Last night I thought it was a joke until I read about it in PDI today.
My brother's friend who ran for Kagawad lost via toss coin. So I've been told last night. Macho, his nickname, tied votes with another candidate. To determine the winner, the poll officer tossed a coin. Macho chose heads. The coin showed tails. So there.
My brother pulled his hair out saying his friend would have won had he gone to the polls to vote. Thus, it has been concluded, every vote does count. Literally and figuratively. Never estimate the power of one.
Noynoy's uncle lost. My high school friend won, even getting the highest number of votes. He dropped by the house while I was still out. My folks received the thanks.
Still figuring out why Blackberry was called a "smartphone."
The first text I received today was from the CEO. The second from the Ex-SO.
Life is a party! Happy Halloween!
Friday, October 29, 2010
NIS 105 Gold Innova
It was raining when I left home at 6:10 this morning. There was no wind, just steady, regular water splatter from above to the roof, from the sky to the ground. Puddles have started to form on the road. Out of Southwoods Exit, the splatter became a downpour. Less than a minute later, all vehicles went high beam. Zero visibility.
Cars on the fast lane went 80kph, including mine. One or two dared go faster and took the other lane. Must be going to the airport or The Asian Hospital to give birth.
I started to entertain the grim: driving through waist-high flood, breaking down, being towed, colliding to another car - under the rain.
Until an illusion of dry asphalt road loomed. I blinked. It was real. It was dry land from Sucat to eternity! Has Moses just come a-visiting?
One doesn't question nature anymore. Acceptance of the odd, embracing the unexpected are the norms now. Freak of nature is passe, almost like the word itself.
Just when I thought everything has reached northeast and settled there, this brown Innova with plate number NIS 105 cut through my path a few meters to where the E-Pass lane separates itself, atop that bridge (that has no lake nor stream under it) before Villamor. My mouth hung open. Unbelievable! What an irresponsible, inconsiderate, reckless driver!
Down the slope, the cars lined up to the E-Pass only booth. An E-Pass would not work again and the owner was cursing everyone about E-Pass incompetence. E-Pass has turned E-Pissed!
The Innova that cut short my tracks was in neutral before me, held in traffic. I was giving his tires dagger looks hoping they would burst. What has he accomplished but my ire and this blog? Great feat indeed! The nincompoop doesn't deserve to use the highway nor drive a car. He is no different from the pedestrians crossing the long C5 Highway, no different from the tricycle drivers plying EDSA. He thought he could hide his caveman breeding behind the wheel in a car so tinted he is either afflicted with skin cancer or so ugly the world would puke seeing his face!
He could have caused me my life in an accident orchestrated by someone who has no regard for others, nor for his life. One wonders what kind of lowlife species he belongs. One no longer bothers to ask what pathetic excuse he has for living.
We don't question nature's whims anymore. I dread the day we no longer bother to get mad at freaks, the day we actually follow the rule of turning the other cheek. At Eastwood, the sun celebrates the morning with a smile and a shine. The coffee at The Bean tells me to remember poetic justice. The Salmon Scramble, the life thereafter.
The driver of NIS 105 must have had a bad schooling, sitting at the last row by the corner near the wastebasket.
Cars on the fast lane went 80kph, including mine. One or two dared go faster and took the other lane. Must be going to the airport or The Asian Hospital to give birth.
I started to entertain the grim: driving through waist-high flood, breaking down, being towed, colliding to another car - under the rain.
Until an illusion of dry asphalt road loomed. I blinked. It was real. It was dry land from Sucat to eternity! Has Moses just come a-visiting?
One doesn't question nature anymore. Acceptance of the odd, embracing the unexpected are the norms now. Freak of nature is passe, almost like the word itself.
Just when I thought everything has reached northeast and settled there, this brown Innova with plate number NIS 105 cut through my path a few meters to where the E-Pass lane separates itself, atop that bridge (that has no lake nor stream under it) before Villamor. My mouth hung open. Unbelievable! What an irresponsible, inconsiderate, reckless driver!
Down the slope, the cars lined up to the E-Pass only booth. An E-Pass would not work again and the owner was cursing everyone about E-Pass incompetence. E-Pass has turned E-Pissed!
The Innova that cut short my tracks was in neutral before me, held in traffic. I was giving his tires dagger looks hoping they would burst. What has he accomplished but my ire and this blog? Great feat indeed! The nincompoop doesn't deserve to use the highway nor drive a car. He is no different from the pedestrians crossing the long C5 Highway, no different from the tricycle drivers plying EDSA. He thought he could hide his caveman breeding behind the wheel in a car so tinted he is either afflicted with skin cancer or so ugly the world would puke seeing his face!
He could have caused me my life in an accident orchestrated by someone who has no regard for others, nor for his life. One wonders what kind of lowlife species he belongs. One no longer bothers to ask what pathetic excuse he has for living.
We don't question nature's whims anymore. I dread the day we no longer bother to get mad at freaks, the day we actually follow the rule of turning the other cheek. At Eastwood, the sun celebrates the morning with a smile and a shine. The coffee at The Bean tells me to remember poetic justice. The Salmon Scramble, the life thereafter.
The driver of NIS 105 must have had a bad schooling, sitting at the last row by the corner near the wastebasket.
Monday Polls
I still have some ink on my fore finger. I thought doing the laundry last night would wash it away.
So I did vote.
Casting my vote for the Barangay Chairman and Members of Barangay Kagawad holds more meaning to me, I realized while reading through the list of candidates stapled on the chair's armrest. Last May, I voted for people I haven't even met, whom I've known only through tri-media; people who haven't watched or played in our summer basketball leagues; people who haven't bought at the same sari-sari stores I have been patronizing for years; people who haven't shared my disgust over bus lines BBL, JAM and Cher making terminals the small alleys before and after our bridge and causing sheeshcake traffic in the morning.
This time around, I was voting for people I know and have shared a laugh or two with. This time, I was voting for people whom I've seen in their best and in their worst. This time, I was voting for people who speak my language and experience what I do, hate what I hate.
When they mess up while in office, I can simply call them or drop by their house and speak my mind. I need not write PDI and bust my bile complaining.
For Barangay Chairman, I voted the father of my high school best friend. He is a retired colonel who has been a combat commander. My friend and I were already in college when I found out that they are Cojuangcos. My friend never told me. So I asked her if they have gone visiting Cory in Malacanang when she was still president. She said they were invited twice. I've been friends with a Cojuangco and I had no idea. One wouldn't suspect it, though. They live a simple life. Her father tending to their backyard, planting trees and what-nots. Her mother manning the sari-sari store while cooking the best kare-kare and caldereta in the whole barangay. She sending me those for lunch or dinner. She spending her afternoons over at our house talking about boys and men.
For Barangay Kagawad, I voted for my former High School mate. He would drop by our house at least twice a month for some favor I asked of him. His mother, the sweetest thing in the world. His father, the former homeowners' association president - a very controversial one. One time, I asked him what he would do if he wins after the support I've been giving him. He said, "Take advantage of anything and anyone. I have your back covered." He was joking. I hope.
The Barangay Elections ought to be one election everyone should be excited about; should be the one election everyone should support and go out for.
So sad, I can see very few bothered.
So I did vote.
Casting my vote for the Barangay Chairman and Members of Barangay Kagawad holds more meaning to me, I realized while reading through the list of candidates stapled on the chair's armrest. Last May, I voted for people I haven't even met, whom I've known only through tri-media; people who haven't watched or played in our summer basketball leagues; people who haven't bought at the same sari-sari stores I have been patronizing for years; people who haven't shared my disgust over bus lines BBL, JAM and Cher making terminals the small alleys before and after our bridge and causing sheeshcake traffic in the morning.
This time around, I was voting for people I know and have shared a laugh or two with. This time, I was voting for people whom I've seen in their best and in their worst. This time, I was voting for people who speak my language and experience what I do, hate what I hate.
When they mess up while in office, I can simply call them or drop by their house and speak my mind. I need not write PDI and bust my bile complaining.
For Barangay Chairman, I voted the father of my high school best friend. He is a retired colonel who has been a combat commander. My friend and I were already in college when I found out that they are Cojuangcos. My friend never told me. So I asked her if they have gone visiting Cory in Malacanang when she was still president. She said they were invited twice. I've been friends with a Cojuangco and I had no idea. One wouldn't suspect it, though. They live a simple life. Her father tending to their backyard, planting trees and what-nots. Her mother manning the sari-sari store while cooking the best kare-kare and caldereta in the whole barangay. She sending me those for lunch or dinner. She spending her afternoons over at our house talking about boys and men.
For Barangay Kagawad, I voted for my former High School mate. He would drop by our house at least twice a month for some favor I asked of him. His mother, the sweetest thing in the world. His father, the former homeowners' association president - a very controversial one. One time, I asked him what he would do if he wins after the support I've been giving him. He said, "Take advantage of anything and anyone. I have your back covered." He was joking. I hope.
The Barangay Elections ought to be one election everyone should be excited about; should be the one election everyone should support and go out for.
So sad, I can see very few bothered.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Lifeline
I attended a meeting with the top execs of one of the biggest BPOs in the country. After all has been said and questioned, the meeting tapered to political discussions. From the obscenely repulsive to the heart-wrenching.
One of the men shared that once he ordered about a hundred Jollibee meals to feed applicants during a training session. This after he saw two female trainees not moving from their seats, all pale, yet trying to concentrate on the lesson at hand. The two girls hadn't had lunch. They only had fare money which they borrowed from their neighbors.
A hungry child will never learn in school. That was what we were told in college. Before feeding the mind, first feed the child.
The man said they usually get applicants like that who fail miserably in the initial training. Too much domestic and financial worries in the head and only air in the stomach.
Here they said they saw the merits of Noynoy's Conditional Cash Transfers. CCTs aren't alms; they're a lifeline. One needs to live first before they are taught how to fish. CCTs are given to families who will ensure that they send their kids to school or if mothers would take themselves and their kids to health centers for proper health education and medical check-ups and assistance.
One of the ladies in the meeting even mentioned that in one province, if all of a family's school-going children earn 100% school attendance in a month, they are given a sack of rice. Is that alms? No. It is a reward for not messing up your life despite society's indifference.
Last year, GMA, through TESDA, gave thousands of scholarships to individuals of employable age but were either jobless or daring enough to improve their lot in life through education. The grants didn't end simply at training vouchers distribution. Scholars were also given allowance daily so they would attend school every day. Remove the controversies and corruption, that was one of the best programs GMA has ever done. I won't take that away from her. Now, about 50% of those who have been trained are employed. I know this because I've seen it. We've even employed some of those former TESDA scholars.
We can give "free" primary and secondary education as mandated by the constitution. But some people are so poor, "free" for them isn't exactly so. Students get 20% fare discounts, but there isn't a free ride. Students sometimes get free soup, but never free lunch. And where would they write their lessons? On banana leaves? What would they use as pen? Uling?
The 37 "lawmakers" and those others who oppose the Conditional Cash Transfers should try living with the poor and start accepting the truth that poverty isn't a choice. That being poor isn't equivalent to being lazy or irresponsible.
One of the men shared that once he ordered about a hundred Jollibee meals to feed applicants during a training session. This after he saw two female trainees not moving from their seats, all pale, yet trying to concentrate on the lesson at hand. The two girls hadn't had lunch. They only had fare money which they borrowed from their neighbors.
A hungry child will never learn in school. That was what we were told in college. Before feeding the mind, first feed the child.
The man said they usually get applicants like that who fail miserably in the initial training. Too much domestic and financial worries in the head and only air in the stomach.
Here they said they saw the merits of Noynoy's Conditional Cash Transfers. CCTs aren't alms; they're a lifeline. One needs to live first before they are taught how to fish. CCTs are given to families who will ensure that they send their kids to school or if mothers would take themselves and their kids to health centers for proper health education and medical check-ups and assistance.
One of the ladies in the meeting even mentioned that in one province, if all of a family's school-going children earn 100% school attendance in a month, they are given a sack of rice. Is that alms? No. It is a reward for not messing up your life despite society's indifference.
Last year, GMA, through TESDA, gave thousands of scholarships to individuals of employable age but were either jobless or daring enough to improve their lot in life through education. The grants didn't end simply at training vouchers distribution. Scholars were also given allowance daily so they would attend school every day. Remove the controversies and corruption, that was one of the best programs GMA has ever done. I won't take that away from her. Now, about 50% of those who have been trained are employed. I know this because I've seen it. We've even employed some of those former TESDA scholars.
We can give "free" primary and secondary education as mandated by the constitution. But some people are so poor, "free" for them isn't exactly so. Students get 20% fare discounts, but there isn't a free ride. Students sometimes get free soup, but never free lunch. And where would they write their lessons? On banana leaves? What would they use as pen? Uling?
The 37 "lawmakers" and those others who oppose the Conditional Cash Transfers should try living with the poor and start accepting the truth that poverty isn't a choice. That being poor isn't equivalent to being lazy or irresponsible.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
I Made It Through Barry Manilow
Looking outside The Coffee Bean facing Eastwood Mall on this rainy, stormy morning, enjoying my vice of sugarfree, milk-filled coffee, I thank God for the lovely morning sans seeing nature's first green of gold.
On my way here, I hit a pothole which I didn't see because floodwaters found themselves once more along C5. It was a hard hit, I thought I would lose a tire. But the impact simply sounded more menacing than the consequence. I guess it was the tire hitting the water, then the hole. To my (shameless) credit, I was careful minding to slow down when I see and sense a puddle. Yes, I did run 110 KPH on a slippery-when-wet-road from Southwoods to Alabang, but that's different. And I snapped out of it when I realize I still want to live to see a hundredth birthday.
Last night wasn't exactly a party. I was in my Alabang office when at midday I received a text from my boss's EA telling me that her boss wanted me to join him in a meeting at 6 PM at Eastwood. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, our Prez knew about Typhoon Juan/Megi. But he also knew that if we didn't go to that meeting we would lose one of this fiscal year's final biggest deals. I could complain to God Almighty but I knew I would still go - flood, typhoon, raging winds, pounding rain, earthquakes - all put together and then some.
The meeting ended half an hour after seven. It was when the rain started to fall big and hard. Please, don't read an undertone into it because that was simply how I saw it was: BIG and HARD. I left the car in Alabang as I don't trust my eyes at night, much more distrust when it rains and not just rain it was last night. I took a cab to take me to EDSA which surprisingly was as clean as a whistle. I got off at EDSA Crossing to take a bus Pacita-bound. The bus took all Creation Time to get to Magallanes interchange, not because there's a jam, but because there were not so many passengers getting on the bus. I guess people knew better than to stay late on the street on a day/night like that. That was what Ondoy had done to us urban and sub-urban dwellers of the capital and the Greater Manila Area.
The bus crawled its way to Ayala to get a busload. Just past Skyway, the bus started to smell of burnt clutch, chugging its slow descent to SLEX. More than the stinky smell of the clutch, the smell of trouble bothered the faint of hearts. Near 19th East, the bus gave up trying and stopped. The bus broke down in the middle of South Luzon Expressway on a rainy, stormy night. Cut to the chase, I arrived home a quarter after 10.
Everyone was still awake, waiting for me, even the nephews (2 and 4 year-olds). I told them about the bus. I was served dinner. Everyone else took second dinner. After supper, my 2-year-old nephew went up to my room and wouldn't stop the melodious wail of Ta-keel, Tita! Tita, Ta-keel! until I turn Youtube on for some Lightning Mcqueen videos. The other nephew came to have a party. It was almost midnight when we finished.
I made it through the rain and the storm and the bus that broke down unceremoniously along the highway. And I was neither pissed nor stressed. I've just learned to let go of the things I cannot control. To see the lighter side of the dark. To listen to the distant silence beyond all the noise.
Life is a Barry Manilow. You wouldn't admit to being a fan, but sure as hell you love his melody and sung a lot of his songs in secret. Barry Manilow sucks with his botox and all. But life, too, sucks. Yet it is a good life with all the troubles too harsh it makes you cry. Far too many sometimes, you cannot help but laugh.
On my way here, I hit a pothole which I didn't see because floodwaters found themselves once more along C5. It was a hard hit, I thought I would lose a tire. But the impact simply sounded more menacing than the consequence. I guess it was the tire hitting the water, then the hole. To my (shameless) credit, I was careful minding to slow down when I see and sense a puddle. Yes, I did run 110 KPH on a slippery-when-wet-road from Southwoods to Alabang, but that's different. And I snapped out of it when I realize I still want to live to see a hundredth birthday.
Last night wasn't exactly a party. I was in my Alabang office when at midday I received a text from my boss's EA telling me that her boss wanted me to join him in a meeting at 6 PM at Eastwood. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, our Prez knew about Typhoon Juan/Megi. But he also knew that if we didn't go to that meeting we would lose one of this fiscal year's final biggest deals. I could complain to God Almighty but I knew I would still go - flood, typhoon, raging winds, pounding rain, earthquakes - all put together and then some.
The meeting ended half an hour after seven. It was when the rain started to fall big and hard. Please, don't read an undertone into it because that was simply how I saw it was: BIG and HARD. I left the car in Alabang as I don't trust my eyes at night, much more distrust when it rains and not just rain it was last night. I took a cab to take me to EDSA which surprisingly was as clean as a whistle. I got off at EDSA Crossing to take a bus Pacita-bound. The bus took all Creation Time to get to Magallanes interchange, not because there's a jam, but because there were not so many passengers getting on the bus. I guess people knew better than to stay late on the street on a day/night like that. That was what Ondoy had done to us urban and sub-urban dwellers of the capital and the Greater Manila Area.
The bus crawled its way to Ayala to get a busload. Just past Skyway, the bus started to smell of burnt clutch, chugging its slow descent to SLEX. More than the stinky smell of the clutch, the smell of trouble bothered the faint of hearts. Near 19th East, the bus gave up trying and stopped. The bus broke down in the middle of South Luzon Expressway on a rainy, stormy night. Cut to the chase, I arrived home a quarter after 10.
Everyone was still awake, waiting for me, even the nephews (2 and 4 year-olds). I told them about the bus. I was served dinner. Everyone else took second dinner. After supper, my 2-year-old nephew went up to my room and wouldn't stop the melodious wail of Ta-keel, Tita! Tita, Ta-keel! until I turn Youtube on for some Lightning Mcqueen videos. The other nephew came to have a party. It was almost midnight when we finished.
I made it through the rain and the storm and the bus that broke down unceremoniously along the highway. And I was neither pissed nor stressed. I've just learned to let go of the things I cannot control. To see the lighter side of the dark. To listen to the distant silence beyond all the noise.
Life is a Barry Manilow. You wouldn't admit to being a fan, but sure as hell you love his melody and sung a lot of his songs in secret. Barry Manilow sucks with his botox and all. But life, too, sucks. Yet it is a good life with all the troubles too harsh it makes you cry. Far too many sometimes, you cannot help but laugh.
Oh, Dear!
I bought the Dear John DVD lunch time of Friday. Missed it in the theaters. Sigh. So I had our technical guy set up the LCD projector and the subwoofer and attach them to my laptop at the office. The movie was to be projected on the wall opposite the carpeted floor with stacks and stacks of pillows. Someone sent over a tall latte decaf, a pet bottle of orange juice, a slice of banana cake and some chips. I love my officemates taking care of my me-time.
When everything was perfect, I took out a blanket from the cabinet. (Yes, I keep a blanket in my office. When it gets too cold, I wrap myself in it - corporate attire and all.) It was 6 PM. I turned off the lights and bliss!
Watching John (Channing Tatum), I swore I would never date a mortal. Why can't reality produce hot, good looking men who love a woman the way she wants it? Why does it only happen in the movies - a handsome, sexy, perfectly toned man writing love letters; the same man longing to receive love letters, staring at the moon thinking of the only woman he loves, giving up everything for love; a man not led into temptation. And just when you think all is over, you find him and the girl meeting in a cafe. Of course, with much thanks to the universe for conspiring to set the fate.
Yeah, Yeah. That's why it is called a "movie." It moves you, plucks you out of your world into a place you'll never be, but only for about a hundred minutes.
Never mind some of Channing's awkward acting moments. You look at him and there is no need to go beyond the surface. One look at him and you can forgive all flaws in every tragic hero.
And that kissing in the rain! Why don't real people get caught in the rain with someone they want to kiss? Kissing in the rain defies human logic. Human instinct demands that we run for cover to not get wet.
Soldiers in combat are not supposed to be so runway gorgeous. John has bullets in his body, and blood oozes from the wounds and he still manages to look as if he's just come from a meet at Hugo Boss. What is that?
An escape. That's what the movie has given me. Thank you very much!
When everything was perfect, I took out a blanket from the cabinet. (Yes, I keep a blanket in my office. When it gets too cold, I wrap myself in it - corporate attire and all.) It was 6 PM. I turned off the lights and bliss!
Watching John (Channing Tatum), I swore I would never date a mortal. Why can't reality produce hot, good looking men who love a woman the way she wants it? Why does it only happen in the movies - a handsome, sexy, perfectly toned man writing love letters; the same man longing to receive love letters, staring at the moon thinking of the only woman he loves, giving up everything for love; a man not led into temptation. And just when you think all is over, you find him and the girl meeting in a cafe. Of course, with much thanks to the universe for conspiring to set the fate.
Yeah, Yeah. That's why it is called a "movie." It moves you, plucks you out of your world into a place you'll never be, but only for about a hundred minutes.
Never mind some of Channing's awkward acting moments. You look at him and there is no need to go beyond the surface. One look at him and you can forgive all flaws in every tragic hero.
And that kissing in the rain! Why don't real people get caught in the rain with someone they want to kiss? Kissing in the rain defies human logic. Human instinct demands that we run for cover to not get wet.
Soldiers in combat are not supposed to be so runway gorgeous. John has bullets in his body, and blood oozes from the wounds and he still manages to look as if he's just come from a meet at Hugo Boss. What is that?
An escape. That's what the movie has given me. Thank you very much!
Friday, October 15, 2010
My Kind of School
One YT vid that's going around FB is Prof. Monsod's "last lecture" on UP's "honor and excellence" after bits of it have been featured on TV the other night.
There are a lot of motherhood statements about UP and its students and alumni - "intellectual elite," "creme de la creme," having graduated from UP a "stature," etc, etc. I'm not going to bash, not going to roll my eyes, not going to complain. It is one opinion parading as universal truth. Hey! This is a free country!
Be that as it may, I agree when she said that for one to help the country, one has to be in the country.
Now, never mind those who study to be able to work overseas. Who have never liked the smell of garlic, who have never been tidy at home, and yet take up Hotel and Restaurant Management. Who have always hated the smell and sight of blood, yet take up nursing. Who have never cared for an ailing dog and yet take up caregiving. Who have never been on board a ship and yet take up maritime courses. Just how many cooks does this country need? How many nurses? seamen? caregivers? waiters? Never mind those.
Mind only the good teachers who leave. The doctors. The engineers. The architects. The financial analysts. The farmers. The creative artists. They are the ones we want to stay.
Not very many OFWs were happy about Monsod's tirade. Who would be, where at one point you are treated as a hero, at another you are called a traitor.
We need the OFW remittances to buy oil. We need their dollars to pay our debts. But we also need them here to take care of their children, to personally clean their toilet, to personally clean their oven.
Aside from Presidents, Senators and Senate Presidents, Speakers of the House, and Chief Justices, UP also produced Nur Misuari and Jose Maria Sison.
Saavedra Saway Elementary School and the "University of Life", on the other hand, produced Manny Pacquiao. Now, those are my kinds of school.
There are a lot of motherhood statements about UP and its students and alumni - "intellectual elite," "creme de la creme," having graduated from UP a "stature," etc, etc. I'm not going to bash, not going to roll my eyes, not going to complain. It is one opinion parading as universal truth. Hey! This is a free country!
Be that as it may, I agree when she said that for one to help the country, one has to be in the country.
Now, never mind those who study to be able to work overseas. Who have never liked the smell of garlic, who have never been tidy at home, and yet take up Hotel and Restaurant Management. Who have always hated the smell and sight of blood, yet take up nursing. Who have never cared for an ailing dog and yet take up caregiving. Who have never been on board a ship and yet take up maritime courses. Just how many cooks does this country need? How many nurses? seamen? caregivers? waiters? Never mind those.
Mind only the good teachers who leave. The doctors. The engineers. The architects. The financial analysts. The farmers. The creative artists. They are the ones we want to stay.
Not very many OFWs were happy about Monsod's tirade. Who would be, where at one point you are treated as a hero, at another you are called a traitor.
We need the OFW remittances to buy oil. We need their dollars to pay our debts. But we also need them here to take care of their children, to personally clean their toilet, to personally clean their oven.
Aside from Presidents, Senators and Senate Presidents, Speakers of the House, and Chief Justices, UP also produced Nur Misuari and Jose Maria Sison.
Saavedra Saway Elementary School and the "University of Life", on the other hand, produced Manny Pacquiao. Now, those are my kinds of school.
Heck, Cesarie, K+12 and I...
So many goings on outside my control radius. What to say? What to say?
The 2010 Nobel Prize Awardee for Chemistry lives in a rented bungalow in a "crowded neighborhood" in Quezon City, with his Filipino wife of 31 years. Mr. Richard Heck has chosen to stay/retire permanently in the Philippines because this is a "nice place to live" where the weather is good.
One of the world's most important scientists lives among us, not inside the walled kingdoms of Forbes Park, Ayala Alabang, or Acropolis. Were they also Ondoy-ed or made witness to the August 23 nightmare? And yet. And yet, this place is still a "nice place to live."
And what do you think of the four students from UP Manila who thought it was their right to disrupt and shout their protests in a "townhall" meeting with the President and attended by representatives of various sectors of society? Well, I'm taking note of the name of the girl who led it - Cesarie Ann Santos. I will not hire her if she dares come knocking for a job where I work. That as long as 7-11 bananas are yellow.
The staple street nuisance who brandishes placards and burns effigies, which craftmanship has improved over the years, a sign that effigy-making has become a booming business. Thanks to Gabriela, Anak Bayan, Bayan Muna, Sanlakas and Partido ng Manggagawa, etc., etc.
On the additional 2 years in primary and secondary schools. Not so appealing to me. So what if we are one of the only three countries in the world which implement 10 years in pre-college education. I spent 6 years in a provincial public elementary school (I didn't attend a KP school.) and 4 years in a Catholic high school. And I'm not so bad.
We had fewer subjects in grade school and high school. I was FB-tagged in several grade school class pictures and noticeably we were just 20 or so students in the class. Tagged high school class pics show that the largest class size I was in was 35. We also had pretty good professional teachers. Classmates who couldn't make the cut were really made to repeat a year. And a year and another year. This thing about additional two years must be re-thought and deliberated on further.
Within my radius are problems and wonders. You'd think the gods can't quite decide what to make me feel.
The 2010 Nobel Prize Awardee for Chemistry lives in a rented bungalow in a "crowded neighborhood" in Quezon City, with his Filipino wife of 31 years. Mr. Richard Heck has chosen to stay/retire permanently in the Philippines because this is a "nice place to live" where the weather is good.
One of the world's most important scientists lives among us, not inside the walled kingdoms of Forbes Park, Ayala Alabang, or Acropolis. Were they also Ondoy-ed or made witness to the August 23 nightmare? And yet. And yet, this place is still a "nice place to live."
And what do you think of the four students from UP Manila who thought it was their right to disrupt and shout their protests in a "townhall" meeting with the President and attended by representatives of various sectors of society? Well, I'm taking note of the name of the girl who led it - Cesarie Ann Santos. I will not hire her if she dares come knocking for a job where I work. That as long as 7-11 bananas are yellow.
The staple street nuisance who brandishes placards and burns effigies, which craftmanship has improved over the years, a sign that effigy-making has become a booming business. Thanks to Gabriela, Anak Bayan, Bayan Muna, Sanlakas and Partido ng Manggagawa, etc., etc.
On the additional 2 years in primary and secondary schools. Not so appealing to me. So what if we are one of the only three countries in the world which implement 10 years in pre-college education. I spent 6 years in a provincial public elementary school (I didn't attend a KP school.) and 4 years in a Catholic high school. And I'm not so bad.
We had fewer subjects in grade school and high school. I was FB-tagged in several grade school class pictures and noticeably we were just 20 or so students in the class. Tagged high school class pics show that the largest class size I was in was 35. We also had pretty good professional teachers. Classmates who couldn't make the cut were really made to repeat a year. And a year and another year. This thing about additional two years must be re-thought and deliberated on further.
Within my radius are problems and wonders. You'd think the gods can't quite decide what to make me feel.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Sonnet and Learning How to Bike
I know it is hard to write a sonnet:
It is like learning how to ride a bike;
You can crack your skull despite the helmet,
Skin your knees and sprain your foot aside.
Your friend or father tells you to balance,
You know the word, the spelling and meaning,
But do it with the bike proves sans a chance,
You call the bike the world's stupidest thing!
And say what quatrain, couplet, iambic?
'Tis English, why three times of four plus two?
Is it wrong of me to ask some logic
About rhyme scheme EY BEE EY BEE BO BOO?
If Will Shakespeare made it look so easy,
Don't blame the bard, been dead for centuries.
It is like learning how to ride a bike;
You can crack your skull despite the helmet,
Skin your knees and sprain your foot aside.
Your friend or father tells you to balance,
You know the word, the spelling and meaning,
But do it with the bike proves sans a chance,
You call the bike the world's stupidest thing!
And say what quatrain, couplet, iambic?
'Tis English, why three times of four plus two?
Is it wrong of me to ask some logic
About rhyme scheme EY BEE EY BEE BO BOO?
If Will Shakespeare made it look so easy,
Don't blame the bard, been dead for centuries.
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