Hik!

I was a lousy drunk. And please take note of the past tense.

I turned the world of those who got into my way, upside down. I forgot about decorum, silent hours, and tomorrow's assignments. I was loud, mischievous, and unpredictable. Worst...and the one that defined my lousiness... is the karate chop that landed on someone's neck, back, or face. I bite, too. Alcohol not only loosened my joints, it turned them into explorers. They found body parts (not mine) and execute something that causes "araguy!". The little sanity left on me said, "peace," but the limbs were up for war.

I didn't mean any harm, but "playfulness" without sobriety is a disaster. It's a warning sign to my drinking buddies, friends who cared enough to pick me up, or those who cared enough to stay with me until I fell asleep and released the world from my grip.

Despite all that, everything was fun - drunk or post-drunk. I had little sense of how it affects people. Or I could be in denial. After all, what you don't know doesn't hurt you. I did the drinking for fun. I most especially invoke the 'spirit' when celebrating or when plain happy about my day.

I was not an alcoholic - I'm too broke to feed the vice. I didn't drink every day, too. Nor too often to ruin my liver. But quantity does not make a lousy drunk. It was the behavior after having too much 'bad spirit' inside your system.

Of course, I also drink when angry or frustrated - emotions that always come by from being young, impressionable, and foolish.

I didn't regret drinking and getting drunk. I'm not proud of it either. When friends remind me of it...I wonder how they must have took it at that time. I wonder, too, how I could have allowed myself to get that far. Maybe predestined to love the bottle. Maybe I was plain nuts. Maybe too proud to say I'm hurting. Too pretentious to admit I'm confused. Too defensive to say I'm scared about my feelings, my future, and my place under the sun. Maybe it's all about teenage drama and the downside of PMS.

Perhaps, I was too secured with friends' not turning their backs on me. Maybe I gloated being spoiled by the same people I adversely affect when I was a mess. Maybe, I misconstrue their patience.

I admire their staying power. I'm sorry for the lack of self-control.

But thankfully, the lousy drunk phase is over. Guess, I've satisfied the curiosity. And somehow found another means for self-expression. It's over. Noisily I indulged in it; silently I withdrew. It's a memory that embarrasses me then, but amuses me now. It's part of my past. It's a lesson learned. It was me.

PUV scenes

Like millions of pinoys, my mobility depended much on public transport. I've been riding PUVs since baptismal, and perhaps, months before that. Riding with strangers is not something that I really look forward to. At times, it's ok. Sometimes, superbly irritating. Feeling helpless in some PUV scenes, I resorted to compile some unforgettable and unforgivable practices. In all these practices, I conclude that many people lack the sense of propriety and it's one thing I've to contend with as the downside of commuting.

10 worst PUV scenes (smell and sound)

1. Nosepicking. And please don’t tick off that hideous (which is supposed to be your private affair) black slimy thing to the upholstered seats and door handle.

2. Applying make-up, cologne, and lotion. Why do some passengers think PUVs can be their dressing room?

3. Combing that unkempt wet hair. Leave your crowning (non)glory to the dryers if you can’t comb them good before leaving your place.

4. In search of lice and god knows what. I was seated beside a lady who’s doing a search and execute operation in her daughter’s head. I half expect her to swallow the lice, like monkeys do.

5. BO. One word: deodorant!

6. Shawarma (and other smelly food). I love shawarma but I have not gotten to a point of eating them inside the PUV and overpower the airconditioner with smells of roasted beef and garlic.

7. Too loud mouths. Some people are dead tired after a day’s work…shut up and let them take a quiet ride back home.

8. Snore (huragok to the highest level). I don’t blame you, especially if you’re beside Mr./Ms. BO. You’d lose consciousness or blame the traffic for the slowmo trip.

9. Sweaty arms. With constricted space, you literally rub elbows with strangers. You can take the rubbing thing but not the transfer of bodily fluids.

10. Too kapalmuks to care. Some passengers don’t mind if you fall to the floor or only ¼ of your butt hits the seat. Clueless or plain insensitive, they spread their behind like carpets. And it doesn't make for a good ride (and a seatmate).

NuYear

The rain took care of the rubbish of the New Year. It was a sight...torn pieces of paper and firecracker left-overs scattered in our street. It rained on Jan. 1, providential...it wiped out the traces of the previous night's depleted 'armory' of sparklers, pwitis, and what have you.

New year isn't only about the change of 7 to 8. It's about new life, too. If you live your life the same way as you lived it before, then the passage of time is merely mechanical.

Love is one of the best gifts. It heals, too. It's somethng I wouldn't tired giving, receiving, and nurturing for the new year and always! :-)

OverJoyyed

Courtesy of Joy during my recent visit to the Metro. She's a friend from college who befriended my sister...they are officemates. Small world, huh.

Carnival

The grand carousel that I didn't ride. Thinking I'd give my space to kids who want to ride the horsie-horsie. With my sister and our friend, Joy...we went to the carnival. We bought the ride-all-you-can tickets and realized it's a mistake after seeing people screamed while being flipped and tossed in wild rides.

It drained our courage...except for the ferris wheel. That one looked familiar. I got to ride that back in grade school...and back in our little town in far South. Only this time, the ferris wheel is a mammoth machine towering near the boulevard. Off we rode and screamed at every creak and squeck as the machine turned up then down. Up, down. Like our hearts, too. Up, down.

Thankfully, we get used to it after a cycle. We were with a Korean couple who has been living in Pinas for 7 years already. The woman was clutching her husband and murmuring something, I didn't understand it...but I'm sure...the rough translation would read, "Honey, I'm scared!".

The view on top of the ferris wheel. My sister and I rode the roller-coaster, too. And until then I realized the meaning of the phrase, "life is a roller coaster ride." In carnivals, in the name of fun and excitement, people (including us) entrust their lives to the integrity of contraptions, nuts, and bolts. Somehow, we got to trust something.

Coffee girls

Once, sipping coffee at a coffee shop, I noticed two girls asking money from diners. They ate the left-overs...with so much gusto, they could model for langhap sarap. I called one of them, the bigger one. I asked where she's from. In Quiapo, she said. They often go to the mall to ask for pamasko. Then I asked for her name, I forgot the name. But not her apelyido. KUTO. She's little Ms. Kuto.

Speaking of kuto, mothers used this kuto tale to scare young ones. If you have so many kuto, they'll fly you and drop you from the air. I got scared of that when I was little. It's an urban (rural) legend that was told so convincingly. But aside from the scare, I thought, it's tasteless and so incredibly base to be flown away by lice. Goodness....

"Dont' disturb"

Everytime "don't disturb," is the customized message in someone's chat channel, I can't help to smirk at that incredulous post. It's actually a misuse of technology and a bloated sense of self-importance. Why make yourself available in chatrooms and say, "don't disturb?" Just get out of the cyber world and save on eletricity. A bloated sense of self-importance...you logged in only to tell the world you have better things to do than returning a hello. I don't know...

Sand sittin’…star gazin’

I could have viewed the photos for the nth times, but since good memories aren’t confined to photos alone, I consider my sunburn as another reminder of the good time that was. No stones left unturned and no sand left un-stirred as warm bodies get warmer under the summer sun. Muscles were flexed while rowing (trying hard) along the sandy coast safeguarded by rocks that looked scary with their pointed edges. I could have viewed the photos once more, and more, and more. But then again, good memories aren’t a monopoly of a pause, smile, click, before my Canon.

Sore muscles, obviously overstretched from the occasional swimming and boating and walking, are reminders of how well I ate, drank (coke, usually), and became merry. With the star-studded night and pants wet from sitting on the sand, I couldn’t ask for more except that good times don’t last. Not forever. But anyhow, I learned about sea creatures (that ended up in the dinner table) and lamented about dead corals. I learned to make the sea my playground…albeit, short-lived. I learned about people. I learned about vignettes of life in that coastal town that gave me good memories to remember.

Juan was here

With tours, I learned that what competes with amazing artifacts is not another amazing artifact. It's the photo ops, the never ending poses and self-choreographed blocking. Tourists, remained simply like that, tourists. Not learners, not heritage enthusiasts. Not even amateur art critics nor folk hero supporters. Not even just a curious group eager to know what makes the collective past significant. What makes stories interesting, what makes people unique.

Seemingly most tours end up as purveyors of picture-taking bunch of warm bloods competing for space in any corner conceivable. Objectives 1,2 and 3 - immortalize a face no matter how skewed, how under exposed, how badly composed the photo will end up to be. I pity museums. Seemingly, they no longer become an avenue for historical interest, for knowledge acquisition, for wanting to know cultural identities. They turned out to be just another backdrop, another evidence for "Juan was here."