Geek Speak: A Sound Rig on a Budget and Some Gadget Reviews

Assembling a "gaming rig" is still becoming more and more popular even with the impending release of the Playstation 4 and the Xbox 720. CPUs and video cards that don't "bottleneck" each other--this is normal talk in some circles of the internet. However, if you're not an audiophile or a producer, chances are you have never heard of a "sound rig."

A "sound rig" is a collection of gear that aims to produce a "transparent" sound output.

What is a transparent sound output?

When producers make records in the studio, they produce what I call genuine sound. Transparent sound output is hearing this genuine sound, well, genuinely, or as is. Genuine sound is heard by less than 5% of the human population because of crappy earphones, crappy music devices, and piracy--mainly piracy. Those Youtube-to-mp3 converters are an in insult to the pirate community, not to mention an atrocity to the music industry.

If 95% of the music-loving population hears their music through a pair of earbuds they bought off a sidewalk, what a producer spends on his world class studio is mostly wasted. Doesn't it kill you when you hear someone's earphones bleeding sound? Their ears are destroyed by massive waves of sound when all they really need is noise cancellation.

Transparent sound is sound as is. No bass enhancers, no 3D sound effects, no 2 MB file for a 3 minute song. It's a song just the way the artist intended for you to hear it.

Building a sound rig is very expensive. It isn't recommended for people who don't take sound seriously. It's also risky because some expensive products out there are created to fit singular styles of music. Beats by Dr. Dre is a perfect example. Most people say that it's overrated and that the sound is too drenched in bass--no, there's nothing wrong with their equalizers, they are correct. Beats was made to suit rap and hip-hop in general so it emphasizes elements that make hip-hop, hip-hop: Bass, vocal, and snare. Dr. Dre also paid a lot of celebrities to endorse it, even Lebron James is in the wagon.

So, without further ado, I present you the mobile sound rig I assembled for under P10,000 (about $200).

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Container: Cloudfone Thrill 430x

(A review.)

In the Philippines, brands like Apple, Sony, and Samsung don't really appeal to the masses. The market is flushed instead by rebranded "China phones" and homebrew phones from the likes of Cherry Mobile, MyPhone, Torque, and Cloudfone among many others. These brands have been at each other's necks ever since the Android made its debut in the Philippines. 

The Cloudfone Thrill 430x is hands down the best phone one can get at the low-P7000 price range. It takes stunningly clear photos even in low light with its back camera and it's equipped with a dual-core Snapdragon processor. What stands out about this phone is it's 4160 mAH battery pack that can last you up to a week with basic usage. However, it weighs about 200 grams and it's ridiculously thick.

(A comparison.)

Those who prefer style over substance should shift to this phone's quad-core counterpart, the Starmobile Icon. Style over substance--but switching to a quad-core phone? Yes. The Icon and the 430x both have an Adreno 203 GPU. The Icon's two extra cores don't give it a substantial advantage on HD gaming compared to the 430x. Shuffling through apps simultaneously gives the Icon an edge, but with a 1800 mAH battery, who would recommend it? Plus the Icon is priced at P7990, with it's advantages over the 430x only being: a 5 MP front cam, a little extra RAM, and a free microSD card.

The Starmobile Icon

(Back to the Sound Rig.)

What appealed to me about the 430x is it's built-in Yamaha sound chip, something only found in the Samsung Galaxy SII and the lesser Gionee Ctrl V4. I'm not sure whether it only works on the loudspeaker or on the 3.5 mm jack as well, but it gives me some complacency knowing my phone sounds better than its counterparts. The 430x, like all Android Jellybean phones, has its vanilla equalizer and music player. With the equalizer off, the music felt really flat and I found myself switching it to Techno and Second Normal often. The first tracks I downloaded after all, were rap and rock so I felt a hankering for bass and treble.

What disappointed me about Android Jellybean--not the 430x, Android Jellybean--is yes, it natively supports FLAC but not all the way through. 16 bit FLAC (lossless audio ripped from CDs) are supported, but 24 bit FLAC (ripped from vinyls), are not. Guess we audiophiles would have to wait for Android Kitkat.

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Ear monitors: Brainwavz Proalpha

Wait a minute, where's your amp? The Brainwavz Proalpha, though it is a considerably expensive ear monitor is still a low-end model. Once I get my hands on the Brainwavz R3 would I consider amping because amps cost $170 up. I also need to learn more about signals and impedance.

It's silly, what people look for in earphones today. "I like it with deep bass," "I like it with a good snare." What are we, in the prehistoric times when all that matters are drums? There are so many things to consider: highs, mids, lows, impedance, soundstage, noise cancellation--these are among a hundred other things to think about.

I went through a lot to find Brainwavz. It's an unknown brand from Hong Kong that aims to "produce innovative, high quality audio products with a dedicated focus on high-end sound at a realistic price." I was in the mind of spending a fortune for Klipsch or Marshall Minors when I learned that the typical earphones color the sound to make it more exciting. I resorted to Etymotic and Ultimate Ears but learned that I am but a peasant in the financial world. That was until I read a review about the Brainwavz Alpha that said it hit above its weight class. I sorted out other reviews of Brainwavz from the internet and found that it's making a name for itself through product performance. Goody-goody.

Brainwavz is sold in only 3 stores in the Philippines and I went all the way to Greenhills for a pair. I found the Brainwavz Alpha on the shelf along with the Beta, Proalpha, M3 and others. The Proalpha was the big brother to the Alpha which received rave reviews so I thought what the heck. The Alphas were priced P900 and Proalphas P1950.

(Review)

The Proalpha's performance is nothing short of incredible. The sound isolation is superior to any earphone I've worn before, and the soundstage (the feeling of being in a real concert when what you're listening to is a live recording) is amazing. The highs and mids are good and the bass is balanced, not too boomy, not too absent. As an avid listener of EDM, post-rock, and avant-garde, atmosphere is important to me. Good thing the Proalphas don't fail in that department.

The only thing I didn't like about the Proalphas was its physical build. It was made out of thin plastic that looked brittle and cheap. It's oxygen-free cables were connected to a y-splitter that looked like it could break off with little force. The jack also had a plastic stem to cushion the bends of human usage but it looked like its the one needing a cushion. It also came with only one pair of Comply earplugs which are known to be fragile. Users say its lifespan is only over a month.

The Brainwavz Proalpha

Cloudfone Thrill 430x (Rebranded Innos D9) - P6,999

Brainwavz Proalpha - P1950

Fare - P200

P9419. Not bad.

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That's it for my sound rig. If by any chance you're building yours and you find material better than mine in the same price rage, feel free to reach me. It's always good hearing from another audiophile.

The Pains of Being "Hipster"

First of all, what is a hipster?

A "hipster" is a person who hates things that are generally liked. For example, if everybody in your school likes Nicki Minaj and Lil Wayne while you're into Chiodos and OFWGKTA, then congratulations, you are hipster.

There is a solid belief that tastes in music define a hipster which isn't true at all. "Hipster" is a lifestyle in the same way the South Beach Diet is not just a 5-month phase but a lifetime food plan. So like patriots who have trouble with a corrupt government or like homemakers who have trouble with messy children, hipsters also experience pains of life unique to them. What am I talking about? Read on.

1. Hipsters are commonly branded as trust-fund babies who think they're cooler than everyone.

This is because they get the finer things in life first. For example, if a new Nokia phone is announced to hit the stores next month and it's the first phone to have Corning Glass (a type of glass that's very difficult to scratch), a hipster would have already eBay-ed a phone like that from Japan months ago. While the popular kid in class shows off his scratch-resistant phone, the hipster goes "Yeah, I could totally play Guitar Hero with an actual pick." People respond to that.

Granted that there are hipsters who are total jerks, being hipster is simply a way to become more of an individual and less like a generic baby who consumes all the tasteless crap big business forces down his throat.

2. Hipsters have a difficult time "finding" the stuff they like.

This is because they are meticulous by nature. Everybody knows the internet and what it's capable of. Sadly for hipsters, the internet is a big wasteland where they find useful things only once or twice a month unless they're seriously loaded. Let's say you're watching a good party movie like 21 Jump Street and you find a song with a catchy beat. If you're a normal person, you just go online and straight-up download it. But if you're hipster, things work very differently.

First, (assuming you already know the title of the song), you search for a "lossless quality" copy which is 10-20 times the file size of a "normal quality" mp3. It's VERY DIFFICULT TO FIND. If a "lossless quality" copy (commonly known as FLAC) is not available, you downgrade to a "CD quality" copy (commonly known as 320kbps) which is 2-3 times the file size of a normal mp3 and is 2-3 times harder to find. And if a CDQ isn't available (this already going to feel like a let-down for some hipsters), you downgrade to finding lesser forms of mp3, from 256 kbps, to 192 kbps, and finally the common man's 128 kbps.

"Kbps" stands for kilobit per second. The higher it is, the clearer you will hear complex sounds. A "lossless quality" copy usually falls around 900 kbps. If you like David Cook or other "conventional" rock bands/artists, there is no point in getting a lossless copy. However if you're into opera, classical, or atmospheric techno, you'll find a noticeable difference. Bored yet? We're going deeper.

A lossless copy is virtually impossible to find if the song you like is from an indie artist/band. If it's Kanye West or Rihanna, you wouldn't hit a snag. But if it's This Town Needs Guns or Moving Mountains, things get geeky and complicated. Another thing, you can't download individual songs, you have to download whole albums. Unlike mp3s that have search engines dedicated to them, lossless music is mostly unknown to the world. Albums in a lossless format usually range from 500 to 800 megabytes. (Say goodbye to your bandwidth!)

Also, hipsters prefer buying vinyls (commonly known as LPs) over electronically downloading music like on iTunes. Vinyls give more of a live sound and having a collection of original vinyls by an old band is awesome. Which is cooler? A DVD copy of The Beatle's White Album or an original copy from 1968? Light bulb. Now you get it.

3. Hipsters have a difficult time relating to others because their lives are entirely different. Let's say you're hipster and your friends are talking about movies. They go like "Hey, have you seen the new White House movie? It's freaking nuts!" Inside, you're saying "Yeah, if you're a five year old who enjoys apes banging their fists in a plot that could have been written by another five year old." But you're a nice person, so you say, "Yeah. Gerard Butler? He can act. :)"

This goes on day after day until you find a person with the same taste or until A GOOD MOVIE ACTUALLY COMES OUT OF HOLLYWOOD. This also applies to music, clothing, magazines, and everything related to culture. I'm not saying that hipsters have a more refined taste, it's just when you dabble outside the multiplex, it's really hard to come back. If you find a good hipster girl who loves life, don't let her go. The next girl you find at Starbucks won't be the same as her. Don't be a Taylor Swift.

4. Hipsters are stereotyped as "forever alone." This is because hipsters always have enough free time to find things people overlook. A good book that isn't from JK Rowling, a good track that isn't from Def Jam, or a good film by Jim Carrey--these are things some people would walk their lives without ever experiencing. They're too busy having sex, crashing parties and being full of themselves to care about culture, that's why hipsters are called forever alone. Though I must admit this one is still a puzzler for me. If guys think hipsters are incapable of reproduction, why do they find women in hipster glasses so attractive?

And that's it. 4 of the many, maNY, MANY reasons why being a hipster is discouraging. Keep in mind that you don't have to be hipster to enjoy being an individual. The hipster in the heart of everyone is starting to emerge into the mainstream. Justin Bieber's "Baby" is now one of the most disliked videos on Youtube and Jay Z is getting all kinds of flak for his awkwardly pop-ish album. So don't miss the next arts festival near you. Maybe it's time humanity became less generic, don't you think?

Day 3: Making Headlines

When I was told I have to go to work on a national holiday, I felt no disappointment. There was a prevalent sense that journalists scarcely take holidays off. If you want to cover the ball coming down in Times Square, you should be prepared to miss a few New Year's eves.

So was the story on Monday, August 26, National Heroes' Day, when personalities from every angle of the limelight organized a "Million People March" at the Quirino Grandstand, attended by over 100,000 Filipinos. Imagine it. 100,000 people confined in a single park, free to express their views however they see fit.

The crowd only came in by online media and word-of-mouth. There was no political body or celebrity that nudged them to come. Streamers were discouraged in the event, there was nobody wearing political colors, and there was no single program that outlined it.

Everyone was free to do as they will. Regular Joes were allowed to speak up on megaphones in place of political prospects and representatives; some were playing rock music and some toyed with tribal instruments; there were even families taking pictures and kids carrying balloons. Bring out some floats and confetti and you have an all-out street party.

My trainer and I circled the grandstand hoping to find color. Malaya sent men to cover the rally already--one was assigned to cover this aspect, one was assigned to cover that; I don't know the specifics but I was assigned to write about color--the overall atmosphere of the event.

My trainer led me to a press conference happening at the Manila Hotel. I stayed there while she went to find former Chief Justice Renato Corona--a controversial figure who was thrown out of the Supreme Court for "corruption." It was a posh lunch with VIPs speaking up front, one of them was former Senator Kit Tatad, and another was Fr. Robert Reyes. There were other speakers that told us how we are all victims of the pork barrel. About 15 minutes later, my trainer came to collect me and we headed back to the rally.

The weather which previously dampened us with occasional drizzles became a little better. On the bright side (ironically), the sun was absent and we were free to walk around without sweating like pigs. We walked down Roxas Boulevard and saw Willie Revillame and Gloria Diaz. I thought we should have moved closer but my trainer said she didn't want us to seem like groupees because journalists are equal with celebrities.

After interviewing a few groups, we went to Chowking for take-out and made our way back to the office. We were the only people there and the internet was shut down. My trainer however managed to connect with another signal but it was restricted to official members of the press. I needed some details from the internet so I waited quite a while for her to finish up and give me my turn to use the internet.

My story also took a while to write. I finished it at 5:30, counting more than 700 words. I handed it over for my trainer to edit and usual, it significantly sized down to about 500 words. She also rephrased and restructured a lot of paragraphs giving my article a newswriting facelift, telling me it might make the banner the next day. Finally, I called it a day but my trainer stayed in the office to write other stories.

I woke up the next morning and asked my mom to buy a copy of Malaya on her way home from work (she in the graveyard shift). I read it and yes, my story did make banner.

For journalists, it's a natural thing to make cover pages but for us interns, it's the rare thing to even make it to the front page, especially in a national broadsheet. But I made it.

8/27/2013. I'll always remember that day as the day I first made headlines. I'll save that issue of Malaya. What a pat on the back.

Day 2: It Pays To Be Punctual

Arriving late has been a constant issue for me ever since I graduated elementary. It must be my way of acting out for my lack of motivation to go to school. There were many times my parents were asked to meet my teachers because of my punctuality problem. 

When I entered college, all the trouble that came with arriving late seemed to disappear. My professors couldn’t care less. I’d come in an hour late for weeks and I wouldn’t hear one word about it from anybody.

But those were the good days. Last Thursday, I learned that my job as a journalist wouldn’t stand for it.

My trainer Gigi asked me to go to work at 11 o’clock, a couple of hours ahead of her and before anything newsworthy is likely to happen. She assigned me to cover the “Run-After-The-Smugglers” (RATS) press conference of the Bureau of Customs. She told me to follow the cameramen because they would be covering, too.

I arrived about 11:10 AM and the news crews have already set up their satellite dishes outside the National Bureau of Investigation which was just a couple of blocks from our office. I thought “Sheist! I might be running too late!”

I speed-walked to the press office and found that the cameramen have already left. I asked around for directions to the press conference and some guy from TV5 said that it was taking place right behind our building, so I stepped out of the office and circled the entire area our building is situated. I passed U.P. Manila, the Supreme Court, the NBI, the Court of Appeals, a train station, a very large private office, another U.P. Manila building, and there was still no sign of the press conference.

I headed back to the office for more specific directions when I came across a really friendly co-worker. He said that the press conference was taking place BEHIND OUR OFFICE—barely 20 steps away! I thanked him and skedaddled to the event where I saw Ruffy Biazon and other Bureau of Customs officials answering questions. There were a lot of cameras and I had no business with Mr. Biazon so I just asked for a press release and I was quickly handed one.

Phew. All that legwork had a point somehow.

I made my way back to the office and re-wrote the press release. I subtracted the usual political-sugar-coating and broke it down to less than 300 words. It’s nothing significant anyway—if a government body organizes a press conference, its only purpose is to improve its image—proving true the adage “Nothing worth having is easily obtained.”

I finished up before Gigi arrived and she cut fewer words from my work than she did in my first (which in my opinion is a total wreck.) Hm. I might be taking baby steps but I am improving.

She gave me another story to write but that time she told me I was free to feature-ize. I made a few grammatical errors but they were considerably fewer than my previous work. After submitting it to the Malaya network, Gigi said we could call it a day. It was 5:30 after all.

That day's lesson was it pays to be punctual. I never realized how time-sensitive journalism is until that day. I'm gonna have to find a fix for my punctuality glitch soon. In this profession, missing out is not an option.

First Day of Work at the Microscope Store

As some of you might already know, I was accepted for an internship with Malaya Business Insight: a national newspaper focused on business news and vicious technical terms. At first I really didn't know what to think. Do they even have a police beat? Will I be assigned to some executive place to write about stocks and figures? Or will I be assigned the lifestyle beat for an internship dream-come-true?

Let me say before anything that my mental attitude is whatever beat I'm assigned, I would gladly accept it. I made it in a national broadsheet! I'd say that's a lot better than some of my classmates who are now writing for vulgar tabloids and provincial newspapers.

I was assigned the Department of Justice beat, but since my trainer has a lot of other beats to handle, I'm looking forward to bounce around Manila over the course of my internship. Just yesterday I wrote a story from facts I obtained from the NBI. Next week, my trainer said we'll pay the Manila Police District a visit--that's where all my classmates are.

My first day was nothing out of the ordinary. I walked into an office where everybody was already friends and I sat quietly on a chair in a corner next to my trainer's station. I read some press releases to pass the time since my trainer was running a little late. I've never met my trainer before so I didn't know what to expect. All I knew was her name's Gigi and she worked for Malaya.

People at the press office were really noisy. They were talking about watching The Conjuring, the latest horror flick from Hollywood that's actually scary. There was also someone who was celebrating his birthday, and another someone who was bullied because she has a loose grip on her her temper; There was gay guy there who's the life of the party, a fat dude who's really friendly to everybody, and a quiet, nerdy man who works for the Business Mirror among other characters.

Ha. It's high school all over again.

Anyway, my trainer arrived about fifteen minutes later. After putting all her stuff down on her table she said that something was taking place at the Court of Appeals, which was only a couple of blocks from the press office. She brought me along and for the first time in my life, I experienced what it's like to scour for a story.

The mayor of Taguig counter-filed against Makati City for the controversial Fort Bonifacio. A few seconds after the mayor stepped outside the filing department, the press immediately gathered around her. Cameras, mics, and sweaty pressmen awaited her every comment. My trainer managed to ask a couple of questions herself and she jot down everything in her little notepad. I saw a TV reporter from ABS-CBN but I forgot her name.

When it was over, we walked back to the press office to write our stories. My trainer handed my a press release from the NBI. I was expecting it. I knew I was too inexperienced write about what just happened.

It took me an hour and a half to finish writing my story and I lent it to my trainer for editing. She cut it in half and made me change my lede. After I changed my lede, I lent it to her again and she further cut it--completely eliminating some sentences while changing some words to make it concise.

After she was done, my story looked like a bona fide newspaper article. Amazing. It's like she has microscopes for eyes. And to think that everybody in that office has the same, marami pa 'kong bigas na kakainin.

She said my style is fit for feature writing and that news writing is a different beast.

To be honest, news writing is really my weakness, that's why I applied for internships in magazines before resorting to newspapers. You have to be cold and to the point. There is no room for artsy words or fancy descriptions. You have to tell it like it is and move on. It's kind of like sex with a hooker as opposed to sex with an emotionally involved girlfriend.

And that's it. My first day of internship at the microscope store a.k.a. the Jucra Press Office.

I have to be back there again this morning but I'm covering an event alone. It's some kind smuggling run for the Bureau of Customs. Wish me luck!

From A Guy's Perspective: How To Be The Right Girl

There has been much ado on the internet about what it takes to be real man. Some say you have to open doors for a girl and pull up her chair when it's time to eat. Some say you have to strong-arm her into you because bad boys make good girls wet. Little do women know that as thoughtless as guys seem to be, we, too, are picky when it comes to the women we date. Well, speaking for us who can get laid.

There is no objective truth when talking about men's tastes in women. The broad genres the porn industry created over the years is proof of that; cinema, too. Korean men fancy their women wild but with a human side (see My Sassy Girl, My Girlfriend Is A Gumiho, Windstruck.) Japanese men like their women cultured and armed with refined tastes even in this modern time (watch Gokusen or any Jdorama and notice how women suddenly go from man-like to courtly in the presence of the man they want to date.) We Filipinos? We like our women vulnerable, hard-to-get, and generally stale. Watch any primetime teleserye and you'd be blind not to notice how women never take the lead, how they're constantly soaked in melodrama, and how they're the type the mean girls just can't get enough of.

So with all this in light, how do you become the right girl? The answers are simpler than you think.

1. You must love life. Have you ever heard guys in romance-dramas say "My life has changed since I met her."? Lines like these aren't totally bull after all. When you love life, you automatically bring positivity and good feelings to the man you're sharing your life with. Each time you go out with him, it'll be like he has escaped his problems for a moment and all his attention is focused on you. This is the greatest advice anyone can give you.

"Dave, how do I do this?" The love of life comes from the love of self. You must start living a healthy, balanced lifestyle: Exercise, go out with your friends, do your best at work or in your studies, and lead an honest life. Even if you're not physically dazzling, your love of life will make you beautiful from the inside. Here's a rhetorical question that's become cliche because there's so much truth in it: How can anybody love you, if you don't love yourself?

2. Be knowledgeable in at least one guy thing. Though women have made great strides over the years, and though it hurts a bit to hear it, it's still a man's world. Okay, settle down. Even if you disagree, it wouldn't hurt knowing a thing or two about a man's hobby. Be it whittling, hunting, Christopher Nolan, Silent Hill, or automobiles, it impresses a man to see how a woman has an inside track on his world. Want proof?

Megan Fox handles Bumblebee surprisingly well in the first Transformers. This scene alone makes the movie hotter than your average PG-13. Shia Labeouf agrees.

"Dave, how do I do this?" You may not know it yet, but you're already knowledgeable in at least one guy thing! What was the last action movie you watched? Go talk about it the next time you see him. What was the last rock or rap record you listened to? Bring it up next time. If you're comfy bringing up sex or martial arts, don't show off to much. It's embarrassing when we stammer you know.

3. Do not play games. Ever. There is a fine line between falling in love with your partner and falling in love with your insecurities. Playing games (or in Tagalog, "Nagpapa-miss ako." or "Pinagseselos ko lang siya.") is just a desperate cry for attention. Men may not have the same emotional quotient as most women do, but that's the fault in your stars: If a man notices you playing him and he's smart enough to swing back, there will be blood. Yours. Playa'.

"Dave, how do I do this?" It's better to re-evaluate things from the inside than having to resort to high school tactics. If you're already in a relationship, ask yourself if it's still on the right track. If you're single, then cool; you can still hang-out with other guys you enjoy spending time with. It's best to not take yourself too seriously, too. If you think you're somebody and you deserve his time while doing absolutely nothing, then you need to get in touch with reality. Do not make bad boys out of good men just because you feel left out.

4. Be ye confident. A lot of women think that we guys are supposed to come and fix their issues like it's what we do for a living. News flash: We are not your repairmen. You are supposed to stand strong on your own feet (hopefully with the help of friends and yourself.) Who run the world? Yeah. Welcome to the 21st century. If you don't go after what you want in the world of love, you're going to end up with weak-willed men. This advice could come across as harsh but the truth sometimes is bitter. Do you think Mila Kunis, Rihanna, and Kate Upton earned the praise of men by being insecure in their skin; acting twee-tums? Didn't think so.

"Dave, how do I do this?" Cleanse your thoughts from all negativity. From now on, no more self-loathing. Do you talk to yourself a lot throughout the day? Good. Count all the negative thoughts that cross your mind with your fingers. Whenever you raise a finger, force yourself to see the bright-side to that negative thought. Say, you drive up to a club with your girlfriends on a Saturday night. It's a full house and there's nowhere to park. What do you say to yourself? "Ugh. Crap. I've been looking forward to this night all week! Now I have to move to another club!" Raise a finger, pause for a moment, and think: "There's gonna be a lot of people there, so the roof will be on fire! Right on!" You don't have to join the rest of your friends in clamoring. Park on the curb and enjoy the night.

5. Do not be stale in bed. This is more like tip 4.5. Moving in the bedroom without inhibitions is the ultimate form of confidence and self-expression. Do not let your man do all the work. Even if a guy gets to bed a Miss Universe and all she did was wait for him to move, he'll feel like playing Monopoly alone. This is also a warning: Women often cheat because they don't feel emotionally fulfilled, men on the other hand, often cheat when their physical needs aren't met. What's worse than lying next to a statuette who moans and does nothing in return? It's like being unappreciated when you're most vulnerable.

"Dave, how do I do this?" If you're not ready, you're not ready. Stop thinking about it. Don't be afraid to say 'wait' or 'no' when asked to do the deed; it's supposed to come naturally. However, when you're ready to go anchors' away, here are a few simple tips to make it more exciting. Wear something seductive. Something lacy and almost see-through but not bear-all. When you're suited up, relax and let nature take its course. Give head, hand, foot, tongue--whatever you have in your arsenal. Listen to him and cater to what he wants, and if he's a decent lay, he'll cater to yours as well. Whole books are written on how to do it; there are literally a million ways. The more you do it, the better you get. (Wink).

That's it for now.

Senior Year Jitters

If you're in first year college, taking your first beloved steps inside the campus can be breathtaking. It's a whole new world. "Will I fit in?", "I wonder if my seatmate's going to be someone cute?", you think to yourself. You show up in your best attire. Your newly ironed skinny jeans are  waiting to be noticed, your rubber shoes glow whiter as the sun hits, and your sports-branded, collared shirt screams "I'm ready for anything!" Still, your palms are a bit sweaty and your breaths a bit heavy. Your body is hoping you adjust well.

In your first week in class, you don't really study anything. Your professors barely come in because of the transition period. Those who do show up though, are automatically branded "terror." You are left with more than enough time to adjust to your social climate. Who's awkward? Who's cool? Who are the nerds? Your eyes wander around the classroom, waiting for something to happen. A week later, everybody's identity starts to make a print and where you belong isn't something you can choose. No sweat though, before you know it, July has passed and tossing green jokes back and forth have become your gang's idea of fun.

Sophomore year is a whole different story. Connections between pals have become stronger. Some might even swear they're best friends to death. Couples begin to form and you begin to jive with people you don't normally talk to last year. Academics start putting on more weight than it used to, and professors that are already household names in your college now have their chance to grill you. You now know where it's cheap to eat and where it's good to hang out. You're still underage, so unless you're tight with the kids who fake I. D.s (bad decision), clubbing isn't really an option yet. By this time, getting past university processes like enrolling, borrowing from the library, joining and transitioning between clubs, and chasing horrendous deadlines should be falling slowly into your grasp. By the way, if you plan to show off on your resume, now would be the time to join contests. Most students overlook the value of having small achievements in college.

Junior year is when it all slows down. You find yourself wearing only slip-ons or sandals to class. Your "I'm ready for anything!" shirt has faded and you just look tired wearing it--but that's not enough to stop you; not like you'd care what you look like anyway. By this time, half the couples from freshman and sophomore year have already broken up. Advanced versions of the subjects you took up in your sophomore year prove to be no cakewalks, and it's the year when irregular students pay your class semester-long visits. If you're not careful, you could be asking for yellow paper from a complete stranger, while looking the other way. But in this year, the freshmen gaze upon you with respect. Why, to them, you know all things university! If you have a crush on somebody from their ranks, it's high time to attack.

This has been Bachelor in Journalism 3-1D's journey through college so far in four short, grammatically questionable paragraphs. It's quite far from the wild frat parties and the feral club dancing you see on TV. This semester, this class becomes Bachelor in Journalism 4-1D. Each student has one foot out the door now. In a small matter of time, internships will be over, and each would be left to their own amid the dizzying lights of the city.

So finally, what excitement is left for seniors? Well, a senior get to choose what kind of professional he or she want to be. People in liberal arts have a vast field of options. Some might go on to direct great documentaries, some may write historical masterpieces, some may become magazine editors, and some may, well, write in the paper. If college was a staircase, senior year is the final step before you reach the ground, which is "the real world." That's it. The climb down itself is the adventure. How you spend your senior year is entirely up to you. Look upon it as a void or as an opportunity; in the end nobody loses or benefits, but you.

How To Pirate Like A Pro: Movies On Discs

There is no sane way to justify piracy. There just isn't. Just because something beautiful is made doesn't mean everyone has a right to it.

"How about fire? When it was invented, it didn't need to be marketed."

Well, in the case of fire and Facebook, the crime of piracy does not apply. When the prehistoric man made fire, did he patent it for profit? When the modern man (more specifically, Zuckerberg) made (or ripped of) Facebook from a Harvard network, did he put a fee on using it? No. Because fire and Facebook are two things the world is almost sure never to run out of... and Facebook is now worth billions.

Get it straight--when you have something made for you, you're supposed to pay for it. When you buy ready-to-use, 2-ply toilet paper at the supermarket, you pay for it. When you buy a ready-made lunch at KFC, you pay for it. When you buy a ready-to-watch movie, you pay for it. It's that elementary. Those self-righteous nuts at Pirate Bay really need help.

Anyway, enough with the guilt trip. It's impossible not to support capitalism, especially in this modern world. Piracy is only one of the many renegade faces the everyman can take solace in. At the time of this writing, a Tom Cruise movie, Jack Reacher, recently hit the shelves at the price of roughly USD 10 a copy (based on ebay.com and Amazon.com). Convert that to peso and it would cost around P400 to P500! Of course, you can wait until next year to buy it for half the price or rent it, but by then Tom would have made two other movies (the first one, Oblivion, is already in theaters), and if your friends are movie buffs as well, you'd be a year late for the buzz.

We, the common man, have only two options: not to watch movies at all or to go to the marketplace for a pirated copy. We know it's wrong. We know it's a form of cancer in society. But we do it anyway and we can't justify ourselves--so we won't.

Now, how do you pirate like a pro?

Walking down the street and coming across a pirated movie store, you say, "Hey. I think I have time for a movie tonight." You walk to the bustling storefront gazing at the bright lights and the glossy plastic covers. The vendor invites you in closer as he inserts a disc in a DVD player with Chinese characters, "testing" it for another customer. In the mountains of movie titles piled among the make-shift shelves, how do you know what to look for?

The most basic thing to do is to look for a DVD copy. A DVD copy is a movie burned to a blank DVD using a DVD burner--a device intentionally made to put data (like movies) to DVDs. The source is the original DVD of the movie. Make no mistake: when you play a true DVD copy, it has to have a menu, correct subtitles, and at times, special features like a director's commentary and audio in other languages. The quality of the picture in DVD copies should be as clear as the original's. If it isn't and it doesn't have subtitles and a menu, your pirate is ripping you off. He's technically a criminal so don't be surprised. A DVD copy should also cost no more than 30 pesos a pop. If the vendor charges you more than that, he's full of crap and it's not worth it. A blank DVD only costs 8 pesos a piece at CDR-King and a DVD burner won't cost over 2500 pesos. Imagine how much they make in a month. No wonder it's a booming business.

Another thing to do is to look for a so-called Blu-ray copy. Doing this requires a looser budget than normal. It costs around 60 pesos a disc and it's an iffy thing to do. Most pirated movie stores don't have DVD players that play Blu-ray discs. Blu-rays and DVDs are two very different things. Blu-ray discs require high-end players because they play in high resolution (1080p) and they usually require a high definition (HDMI) capable television to play. DVDs on the other hand, play on almost every player out there today. Most pirated movie stores have a knock-off DVD player which sells for under a thousand pesos in Quiapo, as do most households that buy pirated. However, if you know your stuff: you have a Blu-ray player and a TV that can handle HD, then you can enjoy the clearest moving pictures modern man has ever laid eyes on--in the comfort of your own home and for less than a hundred pesos!

One thing to not do, is to forget to ask if what you're buying is a DVD copy. Movies in pirate stores that are neither Blu-ray or DVD copies are cam-rips. A cam-rip is the produce a pirate makes when he brings a camera in a movie theater and records the movie right there. This is the lowest form of piracy. The picture quality is worse than your drunk best friend's phone video of your wedding, and the sound quality is comparable to dramas played in a phonograph. People who make cam-rips are a shame even to pirates. What's worse? They sell it to you at DVD-copy price and they put new movies which are not yet out on DVD (hence, cannot be copied yet) in the front-most part of the store.

The biggest no-no when buying pirated movies is buying a DVD9. A DVD9 is basically just a DVD that can hold twice as much data. A DVD can hold 4.7 gigabytes of data while a DVD9 can hold 8.54. So why is buying it such a wrong choice? One, because it normally costs 50 pesos. Two, because pirates stuff it with so much data everything is a mess. Videos in DVD9s are usually cam-rip quality to save DVD space (the poorer the quality, the smaller the space it takes), and it's mostly just 4 to 5 movies shown in different chapters in the make-shift menu and on the cover. You'll see ridiculous titles such as "Johnny English VII," "Rush Hour 3 IV," and many more.

There is an exception to the DVD9 warning, however. If you're a fan of TV series like Two And A Half Men, CSI, Spongebob Squarepants and what not, the only way you're getting it is in a DVD9. It's a tricky gamble because a lot of vendors sell DVD9s with incomplete episodes. Sure, the cover may read "Complete Season X," but don't count on it. And if you're smart, you wouldn't count on anything else made in China either. Japanese, Spanish and British series like Gokusen, Operation Love, Marimar, and Sherlock among others may come with incorrect subtitles. In some cases, there would be no subtitles at all. So before you go off buying one of these, search the series you are looking for in Wikipedia. It'll show you how many episodes are in each season. Then have it tested before you buy it. Don't allow the vendor to fast forward like he's just letting you comb through the entire thing. Watch it straight for at least one minute. If the subtitles are understandable, the episodes are complete, and the picture is decent in quality, then make the purchase.

Bottom line, remember that you are buying from a crook (though in doing so, it makes you a crook as well). It takes real smarts to know you're not being ripped off. Though pirated movies are much cheaper than the original, you are still paying good money for it and you deserve quality. 

So that's it. How to pilfer like a pro. If you have anymore tips, please feel free to comment below.

Champagne Wishes, Caviar Dreams, And A Blueprint

"Maangas" is Filipino for "overly aggressive;" the exact attitude I plan to have in my nearing professional life. There's a reason girls call me daddy in college. And if you think that I think I'm smarter than you, you're right. I do.

I once thought of turning this blog into a personal diary and filling it with entries of my valiant quest to earn my first million pesos. But then I thought no. It's too shallow. It's like making a big deal of your 2-year quest to buy a Hyundai while paying rent.

I also considered using this space for movie, music, and food critiques. But critics--who takes them seriously? Sure, it could land a couple thousand in my pocket every month but I'm a slop with adjectives and I don't think it's worth sleeping with a thesaurus under my pillow for.

This summer, I applied for a job at a call center. A job that could get me around P200,000 a year. But before I applied, word was already around about that line of work. It's filled with gay people, lesbian people, people who are both gay and lesbian, people who are both male and female, and in extreme cases, hermaphrodites. Though I'm cool hanging out with them occasionally, these people aren't my crowd (Charisma exempted). I'm a bit homophobic. (Glad to get that out of the way.)

So, what exactly have you read in the last three paragraphs? It's my desire to earn some green and to finally be independent. A desire which I believe, is inherent in every man (and woman; welcome to the 21st century.) From childhood, I've always looked forward to the day when I would be left to fly alone and make something of myself. But it's just a couple of years away now, and up close, it's a whole different story.

My worst nightmare as a person is becoming what we Filipinos call a "tambay." It's slang for a sluggard who does nothing but chase skirts all day among other nefarious activities. You commonly see them walking around half-naked in the slums of Manila. (A city which I think deserved its new title as the "Gates of Hell." Its city hall is shaped like a casket though, which the great Dan Brown could have used instead of exposing the world to our pollution.)

("Sup?")

My worst nightmare as a professional would be being stuck in the newsroom. Aside from being a waste of my time and wit, in there, people are always under high pressure and are criminally underpaid. Imagine it. Everybody's taking phone calls, flipping through pages, and walking back and forth to the print room. It's all a bustle as your work gets chopped and diced by the proofreaders, editors, and lawyers upstairs who have their eyes out for libelous statements. Hey, look at the bright side. If you're a really good boy, you could make senior partner in 40 years! 

("Yes, hello. This is Dave from the Manila Times calling... *Puts phone down.*")

Old people whose view of life is it's a dark place where you have to gut yourself for money have a term for my kind of ambition: "Champagne wishes, and caviar dreams."

I don't want to be 30 and still be driving a Kia. By 25, I'm thinking of already putting down mortgages. By 40, I want to be driving a Tesla around town in Givenchy. By then, I'd be bedding 22 year old models just to see if I've grown immune to Cialis. The only thing I'll be worried about is my liver--since I would have had much Glenfiddich by then. 

A wise man once said "If people don't laugh at your dreams, you're not aiming high enough." So are you laughing yet? No? Then Google Cialis.

Professionally, my dream would be travelling around the world and soaking myself in its cultures. I want to write about Coachella, SXSW, The Bamboozle, The Warped Tour and Lollapalooza. The Eurockeenes, Hellfest, and especially about the Sonic Protest. My eyes ache Festival de Cannes, Glasgow, Actionfest, and TIFF. I want to play Egypt's u'd, Japan's koto, heck, even the didgeridoo!

My mom made it to Narita, Calgary, and Los Angeles. Now that she's in a call center, it's her turn to envy me.

Now, from my extensive use of proper nouns that made it sound like I'm talking gibberish, you can derive an ego complex in my person. Like, "Gosh. How obvious do I have to be?" This gave me an idea to take up law, though it's a lesser choice since I'll be studying for at least another 5 years. (It takes 3 years to earn Juris Doctor in a U.S. school, 1 year of study for the LSATs, and another year of study for the bar.) Having a lawyer in the family is always a hallmark of prestige because your brain (almost literally) has to bleed for it.

Another dream of mine is becoming a film writer and director. I mentioned Glasgow, so you might have seen this coming. If I pursue this, I want to start in television. Every time I lay eyes on a Filipino matinee and even  on "Primetime" shows, something burns inside. Shows today are either remakes of something done before or silly ideas forced together to form a plot. Take "Be Careful With My Heart" for example. Sure, it's sweet and riddled with one-liners. But a young, handsome aviation tycoon falling in love with a provincial maid? As far-fetched as that premise is, it has been done so many times that if you watch every piece of film with the same story line, you'd be watching for eternity. And have you seen "Indio?" If you haven't, then good. It's ridiculously scripted, unimaginative, and is downright awkward. I mean it's a history lesson with fairies! It's as if a twelve year old read his Sibika book and wrote the whole plot. If I ever come to film, I'm gonna recreate television while preparing myself for making movies.

So, that's it. A few pages of my future's blueprints. Before I reach my 21st birthday, these could all have changed. It's only human to acquire new aspirations as you move on in life. But right now, I am in love with culture. And I am hoping it loves me back.

Activism?

The world is full of ideals. Ideals fill containers. These containers are people and people are full of themselves.

PUPians logged into Facebook last night on the wake of a happening that's sure to put another stain in their resumes: Students throwing chairs off balconies and burning them to embers to stop a tuition hike. "How radical," my right brain thought. "How desperate," my left brain answered.

Granted that there are many forms of expressing oneself, these activists chose to make an utter display of barbarism just to vent out their beliefs. Due process is a good thing to believe in but in bird's eye view, it's a long, crowded highway filled with dirty politics acting like tar pits. It's tempting to go off-road but it's a gray area. Before you know it, you're in some isolated community in the mountains, cocking your AK and chanting "Viva CPP NPA!" 

Road rage is more common than sparrows. Month after month, the same activists pit themselves with placards and megaphones across the Polytechnic University of the Philippines campus under belief that utopia can be achieved through such bullish tactics. Ridiculing government officials, discrediting members of the school administration, shouting how oppressed the youth and the poor are--they do these administration after administration. No matter who ruled over the Philippines and the university, they are never satisfied.

If you don't believe them, you have a closed mind; you're a conformist square. But if you do, your wearing a scarlet letter; you're a bad influence. It's the hippie revolution all over again.

Self-proclaimed heroes, maybe if they spent more time seeping through the cracks to aid legislation and enforcement, they wouldn't be looked down upon today. The system can't be beat, it can only be painstakingly reformed. It is good you are standing up for something but reducing yourselves to destruction of property, no matter how useless the said property was already according to your organization, is cowardly violence as clear as day. It's as desperate as burning your drunkard father's underwear in front of a news crew just to get him to notice you.

But are they really doing this just to stop a one peso hike in tuition? Let's take a deeper perspective. 

Politicians and points of authority are almost automatically demonized in the eyes of the common man. If the economy rose 6 percent (which is an awful lot) during PNoy's term, does it make a sound? It's mentioned in the State of The Nation Address and is forgotten forever. But everyday the Filipino is bombarded by news exposes about corrupt politicians, atrocities of corporations, police brutality, forced evictions, and everything wrong about those who govern. 

Put a Filipino in front of a political ad and what does he say? "Bleh. Mga politiko. Mga walang ginawang mabuti." ("Bah. Politicians. Those no-goods.") On these grounds, it's safe to say activists are acting upon this effect of exposure to stimuli often magnified by individual turmoil. Most of them lacked an authoritative figure in their lives or had ones that lacked authority in their lives, too.

Another factor to consider is that most students' financial struggles are from many aspects of life. The rising costs of food and transportation, water and electric companies hogging more of their parents' budgets and the constant social pressure put on by BlackBerry phones and digital tablets also add to the pains of those who study below the poverty line.

So in a sense, these people are admirable. They see a wrinkle in the way things work and they go out of their way to straighten it out. Ever since the early days of Filipino civilization, there were activists fighting for what they understand is good for the masses; the greatest among them being Jose Rizal who believed in due process, and the near-second greatest being Andres Bonifacio whose blood-littered path is slowly being tread by modern-day demonstrators.

There was once an anecdote saying that PUP itself is borne out of activism. But with a closer eye on the university's history, it's more of activism through due process. They didn't vandal, they didn't call anyone a pig, and they didn't burn chairs; they pulled through all the red tape and claimed what was rightfully theirs--a university which today blossoms with minds of brilliant students. To those who made charcoal out of "unusable" chairs yesterday, take heed of PUP's lesson.

It's all in the execution. Do not act surprised if your drastic measures are an unwelcome sight to society.

All American Idol fans at one point wanted to scream at Simon Cowell, "Let's see you sing it!" This is a similar scenario. If you think the school administration or the government is railed with demons, then commit. Study up and get a shot at cleansing it.

“Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed, citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.” --Margaret Mead.

Not-So-Creative Writing

Sorry I've been away for awhile, readers. It was finals week in school. Not that it was brutal or anything, it was just hectic--chock full of unnecessary things to write.

Anyway, I came to notice that most of my classmates dream of either being rich authors on book tours around the world or being nationally recognized reporters. I found this strange. If anything, journalism is the direct opposite of creative writing and the newsmen on TV usually have degrees in broadcast and not in journalism.

Seeing my name on a book has never been my aspiration. I mean, I don't even like reading. But my head became so good at daydreaming, it began to fill itself up with ideas without trying. Here's one that might strike me a movie or a book deal someday. (Wishful thinking, I know.)

The concept was originally a fictitious version of the real-life story of my significant other and her best friend who recently passed away. But as I daydreamed more and more, the plot has gotten way off course. Now it's a cross of characters from Greek and Roman mythologies.

Chapter I: Genesis

The gods were a highly civilized, almost-immortal race that existed from the beginning of time. Their bodies stand hundreds of feet from the ground and they were capable of living for thousands of god-years. In their land, A (the girl) and B (the boy) came across Eros (the mischievous god of love, son of Aphrodite), at a council meeting. In the land of the gods, everyone were siblings and since the birth of Ceto (a sea monster, the mother of Medusa and all gorgons, daughter of gods Gaia and Pontus)*, love was forbidden.

*I plan to write this as a prelude if I ever get around to composing this book.

Chapter II: A Scoundrel Among Us

The Heca, three monsters with a hundred hands and fifty heads who were once assailants of the Titans, escaped from Tartarus (hell). The gods struggled greatly to defeat them. Upon their arrival to A's city, B fought mightily against them. Noticing his sudden might, Athena promoted him to a high position in the military but only to keep an eye on him. A and B's affair was later discovered. They were tried at the gods' court and was found guilty.

Chapter III: The Pit of Immortality and The Origin of All Things Transient

I plan to make this the first climax; one of the most dramatic parts of the story. 

B was sentenced to be thrown into Outer Space, the infinite prison of emptiness. As he was dragged in the streets,  A escaped her guards and ran after B's captors. B was thrown off the cliff of immortality. As he fell, his size was greatly reduced his godly attributes were lost  She arrived at the cliff when B's captors were just leaving. As they restrained her, she reached her hand over the cliff and with all of her might, scattered rocks across the void. This became our galaxy. As B descended to earth, A was unconscious on the cliff, drained of all powers.

Chapter IV: The Dirge of Orion

"Dirge" means funeral song in old english. This chapter is bound to be the longest.

The gods, upon knowing what A did, built a wall enclosing the cliff that stood six thousand feet from the ground. It imprisoned her. Each year, a new layer is added to the width of the wall, pushing her closer to the cliff. She can not jump off because if she was locked in the Pit of Immortality and the gods sent B to Tartarus, they would forever be separated. 

The gods let out from Tartarus Ursa Major, an evil bear of immense age and wisdom who was part star and part god, to destroy Earth. Meanwhile, B saw the birth of civilization on the planet held up by Atlas. He saw how Prometheus stole fire to aid humanity and how he was imprisoned on the Pit, too. He saw how humans created empires and waged war among themselves, all the while, suffering from his separation from A.

The gods smoldered some kind of device on Ursa's eyelid. It contained Medusa's head that would face Ursa and turn him to stone should he do anything against the gods' will. But Ursa created a mirror image of himself--Ursa Minor--to confuse which way Medusa would look. The gods heard of this and sent Orion, the god of hunt and B's father, to kill Ursa Major. In battle, Orion rained thousands of arrows that damaged Ursa heavily. But Ursa came close and his mirror image appeared behind Orion. Medusa looked upon that direction and Orion turned to stone. There was great weeping in the land of the gods that day as Ursa Major was left forever to wander in the Pit of Immortality.

Chapter V: Northern Lights

Thousands of years have passed. A and B were still separated. A, barely clinging on to holes she drilled with her fingers as the wall was already stretched beyond the cliff, cried in hopelessness. Her tears went down the cliff and somehow found their way to Earth. It entered the Earth's atmosphere and became the Northern Lights--spectacles that appear only in the coldest, most isolated  corners of the planet. B saw these and understood that it was A's message that she was about to let go of the wall; that they should just accept their fate. It was also a message that to B that he should love the Earth as he loved her.

And that's it. This is the plot so far. I still can't think of an ending, plus I don't think I can actually write a book. I asked a classmate, Kent, to co-write it with me but it's completion is still far off.

Coastal Break

I'm happiest when I walk

along the shoreline at night.

Preachers and their talk,

soldiers and their walk,

Broadway and its glee

all mean nothing to me.

I'm happiest when I walk

along the shoreline at night.

I'm sure somewhere in the world,

someone's praying for a child,

someone's making a million,

and someone's heart is breaking.

Staring back at a satellite

are a billion little lights,

like stars stranded in our planet,

piercing through darkness' gauntlet.

I'm sure somewhere in the world,

someone's walking home alone,

someone's drowning in applause,

earnestly making their mark;

But the way I see it,

all that we'll ever be,

are footprints in the sand:

awaiting the ocean,

to pull us back,

as we eventually fade,

into the grand scheme of things:

Seasons, trains and historians.

So I'm building a lighthouse,

because dark are the waters,

and many are the strangers,

in my sordid little head.

I put a brick in,

with each sand-bathed step

closer to the lights at the harbor;

to the tugboats in all their clamor.

Their bells still pitched like they talk,

Though it isn't much of a sight,

I'm happiest when I walk

along the shoreline at night.

(No rhyme, no effort. Wrote this in church...)

"Virgin ka pa ba?" and the Art of Small Talk

"Virgin ka pa ba?" translates to "Are you still a virgin?" here in the Philippines.

If you're new to dating, consider this article an advanced warning of an awkward situation due on your third or fourth date. But why is this so--that as colonially influenced as we Filipinos are (see K-pop, Vans, Twilight, or the Otaku Culture)--we tend to view virginity like the answer to a million-dollar question? I myself have been asked that more times than I could count. Sooner or later (assuming you're an adolescent), you're gonna find yourself in front of this question, too. I even know people who observe at how other people walk to judge if their v card's still in. What makes a Filipino weigh virginity as if it's something to hold with or against a partner? Does being deflowered at a young age mean you're foul or cheap? How do you answer when you're asked the question?

Generally, the Philippines is a Catholic country. Through the invasion of the Protestant Americans and the Shintoist Japanese, we Filipinos have retained what the Spanish inculcated in our culture for more than three centuries--Catholicism. Promiscuity and premarital sex has always been viciously looked upon, this is why the missus vs. the mistress plot is so fresh and new to the film industry. Sex is a capital sin in most religions: if the world was to unite under one religion which approved of euthanasia, they'd probably hang the pimps and vixens after the murderers and child molesters. Some groups even remove parts of the genitalia to prevent men and women from "sinning," and the RH Bill, as easy as it appeals to the common sense, was heavily debated by the brightest minds of our country.

On the other hand, it holds true that fleshly desires can at times develop to sickening barbarities. Gang rapes, cuckolding, home-wrecking, and the TV show Personalan are just a few among other corrupted deeds. Remember Kanye and Kim? The Philippines has them, too, only in the form of Hayden and Katrina. But to Dr. Hayden Kho, a sex video with one of the Philippines' sexiest could up his beer buddies' esteem of him. But to Katrina, well, he was married so for her it was really a crime of passion. To Kanye, listen to his music (and hip-hop in general). What do you get? Money, cars, I don't use a condom, money, money, cars. To Kim, well she's kind of a household name in scandals so let's not delve into her. She's not that big a thing to Filipinas anyway.

In the metro, porn DVDs run thick in the stands. You could buy one in the local market for P40 (about $0.90): For being cheap and accessible, it's now a multimillion peso underground industry. Soft-core pornography are screened all over the cheap theaters along Recto, Ermita, and other centers of commerce in Manila. FHM, Uno, and Maxim have been making a fortune here long since and gravure books are becoming a welcome form of literature. People judge all things under the influence of a culture, so far as Maria Clara is concerned, she could bid her ankle-long skirts goodbye. The Philippines isn't exactly a nation of playboys and tramps but tell someone who doesn't go out much how awesome last night was with your girlfriend and you'll be judged like one.

Parents get nervous if their eighteen-year-olds are still out past 10, even if it's a 110 degrees outside, long pants are never out of season for teenagers, a little PDA will lead you down a long road in the eyes of the passers-by, and if you're not a social commando, you better be careful not to tell anyone you "Party all night." The Filipino social stigma is so judgmental, it's a joke. If you're a girl, you're either a slut or a cheap shot if you don't save it for your wedding night.

Maybe this is just me, but believing how premarital sex causes the real thing to lose "its true meaning" is cliche and ridiculous. This is why so many Filipinos suffer midlife crisis. To the Filipino woman, a man doesn't have sex with her unless he's willing to sacrifice his soul and a lifetime of freedom and happiness for it. And to the Filipino Juan, sex is the pinnacle of a married relationship. It doesn't come with being a bachelor, it's a blessing from marriage. He's going to take good care of the kids, pay all the mortgages, and put on clothes he doesn't even like so Maria Clara would warm up to him; all the while mistaking which head is thinking. It may sound a little Freudian, but a part of all we do relates to our desire to be attractive. Nivea, Maybelline, Garnier, Dove, and the entire liquor, R&B, and self-help industry is built on it.

In the end, sex is just another thing that makes us human. We can't all be celibates. Like a good view, a menthol cigarette, a pleasant fabric softener or a hot meal, it's something we don't need like water and air but is still a plus to have around, though not to the point that life is useless without it.

So how do you answer the question? Simple: if it's a yes, it's a yes, if it's a no, it's a no. That's the art of small talk. The question measures the value of the questioner as opposed to measuring the questionee's. Answer straight and be sure of yourself. If your date looks down and then the other way, let him/her. You want a new partner, not someone to prove yourself to.

An Overly Elaborated Description of My Social Colors

"Alam mo, kung isang araw nawala ka, parang walang makakaalam. (You know, if one day you disappear, it's like no one would notice.)" This is something Daphney said to me a couple of years back. I formed a habit of wandering off on my own back then; she said this as I walked her back to the classroom. I bumped into her on my way back alone from the canteen. Back then, we were much closer. She'd give me advice on how to handle my struggling love life and you know me, I'd never fail to disappoint her. But we'd laugh it off in the end. 

Still, I can't explain the reason we grew apart. Not just me and her, but me and her friends, too. The same goes with all the groups of friends I've been part of.

Today, I hit a similar note with my present clique. Our professor gave us a lot of beats (places to sort information from) to cover for a requirement. We're assigned to at least 10 different agencies, so they set up an early rendezvous at 7 AM. I set my cell phone to alarm five times, two minutes apart to force me up. But today, I woke up to the sound of it vibrating--vibrating--I forgot to switch it off silent mode. On the screen, was the name of a friend calling me for the 6th time. It was 8:45 AM. Needless to say I missed today's excursion and they're all fucking pissed.

So here I am, doing away with the sentences in my head. I really let them down. But what better way to make it up than to pucker them up with flattery when they're all barking mad? Promise to never be late again but fail to deliver then repeat it the coming month, sending all my credibility down the drain? Wait. That could actually work! But I'll give the former a shot.

Here we are: Carabao and Friends. The leanest, meanest, hand-sanitizer-depleting machines in all of COC*. Most of us (particularly me), came from other dissolved cliques in the classroom. We're block sectioned; if you don't know what that means, picture high school all over again, only with less UNO cards and more grade-obsessed freaks.

Here's a run at who we are.

On the leftmost corner, you'll find what is probably the cutest creature ever conceived: an Epper. In the early days of our group, she was totally nondescript. In fact, an "Epper Minute" was put to effect--a minute when she was urged to speak at least a few words a day. She was that quiet. But as the months wore on, she grew more comfortable and finally acted normal (in a sense.) Now, she's even more adorable, playing all her silly antics on me just for a free treat. I simply write her off with a little pinch in the cheek, a kiss on the nose, and some days, an enormous freaking slap.

Moving on, you could--sir? What are you... May I--please, sir! Show some etiquette. That's not a chimpanzee, that's Gab! NSPC-placer Gab! Stop it with the pokes. No, I mean it. You--oh, man she's up. Oh... man. Oh, no. Oh--who put this banana in my boxers?! No, no! Down girl! Down girl!! AHH!! FU--

 

...And we're back. Sorry for the delay folks, they had to reattach my torso to my pelvis. So, back on topic, Gab is one of the most reliable confidantes there are. Whenever our schedules align, we take eight stations worth of time together (not to mention another 45 minutes or so waiting for a ride) home. I diverge my secrets to her on the regular. Now I know what you're thinking. Have I ever thought about having sex with her? The answer is no. I don't have to. It's another thing we have on the regular. *Grin.* Kidding aside though, she's kind of a big deal far as journalism goes. She's was a topper at the NSPC in news writing. She's never late for school, seldom misses a requirement, and thinks about 'being productive' the instant she wakes up. She's also constantly in the honor rolls and might be running for cum laude next year. Slowly but surely, this overpowering loudmouth is making her place in this world.

Third picture from the left is Charisma. And no, I don't think that duckface in intentional. A former classmate called her a buffalo once, which translates to "Kalabaw" or "Carabao" in Tagalog, hence the name of our group. Being the firstborn of a policeman and a court stenographer, she's the dominant personality among us. I seldom dare take shots at her; she always has a better comeback. She pairs braces with plunging necklines in school and gets away with it! Far as academics go, she's anal-retentive. I remember her crying from a grade of 2.5... or was it 2.25? Her house is situated in some remote corner of Bulacan so there's always an Indiana Jones feel to visiting (for food. Lots of it. Cooked by her mom who would someday take me in as a son.) We're really close but I keep her at arm's length. I never know when she's gonna bite... or punch, or elbow, or kick, or hit me in the nuts with a fan. But no matter how harassing she is, she's someone I could easily approach and someone who could easily approach me. I won't forget how she once cried on my shoulders. On normal mornings, I'd just gobble down her food and not talk to her for the rest of the day. On slow-going days, I'd pinch her on the cheek and mess up her hair for depressing me with stories of her love life. She's bisexual, by the way.

The black and white picture, third from the right, is Erika. Erika, whom I am at a loss of words to describe. She's kind of an excommunicant who still calls me up from time to time. That's... who I assume is her boyfriend beside her in the pic. Before Carabao and Friends, there was Charisma and Erika. Best friends who love feeling like they've known each other all their lives as they isolate themselves in swimming class. They were even married in Facebook. But everything went sour when Erika transferred to UP, and continued to be so until their friendship eventually languished. At one point, I also felt she was my best friend, too. She's the only classmate I've ever invited home. We could walk drunk for miles holding hands without the slightest hint of sensuality or malice. Wherever she is tonight, I hope she's happy with how things turned out for her.

Onto the second rightmost picture: the only man (still in question), aside me, in the group: Kent! In our ranks, he's a bit of an underling. But his upside is anyone could tell him anything and trust him with it. He's one of the few people I'm comfortable letting my guard down with. He's with his mom in the picture, Tita Shei, and with his sister, the cute yet somewhat evil Ykai. He has never seen his dad but he keeps good sense of a tightly-knit family. I know more about him than all of the people above. We share a common enthusiasm for Tekken and fooling people into believing we're shallow wastes of oxygen as a protective mechanism. He has an incessant habit of poking me, punching me and stepping on my shoes--by incessant, I mean really incessant. He does it all day, all year 'round. But he's a good friend (with almost perfect grammar.) His simple, child-like views of the world make him unique. Eyes of A Child is partly inspired by him.

The last man in the picture is me. But I think I've talked enough.

In five years or so, I'll be seeing these names in bylines, how-to books, magazines, ending credits, business cards, and who knows, maybe even television.

And in fifteen years or so, if Facebook is still 'in,' I'm gonna be seeing their wedding pictures all over my news feed. Damn, that would be so cliche.

In the years to come, I could have collected a more sophisticated pallet. But these people are my base colors. My first coat. Their traces under my skin would never fade. To the future Dave who must have had the remote impulse to read this 15 years from now, these are your roots. I hope life turned out better for you than how you saw it when you were writing this.