supal palin

nung tinanong ni katie couric si mrs. palin kung paano na-enhance ang kanyang "foreign policy credentials" ng sagot nya na nakikita nya ang russia mula sa kanilang bahay, sagot ni mrs. palin, because our neighbors are foreign countries.

naala ko tuloy yung lorna t joke nung unang panahon, tinanong sya kung anong kurso ang kukunin nya sakolehiyo, sagot ng lorna t. ay mass ommunication, at nung tinanong sya ulit kung bakit, ang sagot ng bibong si lorna t. ay "because i want to communicate with the masses".

ayan, sarah palin, ikaw na ang bagong lorna t. matuwa ka dahil hindi ko sinabing ikaw ang bagong alma moreno, or worse, bagong melanie marquez. pag yun, mapikon ka na.

matapos ang interview sa kanya ni couric, pinaulanan si palin ng, uhm, alaska.

ang suporta sa kanya ng mga republikano ay nagmistulang, uhm, malamig.

sabi nga nung isang ininterview, listening to her was so painful, it's difficult to, uhm, bear.

ay naku, charly, charlyyyy!

INTRODUCTION. INSINUATION. INFESTATION.

#5. This is a milkweed. Milkweeds are known to attract butterflies. This milkweed in my patio, to my knowledge, has not attracted a single butterfly, unless, in this world of Kafka, I am really a butterfly because I am so attracted to it. And no, this is not a Freudian slip. (You know, milk...weed.)















#6. There are three things I do at home that, like an inseparable troika, I do simultaneously: wine, fruits, and books. And if they happen to be a shiraz, raspberries, and Dante's, I would not need a fourth.















#7. Villagio at Merrick Park in Coral Gables made me reconsider my Italian food prejudices. My EB in Miami with friends the likes of Kiwipi, Jet and Jay, Angela, Toni, TitoRolls, Cha, Jobert, Schad, Gwen, Bopis, Belle, Mari, SachikoSan, Princess Dyanie and manymore will find its occasion here even if, muy PapaPiccolino!, it's only for the killer desserts.















#8. Dig my digs? This is my office, my digs where I earn my keeps; or home away from home. Here's a secret: inside the credenza is a stackful of books. In case I get stuck here overnight due to, say, a hurricane, dang!, I won't be workin', I'll be readin'.

PAGPAPAKILALA. PAGPAPAKILABOT. PAGPAPAKULUBOT.

#1. Eto ako. In others words, ako eto. Obviously, mas magara ang t-shirt ko sa mukha ko kahit pa sabihing pareho silang kulubot. O, baka naman pwede na tayong mag whole lotta love nyan?















#2. Eto ang kanang kamay ko. Batay sa sinabi ni Brenda Miller sa A Thousand Buddhas na "Your hands become what they do", pilit kong inaalam kung ang kanang kamay ko e hugis pinggang hinuhugasan, o plantsahan, o damit na marumi, o sandok kaya. Hmmm, minsan tingin ko mukha syang libro.
















#3. Eto si Bunso. Sa ngayon e itago muna natin sya sa pangalang Apgo. Sya ang paborito kong whipping boy sa tennis. Pero noon yun. Ngayon, ako na ang paborito nya.















#4. Eto ang living room ng aking apartment sa Miami. Living room. Otherwise called sala. Sa Pilipinas ang tawag sa sala ay salas. Plural. As in maraming sala kaya nararapat lang mangumpisal. Yung mga kalaro ko sa tennis na bumibisita sa apartment, tawag nila dito e rainforest. Ayos.














itutuloy...

TOO FURIOUS AT TOO FAST

I am no speedster.

Edward Young, in Love of Fame, said - Be wise with speed; a fool at forty is a fool indeed? I do, I agree, and in fact I'm not enamoured with speed even when I was fourteen.

When I was in my youth in the Philippines my Dad gave me my first car, a blue Mitsubishi Celeste. It was fast and equipped with what I was told as "the perfect engine" - a Saturn's. But being the exact opposite of a speed maniac (a Slow Moe?), I did not feel any attachment to the car (I did not tell my Dad or he would have given me left hook or an uppercut, depending on his mood) and all my memories of it was that it brought me from point A to point B while very seldom hitting the fourth gear.

For years, decades, my biggest asshole is the speedster who would cut fellow motorists with no care for their safety and if only for the lame reason that he failed to wake up for an appointment on time. Then as now, I compare the weaver of traffic as a confused cockroach insectfied by the climax in Kafka's Metamorphosis.

May the speedster spot the checkered flag of life ahead of us all!

And so it would come to pass that, here in the States, I had been asked more than once to come and see a racing event at Daytona or Homestead - NASCAR events that are paradise on pavement for those who literally live or die on the fast lane - and be insulted; I had always wanted to ask the invitor, Uhm, does my neck look red to you?

Right now I wanted to see a good sporting event, something that could showcase a good human athletic skill: nimble, fast, strong, quick, armed with a sharp eye, a coordinated pair of limbs, and a knowledge of when to shift the body weight from left to right. I pushed the tv button and what do I see? Roaring machines that go round and round the pit of hell, wasting all precious gasolines for all they care, spitting the scourge of earth for all they care, bemoaning us all with horsepowers for all I care, never knowing that every one in attendance is there to see not for any single skill (which is unseen) but for the cars to uncontrollably spin their own crazy axis like tops and smash each other like plastic bump cars and prove that indeed the race oval is a medieval gladiator arena fed by steel, fuel, carbon, and the blood of some very precious human life as well.

Let me rant. Which is more athletic, these speedsters, or the poker players I see on ESPN?

What planet am I in?