thought that his mom was right about wearing a jacket (or a hoodie).

I was about to throw the rest of the cigarettes when Lee stopped me. He said to keep one stick just in case. So I did. We finally got into a taxi and praised its warmth.

That was three days ago. A night when I felt like I was seventeen again (insert Eurythmics song here

Eurythmics - Seven...

) I still have that cigarette stick in my pocket. Just in case. OUT.