My former editor at the car magazine would always mock my staunch loyalty to my alma mater. And being the only true blue product of it, at the time in the office, I sure got a lot of flack for it, in a joking manner, of course.
Even recently, he gave me a handy piece of advice that throws a backhanded compliment to my Jesuit education:
"You are well on your way to becoming a managing editor. Things you must hurdle before you accept the job:
Learn to really manage - as the world defines it and not as the Jesuits do - from your afternoon office in Pancake House."
A recent article from the Inquirer finally clued me in on what he means. Of course, I've always known these from the back of my mind, but being Jesuit educated, why on earth would I admit to it?
"...there were the habits of mind that we learned in our corner of the world [Ateneo campus]: a sense of constant competition (but frustrated by an inability to deal with conflict); a sense of easy excellence (but shadowed by an air of entitlement); a sense of practical virtue (but limited by a marked distaste for “dirty” politics)."
from:
"The Jesuits’ fault?"
By John Nery
Inquirer
Published on page A15 of the December 11, 2006 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer
True. True.
12.18.2006
12.01.2006
No More Fall Backs
It’s been a while since I’ve decided to eliminate fall back plans. Somehow, I’ve always worked better with pressure, with the need to succeed, simply because there’s nowhere else to go but either down or up.
For a while, I’ve been nervous. Fall back plans breed complacency, after all, which is just the kind of lax attitude I wanted to eliminate. It’s always inhibited me from breaking out of my shell. “I’ve always got this to rely on if all else fails,” I’d often think to myself. And perhaps it’s that lack of anything to rely on that pushes one to break out and fight — to search for a new dependence.
We are creatures of habit after all. Vices never go away. They simply jump from one to another, only varying in collateral damage or social approval, just as smoking is easily replaced by another oral fixation.
And in some oblique way, it’s managed to work for me.
Last night was a breakthrough of sorts. I’ve shied away from the familiar and decided to venture into unfamiliar territory. Perhaps it was the beer that helped me made progress, but progress nonetheless. And even if, by many others’ opinion, I didn’t seem to get anything out of it, it still felt like a victory. Action, after all, is better than inaction.
And in making those bold new steps, I’ve discovered there’s not much to fear, after all. And perhaps in the future, I will gain more ground for myself. The important part, at least, was making the first step. Knowing that stable ground lies underneath makes it easier to trudge that path again.
For a while, I’ve been nervous. Fall back plans breed complacency, after all, which is just the kind of lax attitude I wanted to eliminate. It’s always inhibited me from breaking out of my shell. “I’ve always got this to rely on if all else fails,” I’d often think to myself. And perhaps it’s that lack of anything to rely on that pushes one to break out and fight — to search for a new dependence.
We are creatures of habit after all. Vices never go away. They simply jump from one to another, only varying in collateral damage or social approval, just as smoking is easily replaced by another oral fixation.
And in some oblique way, it’s managed to work for me.
Last night was a breakthrough of sorts. I’ve shied away from the familiar and decided to venture into unfamiliar territory. Perhaps it was the beer that helped me made progress, but progress nonetheless. And even if, by many others’ opinion, I didn’t seem to get anything out of it, it still felt like a victory. Action, after all, is better than inaction.
And in making those bold new steps, I’ve discovered there’s not much to fear, after all. And perhaps in the future, I will gain more ground for myself. The important part, at least, was making the first step. Knowing that stable ground lies underneath makes it easier to trudge that path again.
11.13.2006
What I Heard 'Em Say
A friend recently brought up the issue of insufficient salaries. It’s funny because, after 16 years of school in what many consider the most prestigious university in the country, I still feel like I haven’t learned a thing, that I’m just starting to figure out how the world really works, that all of the lessons I’ve learned mean jack shit. Despite all the years we’ve devoted to studying, despite the high marks that we’ve studied so hard to earn, it’s still not a guarantee of high pay. It still seems to be a matter of luck.
Donald Trump and Robert Kiosaki (Rich Dad Poor Dad) have a new book out on success (Why We Want You to be Rich). In it, he says that the middle class is shrinking, that soon the gap between rich and poor will only widen.
It was something very clear to me in all of the lifestyle events I’ve been attending. Who, after all, has the time and money to enjoy a lifestyle but the affluent. The most recent, a regatta in one of the most plush ‘second home’ beach side communities, reveled in sailing yachts, drinking good wine and investing in a growing trend in real estate, one that will only gain value over time.
I had to ask myself who has the money to pay for all this? Not only do you pay for the exorbitant price of the lot, you will pay for building the house (it HAS to be built within three years) and after that, you continue to pay community or association dues. It’s the same story for all the upcoming ‘lifestyle’ developments — second homes, leisure activities, early retirement, spend, spend, spend…
There's no more 'ideal place for a family in between fiscal classes'. That doesn't sound good to investors now does it.
And yet here I am, realizing I’m spending more than I’m earning, my savings dwindling, and the dream of ever restoring my car to show quality slowly fading. Heck, I’m pretty damn sure I won’t be able to afford a new house in my lifetime. So I guess I know where I'll end up. I chose the 'virtuous' path of a starving writer after all.
Back to Mr. Trump’s book, he mentions that today’s generation has what we call an “entitlement mentality” — people who expect their countries, employers, or families to take care of them.
Of course, back in college, I learned in Philosophy of Ethics that the wealthy owe a community for their success. You can read it up in the Nichomachian Ethics. It's only expected of them to contribute to society through public works, out of their own pocket. It’s their way of giving back, a kind of debt of gratitude for the fortune that society has allowed them.
That made sense, I thought back then… struggling to find a real world example of such, in the midst of my professor's ranting about how spoiled we are, and how doing homework shouldn't be rewarded.
Capitalism = 1, Academe = 0
The same thing keeps happening, this entitlement mentality, in a field where I thought there wasn’t much to learn, that all of these things came natural, that all of the good advice you’ve received from family and friends would help.
That you give respect to earn it back. If you asked nicely, it would be handed to you. Quid Pro Quo, or something like that.
Again, it’s a counter-intuitive craft. My friends and I were talking just the other night. Getting far in the game involves defying all of the good rules that society and morals have set. You have to be pushy, inconsiderate, and selfish. Show that you care and they’ll walk all over you. They push, you push back harder, or just don't give a fuck and move on to the next project.
Dwelling in history solves nothing. Of course, we all know that history tends to repeat itself. But nevermind that. It's just something I learned in school after all.
I’m trying hard to pipe down and suck it up, to keep trying and not give a fuck what everyone else says, to remember what works, and toss everything else to the side, regarding them as simply chance or a plain fuck up. Single serving as Tyler Durden says.
What I hate to admit is that it all starts to make sense when you think like a selfish son of a bitch.
Donald Trump and Robert Kiosaki (Rich Dad Poor Dad) have a new book out on success (Why We Want You to be Rich). In it, he says that the middle class is shrinking, that soon the gap between rich and poor will only widen.
It was something very clear to me in all of the lifestyle events I’ve been attending. Who, after all, has the time and money to enjoy a lifestyle but the affluent. The most recent, a regatta in one of the most plush ‘second home’ beach side communities, reveled in sailing yachts, drinking good wine and investing in a growing trend in real estate, one that will only gain value over time.
I had to ask myself who has the money to pay for all this? Not only do you pay for the exorbitant price of the lot, you will pay for building the house (it HAS to be built within three years) and after that, you continue to pay community or association dues. It’s the same story for all the upcoming ‘lifestyle’ developments — second homes, leisure activities, early retirement, spend, spend, spend…
There's no more 'ideal place for a family in between fiscal classes'. That doesn't sound good to investors now does it.
And yet here I am, realizing I’m spending more than I’m earning, my savings dwindling, and the dream of ever restoring my car to show quality slowly fading. Heck, I’m pretty damn sure I won’t be able to afford a new house in my lifetime. So I guess I know where I'll end up. I chose the 'virtuous' path of a starving writer after all.
Back to Mr. Trump’s book, he mentions that today’s generation has what we call an “entitlement mentality” — people who expect their countries, employers, or families to take care of them.
Of course, back in college, I learned in Philosophy of Ethics that the wealthy owe a community for their success. You can read it up in the Nichomachian Ethics. It's only expected of them to contribute to society through public works, out of their own pocket. It’s their way of giving back, a kind of debt of gratitude for the fortune that society has allowed them.
That made sense, I thought back then… struggling to find a real world example of such, in the midst of my professor's ranting about how spoiled we are, and how doing homework shouldn't be rewarded.
Capitalism = 1, Academe = 0
The same thing keeps happening, this entitlement mentality, in a field where I thought there wasn’t much to learn, that all of these things came natural, that all of the good advice you’ve received from family and friends would help.
That you give respect to earn it back. If you asked nicely, it would be handed to you. Quid Pro Quo, or something like that.
Again, it’s a counter-intuitive craft. My friends and I were talking just the other night. Getting far in the game involves defying all of the good rules that society and morals have set. You have to be pushy, inconsiderate, and selfish. Show that you care and they’ll walk all over you. They push, you push back harder, or just don't give a fuck and move on to the next project.
Dwelling in history solves nothing. Of course, we all know that history tends to repeat itself. But nevermind that. It's just something I learned in school after all.
I’m trying hard to pipe down and suck it up, to keep trying and not give a fuck what everyone else says, to remember what works, and toss everything else to the side, regarding them as simply chance or a plain fuck up. Single serving as Tyler Durden says.
What I hate to admit is that it all starts to make sense when you think like a selfish son of a bitch.
10.26.2006
Agony and the Hope Transition
You know what agony is? It’s being inches from something you direly want and yet miles from ever calling it yours. It’s staring into the most beautiful pair of almond-shaped eyes only to see their gaze focused somewhere else. It’s experiencing the most pampering treatment everyday and yet longing for something simpler. It’s knowing that contentment and reality are two different things, a piece of knowledge you’ve acquired the hard way.
Funny how all those angsty rock songs seem to be singing the same tune.
On one hand, I have a chance to wind back the clock in one aspect of my life. Let's just say I got the chance to go back to a happier time and place. The other aspect remains an undeniable reality. Don’t get me wrong. I’m thankful for that rare chance. Though I wonder if the same opportunity will arise for the other.
Most of my adult life, I’ve exerted more effort trying to find out how to reverse time for the other aspect. I still haven’t found the answer. But I’m hopeful.
I’ve always enjoyed the idea of time-travel. No surprise that my highest ever exam result in college (a perfect score, and in philosophy at that) was for an essay on Marcel Merleau-Ponty’s concept of temporality. My inspiration, however, has always been much more mundane than that.
I’ve always been a fan of the Back to the Future trilogy. Not for its hilarity or quotable quotes (“Great Scott!”, “1.21 Jiggawatts!”). More for its grasp of the paradox of time travel. It’s simple really. All events, whether in the past, present or future, are all linked together. Change one simple event, and you affect all others, most often for worse, and eventually fall into the slippery slope of consequences. As you all know, Marty never did return to his present, but to an improved one. And while he may have changed his future, it will never be free of conflict. The time machine will always change things. And the temptation to use it will always linger.
And as for the movie adaptation of HG Wells’ classic (The Time Machine), it too has a valuable lesson: Time travel can never be used to change events in the past, for these events in the past could have led to the construction of the time machine. And were it not for the time machine, one would not be able to travel to the past to exist in that same space in time to begin with. And so everything will continue to conspire to lead towards the construction of the time machine. “I could travel back a thousand times and she would die each time.” Hence the paradox. Getting a migraine yet?
My point is this: We may want to change the past, yet the hindsight we gain from these failures are the very reasons we wish to change what’s already done. Going back would mean losing these insights, and hence dooming ourselves to make those same mistakes all over again. And the cycle continues. And to steal a line from a very good book I read once, "Time is the enemy. A man has wounds it cannot heal..." (Hand of the Enemy - Kerima Polotan)They’re the very wounds that lead to the epiphanies that, we hope, will prevent us from making the same mistakes in the future. And with any luck, we might see those chances again.
So in the tradition of reinterpreting seemingly mundane quotes from mainstream artists, just in the same way I started that philo exam (I used Mike Shinoda, and I'm sure you all know that song), I leave you with wise words from an unlikely philosopher. This one’s name is Kanye Omari West.
“I tried to right my wrongs, but it’s funny those same wrongs help me write the songs.”
Funny how all those angsty rock songs seem to be singing the same tune.
On one hand, I have a chance to wind back the clock in one aspect of my life. Let's just say I got the chance to go back to a happier time and place. The other aspect remains an undeniable reality. Don’t get me wrong. I’m thankful for that rare chance. Though I wonder if the same opportunity will arise for the other.
Most of my adult life, I’ve exerted more effort trying to find out how to reverse time for the other aspect. I still haven’t found the answer. But I’m hopeful.
I’ve always enjoyed the idea of time-travel. No surprise that my highest ever exam result in college (a perfect score, and in philosophy at that) was for an essay on Marcel Merleau-Ponty’s concept of temporality. My inspiration, however, has always been much more mundane than that.
I’ve always been a fan of the Back to the Future trilogy. Not for its hilarity or quotable quotes (“Great Scott!”, “1.21 Jiggawatts!”). More for its grasp of the paradox of time travel. It’s simple really. All events, whether in the past, present or future, are all linked together. Change one simple event, and you affect all others, most often for worse, and eventually fall into the slippery slope of consequences. As you all know, Marty never did return to his present, but to an improved one. And while he may have changed his future, it will never be free of conflict. The time machine will always change things. And the temptation to use it will always linger.
And as for the movie adaptation of HG Wells’ classic (The Time Machine), it too has a valuable lesson: Time travel can never be used to change events in the past, for these events in the past could have led to the construction of the time machine. And were it not for the time machine, one would not be able to travel to the past to exist in that same space in time to begin with. And so everything will continue to conspire to lead towards the construction of the time machine. “I could travel back a thousand times and she would die each time.” Hence the paradox. Getting a migraine yet?
My point is this: We may want to change the past, yet the hindsight we gain from these failures are the very reasons we wish to change what’s already done. Going back would mean losing these insights, and hence dooming ourselves to make those same mistakes all over again. And the cycle continues. And to steal a line from a very good book I read once, "Time is the enemy. A man has wounds it cannot heal..." (Hand of the Enemy - Kerima Polotan)They’re the very wounds that lead to the epiphanies that, we hope, will prevent us from making the same mistakes in the future. And with any luck, we might see those chances again.
So in the tradition of reinterpreting seemingly mundane quotes from mainstream artists, just in the same way I started that philo exam (I used Mike Shinoda, and I'm sure you all know that song), I leave you with wise words from an unlikely philosopher. This one’s name is Kanye Omari West.
“I tried to right my wrongs, but it’s funny those same wrongs help me write the songs.”
10.10.2006
The Hardest Assignment
I just completed one of the hardest assignments I’ve ever had in this job thus far. It’s not difficult because the point people were difficult to reach. In fact, they were very accommodating. Neither was it because the subject matter was an uncommon one. The question of censorship is about as old as the media and entertainment industry itself.
The trouble with this assignment is that what’s right will always be a relative matter. People have different levels of tolerance on what is moral, what is artistic, and what should and should not be shown.
The deeper I dug into the story, the more I realized that both sides had valid points, as well as some short-sightedness. Someone on one side thought it would be a good idea to tip off the press and send reporters on a wild goose chase. Yes, I was not alone. On one of the interviews, I bumped into a reporter from a rival newspaper. We had arrived to question a certain individual on his censorship decision. The poor man had thought we schemed to arrive at his office at the same time as some grand scheme of the media to deface his institution. In the end, all it really was is a he said-she said matter; each side with conflicting stories and sadly biased logic. And I had a deadline to meet. Just great.
It’s all frighteningly familiar, reminding me a lot of an incident that had happened back in college. A Filipino adaptation of The Vagina Monologues was set to be staged on our school. One of the school’s board members, however, wasn’t too keen on the choice of title, or the language, for that matter. As we all know, the colloquial Filipino word for vagina is not too pleasing to the ears. Indeed, the play has its own artistic merits and brings across a very valuable message. The governing body of the school, however, feels that the medium with which it brings this message across is not as noble.
As one would expect, a lengthy and exhausting debate ensued. On one side, we had the artists that championed the various merits of the show. “Who’s afraid of such a little word?” they’d say. I remember simply pronouncing it in the local dialect never failed to trigger some laughter in the publications room. On the other, the governing body feels that that same message can be brought across through less scandalous means.
It’s nothing new to our country really. Modern modes of expression constantly clash with the issue of censorship, and how far is too far. We’ve seen it happen with countless movies and books that have sought to challenge our comfort zones and ways of thinking, only to be met by stiff resistance.
In the beginning, I was excited to get to work on such a pressing and sensitive issue. I later learned that I’m truly caught between the two. On one hand I have my family, my father and the foundation he works for has long been pushing for better child-friendly programming. His efforts have gained the admiration of the very censor board I had to tap for questioning. On the other hand, there is the art community, one I’ve grown to know and love in all my years in the Fine Arts Department of the Ateneo. I don't know the artists personally, but I know that without them, I wouldn't have the courage to write the stories that started my love for writing. I’d very much love to support one side as much as the other. Trouble is, there’s only so much space on paper, and only one side you can truly support.
There’s always the cop out that the media must remain neutral. It’s one I had to take this time. Not that I didn’t want to choose sides. The consequences that weigh on each, however, make the decision so difficult.
What’s somewhat comforting is that both sides, in a way, got what they wanted. The governing board had their decision implemented, with much criticism, of course. The artist, has his work uploaded into youtube instead, and thanks to the media buzz surrounding it and youtube’s more liberal standards, is enjoying quite a lot of attention.
Like many of my stories, it was open ended. I left the readers with all the pertinent information they needed to make their own informed decision. There’s so much more I wanted to say, and equally as much that stopped me from doing so.
The trouble with this assignment is that what’s right will always be a relative matter. People have different levels of tolerance on what is moral, what is artistic, and what should and should not be shown.
The deeper I dug into the story, the more I realized that both sides had valid points, as well as some short-sightedness. Someone on one side thought it would be a good idea to tip off the press and send reporters on a wild goose chase. Yes, I was not alone. On one of the interviews, I bumped into a reporter from a rival newspaper. We had arrived to question a certain individual on his censorship decision. The poor man had thought we schemed to arrive at his office at the same time as some grand scheme of the media to deface his institution. In the end, all it really was is a he said-she said matter; each side with conflicting stories and sadly biased logic. And I had a deadline to meet. Just great.
It’s all frighteningly familiar, reminding me a lot of an incident that had happened back in college. A Filipino adaptation of The Vagina Monologues was set to be staged on our school. One of the school’s board members, however, wasn’t too keen on the choice of title, or the language, for that matter. As we all know, the colloquial Filipino word for vagina is not too pleasing to the ears. Indeed, the play has its own artistic merits and brings across a very valuable message. The governing body of the school, however, feels that the medium with which it brings this message across is not as noble.
As one would expect, a lengthy and exhausting debate ensued. On one side, we had the artists that championed the various merits of the show. “Who’s afraid of such a little word?” they’d say. I remember simply pronouncing it in the local dialect never failed to trigger some laughter in the publications room. On the other, the governing body feels that that same message can be brought across through less scandalous means.
It’s nothing new to our country really. Modern modes of expression constantly clash with the issue of censorship, and how far is too far. We’ve seen it happen with countless movies and books that have sought to challenge our comfort zones and ways of thinking, only to be met by stiff resistance.
In the beginning, I was excited to get to work on such a pressing and sensitive issue. I later learned that I’m truly caught between the two. On one hand I have my family, my father and the foundation he works for has long been pushing for better child-friendly programming. His efforts have gained the admiration of the very censor board I had to tap for questioning. On the other hand, there is the art community, one I’ve grown to know and love in all my years in the Fine Arts Department of the Ateneo. I don't know the artists personally, but I know that without them, I wouldn't have the courage to write the stories that started my love for writing. I’d very much love to support one side as much as the other. Trouble is, there’s only so much space on paper, and only one side you can truly support.
There’s always the cop out that the media must remain neutral. It’s one I had to take this time. Not that I didn’t want to choose sides. The consequences that weigh on each, however, make the decision so difficult.
What’s somewhat comforting is that both sides, in a way, got what they wanted. The governing board had their decision implemented, with much criticism, of course. The artist, has his work uploaded into youtube instead, and thanks to the media buzz surrounding it and youtube’s more liberal standards, is enjoying quite a lot of attention.
Like many of my stories, it was open ended. I left the readers with all the pertinent information they needed to make their own informed decision. There’s so much more I wanted to say, and equally as much that stopped me from doing so.
9.19.2006
Let's get this started
I just realized that a lot of us here… well, those who visit this page, at least… are from the media. Many, in fact, in the publishing industry.
The main reason we’re into blogging is because we’re all writers, frustrated writers, or at the very least enjoy both writing and reading.
Whether we’re happy with our respective publications or not, I'm pretty sure we've been in each long enough to know how the wheels there turn.
I just wanted to know if any of you are interested in creating a new kind of publication.
Not that I have any capital to start it up. Although, I think that with all our connections combined, we can definitely put the resources together to make it work.
It’s something that will allow us to focus on each of our interests yet still create a coherent publication (or online mag, whichever is more feasible for the mean time) with enough advertising and readership to support the continuity of all fields, and of course, the entire publication itself.
Doesn’t seem like anyone’s done this before so I wanna see a show of hands (or in this case, replies) first as to who’s interested in trying this out.
And no, I'm not likely to reveal any of its details here because it's so deviously ingenous, so diabolical, so-crazy-it-just-might-work kind of thing. Muhahahaha.
But seriously... tell me if you're interested. We can start an e-group or something.
The main reason we’re into blogging is because we’re all writers, frustrated writers, or at the very least enjoy both writing and reading.
Whether we’re happy with our respective publications or not, I'm pretty sure we've been in each long enough to know how the wheels there turn.
I just wanted to know if any of you are interested in creating a new kind of publication.
Not that I have any capital to start it up. Although, I think that with all our connections combined, we can definitely put the resources together to make it work.
It’s something that will allow us to focus on each of our interests yet still create a coherent publication (or online mag, whichever is more feasible for the mean time) with enough advertising and readership to support the continuity of all fields, and of course, the entire publication itself.
Doesn’t seem like anyone’s done this before so I wanna see a show of hands (or in this case, replies) first as to who’s interested in trying this out.
And no, I'm not likely to reveal any of its details here because it's so deviously ingenous, so diabolical, so-crazy-it-just-might-work kind of thing. Muhahahaha.
But seriously... tell me if you're interested. We can start an e-group or something.
9.13.2006
Aye, there's the placebo
My folks have a funny way of teaching me to stay off drugs. They’re particularly fond of telling me stories of several relatives (and oh, the lives they lead) and their fight against drug addiction. Or should I say for it? How their lives and that of their families were ruined. The millions they've spent on rehabilitation. Excuse my cynicism, but you know how the story goes. They tell me the neighbors think I’m addictive because of my slouched stance and my relatively light build. Doesn’t help that I’m cranky most of the time either. Bloody intelligent deduction isn't it?
Of course, all of this is supported by the many marijuana paraphernalia they never forget to buy me whenever they go somewhere interesting. They’re all legal mind you; trinkets like five finger ashtrays, lighters with the eponymous leaf on it, shirts that demand its legalization and whatnot. I’m still not sure whether it’s a cruel joke at my expense or it's their bizarre reverse psychology way of teaching me.
I’ve heard the stories but have always brushed them off after a while. I never really considered myself to have an addictive personality. I always justified these incidents as experimentation. Neither had I passed judgment on those who offer, having enjoyed some of their benefits myself. I always try to respect an individual’s capacity to discipline oneself, as much as I believed in my own discipline to do so.
To be honest, it’s the legal vices I have trouble shaking off. A recent conference on cancer once again pounded in the magnetic effect smoking seems to have on several forms of cancer. Yet, right after the conference, I find myself back in the habit accompanied by a newfound lung cancer advocacy group, as we cheekily called ourselves. Heck, we even have a Malaysian member.
Another vice is a much more intimate one only few close friends are privy to. Rest assured, it’s legal as well insofar as the law is concerned. Morals are another matter entirely. I’ve also promised myself, and concerned friends alike, that I’d kick the habit. Yet, like smoking, it’s the placebo effect it gives that leaves me wanting. Last week’s events justify it, or at least that’s how I justify it to myself. I’ve already fought with myself earlier today to stop. Guess who won? It’s the kind of vice that leads to failures in other departments, hence requiring another dose to pick up the pieces and move on — a downward spiral, of sorts, that is sadly not just affecting myself but my conspirator as well.
I’ve bought a book to help me out with it. We all know, however, that no matter what kind of program it dictates, discipline still lies in the individual. And when that fails, it’s time for the balm to soothe a battered ego again — it brings the kind of comfort that illustrates the all too simple principle behind classical conditioning.
Of course, all of this is supported by the many marijuana paraphernalia they never forget to buy me whenever they go somewhere interesting. They’re all legal mind you; trinkets like five finger ashtrays, lighters with the eponymous leaf on it, shirts that demand its legalization and whatnot. I’m still not sure whether it’s a cruel joke at my expense or it's their bizarre reverse psychology way of teaching me.
I’ve heard the stories but have always brushed them off after a while. I never really considered myself to have an addictive personality. I always justified these incidents as experimentation. Neither had I passed judgment on those who offer, having enjoyed some of their benefits myself. I always try to respect an individual’s capacity to discipline oneself, as much as I believed in my own discipline to do so.
To be honest, it’s the legal vices I have trouble shaking off. A recent conference on cancer once again pounded in the magnetic effect smoking seems to have on several forms of cancer. Yet, right after the conference, I find myself back in the habit accompanied by a newfound lung cancer advocacy group, as we cheekily called ourselves. Heck, we even have a Malaysian member.
Another vice is a much more intimate one only few close friends are privy to. Rest assured, it’s legal as well insofar as the law is concerned. Morals are another matter entirely. I’ve also promised myself, and concerned friends alike, that I’d kick the habit. Yet, like smoking, it’s the placebo effect it gives that leaves me wanting. Last week’s events justify it, or at least that’s how I justify it to myself. I’ve already fought with myself earlier today to stop. Guess who won? It’s the kind of vice that leads to failures in other departments, hence requiring another dose to pick up the pieces and move on — a downward spiral, of sorts, that is sadly not just affecting myself but my conspirator as well.
I’ve bought a book to help me out with it. We all know, however, that no matter what kind of program it dictates, discipline still lies in the individual. And when that fails, it’s time for the balm to soothe a battered ego again — it brings the kind of comfort that illustrates the all too simple principle behind classical conditioning.
9.04.2006
Meeting the Ironies
Before I made the jump, I was well aware of the hectic schedule and workload I was about to face in the newspaper. I figured it would change me, teach me to work harder, manage time more effectively, and learn to break out of my shell a little more. So far, it’s helped me accomplish all of that… to some degree. Strange how a little pressure can push you a long way. They’re things I might not have forced myself to do if I were back at the mag.
There’ve been a couple of sign posts, though, at least in my perception, that seem to indicate I’m on the right track. Nothing really makes you beam with pride more than seeing a rival from college (alright, some kid you really hated) in a crappy job whose purpose requires catering to your every need. And there’s the Disneyland trip and the posh hotel accommodations. Somehow it’s still sweeter enjoying it at no cost than paying for it with a well-paid do nothing’s salary. Yes, I’ll be bragging about that for years. Indulge my arrogance for a moment.
And here is where the back-patting ends. Then again, I still wonder why I’m on this end of the salary spectrum when lately I’ve been meeting friends and colleagues earning much more for much less work. True, I have a few perks that seem to balance it out. Although I still worry how long I can carry this on, or if this is even enough for myself in the long run. They’re already dropping coins into a future pension while I’m still clueless as to when I’ll be able to move out of the house. I smell symptoms of Failure to Launch syndrome.
On another side, I was also anticipating a number of liberties a higher salary (considering where I came from) would bring. Screw savings for a moment. Allow me to be conceited for a moment and let me think I deserve all of this. Of course, I hadn’t taken into account the gloriously busy schedule that would inhibit me from enjoying the said increase. Lovely. Again, the problem is time, or lack thereof.
It’s slowly becoming clear that time will continue to be, if not be more, elusive in the future. Suddenly that one year marker at the paper seems to be inching farther and farther away. I guess what this all sums up to is that despite accomplishing a couple of personal goals along the way, I’m still a long way from figuring out what the hell I’m doing or where the hell I’m headed. I might have stated something contrary and with conviction at that in the last post. Yet the fading festivities of the whole transfer could possibly be dissolving some lofty ideas with it.
There’ve been a couple of sign posts, though, at least in my perception, that seem to indicate I’m on the right track. Nothing really makes you beam with pride more than seeing a rival from college (alright, some kid you really hated) in a crappy job whose purpose requires catering to your every need. And there’s the Disneyland trip and the posh hotel accommodations. Somehow it’s still sweeter enjoying it at no cost than paying for it with a well-paid do nothing’s salary. Yes, I’ll be bragging about that for years. Indulge my arrogance for a moment.
And here is where the back-patting ends. Then again, I still wonder why I’m on this end of the salary spectrum when lately I’ve been meeting friends and colleagues earning much more for much less work. True, I have a few perks that seem to balance it out. Although I still worry how long I can carry this on, or if this is even enough for myself in the long run. They’re already dropping coins into a future pension while I’m still clueless as to when I’ll be able to move out of the house. I smell symptoms of Failure to Launch syndrome.
On another side, I was also anticipating a number of liberties a higher salary (considering where I came from) would bring. Screw savings for a moment. Allow me to be conceited for a moment and let me think I deserve all of this. Of course, I hadn’t taken into account the gloriously busy schedule that would inhibit me from enjoying the said increase. Lovely. Again, the problem is time, or lack thereof.
It’s slowly becoming clear that time will continue to be, if not be more, elusive in the future. Suddenly that one year marker at the paper seems to be inching farther and farther away. I guess what this all sums up to is that despite accomplishing a couple of personal goals along the way, I’m still a long way from figuring out what the hell I’m doing or where the hell I’m headed. I might have stated something contrary and with conviction at that in the last post. Yet the fading festivities of the whole transfer could possibly be dissolving some lofty ideas with it.
8.04.2006
Project: Building My Own Hill
It’s been a hectic week with a kind of workload I never would have imagined I could handle… yet remarkably, I am, finding time, in fact, to do errands on my day off. It’s a rewarding job; tiring yet rewarding nonetheless. I come home with a newfound sense of accomplishment I never experience with the magazine, even if this new publication is ‘pay-per-press’ (release). In stark contrast, my peers at the old office are finding it hard to fill in my shoes, what with their day preoccupied with downloading, 2 hour coffee breaks, and the infamous YM.
I’m starting to miss the leisurely pace, the proximity of my sister’s place, and the idea of bringing a car once a week. Here, there’s not a single free space, and the nearest pay parking is blocks away. My daily commute now includes a Jeepney ride. Yes friends, I am now a peasant with a little coin purse that contains exact denominations of PhP7.50. Yet, despite all that, there’s a certain sense of dignity that comes with a paper, something Mercedes-Benz’s higher offer couldn’t provide. It really was a good decision.
The only thing that seems to be troubling me now is the lack life after work. Even sex becomes tiring, a mechanical obligation of sorts. I come home, tired, short-tempered, yet with still so much on my mind.
It’s all made me think about what else I want out of this life. Job: check. Money: check. Now that all of that’s taken care of, it’s everything else I’ve been putting off that needs attention. Most important of all is what the plan is further down the line. Not career-wise, as that’s already very clear at this point. It’s about building a home to come home to. And I haven’t even a cornerstone yet.
Work hasn’t been helping. My work day now extends to night if there’s an event. It’s not much of a bane as they’re all free, with a little good bag of trinkets if they’re generous, or desperate enough. The other day it was two loafs of bread. I tried to stop myself from laughing.
It’s not a matter of absence of opportunity. Speaking of which, they’re just waiting at the wings. It’s more of myself I can’t reconcile with. I watched The Break-Up the other day and found I can be a lot like Gary sometimes. Sure, he’s devoted, hard-working, and likes to kick back as a reward. But more than this is the softer giving side, long hidden and protected from the harsh and heartless dog-eat-dog world. So the question is if there’s reason behind my hasty judgments and unforgiving prerequisites. I’ve often argued that I know and have seen that they can be met. But can they really? And if so when? If anything, finding, or compromising, as I’ve often been urged to do, is the only thing I’ve been procrastinating.
It’s not that I don’t want to. Lord knows I’m reminded of it everywhere I go. It’s more of that I know I’m not capable of allotting time for it with as much dedication as I do my work. And money is really hard these days. I’m often upset at how I slave myself so much for such a paltry sum and yet everyday I meet many more who are rewarded for doing so little. Indeed, there are no “Pleases” and “Thank You’s” down from the hill. But the least I want to do is remember that, and reward it, at least on my own little hill… when I finally get it up.
I’m starting to miss the leisurely pace, the proximity of my sister’s place, and the idea of bringing a car once a week. Here, there’s not a single free space, and the nearest pay parking is blocks away. My daily commute now includes a Jeepney ride. Yes friends, I am now a peasant with a little coin purse that contains exact denominations of PhP7.50. Yet, despite all that, there’s a certain sense of dignity that comes with a paper, something Mercedes-Benz’s higher offer couldn’t provide. It really was a good decision.
The only thing that seems to be troubling me now is the lack life after work. Even sex becomes tiring, a mechanical obligation of sorts. I come home, tired, short-tempered, yet with still so much on my mind.
It’s all made me think about what else I want out of this life. Job: check. Money: check. Now that all of that’s taken care of, it’s everything else I’ve been putting off that needs attention. Most important of all is what the plan is further down the line. Not career-wise, as that’s already very clear at this point. It’s about building a home to come home to. And I haven’t even a cornerstone yet.
Work hasn’t been helping. My work day now extends to night if there’s an event. It’s not much of a bane as they’re all free, with a little good bag of trinkets if they’re generous, or desperate enough. The other day it was two loafs of bread. I tried to stop myself from laughing.
It’s not a matter of absence of opportunity. Speaking of which, they’re just waiting at the wings. It’s more of myself I can’t reconcile with. I watched The Break-Up the other day and found I can be a lot like Gary sometimes. Sure, he’s devoted, hard-working, and likes to kick back as a reward. But more than this is the softer giving side, long hidden and protected from the harsh and heartless dog-eat-dog world. So the question is if there’s reason behind my hasty judgments and unforgiving prerequisites. I’ve often argued that I know and have seen that they can be met. But can they really? And if so when? If anything, finding, or compromising, as I’ve often been urged to do, is the only thing I’ve been procrastinating.
It’s not that I don’t want to. Lord knows I’m reminded of it everywhere I go. It’s more of that I know I’m not capable of allotting time for it with as much dedication as I do my work. And money is really hard these days. I’m often upset at how I slave myself so much for such a paltry sum and yet everyday I meet many more who are rewarded for doing so little. Indeed, there are no “Pleases” and “Thank You’s” down from the hill. But the least I want to do is remember that, and reward it, at least on my own little hill… when I finally get it up.
7.10.2006
As Stiff Twin Compasses are Two
So this week, it’s official.
I got an offer last week. To be honest, I was quite surprised it even came. I mean, I’ve never sent out any feelers, and the decision to short list me was just based on one article I contributed and a couple of texts containing the details of the presscon. And all of that was more than a year ago. Not that I’m not grateful. It’s quite a deal, in fact.
So in the coming weeks I’ll file in all that’s due and complete any requirements to make my egress as hassle-free as possible. Oh, and I'll try to borrow something for the last time. I always had a soft spot for the XC90. Sounds just right that I start and end with it.
As for the new place, it’s nothing like the Manila Chronicle or Times offices I remember my Dad taking me to. It’s cramped and dimly lit, mock-ups line the halls, and the walls are neatly lined with Macs of all shapes and sizes. I mean, it’s so clean, so coldly efficient.
It’s been fun doing what I love doing, but I guess it’s foolish to presume I could live off it forever. A lot of older acquaintances I look up to say it’s better that I started off with something I liked doing. That way, when I finally get down to business I’d have no regrets. I always knew that day would come but I didn’t think it’d be this soon. I just hope they’re right.
It’s a strange mix of feelings really. On one hand, I really don’t want to leave, but on the other, I know that I’m only hesitant because I’d miss the cars — which isn’t quite a valid reason for staying. It’s the change really; PC’s to Macs, monthly deadlines to daily, just the news to anything and everything that relates to lifestyle. That’s a mindfuck if I ever saw one.
And finally, there’s a little bit of serendipity lighting the way. The office I’m moving to is right at Tatang’s street in Makati. Mika says all the good vibes are coming my way. I replied with, “Someone up there really loves me.” Talk about signs. This one’s pretty literal. Funny how despite all my protests when I was younger, I end up just like my Dad, and his Dad, and his Dad. Well, not exactly, but you get the picture. Something about it just feels like coming home.
And to those I leave behind, I leave my thanks and offer a promise.
I got an offer last week. To be honest, I was quite surprised it even came. I mean, I’ve never sent out any feelers, and the decision to short list me was just based on one article I contributed and a couple of texts containing the details of the presscon. And all of that was more than a year ago. Not that I’m not grateful. It’s quite a deal, in fact.
So in the coming weeks I’ll file in all that’s due and complete any requirements to make my egress as hassle-free as possible. Oh, and I'll try to borrow something for the last time. I always had a soft spot for the XC90. Sounds just right that I start and end with it.
As for the new place, it’s nothing like the Manila Chronicle or Times offices I remember my Dad taking me to. It’s cramped and dimly lit, mock-ups line the halls, and the walls are neatly lined with Macs of all shapes and sizes. I mean, it’s so clean, so coldly efficient.
It’s been fun doing what I love doing, but I guess it’s foolish to presume I could live off it forever. A lot of older acquaintances I look up to say it’s better that I started off with something I liked doing. That way, when I finally get down to business I’d have no regrets. I always knew that day would come but I didn’t think it’d be this soon. I just hope they’re right.
It’s a strange mix of feelings really. On one hand, I really don’t want to leave, but on the other, I know that I’m only hesitant because I’d miss the cars — which isn’t quite a valid reason for staying. It’s the change really; PC’s to Macs, monthly deadlines to daily, just the news to anything and everything that relates to lifestyle. That’s a mindfuck if I ever saw one.
And finally, there’s a little bit of serendipity lighting the way. The office I’m moving to is right at Tatang’s street in Makati. Mika says all the good vibes are coming my way. I replied with, “Someone up there really loves me.” Talk about signs. This one’s pretty literal. Funny how despite all my protests when I was younger, I end up just like my Dad, and his Dad, and his Dad. Well, not exactly, but you get the picture. Something about it just feels like coming home.
And to those I leave behind, I leave my thanks and offer a promise.
A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning | John Donne
As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
The breath goes now, and some say, No:
So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.
Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears,
Men reckon what it did, and meant;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.
Dull sublunary lovers' love
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.
But we, by a love so much refined That
ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assurèd of the mind,
Care less eyes, lips and hands to miss.
Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to airy thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do.
And though it in the center sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.
7.06.2006
Contrast: A Lesson in Itself
It's been a while. We can forego the heavy machining for today and just munch on some light h'ourderves for thought. Damn, I'm so witty (sarcasm).
My mom had always been opposed to my sister choosing to start work early. She argued that once you started working, you wouldn’t want to go back to school anymore. True enough, she hadn’t felt the impulse to return. I, too, am finding it the same way. My dad has been constantly pestering me to go back to school, pursue a post graduate degree, reminding me of the many opportunities out there. Not to be a snot, but I don’t intend to work off my tuition wiping the Croc Hunter’s poop, nor taking up a language to study in a country our forefathers have tried so hard to fight off. It’s not so much a fear of learning. In contrast, the working environment teaches so much, and on subjects you could never possibly sign up for, except perhaps that odd Grief Management class offered by Ateneo.
Three years on the job and I think I’ve learned quite a lot. It’s a kind of classroom that teaches through practical examples, the lessons you derive only after several activities. No textbooks on it, by the way. In truth, it can all be summed up in one simple word, a word my best bud is rather fond of — contrast.
I ought to have listened to the Sphinx (Mystery Men the movie) and taken his advice more seriously, rather than tongue in cheek.
Anyway, here’s a short list.
If a Mom and Pop diner wants to make it big, it can’t be run by Mom and Pop. It’s got to be liberal, methodical and accepting of change, like McDonald’s.
You’ll always have contempt for someone who has something you don’t have. If you want it, you’ll have to risk losing it.
Class doesn’t come with acquiring riches, it’s not even about acquiring at all. It’s all about what you hold back. A classy man doesn’t have to tell you he’s classy.
Pointing fingers does nothing but hamper productivity and breed bad blood. If it’s your fault, own up to it and learn from it. If it’s someone else’s, let them own up to it and help them get better.
Sometimes the people you hate the most remind you of the ones closest to you.
Life’s too short to be pissed off all the time. 1. People don’t care that you’re pissed, and 2. It doesn’t improve anything. Get over it, for fuck’s sake.
Everyone is plagued by grammatical errors. It all comes out at one point or another.
And a couple of things from a self-help book people told me won’t teach me anything:
It’s not enough to be yourself. You have to be your best self. And that’s a tall order if you haven’t found your best self yet.
Since there’s no gene for coolness or confidence, then being uncool and confident are just bad habits which can be changed with enough guidance.
Alcohol doesn’t change behavior, it just reveals the repressed subconscious, i.e. it’s all you!
The great thing about the heart is that is has no master, despite what reason may think.
Victory belongs to the person with the strongest reality and the most decisive actions.
And last…
It’s not lying. It’s flirting.
My mom had always been opposed to my sister choosing to start work early. She argued that once you started working, you wouldn’t want to go back to school anymore. True enough, she hadn’t felt the impulse to return. I, too, am finding it the same way. My dad has been constantly pestering me to go back to school, pursue a post graduate degree, reminding me of the many opportunities out there. Not to be a snot, but I don’t intend to work off my tuition wiping the Croc Hunter’s poop, nor taking up a language to study in a country our forefathers have tried so hard to fight off. It’s not so much a fear of learning. In contrast, the working environment teaches so much, and on subjects you could never possibly sign up for, except perhaps that odd Grief Management class offered by Ateneo.
Three years on the job and I think I’ve learned quite a lot. It’s a kind of classroom that teaches through practical examples, the lessons you derive only after several activities. No textbooks on it, by the way. In truth, it can all be summed up in one simple word, a word my best bud is rather fond of — contrast.
I ought to have listened to the Sphinx (Mystery Men the movie) and taken his advice more seriously, rather than tongue in cheek.
Anyway, here’s a short list.
If a Mom and Pop diner wants to make it big, it can’t be run by Mom and Pop. It’s got to be liberal, methodical and accepting of change, like McDonald’s.
You’ll always have contempt for someone who has something you don’t have. If you want it, you’ll have to risk losing it.
Class doesn’t come with acquiring riches, it’s not even about acquiring at all. It’s all about what you hold back. A classy man doesn’t have to tell you he’s classy.
Pointing fingers does nothing but hamper productivity and breed bad blood. If it’s your fault, own up to it and learn from it. If it’s someone else’s, let them own up to it and help them get better.
Sometimes the people you hate the most remind you of the ones closest to you.
Life’s too short to be pissed off all the time. 1. People don’t care that you’re pissed, and 2. It doesn’t improve anything. Get over it, for fuck’s sake.
Everyone is plagued by grammatical errors. It all comes out at one point or another.
And a couple of things from a self-help book people told me won’t teach me anything:
It’s not enough to be yourself. You have to be your best self. And that’s a tall order if you haven’t found your best self yet.
Since there’s no gene for coolness or confidence, then being uncool and confident are just bad habits which can be changed with enough guidance.
Alcohol doesn’t change behavior, it just reveals the repressed subconscious, i.e. it’s all you!
The great thing about the heart is that is has no master, despite what reason may think.
Victory belongs to the person with the strongest reality and the most decisive actions.
And last…
It’s not lying. It’s flirting.
6.17.2006
The Science of Staging
Any outside observer will easily conclude that drag racing is an outlaw’s sport. There’s no real thrill to it since you’re going in a straight line, just a brash desire to break the law. Professional drag racing though, those carefully organized with all the proper permits and safety precautions is far from simply driving as fast as you can.
It comes down almost to a science, as to how a car is prepared for one of these races. Careful analysis of the track and its conditions, as well as how a car copes with these with time and wear factored in will produce the best results. Even the very gears of a drag car’s transmission are studied to the very millisecond of advantage it can give. The car’s themselves have to be dedicated so fully to the sport that to use them in any other motorsport that involves anything other than a straight line is unthinkable.
As for the race itself, that too is an exercise in precision. Bracket racing, the latest and most popular variant of drag racing involves dialing in (qualifying) a specific quarter mile time, of which one is not allowed to go below, i.e. if your run is faster than your dial in time, you break out and therefore lose. Naturally, if you run much slower, you also lose. The skill, therefore, lies in consistency.
One of the most critical aspects of bracket racing is staging. Since the Christmas tree (column of stoplights) is powered by infra red sensors, the starting points of both participants require the wheel to cross sensors at one point (meaning it’s ready) and cross another set of sensors (at the start and finish line to start and stop the clock) at another point. The staging area is a small area before the starting line. Yes, the cars don’t actually start at the starting line but rather have some leeway to position themselves. When a car positions itself in this area before the starting line, it is called staging. If it positions itself outside of this area, the race will not start until the participant has repositioned itself in the proper area. Once both cars are positioned, the countdown to the green light begins.
Competitors often anticipate the green, the real green light being the last yellow before it. Any fraction of a second too soon and you trigger the sensors, automatically turning on the red light on your lane. This signifies a disqualification. Herein lies the dilemma. Stage too low and you risk a late start. Stage too high and you risk a jumpstart. The trick is perfecting your reaction time (The time between the green light and your tire crossing the sensor. Perfect reaction time is 0.500 seconds.).
Now when one stages, you can stage high or stage low. Staging high means placing the contact patch of the tire further up the area, closer to the line. Doing this starts the timer as soon as the tires start turning, best for cars with a lot of grip. Staging low means placing the contact patch of the tire farther from the line. This allows the tire to spin a little, and gather some momentum before it starts the timer. It may seems trivial to some but the results speak for themselves in the form of milliseconds — often times the same amount of time it takes to break out. Figuring out how to properly stage yourself allows for more consistent times, less chances of breaking out. You have to position yourself just right, taking shortcomings into account, and using it to your advantage.
And this is where the metaphor comes in. Ever since I’ve started reading up on my little plight, my staging in this little game has been either too high or too low. I can’t seem to find the ideal take off point yet. Consistency: still a large matter of practice, practice, practice. Wheelspin, at this point, is a certainty. And once your positioned, there’s still the anxiety of waiting for the green light, and though it can take only seconds, when you’re in the race, in the game, it seems to last a lifetime. And they say it’s all a relative matter. Unfortunately, all the pros have it down to a science.
It comes down almost to a science, as to how a car is prepared for one of these races. Careful analysis of the track and its conditions, as well as how a car copes with these with time and wear factored in will produce the best results. Even the very gears of a drag car’s transmission are studied to the very millisecond of advantage it can give. The car’s themselves have to be dedicated so fully to the sport that to use them in any other motorsport that involves anything other than a straight line is unthinkable.
As for the race itself, that too is an exercise in precision. Bracket racing, the latest and most popular variant of drag racing involves dialing in (qualifying) a specific quarter mile time, of which one is not allowed to go below, i.e. if your run is faster than your dial in time, you break out and therefore lose. Naturally, if you run much slower, you also lose. The skill, therefore, lies in consistency.
One of the most critical aspects of bracket racing is staging. Since the Christmas tree (column of stoplights) is powered by infra red sensors, the starting points of both participants require the wheel to cross sensors at one point (meaning it’s ready) and cross another set of sensors (at the start and finish line to start and stop the clock) at another point. The staging area is a small area before the starting line. Yes, the cars don’t actually start at the starting line but rather have some leeway to position themselves. When a car positions itself in this area before the starting line, it is called staging. If it positions itself outside of this area, the race will not start until the participant has repositioned itself in the proper area. Once both cars are positioned, the countdown to the green light begins.
Competitors often anticipate the green, the real green light being the last yellow before it. Any fraction of a second too soon and you trigger the sensors, automatically turning on the red light on your lane. This signifies a disqualification. Herein lies the dilemma. Stage too low and you risk a late start. Stage too high and you risk a jumpstart. The trick is perfecting your reaction time (The time between the green light and your tire crossing the sensor. Perfect reaction time is 0.500 seconds.).
Now when one stages, you can stage high or stage low. Staging high means placing the contact patch of the tire further up the area, closer to the line. Doing this starts the timer as soon as the tires start turning, best for cars with a lot of grip. Staging low means placing the contact patch of the tire farther from the line. This allows the tire to spin a little, and gather some momentum before it starts the timer. It may seems trivial to some but the results speak for themselves in the form of milliseconds — often times the same amount of time it takes to break out. Figuring out how to properly stage yourself allows for more consistent times, less chances of breaking out. You have to position yourself just right, taking shortcomings into account, and using it to your advantage.
And this is where the metaphor comes in. Ever since I’ve started reading up on my little plight, my staging in this little game has been either too high or too low. I can’t seem to find the ideal take off point yet. Consistency: still a large matter of practice, practice, practice. Wheelspin, at this point, is a certainty. And once your positioned, there’s still the anxiety of waiting for the green light, and though it can take only seconds, when you’re in the race, in the game, it seems to last a lifetime. And they say it’s all a relative matter. Unfortunately, all the pros have it down to a science.
6.13.2006
Gunblade vs Buster Sword
There's an ongoing debate amongst FF addicts: Gundblade or Buster Sword. Many argue that none can compete with the purity of the Buster Sword. Although more cosmopolitan fans stress that the Gunblade is a beautiful synergy and homage to the old combined with new schools of though with regards to gun dynamics.
After debating with myself for quite a while (or more like convincing myself to swallow my own pride), I plunked down a large wad of cash for a new book — Gunblade. Possibly the largest amount I’ve ever spent on a book not required for class. Mika must be beaming with pride now. I’ll admit I was rather curious. It might even have been the negative criticism that piqued my interest.
Regardless, I have it now. The deeper I get into it, I realize how it’s much more tailored to me… how the handle, so to speak, and weighting is much more tailored to my style. It starts from where I come from, too caught up in writing, and all the elaborate metaphors and flowery words that come with it. It assumes nothing and begins from there, in the typical story intertwined with exposition manner I’m quite fond of.
Not that Buster Sword is a bad book. It just took a lot of prerequisites for granted, and threw all the rules of grammar and good writing out of the window — a terrible read, but educational nonetheless (probably why it never got an ISBN).
It’s sort of like comparing a model car kit to one built from scratch. A model kit has it all neatly laid out for you, all the parts, numbered and sorted, with clear and concise instructions. Scratch, well, it’s just take what you got and put it together, more like internet downloaded instructions — prone to misinterpretation, diagrams from MS-Paint with spelling errors and whatnot.
Naturally, Buster Sword stakes a claim at superiority, dismissing all other sources as inferior and false. Gunblade on the other hand, acknowledges all else, citing them as different paths to the goal. So what’s a guy to do?
At the very least, Gunblade’s a good read. We’ll see if it’s got a few pointers worth pondering. Odds are, I’ll take the best of both. It’s not like they’re competing, just targeting different niches of the same market. The trouble is always translating it all for a conservative market. Of course, the sources always say it’s all in the mind. And that leaves things open for persuasion.
PS. I wanna change this layout. And since I'm terrible with web language (refer to screwed up banner up top if you're using IE), I need someone who can sort it all out. I'll do the banners, just clean it up.
After debating with myself for quite a while (or more like convincing myself to swallow my own pride), I plunked down a large wad of cash for a new book — Gunblade. Possibly the largest amount I’ve ever spent on a book not required for class. Mika must be beaming with pride now. I’ll admit I was rather curious. It might even have been the negative criticism that piqued my interest.
Regardless, I have it now. The deeper I get into it, I realize how it’s much more tailored to me… how the handle, so to speak, and weighting is much more tailored to my style. It starts from where I come from, too caught up in writing, and all the elaborate metaphors and flowery words that come with it. It assumes nothing and begins from there, in the typical story intertwined with exposition manner I’m quite fond of.
Not that Buster Sword is a bad book. It just took a lot of prerequisites for granted, and threw all the rules of grammar and good writing out of the window — a terrible read, but educational nonetheless (probably why it never got an ISBN).
It’s sort of like comparing a model car kit to one built from scratch. A model kit has it all neatly laid out for you, all the parts, numbered and sorted, with clear and concise instructions. Scratch, well, it’s just take what you got and put it together, more like internet downloaded instructions — prone to misinterpretation, diagrams from MS-Paint with spelling errors and whatnot.
Naturally, Buster Sword stakes a claim at superiority, dismissing all other sources as inferior and false. Gunblade on the other hand, acknowledges all else, citing them as different paths to the goal. So what’s a guy to do?
At the very least, Gunblade’s a good read. We’ll see if it’s got a few pointers worth pondering. Odds are, I’ll take the best of both. It’s not like they’re competing, just targeting different niches of the same market. The trouble is always translating it all for a conservative market. Of course, the sources always say it’s all in the mind. And that leaves things open for persuasion.
PS. I wanna change this layout. And since I'm terrible with web language (refer to screwed up banner up top if you're using IE), I need someone who can sort it all out. I'll do the banners, just clean it up.
6.10.2006
Had it All Along
For a while I’ve been wondering what had happened to that Buster Sword I’ve been brandishing. Lots of talk about it, but no real word after that. In more recent events, I’ve finally revived one of my bugs after a long hiatus. Or would coma be more appropriate? Rest assured both are related.
Funny thing about the old things that you have. You keep them for a reason and you don’t really realize what it is until you’ve tried them again after a long while. Like a good old friend who’s gone away for a while, yet when he returns, things are just as if he never left. No tampuhan, no catching up to do, just a matter of pressing the resume button.
Kind of like the Beetle. I’ve been delaying reviving her for quite a while. Partly because she’s got no garage, and partly because the cars I get to borrow these days are exponentially better. Yet after a rough week, even driving her in heavy crawling EDSA traffic managed to put a smile on my face, searing heat and dodgy brakes notwithstanding. The new cars still can’t emulate the thud of a thick door and the chug chug of a flat foor.
As for the Buster Sword? Well, I thought I had tucked it away neatly, sheathed it if you will, for use in real warfare. I guess it’s one of those things that you can never really sheath. It stays with you constantly, a sidearm you draw. A situation calls for it and you reach slice and return, almost instinctively. I thought a comment the book had mentioned about the techniques had been exaggerated — about it being like martial arts, able to get you out of sticky situations, or fight your way through crowds. That too, after all, ought to be instinctive.
And as I often say, hindsight is 20-20. Perhaps I haven’t put them aside after all. I might have carried them with me all the way.
Funny thing about the old things that you have. You keep them for a reason and you don’t really realize what it is until you’ve tried them again after a long while. Like a good old friend who’s gone away for a while, yet when he returns, things are just as if he never left. No tampuhan, no catching up to do, just a matter of pressing the resume button.
Kind of like the Beetle. I’ve been delaying reviving her for quite a while. Partly because she’s got no garage, and partly because the cars I get to borrow these days are exponentially better. Yet after a rough week, even driving her in heavy crawling EDSA traffic managed to put a smile on my face, searing heat and dodgy brakes notwithstanding. The new cars still can’t emulate the thud of a thick door and the chug chug of a flat foor.
As for the Buster Sword? Well, I thought I had tucked it away neatly, sheathed it if you will, for use in real warfare. I guess it’s one of those things that you can never really sheath. It stays with you constantly, a sidearm you draw. A situation calls for it and you reach slice and return, almost instinctively. I thought a comment the book had mentioned about the techniques had been exaggerated — about it being like martial arts, able to get you out of sticky situations, or fight your way through crowds. That too, after all, ought to be instinctive.
And as I often say, hindsight is 20-20. Perhaps I haven’t put them aside after all. I might have carried them with me all the way.
5.24.2006
Will the River Deliver?
The worst thing about being first out in a poker game is it gets you thinking. You’re out, alone, and practically kicking yourself for that last bogus call. You can’t seem to sum up the courage to distract the others’ concentration and so you zone out into your own world imagining the possibilities of the turn and river.
Did I play too tight? Or was I too aggressive? Should I have played that folded hand? And what about that Ace 8? You really wonder if you’ve made the wise move or it’s really just the luck of the draw.
Perhaps it’d be better to be out than hanging on by a thread, winning a small pot or two just to prolong the agony. You keep hoping for chances you’re not sure will come at the same time second guessing everyone else.
Sometimes the ponder goes even deeper than that. You’ll, no doubt, reach the point when you start to compare your life thus far to a certain hand.
Of all of them, the one that seems to stick is an Ace 8. It’s an odd hand, really. Halfway between here and there, it’s playability depending heavily on the situation, or perhaps more on if you’re one to take chances or not.
Maybe it was wise to fold on the flop, not having paired it up with anything. Or would you let the fish hooks bait you in, hoping the river will deliver that second lifesaving bullet. It ain’t that deep in the pit, but it will certainly take some aggressive play to fish it out of the spot it’s in. And there’s always the chance that everyone will call.
Any wise player will fold versus pockets. I guess that’s where the optimist in me comes out. Here I am hoping the river will deliver, while every one seems to be paired up either at the pre-flop, flop or the turn. And here I am still hoping the river will deliver.
Did I play too tight? Or was I too aggressive? Should I have played that folded hand? And what about that Ace 8? You really wonder if you’ve made the wise move or it’s really just the luck of the draw.
Perhaps it’d be better to be out than hanging on by a thread, winning a small pot or two just to prolong the agony. You keep hoping for chances you’re not sure will come at the same time second guessing everyone else.
Sometimes the ponder goes even deeper than that. You’ll, no doubt, reach the point when you start to compare your life thus far to a certain hand.
Of all of them, the one that seems to stick is an Ace 8. It’s an odd hand, really. Halfway between here and there, it’s playability depending heavily on the situation, or perhaps more on if you’re one to take chances or not.
Maybe it was wise to fold on the flop, not having paired it up with anything. Or would you let the fish hooks bait you in, hoping the river will deliver that second lifesaving bullet. It ain’t that deep in the pit, but it will certainly take some aggressive play to fish it out of the spot it’s in. And there’s always the chance that everyone will call.
Any wise player will fold versus pockets. I guess that’s where the optimist in me comes out. Here I am hoping the river will deliver, while every one seems to be paired up either at the pre-flop, flop or the turn. And here I am still hoping the river will deliver.
5.19.2006
Nomad So To Speak
It’s been quite a while. What with all the moving I’ve been undergoing, it’s quite difficult to sit down and get some thoughts together. I’ve been quite the nomad lately, and have, for now, settled back into where I started — the old house.
Yet the moving itself was quite a different experience. It’s a different kind of discipline knowing that you only have yourself to rely on when it comes to keeping safe whatever valuables you have at home. It’s always on your mind. It’s that gnawing feeling that tells you you might have left your stove on, or have forgotten to look the door. Or that water could be overflowing in the tank, each droplet, echoing the ding of coins adding to that enormous water bill. Or wonder if the dogs have enough food and water so they don’t decide to tear up furniture in a fit of boredom. It pesters you until you’re inevitably forced to return home early and make sure everything is safe, and to kill that damn anxiety. It’s the same anxiety that cancels weekend plans, urges you to sit back and enjoy a beer, find novel ways of amusing yourself and while the hours away. Why spend to go out when staying in is costing you just as much?
It’s all quite contrary to what I was steadily growing adept at a couple of weeks before — escapism, a fear of home of sorts — anything to avoid return to the domestic chaos. You find all sorts of excuses to avoid the inevitable. An hour extension turns into two, weekend plans turn into overnight, and gimmicks slowly creep into morning so that much of the day is spent sleeping through the daily household routines. Sleepover invites will be taken up with little discretion, if only we were still twelve, and any and all acts couldn’t be misconstrued as any other nature.
In both cases, home ceases to be a home, but rather just a place to rest. It’s a halfway house on a long pilgrimage — a temporary shelter from the enduring pain of the trek.
I’ve rehearsed a certain speech countless times in my head in the hopes that the day I finally deliver it will be the end of my woes — a search answered by discovery. It’s not so much the physical comfort I seek but the balm that only a certain manner, a certain trust, a certain anticipation can knead.
Perhaps I’m just nitpicking and ought to learn to appreciate more. But you still can’t help but why wonder why a part of it just isn’t quite inviting.
Yet the moving itself was quite a different experience. It’s a different kind of discipline knowing that you only have yourself to rely on when it comes to keeping safe whatever valuables you have at home. It’s always on your mind. It’s that gnawing feeling that tells you you might have left your stove on, or have forgotten to look the door. Or that water could be overflowing in the tank, each droplet, echoing the ding of coins adding to that enormous water bill. Or wonder if the dogs have enough food and water so they don’t decide to tear up furniture in a fit of boredom. It pesters you until you’re inevitably forced to return home early and make sure everything is safe, and to kill that damn anxiety. It’s the same anxiety that cancels weekend plans, urges you to sit back and enjoy a beer, find novel ways of amusing yourself and while the hours away. Why spend to go out when staying in is costing you just as much?
It’s all quite contrary to what I was steadily growing adept at a couple of weeks before — escapism, a fear of home of sorts — anything to avoid return to the domestic chaos. You find all sorts of excuses to avoid the inevitable. An hour extension turns into two, weekend plans turn into overnight, and gimmicks slowly creep into morning so that much of the day is spent sleeping through the daily household routines. Sleepover invites will be taken up with little discretion, if only we were still twelve, and any and all acts couldn’t be misconstrued as any other nature.
In both cases, home ceases to be a home, but rather just a place to rest. It’s a halfway house on a long pilgrimage — a temporary shelter from the enduring pain of the trek.
I’ve rehearsed a certain speech countless times in my head in the hopes that the day I finally deliver it will be the end of my woes — a search answered by discovery. It’s not so much the physical comfort I seek but the balm that only a certain manner, a certain trust, a certain anticipation can knead.
Perhaps I’m just nitpicking and ought to learn to appreciate more. But you still can’t help but why wonder why a part of it just isn’t quite inviting.
4.22.2006
Eternity of Indecision
One of the most frustrating things in Hold ‘Em is waiting for the right set of cards. They say every player has their own favorite two. It could be anything from the ever-popular and omnipotent big slick to something as simple as Fish Hooks to something as trivial as Jack-Queen. Pocket pairs are always appreciated but we should be so lucky to get them frequently. Then there are the others.
They can mean a lot of things to different people. A 7-9 off suit could be a blessing for some, or a curse to others. How high or low your stack is could further distort its playability. Regardless of how you interpret it, any player will always come across a questionable couple, at least once in a game.
The most agonizing time to have it would be midway through the game, far from being the chip leader nor next to be booted out. You’re neither searching nor in pursuit. There’s no real pressure to take it all the way, nor is there to simply fold. But one can’t help but examine the possibilities. Sure it could connect here and there to make a wonderful flush. Who knows, the lowest of the two could be the first of a quad. While there’s quite a deal of strategy involved, you still can’t eliminate the element of chance.
Much like pocket pairs, some couples work straight out the gate. Others can be strong before the flop, before slowly crumbling under circumstance. Others seem like an odd fit, hardly anything you’d expect to work, yet somehow even stronger after the test of time.
You really begin to wonder what the secret bond is between the two, if there’s a way of finding it, a simple formula you have to adhere to. Trouble is, there’s no real consistency. It changes from hand to hand and flop to flop.
Which brings us back to that moment when you slowly turn them over to see what you’ve got, breathe in for a moment and think — is this worth taking all the way to the top? It can only be one of two things; a ticket to the finish, or an invitation into heartbreak hotel. It’d be foolish (or at least, that’s what they say) to play with what you feel. It’s a game of chance, after all. You can weigh the consequences for an eternity, deciding which will yield the largest returns.
"Is this worth keeping, or do you toss it all and wait for something better?"
There's no insurance that something better will, indeed, come along. Only one thing’s for certain, you won’t know until you place your stack on the table. Maybe you can bluff your way through it. Maybe they'll find you out. Myabe something better will turn up. For the moment though, you're stuck in the present, with a decision at hand. Suddenly that eternity of indecision seemed like such a nice place.
They can mean a lot of things to different people. A 7-9 off suit could be a blessing for some, or a curse to others. How high or low your stack is could further distort its playability. Regardless of how you interpret it, any player will always come across a questionable couple, at least once in a game.
The most agonizing time to have it would be midway through the game, far from being the chip leader nor next to be booted out. You’re neither searching nor in pursuit. There’s no real pressure to take it all the way, nor is there to simply fold. But one can’t help but examine the possibilities. Sure it could connect here and there to make a wonderful flush. Who knows, the lowest of the two could be the first of a quad. While there’s quite a deal of strategy involved, you still can’t eliminate the element of chance.
Much like pocket pairs, some couples work straight out the gate. Others can be strong before the flop, before slowly crumbling under circumstance. Others seem like an odd fit, hardly anything you’d expect to work, yet somehow even stronger after the test of time.
You really begin to wonder what the secret bond is between the two, if there’s a way of finding it, a simple formula you have to adhere to. Trouble is, there’s no real consistency. It changes from hand to hand and flop to flop.
Which brings us back to that moment when you slowly turn them over to see what you’ve got, breathe in for a moment and think — is this worth taking all the way to the top? It can only be one of two things; a ticket to the finish, or an invitation into heartbreak hotel. It’d be foolish (or at least, that’s what they say) to play with what you feel. It’s a game of chance, after all. You can weigh the consequences for an eternity, deciding which will yield the largest returns.
"Is this worth keeping, or do you toss it all and wait for something better?"
There's no insurance that something better will, indeed, come along. Only one thing’s for certain, you won’t know until you place your stack on the table. Maybe you can bluff your way through it. Maybe they'll find you out. Myabe something better will turn up. For the moment though, you're stuck in the present, with a decision at hand. Suddenly that eternity of indecision seemed like such a nice place.
4.13.2006
Big Slick
For those who don't play Hold 'Em, Big Slick is arguably one of the best hands you can get in poker. Ace and King are two of the highest cars in the deck, and if they're of the same suit, they'll set you up for a mean Two Pair, Killer Full House, or the best 5 cards of all, a Royal Flush. It's a killer combo; one you'd be wise not to mess with.
Like the Ten Commandments, the Seven Deadly Sins stem from just two roots. These two, in themselves, are just different results of the same original state. They’re all a matter of possessions, and varying degrees of maintaining them or acquiring more. No two sins illustrate these more accurately than Pride and Greed. Pride is a matter of protecting what exists. Greed is a matter of acquiring more, irregardless of what’s already there.
Lately, it seems I’ve been guilty of both. Pride because I’ve been reveling in what some can perceive as a personal accomplishment. It’s changed me positively on some fronts, but negatively in others. Yet here I am, still rejoicing and rather smug about it. Greed because, despite the fortunes I’ve had so far, the temptation to exploit it further has been too great to resist at times. The trouble with greed is that you’re never satisfied with what you have. Pride only reinforces the idea that you could get more. Those in tandem with the five other sins… well, you get the picture.
Indeed the others are just as deadly or addictive. But it’s the combo that gets you, some perhaps more effectively than others. Boy isn’t that Satan a devious fellow. So who's up for poker?
Like the Ten Commandments, the Seven Deadly Sins stem from just two roots. These two, in themselves, are just different results of the same original state. They’re all a matter of possessions, and varying degrees of maintaining them or acquiring more. No two sins illustrate these more accurately than Pride and Greed. Pride is a matter of protecting what exists. Greed is a matter of acquiring more, irregardless of what’s already there.
Lately, it seems I’ve been guilty of both. Pride because I’ve been reveling in what some can perceive as a personal accomplishment. It’s changed me positively on some fronts, but negatively in others. Yet here I am, still rejoicing and rather smug about it. Greed because, despite the fortunes I’ve had so far, the temptation to exploit it further has been too great to resist at times. The trouble with greed is that you’re never satisfied with what you have. Pride only reinforces the idea that you could get more. Those in tandem with the five other sins… well, you get the picture.
Indeed the others are just as deadly or addictive. But it’s the combo that gets you, some perhaps more effectively than others. Boy isn’t that Satan a devious fellow. So who's up for poker?
4.05.2006
Half the Distance
They say that jokes are half meant; a subtle way of sounding your intentions without the ramifications of, well, intent. The benefit is it will always be taken likely. Any awkwardness that arises will alert you to possible conflicts. Thank goodness it can always be brushed aside in favor of humor.
The best times for these kinds of jokes are in light and liberal company. They’ll laugh along and even play along if they’re game enough. Just as long as things don’t get carried away. It’s all too easy for one thing to be followed by another. Before you know it, you’ve tumbled down a slippery slope, with little or no recollection of how you’ve rolled down so far.
Situations like these are an odd mix of pleasant surprise and shock. On one hand you appreciate the other side for playing along. On the other, there was just a little too much revealing enthusiasm involved in it. Two half-hearted intentions meeting in the middle are still a half each short — the distance between them is there for a reason.
A certain scientific theory states that any destination can never be reached. Because you can cover half, and half, and half... and still have an infinite number of halves in between.
Perhaps the most frightening is the awkward silence that follows realization. Reverting to the light and funny path will only highlight the truth that’s already spilled. Jumping onto the other path that’s been gouged will be a bumpy preempted journey indeed.
While one is thankful for the path that’s been haphazardly put up, you can’t help but be wary of the expectations that come with it. The first few meters may be as smooth as freshly laid asphalt but who knows how far that will stretch. Inevitably, the bumps that impeded intention will undoubtably resurface.
As much as I’d like to thank a certain teacher for showing me the joy of pleasant surprises, I can’t help but wonder if coincidence is all it really is.
The best times for these kinds of jokes are in light and liberal company. They’ll laugh along and even play along if they’re game enough. Just as long as things don’t get carried away. It’s all too easy for one thing to be followed by another. Before you know it, you’ve tumbled down a slippery slope, with little or no recollection of how you’ve rolled down so far.
Situations like these are an odd mix of pleasant surprise and shock. On one hand you appreciate the other side for playing along. On the other, there was just a little too much revealing enthusiasm involved in it. Two half-hearted intentions meeting in the middle are still a half each short — the distance between them is there for a reason.
A certain scientific theory states that any destination can never be reached. Because you can cover half, and half, and half... and still have an infinite number of halves in between.
Perhaps the most frightening is the awkward silence that follows realization. Reverting to the light and funny path will only highlight the truth that’s already spilled. Jumping onto the other path that’s been gouged will be a bumpy preempted journey indeed.
While one is thankful for the path that’s been haphazardly put up, you can’t help but be wary of the expectations that come with it. The first few meters may be as smooth as freshly laid asphalt but who knows how far that will stretch. Inevitably, the bumps that impeded intention will undoubtably resurface.
As much as I’d like to thank a certain teacher for showing me the joy of pleasant surprises, I can’t help but wonder if coincidence is all it really is.
3.31.2006
Caught Despite the Pokerface
It’s been a while. Let’s talk poker.
Anyone not familiar with the game will say it’s a lure into the ruthless jaws of a gambling addiction. Ask any seasoned pro, or even avid player, and they’ll say it’s the art of trickery. The act of fooling someone into thinking something else seems to be its biggest appeal.
As easy as it sounds, it’s a difficult task to master. Amateurs will often overlook your slight tells. More talented plays will analyze everything. And those that have potential will fervently examine their game as objectively as possible and make the effort to improve. But the only constance in poker is the tell. It can be concealed to a certain extent but never truly eliminated.
I’m still trying to identify each and every one of my tells, like any ambitious poker player would. It’s hard to bluff, let alone concealing it once you’ve been discovered. All of the typical symptoms manifest themselves, all the more betraying any crumbling defenses.
Perhaps the most effective in recent games has been flattery and comedy. Not the most likely choice of weapons, but nonetheless deadly. Also a more unique quality to Filipino games is the ‘kantyawan’ aspect. Subject yourself to this battery round after round and you’ll find that it’s the psychological equivalent of fire arrows — small and seemingly harmless, but deadly in large numbers.
The best practice is always conversation, as I’ve found out the hard way earlier today. The table had called my bluff regarding a matter and I was trying my best, feigning embarrassment, to avoid admission. But they could tell, nevertheless. Perhaps it was my cheeky smile, or maybe because I took too long to put the chips on the table.
Anyone not familiar with the game will say it’s a lure into the ruthless jaws of a gambling addiction. Ask any seasoned pro, or even avid player, and they’ll say it’s the art of trickery. The act of fooling someone into thinking something else seems to be its biggest appeal.
As easy as it sounds, it’s a difficult task to master. Amateurs will often overlook your slight tells. More talented plays will analyze everything. And those that have potential will fervently examine their game as objectively as possible and make the effort to improve. But the only constance in poker is the tell. It can be concealed to a certain extent but never truly eliminated.
I’m still trying to identify each and every one of my tells, like any ambitious poker player would. It’s hard to bluff, let alone concealing it once you’ve been discovered. All of the typical symptoms manifest themselves, all the more betraying any crumbling defenses.
Perhaps the most effective in recent games has been flattery and comedy. Not the most likely choice of weapons, but nonetheless deadly. Also a more unique quality to Filipino games is the ‘kantyawan’ aspect. Subject yourself to this battery round after round and you’ll find that it’s the psychological equivalent of fire arrows — small and seemingly harmless, but deadly in large numbers.
The best practice is always conversation, as I’ve found out the hard way earlier today. The table had called my bluff regarding a matter and I was trying my best, feigning embarrassment, to avoid admission. But they could tell, nevertheless. Perhaps it was my cheeky smile, or maybe because I took too long to put the chips on the table.
3.07.2006
Those Steep Old Ruts
Old habits die hard. They’re like ruts gouged out by knobby tires designed to dig into the soft clay of the unconscious.
That’s why there’s quite a distinction between those that drive on tarmac and those that drive on dirt. A dirt track, contrary to the asphalt, is an ever-changing circuit. Each run is etched in its surface, until it bears the scars of all who passed, like the favorite oak of deer. Steering is unreliable, so one must turn with commitment and intention, long before it is due. Each mistake only reinforces the one before it, and soon you can find yourself on the same narrow path as before.
The problem with ruts is they get deeper with frequency and time. Each one is engraved into existence — deep and influential but certainly not the fastest way through. Just the most convenient. A pass exposes the damp clay to the air, hardening it, and making an unfortunate habit out of a mistake. There are gentle hills on the edges, inviting into the mystery beyond their doughy crests. The edges are deceptively soft, and give way with weight into the steep walls of the trench that lead into its hardened bank. One can’t be blamed, as they’re so easy to fall into. Simply teeter at the edge and gravity pulls you in, forcing you through something all too familiar.
Blazing a new trail through is much more difficult. You’ll have to cross over old habits, in slow, arduous and unsteady progress. In time the new groove will harden, baring the same depth and influence as the one before it, and slicing through the bad ones. But fresh efforts are still soft, and until it hardens with frequency and time, one is still as susceptible to the old inviting habits. For the mean time, vigilance and persistence will have to pay off. At least until the air dries the soft clay.
That’s why there’s quite a distinction between those that drive on tarmac and those that drive on dirt. A dirt track, contrary to the asphalt, is an ever-changing circuit. Each run is etched in its surface, until it bears the scars of all who passed, like the favorite oak of deer. Steering is unreliable, so one must turn with commitment and intention, long before it is due. Each mistake only reinforces the one before it, and soon you can find yourself on the same narrow path as before.
The problem with ruts is they get deeper with frequency and time. Each one is engraved into existence — deep and influential but certainly not the fastest way through. Just the most convenient. A pass exposes the damp clay to the air, hardening it, and making an unfortunate habit out of a mistake. There are gentle hills on the edges, inviting into the mystery beyond their doughy crests. The edges are deceptively soft, and give way with weight into the steep walls of the trench that lead into its hardened bank. One can’t be blamed, as they’re so easy to fall into. Simply teeter at the edge and gravity pulls you in, forcing you through something all too familiar.
Blazing a new trail through is much more difficult. You’ll have to cross over old habits, in slow, arduous and unsteady progress. In time the new groove will harden, baring the same depth and influence as the one before it, and slicing through the bad ones. But fresh efforts are still soft, and until it hardens with frequency and time, one is still as susceptible to the old inviting habits. For the mean time, vigilance and persistence will have to pay off. At least until the air dries the soft clay.
2.27.2006
Past and the Phantasms Who Keep It
Recent political events (and I'll admit, some personal regret) often have people comparing present times to the past. "Back then, this happened..." and several post hoc ergo ad hoc fallacies soon follow. It’s easy to reminisce because memory isn’t an accurate recording of the past but a distillation of its highs and lows. Memory, as I’ve read, works best with extremes and exaggerations. You will always have a phrase that contains “outrageous,” “millions,” or any possibly mind-numbing quantitative figure.” Facts, after all, are just boring and can’t quite retain their place in our memories as figures that require careful contemplation to digest.
Even the good Doc discourages nostalgia. “To go back is to go back to all the issues that facilitated the end to begin with, reasons that still exist… The reality is that when you go back, you go back to a dirty slate.” Returning to the past is a manifestation of pride, the sting of a failed conquest that begs resolution.
Yet experience as we know it fortifies itself by the knowledge gained from past experiences. Hindsight is, after all, 20-20. All too tasty is the temptation to return with the knowledge we are equipped with now, often postulating as to how things would have turned out with the knowledge we currently possess. But that, in itself, is a fallacy.
H.G. Wells, himself, confesses that the events that preceded one’s time travel cannot be altered, for without, one could not return to the past in the first place. Thus, the timeline itself will find a way of repairing itself in such a case.
Temporality is composed of so many instances of now, only one of which comes into existence. Physical time travel has already been proven impossible. Metaphysical is another matter entirely.
The past itself is ruled by an all too strict set of conditions that can never accurately be recreated. Each time we return to it, we only see a shred, a ghost, if you will, of what has transpired. It is a translucent image, with the backdrop of experience shining opaquely through it. And just as the very details of that image are slipping, so too is our grasp of the phantasm that tears at old wounds. Regret will be our only keepsake of it.
“Time is the Enemy,” Kerima Polotan says, and we are ill equipped to vanquish it. Perhaps we never will be.
Even the good Doc discourages nostalgia. “To go back is to go back to all the issues that facilitated the end to begin with, reasons that still exist… The reality is that when you go back, you go back to a dirty slate.” Returning to the past is a manifestation of pride, the sting of a failed conquest that begs resolution.
Yet experience as we know it fortifies itself by the knowledge gained from past experiences. Hindsight is, after all, 20-20. All too tasty is the temptation to return with the knowledge we are equipped with now, often postulating as to how things would have turned out with the knowledge we currently possess. But that, in itself, is a fallacy.
H.G. Wells, himself, confesses that the events that preceded one’s time travel cannot be altered, for without, one could not return to the past in the first place. Thus, the timeline itself will find a way of repairing itself in such a case.
Temporality is composed of so many instances of now, only one of which comes into existence. Physical time travel has already been proven impossible. Metaphysical is another matter entirely.
The past itself is ruled by an all too strict set of conditions that can never accurately be recreated. Each time we return to it, we only see a shred, a ghost, if you will, of what has transpired. It is a translucent image, with the backdrop of experience shining opaquely through it. And just as the very details of that image are slipping, so too is our grasp of the phantasm that tears at old wounds. Regret will be our only keepsake of it.
“Time is the Enemy,” Kerima Polotan says, and we are ill equipped to vanquish it. Perhaps we never will be.
2.21.2006
Arguing with the Lack Thereof
"Never argue with idiots. They’ll drag you down to their level and beat you with experience. "
Now it’s always tempting to take their arguments, deconstruct it, as any learned critic of literature would, and illustrate point by point why they are wrong. Now it sounds like a fairly logical approach. Given a clearly thought out explanation, perhaps even with a numerated bibliography, and a couple of facts and statistics thrown in, you could get yourself published in the monthly scientific journal.
But you see, idiots don’t dwell in the realm of logic. Theirs is a land of stubbornness and apathy. So much for even ground and fair play. Sometimes it’s just not worth the effort. They won’t get it anyway.
Worse, they'll invalidate your well thought of points of information with their shallow pool of knowledge. Then they'll proceed to drown you in a pool of post hoc ergo ad hoc fallacies.
Call me a snob, but logical argument really ought to be taught in schools.
You’re better off fighting them with the weapon they’re not even aware they're wielding — apathy. Nothing reinforces one’s inadequacy better than the cold front of indifference.
Now it’s always tempting to take their arguments, deconstruct it, as any learned critic of literature would, and illustrate point by point why they are wrong. Now it sounds like a fairly logical approach. Given a clearly thought out explanation, perhaps even with a numerated bibliography, and a couple of facts and statistics thrown in, you could get yourself published in the monthly scientific journal.
But you see, idiots don’t dwell in the realm of logic. Theirs is a land of stubbornness and apathy. So much for even ground and fair play. Sometimes it’s just not worth the effort. They won’t get it anyway.
Worse, they'll invalidate your well thought of points of information with their shallow pool of knowledge. Then they'll proceed to drown you in a pool of post hoc ergo ad hoc fallacies.
Call me a snob, but logical argument really ought to be taught in schools.
You’re better off fighting them with the weapon they’re not even aware they're wielding — apathy. Nothing reinforces one’s inadequacy better than the cold front of indifference.
2.06.2006
Aspiring to Blindness
Only those who’ve gone to the same school for sixteen years straight will get this. Each segment of education, i.e. grade school, high school, and college, it’s hammered into you that each level prepares you for the next, until you’re eventually prepared for the ‘big world’. Grade school prepares you for high school, high school prepares you for college, and so on. And near the end of each, you’re reminded, whether as motivation or consolation, that the preparation, as hard as it presently is, will never be enough.
We had a college student, once, come over and share with us his experience of college, having, himself, been a true blue. He told us that the tight deadlines, difficult math problems (he was from ME, the quintessential statement of overachievement), and over zealous religious prefects, could hardly prepare us for the monumental challenges of college. I couldn’t disagree more when I eventually got to college. And the cycle repeated itself as many employed alumni had returned to the alma mater with stories of the world Down from the Hill. Yet again, we were told what we had now wasn’t enough; that we were pampered by anyone’s standards. Cynical from the repetitive and hard sell cycle, I learned to shove it into the back of my mind, preferring instead, to believe that I was fortunate to be here.
It wasn’t so much the lack of preparation, perhaps that struck me, but the wrong kind. The school, being the pinnacle of morals that it is, had neglected to inform us that the strong disciplinary measures imposed on us for all 16 years would be absent once we left.
We were taught to make a difference. That these morals we grew by would be the foundations of a better future. Call it egotistism, messianic complex or what have you. You’d be kinder had you gone through this masturbation of an education yourself.
At first you’d blame your alma mater, your immediate environment, and perhaps your cursed sheltered upbringing. Your failure to grasp the sheer chaos around you slows you down. You need time to take it in, perhaps even more to absorb the fact that it’s just not fair. You envy those that have had it harder than you, already immune to what is still striking you as shocking. You don’t know how to operate in a world that doesn’t appreciate hard work, much less honesty and truth. Perhaps in time, you will forget the little bubble that you once viewed as home, will tear away the walls that once skewed the periphery into a perfect world. With a little experience, you will eventually learn to cope with how everything really looks, feels, and operates. It’s not pretty, but you don’t have much of a choice. And soon you’ll look back with nostalgia at simpler and more ignorantly blissful times.
It’s not like the school could have prepared you for it if it wanted to. Lord knows what the parents would think, let alone the religious figures that have chosen the vocation which your parents are only too eager to patronize. After all, with such a prestigious education, you’d be well equipped to face the harsh reality that awaits outside the towering steel gates. Many of us are still mesmerized by romantic images of turning swords into plowshares, of the pen being mightier than the sword.
I’m still thankful for those times I was thrown headlong into what used to fear. I still carry those lessons with me up until now; the tears more than the reassuring words, the pain, more than the explanation behind it. It’s so much being thankful for what you presently have, but for seeing what’s real without the obstructions. You’d forgive them for aspiring to be blinded.
We had a college student, once, come over and share with us his experience of college, having, himself, been a true blue. He told us that the tight deadlines, difficult math problems (he was from ME, the quintessential statement of overachievement), and over zealous religious prefects, could hardly prepare us for the monumental challenges of college. I couldn’t disagree more when I eventually got to college. And the cycle repeated itself as many employed alumni had returned to the alma mater with stories of the world Down from the Hill. Yet again, we were told what we had now wasn’t enough; that we were pampered by anyone’s standards. Cynical from the repetitive and hard sell cycle, I learned to shove it into the back of my mind, preferring instead, to believe that I was fortunate to be here.
It wasn’t so much the lack of preparation, perhaps that struck me, but the wrong kind. The school, being the pinnacle of morals that it is, had neglected to inform us that the strong disciplinary measures imposed on us for all 16 years would be absent once we left.
We were taught to make a difference. That these morals we grew by would be the foundations of a better future. Call it egotistism, messianic complex or what have you. You’d be kinder had you gone through this masturbation of an education yourself.
At first you’d blame your alma mater, your immediate environment, and perhaps your cursed sheltered upbringing. Your failure to grasp the sheer chaos around you slows you down. You need time to take it in, perhaps even more to absorb the fact that it’s just not fair. You envy those that have had it harder than you, already immune to what is still striking you as shocking. You don’t know how to operate in a world that doesn’t appreciate hard work, much less honesty and truth. Perhaps in time, you will forget the little bubble that you once viewed as home, will tear away the walls that once skewed the periphery into a perfect world. With a little experience, you will eventually learn to cope with how everything really looks, feels, and operates. It’s not pretty, but you don’t have much of a choice. And soon you’ll look back with nostalgia at simpler and more ignorantly blissful times.
It’s not like the school could have prepared you for it if it wanted to. Lord knows what the parents would think, let alone the religious figures that have chosen the vocation which your parents are only too eager to patronize. After all, with such a prestigious education, you’d be well equipped to face the harsh reality that awaits outside the towering steel gates. Many of us are still mesmerized by romantic images of turning swords into plowshares, of the pen being mightier than the sword.
I’m still thankful for those times I was thrown headlong into what used to fear. I still carry those lessons with me up until now; the tears more than the reassuring words, the pain, more than the explanation behind it. It’s so much being thankful for what you presently have, but for seeing what’s real without the obstructions. You’d forgive them for aspiring to be blinded.
1.27.2006
Life and Self-depreciating Times
Perhaps it’s the sheer contrast of the items in my (short) reading list that are responsible for all the confusion. The System paired with Questionable Content preach of polar extremes, and the game we’re all unfortunately trapped in, being the band that they share. No sooner is the System keen to banish the moral issue than QC is to bring it up, though both in a comedic manner. The undertones, too, are far more serious, underscoring the half meant jokes like subtitles of a foreign movie. The System, oddly enough, was the more meta-fictional of the two.
Interesting too that the choice of wit and humor is used to attack what would normally be an awkward or ponderous subject, making light matter of a phenomenon that easily plagues us all. It’s it light and funny attitude, self-depreciating at times, as the good book says, that keeps it in good company, or in QC’s case, good following.
The same holds true for a book I’m reading now — life and times of and editor who’s been through hell and back, and with a relative I’m coming to know even better now, though he’s departed, through his words.
No better is it best exemplified than in a song I’ve recently come across.
“Dress it up with the trappings of love. I’ll be captivated…”
Interesting too that the choice of wit and humor is used to attack what would normally be an awkward or ponderous subject, making light matter of a phenomenon that easily plagues us all. It’s it light and funny attitude, self-depreciating at times, as the good book says, that keeps it in good company, or in QC’s case, good following.
The same holds true for a book I’m reading now — life and times of and editor who’s been through hell and back, and with a relative I’m coming to know even better now, though he’s departed, through his words.
No better is it best exemplified than in a song I’ve recently come across.
“Dress it up with the trappings of love. I’ll be captivated…”
1.17.2006
Passive, Aggressive, Recessive
In high school, we were taught about how genes and how two kinds: dominant and recessive, are responsible for how traits are passed, or perhaps chosen is the more appropriate term. The dominant gene will always overpower the recessive gene, taking precedence even in the presence of the recessive gene, hence the name. The recessive gene only surfaces when in the company of other recessive genes. It is a tacit, brooding gene that can live peacefully among the dominant ones. It will never overpower the dominant gene and can only reign in its absence. But before I continue, this story needs a little segue (Yes, we’re meta-fictional today).
Of all my romantic encounters, I’ve only been truly honest to one of them. Of course, had I known that that kind of honesty would warrant hours of therapy in the future, I might have chosen a more deceitful approach. Yet hindsight, as they say, is 20-20. And my philosophy professor will continue to argue that while the past cannot be changed, its meaning is as adaptable as evolution itself.
Never mind about my logic in telling her this. What I did say was that I was somewhat petrified of the thought of commitment. A foolish thing to say, I know, especially at quite a raw state (of maturity). Looking back, I realize that I was, indeed, half right. Many years (and scars charged to experience) later, it’s not commitment itself I fear but something much farther down the road. Every nerd, even at the instinctive level knows and fears this fact of life. In fact, anyone who hasn’t resorted to physical displays of dominance for lack thereof knows why — these are the recessives.
Now in this day and age, it goes without saying that we have, in fact, defied the laws of evolution, and that ‘survival of the fittest’ no longer exists, at least not on the physical plane. ‘Survival of the fittest’ has crossed over into the fiscal plain, fittest being the most financially capable (or perceptive at least) of sustaining life.
Yes, life's a bitch in the urban jungle. Recessives continue to be recessive while the dominants have moved on to less tangible displays of dominance. It’s still very animal kingdom-y if you ask me.
I’ve long been aware of my recessive state, not to mention been made aware of it. Yet growing up, I've never been endowed with the tools to overcome it, and have since made conscious efforts to reverse it. Identity, however, is bestowed right down to DNA, and cannot be revoked nor replaced. And even on the fiscal or perceptive plane, I find myself, through the stinging bite of experience, lacking.
Let’s keep all my skeletons in the closet and Freudian sub-consciousnesses securely subconscious. What I speak of is an inevitability and not just a possibility. Being a recessive, how long do you really think it will take before the better half will seek a member of the dominant faction? A fulfilled life, after all, by nature’s definition, is passing on one’s genes to the next generation (one capable of sustaining life, remember?) and beginning yet another cycle. Instinct, a facet of ourselves we have failed to reprogram, dictates it.
Indeed I’m afraid of failure, and with good reason. A factory defect, as my workplace calls it, has no other solution than replacement.
I choose not to begin for the sole reason that I know it will not continue, or perhaps will, but with serious impairment to mobility, as most factory defects, if unchecked, proceed.
Friends will easily call it pessimism. Yet, time and time again, my so-called doomsayers prove themselves right. Chronicles of history, novels, and even the realm of fiction do well to highlight the writing on the wall. Watch the recent movie loosely based on another movie, loosely based on a rumor, and you’ll see the stark difference between dominants and recessives.
Maybe I’ve lost my naïve romanticism. Maybe I’ve come to realize that “Kiss me you passive aggressive fool!” just doesn’t cut it anymore. And neither will “Sorry.”
They just don't go away that easily.
Of all my romantic encounters, I’ve only been truly honest to one of them. Of course, had I known that that kind of honesty would warrant hours of therapy in the future, I might have chosen a more deceitful approach. Yet hindsight, as they say, is 20-20. And my philosophy professor will continue to argue that while the past cannot be changed, its meaning is as adaptable as evolution itself.
Never mind about my logic in telling her this. What I did say was that I was somewhat petrified of the thought of commitment. A foolish thing to say, I know, especially at quite a raw state (of maturity). Looking back, I realize that I was, indeed, half right. Many years (and scars charged to experience) later, it’s not commitment itself I fear but something much farther down the road. Every nerd, even at the instinctive level knows and fears this fact of life. In fact, anyone who hasn’t resorted to physical displays of dominance for lack thereof knows why — these are the recessives.
Now in this day and age, it goes without saying that we have, in fact, defied the laws of evolution, and that ‘survival of the fittest’ no longer exists, at least not on the physical plane. ‘Survival of the fittest’ has crossed over into the fiscal plain, fittest being the most financially capable (or perceptive at least) of sustaining life.
Yes, life's a bitch in the urban jungle. Recessives continue to be recessive while the dominants have moved on to less tangible displays of dominance. It’s still very animal kingdom-y if you ask me.
I’ve long been aware of my recessive state, not to mention been made aware of it. Yet growing up, I've never been endowed with the tools to overcome it, and have since made conscious efforts to reverse it. Identity, however, is bestowed right down to DNA, and cannot be revoked nor replaced. And even on the fiscal or perceptive plane, I find myself, through the stinging bite of experience, lacking.
Let’s keep all my skeletons in the closet and Freudian sub-consciousnesses securely subconscious. What I speak of is an inevitability and not just a possibility. Being a recessive, how long do you really think it will take before the better half will seek a member of the dominant faction? A fulfilled life, after all, by nature’s definition, is passing on one’s genes to the next generation (one capable of sustaining life, remember?) and beginning yet another cycle. Instinct, a facet of ourselves we have failed to reprogram, dictates it.
Indeed I’m afraid of failure, and with good reason. A factory defect, as my workplace calls it, has no other solution than replacement.
I choose not to begin for the sole reason that I know it will not continue, or perhaps will, but with serious impairment to mobility, as most factory defects, if unchecked, proceed.
Friends will easily call it pessimism. Yet, time and time again, my so-called doomsayers prove themselves right. Chronicles of history, novels, and even the realm of fiction do well to highlight the writing on the wall. Watch the recent movie loosely based on another movie, loosely based on a rumor, and you’ll see the stark difference between dominants and recessives.
Maybe I’ve lost my naïve romanticism. Maybe I’ve come to realize that “Kiss me you passive aggressive fool!” just doesn’t cut it anymore. And neither will “Sorry.”
They just don't go away that easily.
1.09.2006
Of Cars and Courtship
Sometimes you have to just immerse yourself in testosterone — nothing like a good day of having your balls hanging from your chin to clear your head. Or perhaps there’s more to grabbing the wheel and purposely hanging your life by a thread that puts things in perspective. Whatever the case, there’s always been an inseparable bond between men and cars that women, save for a rare few, will never truly understand.
Handling a car takes an odd mix of finesse and brutality in order to extract its true potential. Finesse in the way you shift the car’s weight around, and brutality in order to fight the forces of gravity from all directions, and of course your own self preserving instincts. Only lately did you need the muscle to fight the car’s good sense as well. They (the cars) are growing up so fast.
Yet track days and courtship aren’t that far apart. It’s all a matter of controlling the flow of things. Men would like to think that they control the courtship, but it’s all under the controls of the laws of attraction. The same goes with cars as well. While we’d like to think we have absolute control of the car, it’s actually physics that dictates where the car goes, regardless, in some occasions, of where the front tires are pointing. Draw out all the vectors of the forces and you'll realize just how miniscule our control really is. The driver’s job is merely that of shifting weight, as the wise Dr. Clunky says. It’s a matter of shifting the weight to create favorable conditions for us to manipulate the car to do what we really want.
That being the case, you realize that there’s very little control us men have over anything. We just hope that we have enough mettle and skill to shift things to more a favorable position. That, perhaps is where a lot of experience, and a very sensitive derriere (for driving) comes in handy. As for the other case, it’s a sensitivity that’s not as instinctive as we’d like it to be. The signs are there, however, just not brightly lit, nor reflective at night.
Handling a car takes an odd mix of finesse and brutality in order to extract its true potential. Finesse in the way you shift the car’s weight around, and brutality in order to fight the forces of gravity from all directions, and of course your own self preserving instincts. Only lately did you need the muscle to fight the car’s good sense as well. They (the cars) are growing up so fast.
Yet track days and courtship aren’t that far apart. It’s all a matter of controlling the flow of things. Men would like to think that they control the courtship, but it’s all under the controls of the laws of attraction. The same goes with cars as well. While we’d like to think we have absolute control of the car, it’s actually physics that dictates where the car goes, regardless, in some occasions, of where the front tires are pointing. Draw out all the vectors of the forces and you'll realize just how miniscule our control really is. The driver’s job is merely that of shifting weight, as the wise Dr. Clunky says. It’s a matter of shifting the weight to create favorable conditions for us to manipulate the car to do what we really want.
That being the case, you realize that there’s very little control us men have over anything. We just hope that we have enough mettle and skill to shift things to more a favorable position. That, perhaps is where a lot of experience, and a very sensitive derriere (for driving) comes in handy. As for the other case, it’s a sensitivity that’s not as instinctive as we’d like it to be. The signs are there, however, just not brightly lit, nor reflective at night.
