We all engage in rather strange, inane hobbies.  Girls don’t understand why boys spend hours playing online RPGs, boys don’t understand why girls spend so much time at Marcella buying barettes.  Men have sticky handkerchiefs, and women have those handy neck massagers at the back of their underwear drawers.  But gender aside, the oddest hobby of them all has to be smoking.

   It takes me two pesos and seven minutes to smoke a cigarette, which robs me blind of two pesos and seven minutes off my life.  Like many smokers, I have lost touch with my seven-minute hobby: I don’t know, and I don’t care for, why I smoke.  All I know is that a cigarette is a good way to kill seven minutes.

   As a hobby, smoking is extremely strange and completely inane.  Drug addicts can justify snorting cocaine: family problems, personal setbacks, depressive episodes.  Nymphomaniacs can blame their perverted sexual behaviors because they have hyperactive strata in their id complexes.  Smokers don’t… no wait, smokers can’t.

   Some smokers give all sorts of reasons for smoking, and to be honest, I don’t buy into them.  Flavor-wise, cigarettes are extremely unappealing: there is no “flavor” to speak of when it comes to sucking a burning rope.  We smokers have diminished oxygen capacities, which means that we easily get tired.  The myriad health problems associated with smoking makes tobacco a biological weapon in itself.  More people have died from cigarette smoking than from World War II.

   But for every reason that there is to stop smoking, there is no good reason to continue smoking.  The only problem is that I can’t quit just yet.  I could care less.

   Yesterday, my good friend Bernard threw a despedida bash, before he heads off to Singapore.  Just this morning, my good friend Nash texted me to say that it’s her last day in the Philippines before she moves to Canada.  For the first time in my life, I felt all choked up: in a few short days, even I would have to say goodbye to people close to me.

   It doesn’t have to be this way: had I not been confronted with the realities of life, I would have absolutely no reason to say out loud my least-favorite word in the English language.  Every goodbye is a life-changing experience that requires you to start over.

   And over.  For every “goodbye” you make, you have to say “hello” to at least ten other people.

   We twentysomethings are a sad lot when it comes to music: we were the generation who listened to 98 Degrees, The Moffatts, and yes, Hanson.  I’ve always defined “Mmmbop” along the lines of being “ba duba dop ba, do bop, ba duba dop ba do bop, ba duba dop ba do.”

   I didn’t have a boy band phase: in high school, I was a big fan of Alanis Morissette.  I still get chills listening to “Uninvited,” my own personal anthem is still “Hand in My Pocket,” and my idea of a love song is “Right Through You.”  Yup, old-school Alanis, late-1990s grunge.  But nonetheless, I was privy to 1990s boy band music.

   If there’s any one band that exemplifies ”boy band,” it’s definitely the Backstreet Boys.  So for this romantic experiment, here are Backstreet Boys answers to love’s toughest questions…

If your SO is telling you that she wants to eat at a McDonald’s, but you really want to eat out at Italianni’s because it’s a special day:

(Tell me why)
Ain’t nothing but a heartache
(Tell me why)
Ain’t nothing but a mistake
(Tell me why)
I never wanna hear you say
“I want it that way…”

Your SO was waiting for you at the fancy French pancake place for breakfast and you happen to be having a midnight affair, so she calls you up:

Listen baby I’m sorry
Just wanna tell you don’t worry
I won’t be late, don’t stay up
And wait for me
I’ll say again, you’re drying out
My battery it’s low
So you know, we’re going to a place nearby
I gotta go 

It’s your monthsary, and your girlfriend wants that Swarovski crystal-studded handbag.  You blew your money on last night’s drinking session:

But my love is all I have to give
Without you I don’t think I can live
I wish I could give the world to you
But love is all I have to give…

Your girlfriend is preparing adobo, but just at the last minute, she realizes she doesn’t have vinegar in her cupboard.  It’s 11:00 PM, and the sari-sari store is closed for the night.  The next open store is a taxi ride away:

I’d go anywhere for you
Anywhere you asked me to
I’d do anything for you
Anything you want me to
Your love’s as far as I can see
That’s all I’m ever gonna need
There’s one thing, for sure I know it’s true
Baby I’d go anywhere for you 

You’re a premature ejaculator:

I feel in heaven when I look in your eyes
I know that you are the one for me
You drive me crazy ’coz you’re one of a kind
I want your lovin’, and I want it right now 

Your and your SO got into a terrible fight that ended up with you having a curling iron hurled straight into your eyes:

I tried to hide it so that no one knows
But I guess it shows
When you look into my eyes
What you did and where you’re coming from
(I don’t care…)
As long as you love me baby…

It’s your first time to have sex, but your girlfriend realizes you have a rather small penis: 

I’m here with my confession
I got nothing to hide no more
I don’t know where to start
But to show you the shape of my heart…

Alternatively, you realize that your rather small penis can’t fit into her rather loose, sloppy vagina:

All you people can’t you see, can’t you see
How you’re love’s affecting our reality
Everytime we’re down, you can make it right
And that makes you larger than life 

You don’t care that your girlfriend comes home with the stench of alcohol in her breath.  Strangely enough, she’s beautiful when she’s drunk:

Everytime I breathe I take you in
But my heart beats again
Baby I can’t help it
You keep me drowning in your love
Everytime I try to rise above
I’m swept away by love
Baby I can’t help it
You keep me drowning in your love

Your girlfriend happened to see Derek Ramsay, or Jon Avila, or any other hunk, and she asked for his autograph:

I deserve a try honey just this once
Give me a chance and I’ll prove this all wrong
You walked in you were so quick to judge
Honey he’s nothing like me 

You suddenly realize you’re gay, but you can’t tell your girlfriend straight out:

Baby, please try to forgive me
Stay here, don’t put out the glow
Hold me now don’t bother
If every minute it makes me weaker
You can save me from the man that I’ve become

   I still write “Roman Catholic” whenever I’m asked to fill out a field named “Religion” in a form, but I’m not exactly a Church-going Roman Catholic.  I didn’t attend Ash Wednesday rites last week, and I had pork chops for lunch today.  Well, so much for Lent.

   Lent gives way to some rather… fishy, takes to meals.  A couple of years ago, my brother’s birthday fell on Good Friday: he altered the usual family recipe for spaghetti Bolognese and used canned salmon instead of ground beef.  In last year’s Panagbenga Festival, I had the rare opportunity to have Lent-friendly shawarma, which was made out of vegemeat and tuna.

   I know all about the sacrifice Jesus made to save humankind from sin, but I’m not a fish eater: I’m allergic to many kinds of fish.  Catholic practice is no longer as strict as it was before, but I still fall into that 18-59 age group who should, in the practice of their faith, observe abstinence.  Besides, nobody is allergic to tofu.

   I think that God would forgive me for being quite recalcitrant about fasting and abstinence.  Sometimes, I think that many Christians have problems with their faith because they shed their horns and grow their halos come the Lenten season.

   I went to UP Baguio yesterday to check things out, to see what happened to my school.  It felt great to be back home, but I was greeted with the most disgusting thing to ever grace the beautiful lobby of the IB’s…

   Shit, USC elections na naman.

   Don’t get me wrong: in one of my past lives, I was a member of the UP Baguio University Student Council.  While I’m not exactly the best-functioning member of the USC, I did my part in making the USC work.  I am merely a footnote to some of the greats: Ace Quijada, Ben Fernandez, Deo Onda.  If anything, I would probably be remembered for being the councilor who came from the oddest of places: not because I came from Outcrop, or because I was a 5th year student running for a 4th year seat, but because I deride campus politics.  To stand on that stage a couple of years ago to deliver my “You have nothing to lose but your chains” gimmick-speech is one of the low points of my stay in college.

   In the perfect world, I have nothing at stake now when it comes to the welfare of the UP Baguio student community: I ran under ACS a few years ago, but I do not have strong ties to ACS.  But this is not the perfect world: maybe this old dog still reserves the right to teach the puppies the way of serving the studentry.  UP Baguio faces different problems and issues now compared to what we experienced before.  Perhaps even bigger problems, now that this year’s USC will be saddled with the onus of being the “Centennial Council.”

*     *     * 

   If there’s any single ax I can grind against campus politics, it’s that nobody that I know of will stand for student-centered politics.  There’s a lot of non-issues - for all intents and purposes, bullshit - being hurled around in questions like oil price hikes, the legitimacy of GMA, political killings, and so on during the conduct of an SC election.  So freaking what?  I’ve been in UP for such a long time to know about what the issues of the students are: long lines at the photocopying machines, the lack of running water, the absence of drinking fountains, the dearth of tambayans. 

   I think that at least one student will agree with me that he or she could care less about what a particular candidate thinks about Jun Lozada if he or she can’t flush the toilet at the 20’s.  Or have a proper tabo, not the kind of pail fashioned out of a gallon bottle.  Non-issues?  I don’t think so.

   Laugh all you want about a person who will propose to give you a roll of toilet paper in every comfort room, but given the chance, I will vote for that person.  Student-centered politics means, to play on Theda Skocpol, “Bringing the student back in.”  That, I think, is a catchy way to put it, or perhaps a “students-first” policy.  To me, the inalienable right to an equitable and affordable education is just as inalienable as the right of a student to drink clean water.  The inalienable right of a student group to stay on campus beyond extremely restricting curfew hours is just as inalienable as this very same student’s right to have a safe, properly-lighted campus.  The inalienable right of a student to have a “smoke-free UP” is just as inalienable as this very same student’s right to have a trash can inside a classroom.

   If you don’t have those things at your disposal, maybe yes, you do suffer from campus repression.

*     *     * 

   Ganito lang naman sa akin, mga ading sa UP Baguio.  Isyu ng estudyante ang intindihin ninyo: kung di niyo mabigyan ng solusyon ang mga “mabababaw” na isyu, di niyo mabibigyan ng solusyon ang malalalim na isyu.  Kung aasa na lang kayo sa kakanta at huhubad na estudyante sa miting de avance, umasa na rin kayo na mapagkakatiwalaan ninyo ang kandidatong ito na kakanta at huhubad pagdating sa trabaho sa SC.

   Galing sa isang matanda na na tulad ko, sana’y alalahanin ninyo na isang taon ng buhay-estudyante niyo ang inilalaan ninyo sa susunod na Konseho ng Mag-Aaral.  Huwag ninyong sayangin ang boto ninyo.  Kung bakit binibigyan ko ng halaga ang malinis na tubig at mga lugar na puwede kayong tumambay ay dahil nung nariyan pa kami, hindi namin naranasang magkaroon ng ganoong mga bagay.

   Iboto ninyo ang estudyanteng magsisilbi sa interes ninyo bilang mga estudyante: hindi sa interes ng kanino man, partido man ito o iba pa.

   Unawain ninyo: ang isang Iskolar ng Bayan ay estudyante rin, na may pangangailangang pang-estudyante.

   For those of you who are lovestruck this Valentine’s Day, here’s a lyrics post.

Title of the Song (A Rhetorical and Structural Analysis of Boy Group Ballads of the Mid- to Late-1990s)
Da Vinci’s Notebook
The Life and Times of Mike Fanning

Declaration of my feelings for you
Elaboration on those feelings
Description of how long these feelings have existed
Belief that no one else could feel the same as I

Reminiscence of the pleasant times we shared
And our relationship’s perfection (a-hwu-ah)
Recounting of the steps that led to our love’s dissolution
Mostly involving my unfaithfulness and lies

Penitent admission of wrongdoing
Discovery of the depth of my affection
Regret over the lateness of my epiphany

Chorus
Title of the song
Naïve expression of love
Reluctance to accept that you are gone
Request to turn back time
And rectify my wrongs
Repetition of the title of the song

Enumeration of my various transgressive actions
Of insufficient motivation
Realization that these actions led to your departure
And my resultant lack of sleep and appetite

Renunciation of my past insensitive behavior
Promise of my reformation (ooh…)
Reassurance that you still are foremost in my thoughts now
Need for instructions how to gain your trust again

Request for reconciliation
Listing of the numerous tasks that I’d perform
Of physical and emotional compensation

Repeat chorus

Acknowledgment that I acted foolishly
Increasingly desperate pleas for your return
Sorrow for my infidelity (Sorry, sorry)
Vain hope that my sins are forgivable
Appeal for one more opportunity
Drop to my knees to elicit crowd response
Prayers to my chosen deity
Modulation and I hold a high note…

Repeat chorus to fade

   For us single types, Valentine’s Day is “Singles’ Awareness Day.”  I take this as an insult: we are aware of our singlehood for 365 days a year.  Now just because you people have dates, carry roses around like herpes, and gnaw on your chocolate bars like obsessive-compulsive plague-carrying rats, doesn’t mean that we should be “aware” that we don’t.

   We who don’t have dates on Valentine’s Day have more important things to attend to: we can ponder upon the consequences of the shooting of East Timor President Jose Ramos-Horta, we can reflect on the anniversary of the 2005 terror attacks that took place in Makati.  I propose a toast to the philosopher and sociologist Max Horkheimer, the critical theorist who wrote “Eclipse of Reason,” who celebrates his 113th birthday today.

   See, you Valentine’s Day-celebrating idiots don’t have the monopoly of “owning” a single day in the calendar.  If it takes you that one day to tell your significant other that you love him or her, if it takes you that one day to give gifts or to make each other feel special, and if it takes you a red-letter day in a calendar to remind you that you are in a commitment you have a serious relationship problem.

   So hooray for being single.

   Something smells fishy.  For one, Jun Lozada ’s version of “the truth” has yet to be backed up by hard, solid evidence.  For two, Senators are grilling Lozada like bad barbecue for hours on end.  For three, no government official has yet to stand to say, “Hey, we’re going after the wrong man.”  Had I been the chairman of the Senate committee hearing out the NBN-ZTE fiasco, I would have let Lozada go right now and sent a subpoena to First Gentleman Mike Arroyo the very next day.  Then I’d send for the President herself.

   I’m not saying that I’m supporting Lozada.  I admire Lozada for owning up to his own faults, but I feel that he’s not telling the public the stone-cold truth.  The day Lozada comes into a Senate investigation bearing contracts is the day I will stand behind him.  But I feel for the man: the Senate investigation on the NBN-ZTE deal is fast turning into the new national embarrassment.  The kind of embarrassment that makes an EDSA IV very, very possible.

   However, we must be reminded that a change in leadership is not the reason why people troop to EDSA whenever the need arises.  A regime change is a consequence of EDSA: this is the reason why Erap Estrada still prattled about being “the true President” of the Philippines following EDSA II.  Going to EDSA is an expression of dissatisfaction, of discontent, the collective sentiment of a people pissed off with the government.  EDSA is to say, “We’ve had enough,” period.  Not, “We’ve had enough, so we want so-and-so to be in Malacañang.”  It baffles me to no end that someone as intelligent as Sen. Miriam Santiago would reduce EDSA to a regime change.

   But as far as the NBN-ZTE probe is going, something smells fishy.  As much as Jun Lozada is telling what he knows of the truth, the Senate has - in my view - reached a dead end in him.  Nobody’s seeing Benjamin Abalos or Romulo Neri being grilled for ten straight hours, which is a bit odd: probing Lozada further is a dead end.

   I say, let Lozada go, and go after the big fish.

* - apologies to Dr. Seuss

   I don’t believe in luck or serendipity or anything, but I’m sometimes tempted to believe that omens and good fortune come in all the right places.  If anything, I think that good karma won me my first job.

   I can barely pick my way around Ortigas Center, so I decided that the shortest route to the office building would be the corporate headquarters of San Miguel Corporation.  It turned out to be a bad idea, since I could have saved myself a few steps by not going there at all.  It was 10 AM: I was getting a bit sweaty, and my boots took their toll on my feet.  And I was damned nervous.

   Then an old beggar woman approached me.  “Sir, palimos naman po, pambili lang po ng bigas,” she begged.  In this land of tall buildings and John Gokongwei, she stood in stark contrast to the Ortigas trend of business casual.  If she looked that thin, I could only imagine the sight of her children.

   For the few seconds that I dug around my pockets for spare change, I think we stood in stark contrast.  There I was, dressed in the smartest way I could muster with blue jeans, trying to make a place for myself in this world.  There she was in her faded blouse, her old skirt, and her tattered sandals that you might as well consider her barefoot.  I was begging for a job, she was begging for spare change.

   With the five bucks I gave her out of my way, I entered the office expecting a nightmare.  As it turned out, I was only there to sign a contract: I’m employed.

   I don’t know exactly what got me my job, but I do know of one thing.  Fortune smiled upon me that day, and I’ll always remember that crosswalk near San Miguel Corporation… and that woman who got me my first job.

   Fine: I’m now working for The Man.  At least for now, I have a place in the corporate world of Manila.  Yup, I am now part of the capitalist mainstream: eight-hour days, business casual, permanent wedgies.  For all intents and purposes, I am a sellout.  But hey, it’s decent work: all I have to do is blog.

   The job title is “writer,” but a few friends of mine here in the Metro have a term for it: “corporate blogger.”  I like the sound of “corporate.”  But with that said, I sure as hell am going to miss writing at a leisurely, no-deadline pace in Internet cafés at Baguio City.  No more silver Coke Light cans, in this land of RC Cola and Pepsi.

   Of course, this is not the end of The Marocharim Experiment: it’s just that people who read my blog everyday are going to have to get used with entries on weekends, whenever I can.  You’ll get to read a helluva lot about Manila, about life at work, and the occasional entry charged with sexual allusions, considering the dress sense here.

   There are some projects coming for TMX, but I’m going to keep my mouth shut for now.

   Something tells me that this is not the end of an era: this is the beginning of a whole new adventure.