Tag Archives: The Daily Post

Prized possession

Prized possession [1]

Describe an item you were incredibly attached to as a child. What became of it?

When I was 7 or 8, my mother took me with her to visit a friend of hers, who happened to be the mom of one of my classmates. During the visit, an orange bike was in the garage. One of its training wheels was missing and there were several hints of previous nasty falls. My mom told me to check it out, but because I was shy and embarrassed that I wanted the bike so much, it took several encouraging words before I actually went up to it.

After getting a snack and listening to the adults talk, my mom stood up and asked me if I liked the bike. I said yes. With a mischievous smile she said we’re taking it home because she had already bought it for me.

I loved that bike. It was both a ticket to freedom and a fun means to get from point A to point B. It was summer when I first got it and you could just imagine what sort of shenanigans and nasty falls I had gotten into. I remember pedaling furiously toward an incline [2], only to miss it by a few inches, hit the gutter, and fly over the bike and into the sidewalk.

I used it for my first ‘job’ delivering newspapers around the neighborhood.[3] I used it to flee from chasing dogs, from ornery old people, and from other real and imagined monsters.[4]

I don’t remember exactly what became of the bike – though I do remember that time when I tried to climb a sand mound using it.[5] I remember tightening the chain by myself, fixing the brakes, and taking the tires to the vulcanizing shop with my dad, among other things. I loved it, but I’m pretty sure it suffered the fate that happens to most childhood stuff: I outgrew it and moved on to a bigger bike.

Anyway, last Saturday, I bought a bike. My first bike in 15 or so years. I love it, but it doesn’t quite have the same magic as that first scratched up, one-training-wheel-less, orange wonder. It has its own magic though, as (I’d like to believe) all bikes do.

Mars Kingdom Freestyle Folding Bike
This, but in blue.

1. Writing prompt from The Daily Post.
2. I was fully intending to use it as a ramp, because, you know Excitebike.
3. This made me quite adept at riding a bike while steering with one hand and balancing a stack of newspapers on the other.
4. This, on the other hand, taught me how to ride really fast – and how to use slippers as emergency brakes.
5. IThis involved another flying incident, needless to say.


Sliced bread

Sliced bread [1]

Most of us have heard the saying, “That’s the best thing since sliced bread!” What do you think is actually the best thing since sliced bread?

There are tons of inventions that I thank the powers and minds that be for – indoor plumbing, the Internet, sandwiches, Wikipedia  [2], online banking/shopping/bills payment, the Automatic Transmission, and Mr. Muscle All-Around Cleaner, among other things. The best though? If I sit down and really think about it, the absolute best thing for me is Telecommuting. In my case, this is otherwise known as work-from-home, freelancing, working-in-my-rumpled-bed-clothes-and-my-hair-is-a-mess-contained-within-a-dirty-scrungie.

For reference, this is my home desk:

Foldable Den of Evil
Step into my office.

Back in 2009, I had just resigned from my office job and had taken the leap into the black hole that is freelancing. I thought I was prepared. With my back pay, I had bought a new desktop PC and had an Internet connection installed at home. A few months later, I realized that I was not prepared. Not prepared at all. I had made a terrible mistake in thinking that the work would come to me and not the other way around. I survived through the charity of friends, who pointed me toward paying gigs and other productive ventures. By 2010 though, I realized I was too fond of eating three times a day to ignore the unfortunate state of my finances. I went back to corpo. By 2011, I had had enough of it again. That time, however, I made sure I was prepared. /end flashback

So, telecommuting. I’ll walk you though my day. I wake up at around 2 PM-ish – 12, if I went to bed early because of day time errands. My commute involves walking to the kitchen, plugging in the router (it’s conveniently on the way), putting the electric kettle on, and fixing myself a cup of coffee – my own version of non-alcoholic jiggle juice courtesy of Kopiko.

I unfurl my desk, which I sometimes call my foldable Den of Evil, fire up my laptop, a big, black beast of a machine, and swirl my coffee while I check emails. I listen to music and sing at the top of my lungs when I’m alone and Remi’s at the office.

I start writing, really writing, at around midnight when the world around me is sound asleep. It’s lonely, yes. But that’s the price I pay for convenience, I guess. Writing, in itself, is a lonely sort of endeavor, the kind where it’s just you, a torch if you’re lucky, and a vast sea of trees that you somehow need to navigate in the dead of night. Still, I count myself lucky to have found something that I really like doing. You know, there’s a certain joy in liking what you do – or at least, liking what you do enough that you don’t want to kill yourself after work.

I find myself lucky too, that I found somebody who forgives my hours and my seemingly carefreelancer ways.

1. Writing prompt from The Daily Post.
2. Do you remember homework BEFORE Wikipedia? I do. Dewey Decimal system and all.

Ode to a playground

Ode to a playground [1]

A place from your past or childhood, one that you’re fond of, is destroyed. Write it a memorial.

According to a friend, I existed almost exclusively in the South – Southern Metro Manila, that is. Las Pinas was pretty much my playground, specifically a small subdivision called Sterling Life Homes. The subdivision itself is nestled in a clump of other subdivisions and whenever people asked me where I lived, I’d just rattle off the names of the surrounding places – Pamplona Park, Remarville, Philamlife Village, Patricia Homes – and they’d know the general location.

Las Pinas City, if you feel the need to imagine it, is a collection of villages and subdivisions – a passel, if you will, of girly-named communities (i.e. Pilar Village, Angela Village, and the aforementioned Patricia Homes). [2] It almost feels like it was overrun by a developer bent on subdividing an entire city at some point. Wait. Oh right, it totally was. It was the starting point of Camella’s and Manny Villar’s plans for world domination, one identical townhouse at a time.

Anyway, back to Sterling. Like all other suburbias at the time, Sterling was a quiet and homey place. Kids played in the streets, disappearing for lunch and siesta at noon, but still got tanned to a crisp. We walked, biked, ran everywhere on those streets. My father would pass by in his tricycle, bearing passengers in and out of the subdivision and he’d nod at me or hand me and kuya some coins for merienda. The basketball court, whenever the bigger kids were at school or elsewhere, was ours to play in. My memories of it mostly contain sections of the court where the concrete had buckled under the strain of giant burrowing roots, rusty swing sets under the giant trees, and the peeling paint on the wooden backboards.

I must admit, my most vivid and fondest memories of the old playground include punching a playmate’s nose (of course it bled but he never told on me, God bless him and his ideas of machismo) and throwing a rock at a little bully’s head (of course it bled and the little brat told on me, but my grandmother, God bless her, hid me and dealt with the wrath of his mom). They had it coming, if you asked that nine year old tomboy.

I’m sure the playground is still there, though some of the vacant lots we had used for hide and seek and langit-lupa have been turned into townhouses.

What isn’t there any more, or at least not as I remember it, is the house itself. A fire took it in the wee hours of the morning in the summer before I attended college. I don’t care to recount that depressing tale here, but if you’re curious, then you can find it here.

Anyway, I don’t exist exclusively in the South any more, but sometimes I miss those days of carefree adventures and afternoon games. I miss trying to sneak into the house using a small hole in the old sari-sari store we had. I have outgrown holes the size of bond papers (letter-sized) as well as sneaking into the house. Now it’s bills, dues, and assortments of fees. The side effect of adulthood, perhaps. Still, like that guy in the Twilight Zone episode Walking Distance, we have to learn to look ahead to find happiness in the places where we haven’t looked and once in a while, look back at the past with fondness.

1. Writing prompt from The Daily Post.
2. BF Resort, one of the bigger villages, despite not having a girly name named its streets after beauty queens.


Musical [1]

What role does music play in your life?

I am what most people would call an audiotard. In 2006, I was still listening to Air Supply, the Backstreet Boys, Avril Lavigne, and Bread. Yes. It was THAT bad.

When I was 8 or 9, Tito Rey, my father’s kumpare stayed with us for a couple of months. He brought with him two things, chess, which I played with such enthusiasm back then, and the Beatles, which I play with enthusiasm still. When he left, he presented me with the complete anthology in cassette tapes. I’m not sure what happened to those tapes, but I’m afraid they may have perished in the house fire that took everything in 2001.

Flashforward to 2007, and my friends had taken my musical re-education upon themselves. Rica introduced me to the emo bands, you know, Goth make-up, bleeding angst, and pants so tight I hoped they had no plans of procreating. Oh, and the hair! I caught a younger cousin sporting a haircut like that around the same time, and I accompanied him immediately to the barbershop. I also bought him acetone and supervised while he cut and de-colored his nails. “Sure you can play the music,” I had told him. “But find your own style.” My titas, his mother included, loudly hoped that I’d take him to a department store for new pants too, but I had to leave him with something, God bless him.

Rica also introduced me to Jason Mraz, and in 2008 he provided me with the perfect anti-lovesong to play in the background during one of the worst breakups ever.

I played and sung it until I was hoarse.

In 2010, Mabie introduced me to Sugarfree. In 2011, the band broke up. I had played their albums enough by then to feel like I was experiencing another bad breakup.

Around that time, I had been on a collision course, one that had taken me completely by surprise. It had been brewing for a while, sure, but the first time I realized that not only is a giant asteroid heading for my world, at a trajectory that can best be described as “straight at my ass”, but also that I wanted it to hit was when Mabie took Remi and me to watch a screening of the movie Once, with Glen Hansaard and Marketa Irglova.

The year before (2010, September), I had joined Mabie in a day of Misery, and Remi had to drive us home. Mabie fell asleep in the backseat, and Remi introduced me to The Cardigans. She promised to make me a mixtape to round out my re-education and 7 months later, she did give me one.

To answer your question though, let’s go back to 2005. I was on an ill-fated out of town trip with my Happy Friends. The van’s radio and air conditioning were shot, and we only brought 2 CDs – Nina Live! and MYMP – to a 5-hour trip to Batangas. After the upteenth replay of Piano in the Dark, I was wondering how soon I could die of heatstroke. We stopped at the only bank we could find, its ATM was stuck in the age before digital printing, and fanned ourselves while we took turns getting money. One Happy Friend was checking her phone and this song filled the air:

Suddenly, all was well in the world. We were in no danger of killing each other, we were okay. We were more than okay, we were singing, dancing, laughing at a stretch of highway in Batangas. All was well in the world. [2]

1. Writing prompt from The Daily Post.
2. Other credits: Lei gave me JPop – and eventually Nihonggo. Mabie, the music pusher, tried pushing Urbandub, but I was still too torn over the Sugarfree to like them.

Dearly departed

Dearly departed [1]

Write your own eulogy.

Should we begin? Is this thing on? (Taps the mic, it squeals a high pitched answer and everybody winces.) Whoops. Sorry guys.

Ehem. Well, I’m not sure why Rio asked me to do this, she knew I’m as bad at public speaking as she was. Remember that one time when somebody thrust a microphone into her hands and asked her to thank a room full of people for coming to a launch? She said thank you about 30 times. She had blanched and was so visibly mortified – after she was saved from saying any more thank yous, she fled to the balcony and immediately lit one up. She could have been trying to smoke two on each hand at the rate she was pulling on that cig.

Sir, don’t look at me that way. If Rio was here she’d understand that I need this cigarette right now. She’s the type who understands – even when she doesn’t, she’ll try to or at least seem like she does. She’s the friend you call at 3 AM in the morning to ask for help in disposing a body. You can pick her up at her house, shovel already in hand; she’ll pry the truth off you while she digs. She was the kind who worries, not about the things you tell her, but the things you don’t.

She’d have blushed at that. The girl didn’t know how to take a compliment. She did, however, know how to take a punch.

You know, excuse me, I promised her I wouldn’t cry. That bitch. She’s a Buffalo wing you know. Crispy and spicy on the outside, soft and chewy on the inside. She cries like a baby while watching movies, especially when Ellie died in Up. She had wanted to be somebody’s Ellie, and I like to think that she was.

She was as stubborn as a mule, had the personal hygiene of a college dude, and took stupid risks. She was rude and abrasive and mean and was always ready to fight for her friends.

So yeah. That’s that. Here’s to you, friend, lover, daughter. You’ll be missed you bitch.

1. Writing prompt from The Daily Post.

I got skills

I got skills [1]

If you could choose to be a master (or mistress) of any skill in the world, which skill would you pick?

I’ve thought about this before – you know, as a fall back if the writing thing, being a penmonkey for hire, doesn’t quite pan out. I’ve also thought about this during times when the words don’t come quite as easily as I’d like. [2]

Moving on. I’ve always thought that I’m a jack-of-all-trades-master-of-none. That’s not a compliment. I am not tooting my horn. For me, being very good at one thing beats being okay at several things. Why? Hey, I’m a good enough basketball player, but not good enough to get a scholarship. I’m a good enough draftsman (woman?), but I am neither good enough (nor willing) to do it professionally again.

ANYWAY. So back to the question. What skill do I want to be a master of? There are a lot of things I’d like to learn – like for example, dance. In my head, I could totally dance. In reality, no. I’d like to be skillful at entrepreneurship too, because it’s a useful life tool. There’s marketing, sales, public speaking, and finance management – things I wish somebody had taught me sooner (if at all).

But, I have to say, the skill I could have had the most use for is knowing how to fix a car. Specifically, my car. Meet Car-car (sometimes Sheer Luck, Mo, that battered beetle, and Frankenbug).

He was born at the time when music really mattered and when radio was king, when accountants didn’t have control, and the media couldn’t buy your soul, and computers were still scary and we didn’t know everything~ He’s 11 years older than me and a poster boy for excellent German engineering. The problem is, despite the German engineering, a 40 year old car is a 40 year old car.

If I were a master mechanic, I could have saved myself thousands of pesos in maintenance and towing fees. I could have saved myself the embarrassment while sitting on the curb at White Plains with Remi and Mabie. I could have saved two thousand five hundred pesos when an MMDA Tow Truck sidled up to us and the charm-offensive failed miserably. I could have known then that it was the dratted ignition coil and I could have just placed a wet handkerchief on it and drove happily away.

Another time, I was driving to Buendia and took the Quiapo route, which was a bad idea because I hadn’t known it was Chinese New Year at the time. I sweated bullets when Car-car died – in between a packed jumble of trucks, jeeps, and other vehicles – at the very bottom of the Quiapo underpass. It wouldn’t start again. I don’t remember much of that adventure, but I do remember that as I muscled my way through a cluster of jeeps on a steep incline, an Urvan who wouldn’t let two girls on a Beetle cut into his lane suddenly, miraculously dies too. “Oh my God, his water broke,” I said. Remi shot me a questioning look, and I pointed to the pool of water under the Urvan. His radiator had gone bye-bye. [3]

The point is, car ownership can be such a money vortex and to tell you the truth, the total cash I’ve spent on Car-car is enough to buy me a secondhand mini-SUV from this century (read: with air-conditioning, disk brakes, airbags and powersteering).

If I were a master mechanic, I wouldn’t even think of putting Car-car up for sale. If only I were. I wish I am.

Car-car, 1972 Volkswagen Beetle


1. Writing prompt from The Daily Post.

2. This happens often. Okay, a lot. Sometimes it does feel like that all the time and of course, that can’t be good. Whenever this happens, I feel like a total fraud. I’m just waiting for some kid to point out that I’m not wearing any clothes.

3. In case you’re curious, you can totally drive with that kind of engine trouble – or at least, you can drive until the nearest gas station or until your balls are well-done. The nearest gas station was around 5 to 10km, near the piers.


Shipwrecked [1]

Read the story of Richard Parker and Tom Dudley. Is what Dudley did defensible? What would you have done?

This is a hard one. So you’re stuck at sea, no hope of rescue in the immediate future, and no water. This is very tricky, not only because it has something to do with law and legalese (and let’s not get into that), but because it has something to do with the ethics of survival.

In the wild, survival is as simple as “Are you going to eat that? Because if you aren’t, then you won’t have enough energy in your legs to run. Something bigger is lurking in this very savannah and it won’t object to eating your skinny ass.” That isn’t applicable to us, because then we’d be ruled by the gym-going class but I digress.

The question really is, would I eat the poor cabin boy to survive? Sure I would, but I wouldn’t kill him. The killing and the eating aren’t mutually exclusive. It’s the former, the murdering, that I’m not too keen on. I’d probably hold out until he expired – I mean, he was sick, wasn’t he?

Yes, it’s probably different in the high seas, whilst fighting off sharks and sitting in the middle of millions of liters of water but not a drop to drink. Add desperation into the mix and you’ve got a very complicated stew. How much do you want to survive? What do you have to live for?

1. Writing prompt from The Daily Post.