This Baby, What a Funneh.

Anybody who gets near this kid gets the funnies. Who wouldn't with a face like this:

When he was a newborn he looked so fresh and innocent:

But only a few weeks after, he was already showing some signs of unnatural behavior for kids his age:

I don't know about you, but sleeping with glasses on is never a safe habit to develop. This kid and I need to have a talk on this.

Also, if you're a portrait photographer, you would understand how important it is for your subject to show full cooperation. I mean, how much trouble is it to smile for the camera, huh?

I mean, he glares like the camera's been doing him wrong!

And by the time I was taking my 4th shot of him doing this, he was moving around and glaring like he's having a really nasty seizure. I was on the bed rolling and laughing, and I figured I might as well just chalk this up to another case of FAIL.

Also, talking to inanimate objects this soon? Bad, bad sign.

Anyway, I love him to pieces, and that is all that matters.

Pardon the smelly sheets and the smelly tita.

Also, more baby love.

1 2 3 4

There was once a man who pointed out an oxymoron hiding behind one of Leslie Feist's popular songs:

Sweet heart, bitter heart
Now I can't tell you apart

... the conflicting points being the sad lyrics sung in a catchy, happy tune.

You'd never hear her cry for help, but Feist poured out her heart and soul on those two lines to let you know that she is on the verge of giving up her search for love and happiness. That is, if she hasn't already succumbed to her romantic failure.

The rest of the song follows suit. The happy mention of numbers 1, 2, 3, 4 was a diversionary tactic to keep you from noticing how incredibly sad and Dystopian our songwriter's frame of mind is.

But Leslie Feist couldn't fool this man.

He is a sad, old man who gave up on love more than five years ago. It wasn't because he didn't live a life well-loved, in fact he's had more romantic stories up his sleeve than you care to imagine coming out of a fat, wrinkled man who stopped looking for shirts bearing colors other than black and brown; shirts, tastelessly cheap, hanging on every tastelessly cheap shirt corner of every tastelessly cheap shirt neighborhood. He wakes up in the morning to a job he calls his own, reading beautiful poetry to little kids, sure enough that every day he spends educating them is a day spent shaping up the generation of his nation's greats. He loves the idea of making a mark in this world through the happy faces of kids in his dead end school in the middle of his dead end town.

At night, he pours a glass of wine and sings to Feist.

Money can't buy you back the love that you had then...

He wants to think the next beautiful woman who comes along will ultimately spend with him the time of their lives. But, in reality, when they finally meet, they will spend two peachy weeks getting to know each other, filled with excitement that quickly goes on a painful downward spiral, something that comes as no surprise to him. He knows that no relationship will ever surpass the three blissful years he'd spent chasing the beautiful long-haired teacher he met in his young years teaching foreign kids on a beautiful foreign island somewhere in the warm foreign tropics. This woman, long out of his life, still owns a diamond ring laid on her finger by his loving hands. But she is now out and about with another man, someone who's never heard of Leslie Feist, never even read a single piece of children's literature in his life, who's preferably a schmuck who will never treat this woman right after they got married, but who's lucky enough to win this woman's heart. Our Feist hero should have been the one for her, loving her, making her happy, but alas, circumstances were never too kind. And now he's stuck with nothing but happy kids' faces and two-week flings and cheap shirts and long-gone memories of her.

One more glass of wine, and another round of singing to the song. He conjures up the vision of a faceless woman with a body so cunningly inviting. He doesn't want to know her, doesn't really intend to, but one thing he does want is to have meaningless sex with her everyday for the rest of his life. He's grown tired of two-week romances with beautiful women that never led anywhere, and now all he wants is a faceless slave to embody the ultimate answer to his sleepless, sexless nights.

Tomorrow morning, he will wake up to a great deal of pain. But it'll be just another morning, and he is really no stranger to the pain. So tonight, he takes more sips of fine wine, goes on a little dozy trip, and soon enough, this sexual fantasy of his will come to life.

Cue 1 2 3 4, on repeat.

Netted and Lovin' it!

A deeply engrossing article from Boston Globe confirmed that I am a member of The Net Generation. In its very words, Netters are a generation "... for whom social networking via the Internet is a birthright". I feel overly ecstatic about this article, not only because it details qualities and events of the time I existed to date, but also because it lifted out in me a proud citizen of this wisecracking, no-shit generation of rebooters and disillusioned dreamers.

The labeling and grouping of the recent generations is essentially a feature of American pop culture. But since my part of the world is as Americanized as the mainland, thanks to decades of American colonization and the subsequent decades of colonial mentality, people born here from 1974-1983 may somewhat consider themselves Netters.

I thought the term Netter sounds more catchy than Gen-Y, as much as PCer makes more sense than Gen-X.

These are some reasons why I think I may be a Netter. Things about my personal life that pertain to some of the things in the article:

My current curiosity for the high Hollywood life is amply satisfied by every episode of Entourage.

I'm too much of a chicken to be convinced to get a tattoo, although some of my friends got them, and the rest would in a heartbeat, but it would be nice to get myself henna'd someday.

Every single Netter I know, including myself, have at some point in their lives spilled the beans on their Boomer bosses.

The things I post in blogs range from my happiest photos to the most excruciatingly painful, depressed nights. Apparently, there are no holds barred in this part of the web.

I have the propensity to jump at the next lucrative job opportunity any chance I get.

A lot of my friends are crazy about making huge money out of startups. And when the cash cow starts producing stale milk, they wouldn't feel any remorse over mistaken choices or think twice about moving on to the next best thing.

Compensation, flexible work schedules, more vacation or personal time, access to state-of-the-art technology, career advancement. If your company can't offer me all of these, what's the point of all this talking?

I've called my current boss a dinosaur. To his face. About 10 times now. And still counting.

I multitask, append several words with "i", and deal with a world of IMs, text messages, emails, Google, Youtube, Facebook, and whatever social network is hot in town.

I don't read print newspapers, buy CDs, or rent DVDs. I'm slowly and painfully shedding off my print book collection in exchange for an ebook library neatly tucked inside a small device called reader that I can lug around anywhere I go. I try to educate myself on intellectual property law, and show off by toting around acronyms like DRM, but nothing about the whole deal makes me nervous whenever I yoink stuff online to make my blog sound cool.

My generation has gone PC over being PC. It's gotten annoying, really.

I have no qualms about crushing on not-so-hunky stars and idolizing not-too-phenomenal so-so's.

I am a face in an audience that doesn't nitpick on quirky details of eccentric popularity. If the bandwagon loves hobbits, I'm out to date a vertically challenged man. Ok, maybe not quite.

I don't reminisce the greatest movies of all time, I re-watch them! In the same manner, I don't look back on my days of delight over the best things I've seen on TV, I download TV shows off the webs or buy the complete box set... BOOTLEG!

The article features a lengthy list of Netters around the world, which I have reduced to a list of noteworthy names I personally prefer for their exemplary achievements in specific fields.

For their achievements in sports:
Tiger Woods (1975)
Anna Kournikova (1981)

For their achievements in music:
Feist (1976)
Fiona Apple (1977)
Norah Jones (1979)
Chris Daughtry (1979)
Corinne Bailey Rae (1979)
Regina Spektor (1980)
Jennifer Hudson (1981)
Josh Groban (1981)
LeAnn Rimes (1982)
Carrie Undewood (1983)
Michelle Branch (1983)

For their achievements in acting:
Joaquin Phoenix (1974)
Casey Affleck (1974)
Hilary Swank (1974)
Penelope Cruz (1974)
Reese Witherspoon (1976)
Maggie Gyllenhaal (1977)
Jonathan Rhys Meyers (1977)
Katherine Heigl (1978)
Gael Garcia Bernal (1978)
Zooey Deschanel (1980)
Jake Gyllenhaal (1980)
Ryan Gosling (1980)

For the remarkable stories of their long and winding road to fame and fortune:
Jewel (1974)
KT Tunstall (1975)

For their philanthropic and humanitarian contributions to the world:
Angelina Jolie (1975)
Alicia Keys (1980)
Natalie Portman (1981)

For their achievements in literary entertainment:
Jonathan Safran Foer (1977)
Diablo Cody (1978)

For embodying the greatest fictional heroes of our time:
Leonardo DiCaprio as Jack Dawson (1974)
Tobey Maguire as Peter Parker/ Spider-Man (1975)
Audrey Tautou as Amélie Poulain (1976)
James Van Der Beek as Dawson Leery (1977)
Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1977)
Tom Welling as Clark Kent/ Superman (1977)
Orlando Bloom as Legolas (1977)
Jason Biggs as the pie guy (1978)
Heath Ledger as Enis del Mar (1979)
Christina Ricci as Wednesday Addams (1980)
Alexis Bledel as Rory Gilmore (1981)
Hayden Christensen as Anakin Skywalker (1981)
Elijah Wood as Frodo Baggins (1981)


I don't know why the article failed to mention Kobe Bryant, when it would be fitting to include a Netter like Kobe on this year, not only because it marks the highlight of his career, but also because it is arguably the most watched season in the history of the league. Let yourself be warned then that this list isn't all-encompassing. But since it is agreeable to note that accounting for an entire generation of history has its ups and downs, momentary slips are forgiven. I still luffles this article.

DOH-nuts, Coffee and Rejected Villains

I spent a couple of hours today hanging around a Krispy Kreme shop, sipping on a subpar cafe americano, nevertheless immersed in the blissful smell of their doughnuts. Because I was stupid enough to forget to bring along the two books that I am currently juggling at home, I sat on one corner content to read some fun facts posted on a wall somewhere in the room. A sample fact reads:

In about 22 seconds, Krispy Kreme stores can produce enough doughnuts to make a stack the height of the Empire State Building.

Isn't that something? 22 seconds! That's 163 honey-glazed Empire State Buildings in an hour!

Ok, I obviously can do simple math, and while that has worked splendid wonders for my career so far (50% sarcasm, 25% delusion, 25% denial), it isn't really saving any lives. Although, if you factor in the fact that my income automatically puts a few pesos monthly for a cause that feeds Filipino kids and helps keep them off the streets (epic obscurity PHAIL), then I guess you can say my career indirectly leads to saving lives. But that's drawing a looong line between two points.

On that note, I am almost lost in a train of thought that the Krispy Kreme fun facts were supposed to lead this blog to. So onT, these are some fun facts that working in a call center has taught me so far. DISCLAIMER: These facts apply only to my work.

German language is a faster avenue of communication than Swiss, Italian or French.

Americans kick Filipino and British asses at speaking English.

If you think you're all high and mighty now that you're getting paid big bucks for your staple "city and state, please" welcome phrase, just imagine a room full of convicted murderers somewhere in Texas doing the same great job you're doing. That ought to put your career pursuits in perspective.

I don't wanna say more for fear that I might get dooced, so no more sugar overload treats for me today.

Thus, I leave you with an unrelated complete collection of Rejected Megaman Villains that duelinganalogs.com has so far.

Preposterous, but Romantic

Some interesting photos over at Flickr:

by LJ.

by LJ.

by billy gomez

by Emmanuel Smague

by NuageDeNuit

There's something so fascinating about old faces that easily strike my fancy. I guess it's something to do with age that reflects in the wrinkles of their skin, the greyness of their hair, the inner pains of mustering energy to live the few remaining years. There must be more, but suffice it to say that old people, while not entirely lovable by nature of unique individual character, very easily capture my attention by the mere fact that they've spent more years in this jading world. Plus, they make fantastic subjects of photography.

I just came from a shot of endorphin this morning, running a few laps in my favorite park. I notice that the faces of people have changed from the last time I was there. Still, there remains this abundance of old people, who I usually catch sitting on a bench resting for more minutes than they've managed to run or walk around. Whenever I see old people exercising, I see fruitful attempts to stay healthy in the midst of living unhealthy years. They look a dozen times more adorable than the buff boys with muscled legs and fast feet, who very easily outrun the old ones around the block. Feat is the triumph over an internal struggle, and while the young ones count laps like accountants doing simple mental math, for the aged, stretches and a couple runs in between marks another successful day, more successful than any young man's day of million strides.

This thought inspired a vision of me at 60 still running laps and smiling. It was plenty comforting.

One of the few amazing websites I've stumbled upon is Mark Story Photography, a collection of photos and brief stories about people who lived to see three centuries. Because I'm a boring four-eyed ninny whose habits exclude just about everything that can kill, I myself might live long enough to be a featured genarian. And because I was born near the turn of the century, this could well be my claim to fame. Eh, maybe trying to live until after 2100 is a preposterous idea, but it is romantic. And it could be the most romantic thing to happen in my silly little life.