1. Laptop – Hay. I’ve wanted to have a laptop for like forever. I hope naa koy enough money pang-down man lang para makautang ko. LOL.

2. More USBs – 5 gigs na lang ang space sa akong USB. I hope naa koy laing usb para sa akong files. Kay di na gyud maigo.

3. Nikon D40 – Nindot gyud ang Nikon D40. or D60. or D80. Basta kana. Pero ok ra man pud ang akong camera karon. Satisfied man sad ko. Hehehe.

4. New Motorbike wheels with solid steel spokes – Lata na kaayo akong ligid. Mas safe pud kung new wheels with steel spokes. At least ang mga passengers kay safe pud ba. Sosyal ang dating.

5. A Flickr Pro account – Aw, okay na diay ni. Kay gihatagan ko. For free ha! Yahoo!

6. Domain name for MCPB – Nindot kung mahimo nang www.mycebuphotoblog.com ang MCPB. Para nindot na pud ang themes ug mas easy to find sa search and ang site dali ma navigate. Tiguman lang gihapon ko ni. Hehehe. Sige lang, Hapit na bitaw Christmas 2010 puhon.

Drayb sa ko balik murag daghan gahuwat ug habal-habal sa may JY… Babay!

November 8, 2008

I opened my eyes and saw that it was already 10:56 am. I could hear a noisy argument downstairs. As usual, my two uncles were having a senseless debate about politics. Uncle Lazaro and Uncle Henry have always been exchanging vocal blows since time immemorial and I was certain that it was just ‘one of those’ times. Suddenly, the people downstairs began shouting and calling for ‘Help’. The debate has turned into a scuffle.

I raced downstairs and looked through the window. From where I stood, I could clearly see how Uncle Lazaro pounced on Uncle Henry. He was giving it his all. It’s as though he released the entire family’s long-time animosity for Uncle Henry through his deadly punches.

My cousin’s policeman husband arrived and he was able to separate the two angry men. They both wanted to finish each other off. My grandmother was wailing but the two men continued yapping. My other uncles were able to separate the two angry men.

Uncle Henry’s mouth was bloody. Uncle Lazaro’s legs were bloody.

Suddenly, the argument became heated once again and the two men seemed like they were ready to fight once more.

Before they could hurt each other some more, however, Uncle Lazaro slumped to the ground.

In less than ten minutes, Uncle Lazaro was dead.

My other uncles took him to the nearest hospital. They thought that he simply passed out. We later learned, however, that he died around that time when he lost consciousness. Cardiac arrest.

It’s very surreal how life can end so suddenly.

Sumilon Trip Everything was set. After months of planning (and saving LOL), me and my friends were finally going to Sumilon. We were all very excited.

At around 8:00 pm, Saturday, me and my mom went out on my motorbike to buy some chips and bottled water for my Sumilon trip. We drove down Salinas Drive and turned right on Archbishop Reyes. As we approached the Grand Convention Center, I saw a car with a flashing left turn signal on. So we reduced our speed from 40 and eventually stopped a few meters away from the vehicle.

The Accident We were waiting for the car to turn left when something suddenly bumped the motorbike from behind. I heard a loud smashing sound as I was thrown forward. When I got up, I immediately looked for my mom. She was thrown off the bike because of the impact. I was relieved when I saw that she was all right. Except for some scratches on her legs and some bruises on her arms and shoulders, she was okay. My legs were numb and I found out that I had some bruises and bumps on my right shin and a huge nasty burn behind my left leg.

The driver of the cab got down and checked if we were okay. He said that he was really sorry and he readily said that it was his fault. He offered to call CITOM to report the incident. He also called his boss to tell him what had happened. The driver of the car which turned left came to us to tell us that he was ready to testify that it wasn’t our fault should the investigation require some eye witnesses.

When the CITOM arrived, there were enough people to launch another people power at the ‘crime scene’. LOL. The police officer, who came with the traffic group, gave us the SOP. We have to head straight to the CCMC (Cebu City Medical Center) and have ourselves x-rayed and our wounds cleaned.

Our licenses and registrations were confiscated and the officers told us to proceed to the CITOM office. We went home to inform my dad about what happened.

CITOM Office Me and my parents went to the CITOM office around 9:30 in the evening. We waited for about an hour and a half. The cab driver arrived at around 11:00. While we were waiting, another case was being settled at the investigation desk. Based on what I heard, the man who reported the incident was the owner of a motorbike. His friend, a neighbor, borrowed his bike to buy something nearby. Later in the evening, he got a call about an accident. It turned out that his neighbor drove all the way to Inayawan (fiesta). The dude was so drunk that he drove straight to a pole on his way home. He was driving without license, too. He was taken to the CCMC because his face was riddled with bruises.

The owner of the bike was understandably furious. He asked the investigating officer to detain the drunk driver. The driver pleaded but the owner said that it was the best thing to do. He wanted to teach him a lesson. The investigating officer escorted the driver to the cell. While the officer was unlocking the cell, the drunk driver raced out the door, jumped down the stairs and sped past the security guard. The investigating officer ran after him. As well as the owner of the bike, three guys who accompanied the owner of the bike, my dad, me, and my mom. LOL. The driver was about to bolt out of the gates when the officer gave two warning shots. The dude dropped to the ground and asked to be released. The investigating officer was so angry and the dude went straight to the cell.

The officer was still fuming when he entertained us. He had to take a lozenge to stop his cough. LOL. When he was ready, he started asking the basic questions. Then, he asked us about our agreement. The cab driver will shoulder all CCMC expenses and the cab operator will pay for the busted taillights, mud guards, etc. The officer asked us if we wanted the driver’s license returned. My dad, who was once a cab driver, said that it was okay so that he could go back to work.

CCMC We came out of the CITOM office half past midnight. We went straight to the emergency room of the Cebu City Medical Center. One nurse was like the ‘receiving staff’ and she told us to complete a very small form. She then instructed us to take it to the Information Desk. There, the chatty man behind the counter told us about the rate of deaths at the hospital involving motorcycles. He joked about us getting a car instead. We just laughed. LOL.

We returned to the nurse and she asked questions about the people that needed medical attention. One of the first questions that she asked me was the place where the accident happened. She also asked for the license of the cab driver since it was a vehicular accident. She then told us to wait for our turn. We waited in a small corner.

I observed that there was only one doctor, and three nurses on duty. Including the ‘receiving staff’ nurse. It was a Saturday. I also observed that the guard helped complete the forms for those who couldn’t do it.

Five beds laid directly in front of the nurses’ desk where bloodied, possibly near-dead men fought for their lives. Just a few steps from the ‘emergency room’ were some beds with young kids. A minute later, an ERUF team wheeled in a drunk man who also drove a motorbike. His face was badly damaged and there was blood all over him. The man was conscious though and he made an effort to stand up. The nurses had to tell him to lie down. The man who cleaned his hand and arms so that the nurses could stick the IV in was obviously a janitor. He was wearing a ‘mims’ uniform. I think mims is a general services agency.

Next to that man’s bed was the bed of another man. I’m not sure what happened to him but he was only wearing his undies. His undies were almost dark red because of blood. At the far end of the line was a small steel table. Aparently, that was like the operating table where patients that require ’stitching’ are placed. One man was lying there because of his bleeding chin. Standing in line next to me is a driver from Barangay Guba. He went to the hospital with his pregnant wife. The man’s head was filled with ‘holes’ and his hair was sticky with blood.

I noticed that the patients were all carrying plastic bags. Inside the bags were syringes, a pack of tide, and some medicine. I’m not sure what they need a pack of detergent for. When we were called, the doctor gave us a list of things to buy. For me, a 3cc syringe and two anti-tetanus shots. For my mom, an ointment for her bruises. The doctor also told me that shot #2 costs 800 pesos and shot #1 costs 99. Priority is shot #1. But I have to return the next day for shot #200. I remembered that the cab driver only had 500 pesos with him. So I knew that we would have to spend our own money. I used my Sumilon ‘baon’ and we were able to buy everything on the list. I guess I’m just not meant to go to Sumilon, yet. Maybe the money that I set aside for the trip was really for that accident. LOL.

When we returned to the emergency room, a young guy came in with his crying girlfriend. The man’s back was bleeding (stab wound most probably) and he was only covering it with a small piece of rolled up cloth. The guys who escorted him all looked furious. They talked about revenge. Later, two men in handcuffs were escorted by police officers into the emergency room. While waiting for my turn, a man who was about to be ’stitched’ because of a big wound on his forehead walked out of the emergency room. The nurses told him to come back. I guess he couldn’t ’take the pain’. The nurses tried to convince him but he said that he was willing to sign a waiver. Indeed, he signed the waiver while his fuming wife looked on. She said that she already spent 320 pesos for the necessary ‘operating stuff’ and the packs were already opened so they could not be returned.

Finally, it was my turn. The nurse gave me two shots – one for each shoulder. It was over.

We left the emergency room at around 3 am. As we were leaving, the owner of the cab called and promised to settle everything the next day. True enough, he met my parents this morning and he paid for the new parts as well as the hospital bills.

Though we’re still in pain, we’re glad that the driver and his boss were very responsible. So thank you, guys. And thank God!

Malu Fernandez, that woman who rocked the nation with her ‘jovial’ remarks about economy-seats-being-too-small-for-+++size-people and Pinoy OFWs who wear too much local sprays, is back! This time, she’s mad. Nope, not ‘angry’ mad. She’s ‘WWIII’ mad. And this time, she chose a new demographic. She got tired of our good ole OFWs. This time, she opted for the more ‘interactive bunch’. Us. Bloggers.

In her new article ‘The Problem With Blogging’, MF decries the act of hiding behind a username. She is challenging everyone to become badasses and face her. In the flesh. She condemns those who bask in the joys of anonymity in cyberspace. She wants real faces. Hardhitting views and commentaries with real unphotoshopped faces. She wants brave souls. And nasty, spiteful, sharp comments with real faces.

In her article, MF specifically talked about a ‘blogger of Spanish descent but with an Indio face’. Now, I understand why she wants faces. Coz she wants to leave nasty, spiteful, and sharp comments, too. She doesn’t want it one-way. She wants to give what she gets.

MF loves Perez Hilton [he's prolly her idol] and all other ‘famous’ bloggers. I bet she had this strong urge to name-drop but thought against it after a few sticks because she figured that those ‘famous’ bloggers would most likely deny ever rubbing elbows with her.

She hates all other bloggers. She hates them because they’re ‘lonely people‘ who need to get out of their comfort zones. But hold your horses, people. She loves people who live in ‘bloody Siberia‘ [Siberians, attack!!!!!!!!!!] and those in gulags.  [Btw MF, it'd be incorrect to say 'Gulag prison' because a gulag IS a prison]. Hehehe. I bet you’ve tried blogging from inside a bamboo gulag? LOL

People, Malu wants your faces. Now!

People!

She. Wants. You!

[read her Manila Standard article here]
- WTF is wrong with Manila Standard?

Masil and I entered the theater with so much good vibes. We were certain that 10,000 BC was going to be the best movie of the year! I mean, the trailer was awesome and the posters were brilliant.

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The movie started with a narration from an old man with a very gloomy voice. Somehow, I thought that it was a bad sign. But I readily dismissed it. I mean, the movie’s from the makers of ID4. I loved that crap.

Anyways, so there’s this one village on top of the mountain where people who look really really good live with people who look really really bad. They all have dreads and they speak funny English [They killed mother! We rest here!]. We see a young boy who falls in love with a girl with blue eyes. He swears true love to her. With the north star as his witness. The movie doesn’t specify how humans 10,000 years ago express their emotions. But apparently, they have perfected the art of hugging and kissing the forehead. 

Enter the village’s Old Mother – a decrepit fashion guru who lacks charisma and character. She lives in this bone house with the rest of the villagers who are lazy enough to build their own houses. D’Leh – our movie’s hero – doesn’t even have a house. Anyways, Old Mother lives a very boring existence by being able to predict the future and get nosebleed just by daydreaming. She predicts that a four-legged demon would soon ravage the village and take her people to a very sad place Apocalypto style.

The villagers decide to forget about her predictions for a while and focus their attention on hunting. They decide to drive a bunch of mammoths [which look eekily like that big guy in Ice Age] into a trap. Our sissy hero accidentally kills one mammoth when his spear gets stuck in a rock and the mammoth literally dived into the cute little stick to die.

As a result, hero gets the white spear – a totally useless spear which is white. This same spear has a special rib-like casing which looks really awesome but is still very useless.

Enter the four-legged demons. They’re humans – with freaky hair - ON HORSES! Woohoo! What a let down! Anyways, maybe the juicy bits are yet to come.

The demons ravage the village, kill ONE mother – reason enough for his son to feel heroic – take 5 or seven men a la Apocalypto, and – TAHDAH – kidnap our hero’s blue-eyed love. Our hero is conveniently sleeping a few hundred meters away from the village wearing only animal skin even when it’s freaking snowing during the attacks.

<Apocalypto: Kidnapped members of Jaguar Paw’s tribe>

Hero vows to get his ‘people’ back, including his one true love, no matter what.

With hero’s father’s BFF [the dude was just prolly bored with village life], and the village’s ‘toughest hunter’… NOT!, hero begins his quest. Add another boy [that boy with the dead mother] to the list, so there’s four of them.

<LOTR 2: The fellowship travelling>

Just like the fellowship, they travel on top of mountains and in waist-deep snow. And thanks to our very smart blue-eyed girl who left pieces of her bracelet just like cute little Hansel and Gretel so that our hero can say ‘This is from her bracelet! She’s alive!, hero and his small group finally get a glimpse of the demons and their prisoners just two days after the kidnapping.

And just two days after leaving an icy community, the demons’s gang reach a forest with nice plants and trees you prolly saw in Jurassic Park 1, 2, 3. Soon after, hero’s gang arrive and they start a very nice plan – free blue-eyed love (BEL) and the rest. The plan needs at least a few hundred battallions for it to be a huge success but thank god for ostrich-looking dinosaurs, some of the demons’ men get eaten.

<Jurassic Park III: Attacked in forest>

Apparently, the demons’ group seems to increase its power as the number of its members decrease so BEL and everyone else gets caught again. Now, hero has to follow the demons’ gang once again as the group caught the kid with the dead mother, too! They even got the ‘toughest hunter’ guy. Shikes! To make things harder, hero’s father’s BFF, becomes ill because of the ostrich-thingy attacks. We are made to believe that his dad’s BFF is done for.

Fast forward and the ‘dad’s BFF recovers, and soon they journey together once again.

That night, while hunting, hero fell down a hole very reminiscent of the hole where Jaguar Paw dropped his pregnant wife and son. Despite the many sharp rocks and sticks [it was a trap, see], hero finds himself knocked out in the middle, safe and sound. And smiling in his sleep. Suddenly, it starts raining and hero wakes up to find out that a huge sabertooth was also trapped in the same hole. The saber tooth was also very lucky to miss the numerous pointed rocks and sticks which are EVERYWHERE. The saber tooth, however, could not move because of a huge wood. Because hero is a hero, he talks to the saber tooth and makes a deal [Don't eat me and I'll let you go] What the FUCK!?!?!?!. Hero removes the wood and saber tooth runs out of the hole.

<300: Fighting the wolf with a spear>

The next day, hero and the saber tooth meet again in an African village. Sabertooth sniffs hero and recognizes him and just runs off like a total pussy. They have become best friends.

Hero befriends the natives of Africa and encourage them to chase the demons as well. They say yes and soon, they reach the ’sea of land’ with no water. Hero remembers the northstar to which he swore his love for BEL. They follow the north star to get to the ‘Head of the Snake’. They reach the river but it’s too late. The demons get on really lovely boats. There are around 20 boats on the water and all members of the demons’s team as well as all their prisoners are all on only ONE boat. Who are on those other boats?

They all reach a city which was building huge pyramids and sphinxes like the ones you see in Prince of Egypt and Apocalypto. I tell you, Mel Gibson should get 50% of whatever this movie makes. The city uses thousands of people as slaves and they use mammoths to carry rocks.

The city is ruled by a girly leader/god just like that latino stud in 300 and that dude in Stargate who surrounds himself with kids and people with albino.

<300: The girly persian leader/god>

<Stargate: the girly Sun God Ra and his kids>

Hero starts a revolution and encourage all slaves to fight back. With the help of a blind albino who encourages everyone inside the theater to laugh instead of gaze in total awe, hero becomes overly-confident.

BEL, on the other hand, after being bitchslapped, gets scars which form a certain constellation. The high priests think this is the mark and they tie her in the middle of the platform just like what they did to Andromeda in The Clash of the Titans.

Our hero is trapped. If he goes on with the attack, the priests rip BEL apart. But if he turns away, he lets the prisoners go. No one is breathing. Everyone wants to know what hero will do.

Suddenly, hero throws a spear at the leader/god. He gets hit [wow!] and starts rolling down the stairs. No special effects and all and leader/god just dies. Hero gets to shout ‘He is not God!’

Slaves fight back and the city is in chaos.

BEL gets kidnapped once again but she’s an ass and she stabs her kidnapper. But the kidnapper shoots her with an arrow and she dies. So sad.

But Old Mother – who once again gets nosebleed - breathes out a blue fume [that must REALLY smell] which travelled thousands of miles and across rivers, straight into BEL’s nostrils. And BEL breathes again! Yoohoo! And then Old Mother dies. Woohoo!

Hero and BEL and everyone else go back to their lives leaving the city which is now totally fucked up.

Hero and BEL start planting corn and make babies.

The end.

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Share lang nako. The best one I’ve read!

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What My Father  Wore
By Bret Anthony Johnston

     What my father wore embarrassed me as a young man. I wanted him to dress like a doctor or lawyer, but on those muggy  mornings when he rose before dawn to fry eggs for my mother and me, he always dressed like my father.

     We lived in south Texas, and my father wore tattered jeans with the imprint of his pocketknife on the seat. He liked shirts that snapped more than those that buttoned and kept his pencils, cigars, glasses, wrenches and
screwdrivers in his breast pocket. My father’s boots were government-issues with steel toes that made them difficult to pull off his feet, which I sometimes did when he returned from repairing air conditioners, his job that also shamed me.

     But, as a child, I’d crept into his closet and modeled his wardrobe in front of the mirror. My imagination transformed his shirts into the robes of kings and his belts into soldiers’ holsters. I slept in his undershirts
and relied on the scent of his collars to calm my fear of the dark. Within a few years, though, I started wishing my father would trade his denim for khaki and retire his boots for loafers. I stopped sleeping in his clothes and eventually began dreaming of another father.

     I blamed the way he dressed for my social failures. When boys bullied me, I thought they’d seen my father wearing his cowboy hat but no shirt while walking our dog. I felt that girls snickered at me because they’d glimpsed him mowing the grass in cut-offs and black boots. The girls’ families paid men (and I believed better-dressed ones) to landscape their lawns, while their fathers yachted in the bay wearing lemon-yellow sweaters and expensive sandals.

     My father only bought two suits in his life. He preferred clothes that allowed him the freedom to shimmy under cars and squeeze behind broken Maytags, where he felt most content. But the day before my parents’ twentieth anniversary, he and I went to Sears, and he tried on suits all afternoon. With each one, he stepped to the mirror, smiled and nodded, then asked about the price and reached for another. He probably tried ten suits before we drove to a discount store and bought one without so much as
approaching a fitting room. That night my mother said she’d never seen a more handsome man.

     Later, though, he donned the same suit for my eighth-grade awards banquet, and I wished he’d stayed home. After the ceremony (I’d been voted Mr. Citizenship, of all things), he lauded my award and my character while changing into a faded red sweatsuit. He was stepping into the garage
to wash a load of laundry when I asked what even at age fourteen struck me as cruel and wrong. “Why,” I asked, “don’t you dress ‘nice,’ like my friends’ fathers?”

     He held me with his sad, shocked eyes, and searched for an answer. Then before he disappeared into the garage and closed the door between us, my father said, “I like my clothes.” An hour later my mother stormed into my room, slapped me hard across the face and called me an “ungrateful little twerp,” a phrase that echoed in my head until they resumed speaking to me.

     In time they forgave me, and as I matured I realized that girls avoided me not because of my father but because of his son. I realized that my mother had slapped me because my father could not, and it soon became clear that what he had really said that night was that there are things more important than clothes. He’d said he couldn’t spend a nickel on himself because there were things I wanted. That night, without another word, my father had said, “You’re my son, and I sacrifice so your life will be better than mine.”

     For my high-school graduation, my father arrived in a suit he and my mother had purchased earlier that day. Somehow he seemed taller, more handsome and imposing, and when he passed the other fathers they stepped out of his way. It wasn’t the suit, of course, but the man. The doctors and lawyers recognized the confidence in his swagger, the pride in his eyes, and when they approached him, they did so with courtesy and respect. After we returned home, my father replaced the suit in the flimsy Sears garment bag, and I didn’t see it again until his funeral.

     I don’t know what he was wearing when he died, but he was working, so he was in clothes he liked, and that comforts me. My mother thought of burying him in the suit from Sears, but I convinced her otherwise and soon
delivered a pair of old jeans, a flannel shirt and his boots to the funeral home.

     On the morning of the services, I used his pocketknife to carve another hole in his belt so it wouldn’t droop around my waist. Then I took the suit from Sears out of his closet and changed into it. Eventually, I mustered the courage to study myself in his mirror where, with the exception of the suit, I appeared small and insignificant. Again, as in childhood, the clothes draped over my scrawny frame. My father’s scent wafted up and caressed my face, but it failed to console me. I was uncertain: not about my father’s stature – I’d stopped being an ungrateful little twerp years before. No, I was uncertain about myself, my own stature. And I stood there for some time, facing myself in my father’s mirror, weeping and trying to imagine – as I will for the rest of my life – the day I’ll grow into my father’s clothes.