The Short Of It

I took one day out my weekend to spend with Ayie ( my best bud since I think first or seconds grade) and her son (my godchild) Irvine.

Suffice to say, I had a blast. I took them out for burger (I had the shrimp burger while they had baconator – something I can’t wrap my head around), ice cream and movies. I laughed so hard with how glib Irvine is; an eight year old genius who stops you in your track in case you use bad words. He’s a remarkably delightful, patient, polite, obedient and rambunctious boy.

I am planning another day out with them soon.


I hardly watch the television. If I do, it’s never the local channels. I’ve never seen (just don’t add the tragic times when I channel surf) a show of Wowowee nor Showtime.

Growing up, my parents and adults around me have inundated me with the basic knowledge of choosing shows that will yield you not just entertainment but educational worth. Once in a while they would park me in front of the telly to pick up a thing or two about someone else’s life (imaginary or not). Would you believe they taught me to make opinions out of writers and war by allowing me to watch Full Metal Jacket as a tiny kid of seven?

Well it’s true.

I also learned that if you want to survive, do it for yourself and not wait for anyone else to deliver it to you – that was after seeing Empire Of The Sun.

Again, so very factual and so very helpful during my formation years.

So now, as an adult I find it ordinary not to know anything about local afternoon game shows Willie Revilame have hosted. I have never been stilted brainless jokes that tries to teach me how to be trite and crude. Its content overrides commercial and idiot-inday consideration at all times, it’s so blah. Although this much is true, I sat through any Lino Brocka  and Ishmael Bernal films that reruns heavily in the early 90’s. And to tell you frankly, I think all old Sharon Cuneta films are the bomb. So I’m no snob. After all I half studied Filipino film making and adore Ricky Lee.

Some say it’s a form of pretentiousness. I say, it’s a form of self preservation. Veer away from brain cell implosion if it’s the last thing you do.


I’m still trying to finish a very lovely book by Elizabeth Kostova.

I’ll say this much: We need more of these intellectual books. Now I’m not saying I’m intellectual (don’t tell my brother) but I’m saying it helps those who need to bolster individual commentary of how art connects to the world. In Kostova’s novel, a painting.

Given I’m nearing its penultimate turn, I’m crossing my fingers that it exceeds my expectations after having met it.


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