Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Cold Snap

The problem with this unusually cold weather we’ve been experiencing in Metro Manila is that I have discovered that I do not like the cold. I am a warm weather person. I like basking in the sunlight. I like swimming under the sun. I love soaking up rays.

In short, the cold has been terrible to me. I’ve been feeling it in my knees and my knuckles, and that’s saying a lot since I’ve just recently turned thirty! I am, however, apparently old enough to feel the cold seep into my bones.

Another way the cold has been terrible for me is mainly because of my asthma. I don’t have weak lungs, but I do have allergies and the aforementioned asthma, and the occasional ear infection producing a lot of snot in my right ear doesn’t really help much.

It’s really weird how the cold is affecting everybody I know. Suddenly, everybody’s carrying around a sweater. Everybody’s suffering from a cold. And some friends are even resorting to using the heater option of their vehicles (something unheard of in the Philippines, unless you were living in Baguio)! It’s pretty amazing, in a weird sort of way. We’re so used to the heat that suddenly, the cold (15.7 degrees Celcius, just a couple of tenths away from the record of 15.1.

A couple of days ago, the cold got so bad that I couldn’t believe that it was just 18 degrees. The average temperature over at Baguio’s been idling at around seven. And that’s not even winter weather.

The only difference being that I like this place. Taken from Lakbay Pilipinas.

Luckily, the weather’s taken a turn for the (somewhat) warmer, and I can now safely abandon my jacket on the wayside (or the back of my chair), and saunter around the world in a single t-shirt and sensible shorts.

But some time ago, Matt Yglesias posted something on Slate about how he’d take cold weather over warm weather any day, since it was easier to deal with the cold than with the warmth. His point was that it was a lot easier to put on layers of clothing than it was to remove them. Which made sense. The only way we can deal with extreme heat is by constant rehydration, and air conditioning. Meanwhile, when it’s cold, we could just put on a jacket, an extra shirt, and an extra pair of pants. Or more than just one extra pair of both, in colder temperatures.

I believe that I represent most Pinoys when it comes to dealing with cold weather, in that I like it until it starts bothering my joints. Or, in a friend’s case, his ankles (don’t ask me how). I have a dislike for putting on more than one layer of clothing since it’s bloody mental to do that in a country as tropical as the Philippines. But with the way things have been for the past few months, maybe this is changing? Climate change or not, maybe it’s time we get used to piling on more clothing than we normally do during certain times of the year.

I’ll tell you this, though. I prefer the cold to all the rain we’ve been getting.

Monday, January 27, 2014

Mid-Season Pilots

My line of work affords me a lot of opportunity to watch TV shows while I’m editing or writing. I don’t stray too far from shows that i started watching at least two to three years ago; perhaps the most recent thing I watched was Hannibal or The Following, which were pretty interesting as far as TV shows go.

But I was nowhere near prepared for the 2013-20114 midseason shows. I don’t think I’ve never made a conscious decision to follow this many new shows in one go, since I’m very picky of about most everything in my life. I’d like to think that it’s because I’m a scintillating man who’s not that easy to please, but then again I watch Family Guy and American Dad, so I can’t really say for sure.

Back to the point, however; i don’t know if I was just really bored with most of the shows this season, or if there was something else that piqued my curiosity.

So far, my favorite new show this season. Taken from the show’s IMDB page.

So far, my favorite has to be the Amazon Instant Video production Betas, a hilarious show about four guys creating a social media app that’s guaranteed to make them millionaires – if only they can get the damned thing to work. I like how Madeline Zima is a guest star on the first episode (I’m a fan, yes), and I like how it takes The Big Bang Theory’s character templates, and places them in a more realistic setting with plenty of internal and external pressures not immediately present in TBBT’s sterile sitcom environment. If I were to compare how this show hit me, I’d say that I’m reacting to Betas in the same way I reacted to The Newsroom. I don’t know why, but the vibe, the urgency is almost the same.

The same could be said about The Best Laid Plans, although this show relies a bit more on upstanding characters than a snazzy script – but then again, the environment of TBLP is different from Betas, and the lack of geek presence in the world of British Columbian parliament makes for repartee that’s admittedly more grown-up than what you’d expect from most American comedies. For some reason, however, I can’t think of The Best Laid Plans without picturing Stephen Mangan. If there’s one reason to keep watching this show, though, it’s for Kenneth Welsh.

I’m on the fence on Black Sails. On the surface, the show’s great. The acting is fantastic, the set is great, and the abundance of T&A (that’s sure to taper off as the show progresses) is, well, great if you’re a guy. And hey, it’s a show about pirates! I’ve never had trouble watching a show, or reading a book, about pirates before. But the same could be said about Vikings, and I never really enjoyed the History channel show. So I’m going to give this show a couple of episodes more to see if I can find a reason to keep watching it.

And finally, we have HBO’s True Detective. This show is difficult to watch because of how it’s paced, and if you’re not hooked in the first five minutes, the show probably isn’t for you. But since I’m jonesing for an actual detective story that Sherlock, for all it’s brilliance, can’t deliver, I gave this a shot—and was rewarded with a story that’s part found footage, part Hannibal, in terms of quality. The best part is that the show is an anthology. The characters for this season won’t be in the next season, which means that there’s no way you can build too much affinity for one character that you won’t terribly mind them being killed off. A review of the show online also points out that this is also great since the show can actually invite actors who don’t want to stay chained to a production for too long, hence the inclusion of Woody Harrelson and Matthew McConaughey in the first season.

Of the four, I’m staking my claim on Betas simply because the show is brilliant. The others are also all fairly good in their own way, and are worth watching too. Some of the shows that didn’t make the cut are The Spoils of Babylon (the camp self-depreciating format of the show didn’t really resonate with me), and I’ve yet to give The Musketeers a shot, but I loved The Three Musketeers, so I may end up liking this as well. You never know.

Friday, January 24, 2014

The Furious Muse in the Room Upstairs (Part 4)

This is a story in progress. I will post it in chunks, for the next few weeks, as I complete it. A warning: this tale is definitely not for children, so parental advisory is advised. Or don’t let your kids read this. At all.

The Furious Muse in the Room Upstairs

By SDiRam, with an afterword by Kilawinguwak

Part 4 

“Don’t bullshit me,” said Juan Carlo Añonuevo as he dug into his tapsilog. He’d just finished a nighttime drinking session with SDiRAM and some people from the publishing house, and a midnight snack was warranted before the two of them headed home, so they took a trip to the nearest Tapa King in JC’s Volvo.

SDiRAM wasn’t bullshitting JC. In fact, that was the true story of how he published the now-legendary short novel Aurora, he said. Unbelievable as it may sound!

But JC wouldn’t budge. “Dude, so you’re telling me that a sexy, Nordic woman claiming to be a muse moved into the apartment above yours. This woman then proceeded to help you write the story that would eventually change your life. Bull. Shit.”

That was, indeed, bullshit. See, that wasn’t how it happened. The story, according to SDiRAM, was this: “One day, when I was done with all the work I had on my plate, I decided to get some real writing done. You know, I didn’t think I would really get that far since writing for Recto Online wasn’t paying as much as I wanted to. But the story wasn’t moving, so I was watching an episode of House MD when Pfil—Baby Blue—knocked on my door for the first time since they first made their presence known. This time around, she was dressed more sensibly, and that put me at ease. This time, too, I wasn’t watching porn, so I was in a less compromising situation.”

“She asked me if I was good to share a cup of coffee, since she’d made a whole pot but the other two weren’t home. She even brought the pot to show me just how much coffee she had to finish. I didn’t quite understand why she couldn’t just finish drinking a cup on her own, but I never said no to coffee, so I said yes and invited her in. I cleaned a couple of coffee mugs, then she poured us each a cupful.”

“The coffee was powerful—and I liked strong coffee!—but it wasn’t bitter. She smiled and said that this was because where she came from, the coffee beans were cared for not by farmers who needed to make money, but by artisans who loved coffee with all their heart. There was no hate in their hearts, no essence of bitterness towards the beans. This, apparently, was the secret to great-tasting, strong coffee.”

“This was interesting to me, so I asked her more about where she came from, but she was evasive, and instead pointed to the screen of my laptop. ‘I’m surprised that you’re watching House instead of writing,’ she said. ‘Don’t you like writing?’ I did love writing, but the fact was that the words just weren’t coming. But there was no direct way of saying this without sounding like I’m making an excuse, so I just shrugged and said that it wasn’t as easy as it looked. Putting your words to paper was more than just an exercise, after all, and sometimes you need to sit and think—and maybe distract yourself from having to write—in order to get some work done.”

“She smiled at me, and sipped at her cup thoughtfully. This time around, she was wearing a polo shirt that was tucked into a pair of faded jeans. She looked like a hippie, truth be told, looked a lot like a whiter Madeline Zima with raven hair. Her coffee pot was a ten-cup Bodum press that looked rather well-loved (she loved her coffee, I’d imagine). She was the nicest-looking of the three, since her features didn’t seem as sharp as the other two, although you could tell that she carried herself with the same bearing as the other two.”

“I didn’t realize until after later that she was thinking of what she was going to tell me next. How do you respond to a writer who says he can’t write because he can’t think of what to write, anyway? The pedestrian would say ‘But there’s always something to write about! You can write about how your day went. You can rant about the way the cook looked at you funnily this morning. Heck, you can even write a short poem about your cup of coffee. How can you not find something to write about?’ But she wasn’t one of those people, since the next thing she said was this:”

“’I know what you mean. Inspiration’s hard to come by, isn’t it, when you’ve got nothing else in your mind but the echoing of your own doubts?’”

“This was five months ago. I never forgot her words, and she kept on visiting me every week until I finished the damn book. It wasn’t very hard for me to sell Aurora; the industry was ripe for a book that wasn’t about vampires or magicians, since everybody was sick of that. The first four bookstores gave me a nice offer for the rights to publish it, and I went with the guys who had a good track record of not sticking it to their writers, and that was that. But it never would have come together if she hadn’t told me that one sentence. I never would have gotten the nerve to sit back down and actually hammer out the entire story.”

JC rewound the recording on his iPad, and listened to the whole explanation again. “This isn’t going to work, bro,” he said after the second playthrough. “Nobody’s going to fucking believe what you just told me, whether or not you were telling the truth. I mean, okay, this Pfil helped you publish your book; now what? Is she your girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend? Hell no, if Versailles even found out that this woman was helping me write, she’d have my balls. I mean, Pfil saw me come, man.” He knew she would, too. SDiRAM’s girlfriend, Versailles Tomatina was extremely jealous, and he’d tell me, later on in his career, that it was going to get harder and harder to explain why all of the women in his novels and stories were Nordic whereas she was most definitely a mestiza whose features, though fine, still betrayed her as an indio. She would eventually corner him in his room with a shotgun (her father’s, I believe) and demand that he told her the truth.

The truth that was in JC Añonuevo’s iPad. Again, he shook his head. “It still won’t work, man. I’m your publicist, and I’m telling you that if I wrote that down on paper, it’s going to sound silly, and make you the laughingstock of the whole book industry. Look, we’ll keep the part about her coming over to your house one day to give you coffee, but we’ll use your girlfriend instead of this woman. Ok? And she’s going to be your muse, not this unwieldy bitch of a woman you have here that nobody’s even seen, except for you. It would be great if I could speak with your GF for a bit, she may be able to make this human interest story a little bit more interesting. Can you do a photo shoot sometime soon?”

SDiRAM didn’t really get what all the fuss was about, though. All he knew was that he’d just finished writing a book, and that it was (apparently!) selling really well. He knew Pfil didn’t really mind people not knowing about her, but it didn’t feel right. And was he really cheating on Versailles by making his book about this strong, coffee-loving girl from overseas, because my god, if you could have seen him when he talked about Pfil! 

To be continued

Go to Part 3

Wednesday, January 22, 2014

Music: The Next Generation

I like listening to metal. And rock. Mostly rock. But melodic metal is awesome. And I’m a fan of almost anything Maynard James Keenan (who should have played Voldemort) is part of. Naturally, this includes Tool.

Mjk-usma Maynard_James_Keenan_Roskilde_1

The evolution of MJK. Also, WTF. Taken from his Wikipedia page.

The fact is, I like Tool because of the really heavy rhythm section. The combo of the bass and drums makes me want to break things. Specifically, the strings of my bass. I’d give a lot of things to be able to play something like Parabola (from Lateralus) live, just for the coolness of it all.

That, and because kids these days probably wouldn’t be able to get what it was all about.

But maybe I’m wrong. Andrew O’Keefe certainly proved that I could possibly have things ass backwards with his school of insanely gifted kids. I’ll end my post here, and leave you guys with the video since—despite having seen this same vid around ten times in the span of two months—I am still terribly impressed.

Surprised smileSurprised smileSurprised smileSurprised smileSurprised smile 

Monday, January 20, 2014

Nick Joaquin, Penner of Words, Drinker of Beers

Some time ago, a friend asked me for my opinion of old Pinoy writers. Suffice it to say that my opinion isn’t worth much; I have this dislike for most of the old guard. My reasons for disliking them aren’t really that deep, but I can’t help but think that they’re the reason why we’re caught in a vicious cycle of sub par local entertainment.

nick joaquin

Nick Joaquin. National artist. Beer Drinker. Taken from Bulatlat.

Which isn’t to say that I dislike all of them. I have great respect for Jose Rizal, especially after I read his works in English (my mind processes the English language better than Tagalog). And by far, my favorite Pinoy writer of all time is Nick Joaquin.

My very first encounter with Joaquin’s work was, as you would expect, required reading when I was a freshman in college. This was May Day Eve, a story about passionate love turned bitter. You know how each writer has a flagship work; Hemingway has either For Whom the Bell Tolls or The Old Man and the Sea. Vonnegut has Slaughterhouse 5. Shakespeare has Romeo and Juliet. Well, this short story was one of Joaquin’s flagships, and by reading the first paragraph alone—a whole block of text without a single full stop all the way to the end—I knew I was reading something special.

My curiosity was piqued even further by the story that the old man was an avid beer drinker. A writer friend once told me that Joaquin could tell what brand a cup of beer was just by tasting it (That’s not San Miguel Beer. That’s Beer na Beer!). Now, you have to realize that I was young at the time, and quite the drinker (I was a legend, it turns out), so this shared habit with a writer whose work didn’t seem to be stuck in just one generation was tantalizing.

I picked up one of the cheap collections of his short stories from National Bookstore not long after reading May Day Eve, and I was pleasantly surprised that the man wasn’t just a one-trick pony. Here were plenty of short stories that transcended boundaries of time and culture. I knew by then that he wasn’t just writing fiction, he was also one hell of a journalist as both himself and Quijano de Manila, and the knowledge that he grew up in Paco—along Herran, if I’m not mistaken—made me love the man even more.

To this day, one of my biggest regrets in life is not publishing one of my stories while he was still editing for the Philippine Graphic. Ol’ Nick passed away in 2004; my stories Twilight in the Center of the World and Black Hole—my flagship—were both published after his passing. I imagine that he would have enjoyed editing my works (modesty aside), and I would have loved to hear what he had to say about my stories.

In fact, that would have been quite an experience. I would have loved to hang out with him in Obeertime, his haunt along Pasong Tamo, waiting patiently with a beer—what else?—while he went through the pages of my work. Whether his thoughts were good or bad didn’t matter. For me, it would have been the biggest honor to have what I’d written to be read by the biggest man in Pinoy literature.

Friday, January 17, 2014

Short Story: Flight

And now here’s a vignette. Enjoy, folks.


by Kilawinguwak


She stepped into her room, peeled off her orange jacket, and slammed the door. There wasn’t much inside, neither her jacket nor her room, to speak of. The furnishings were bare; a simple wooden bed with a thin cushion, thin white sheets, and a pillow. A table with a chair on one side, with a cheap plastic lamp in one corner of the tabletop. Which was dusty, as if it hadn’t been used in weeks, but the bed was creased, as if she’d been lying on it just recently. A thin layer of dust could be seen on the small headboard.

She pulled out her chair, and eased herself into it. There was hardly a creak when she sat. She was very, very light. From a small purse hanging from the back of the chair, she pulled out a notebook and a pen, and started writing.

From outside her second floor window, she looked like she was studying. She looked like a college kid, a freshman, and she hunched over her notebook as if it were a term paper she needed to submit later that evening. She had a dark blue wife-beater on underneath the jacket, and it shifted slowly while she breathed. Her breaths came in short and slow beats.

She wrote for thirty minutes, taking small pauses in order to think of the next line, or to erase something she felt didn’t belong. She was using a red pen, and the ink, nearly dry, looked faded against the yellow of her notebook paper. Several times, she had to rub the pen over the back page of her notebook to get the roller loose. She sometimes wondered if maybe she should go look for another pen, but stopped herself.

When she finished what she was writing, she put down the pen, and read through the text on her notebook. Satisfied, she inserted the pen into the notebook, closed it, and put it in the middle of the table.

A cat started meowing loudly elsewhere in the house. She leaned back on her chair, listening to the caterwaul, lost in thought. She turned her head to look at the window; rays of the afternoon sun streamed in from outside, illuminating the dust in her room. She stood up, walked over to the window, and looked outside.

The window was not really a window. It was a frame of glass that couldn’t be opened, but it allowed one an ample view of the garden below. There were some bushes right under her window, lush with greenery. There was also a small bit of lawn between the bushes and the high wall that surrounded the house. A hammock hung in one corner of this small garden, slung between a drainpipe that snaked up to the roof a few feet away from her window, and to the stump of a tree that rested against the wall. It was currently empty.

She placed her hands against the window, pressed her face against it as well, and it shook a little under her weight. “Loose,” she said, and nodded. Satisfied with her survey of the outside world, she walked over to the opposite wall of her room, and opened one of the built-in closets. From inside, she lifted a small knapsack, and placed it on her bed. With a soft tug, she opened the main compartment’s zipper all the way, and exposed the interior of the bag.

Back in her wall of closets, she picked out several baby t’s and underpants, and a pair of cotton socks. She lifted each one up to the sunlight to get a better at it look before folding it again, and placing it on a pile at the foot of the bed. When she’d finished, she had about four shirts and five pairs of underwear. She carefully piled everything except for the socks into the bag, and zippered it shut.

After packing her backpack, she knelt down on the floor, and reached under her bed. From underneath, she pulled out a pair of brightly-coloured sneakers, a bit old from wear, and set them down on the floor beside her. She sat back on the bed, and removed the slippers she was wearing. She carefully pulled on the socks, pulling up each pant leg to get a better view of her legs as she did, and then slipped on the sneakers. She made sure the laces were tight before retrieving her jacket from the floor, and putting it back on.

Having finished dressing up, she hoisted the knapsack onto her back, stretched her legs a couple of times, and then stood still, listening. The air was still, and somewhere outside she could hear the trill of a grasshopper. The cat was done meowing. She walked over to her door, and pressed her ear to the wood. Nothing.

She walked over to the chair, and lifted it up. It was a bit heavy for a girl with her frame, but she discovered that she could lift it over her head with some difficulty. She placed it back down, and dragged the chair over to the window. She checked outside the glass again—the hammock and the garden were still empty. She smiled, and moved back a few steps.

Again, she lifted the chair over her head, and let the heavy weight of it fall against the frame of the window. There was a loud crash as she watched the chair slowly fall into and through the window, breaking apart wood and glass, sending shards flying all over the air both inside and out. The chair seemed to hang over the frame where the window used to be for a second before plummeting to the garden below.

She ran back to the door, pressed her ear against the wood again. She could hear muffed footsteps from far away. She turned to face the window, pressed back against the door, then started running towards the now empty ledge. When she was a few steps away from the window, she jumped forward, flying through the air like a neon fireball.


Taken from Wilson Santiago’s photography blog.

Wednesday, January 15, 2014

And Now, A Motivational

I like to listen to Pink Floyd. Theirs is a weird, psychedelic brand of music that doesn’t lend itself well over the generations (I can’t imagine my nieces or nephews listening to “The Wall”, for example) but if you were at the right place, at the right time, and into the right music, Pink Floyd is epic.

Pink Floyd Floyd ring
Cool. Just cool. Taken from Last FM.

One of their best songs, in my opinion, is “Money”. It’s a total departure from their sound in “The Wall”, which is what every new listener expects them to sound like all the time. In my opinion, it’s very old-timey, with a cute till sound effect at the start of the song (or throughout; I’m not always very sure) that drives the point of the song home.

And the point is, man. Money. And that’s really the point of what I’m writing right now. Money is probably the most depressing thing in the world. Not that many people will agree with me, of course. Cash is just a means to an end, and it shouldn’t be the end-all, be-all of your life.

But when you’re breaking every cardinal rule of healthy living just to make a decent living (say what?), you can’t help but regard money with a little bit of suspicion and disgust.

I dunno. I guess it’s just one of those days when I’m burned out from trying to recoup from the damage of the holidays. I somehow found myself reading this post, which made me howl in disgust—even if the man made plenty of sense. See, I dislike buying beyond your means. I hardly spend, because I’m always trying to make sure that there’s money for emergencies (which always happen). I would much rather buy a donut from Mister Donut than Dunkin Donut, which is a Php5 difference, but then again, I get more satisfaction—utils, if you’d like—from an Php18.50 pack of Nagaraya, or Php20 worth of bread from the local bakery.

So it’s confusing. And convoluted. I doubt I’m the only one thinking this way—all those small business owners struggling to make a living is sure to be feeling something like this too. So what’s a man to do?

The only thing to do.

Strap in some hard rock and heavy metal, pump up the volume, and get your coffee to piping hot. None of those silly shoe gaze music will work for what you’re going to be up against, because you’re up against overwhelming odds. Because at a time like this a real man has only one thing to say:


Damn straight, Mathesar. Taken from Trending Awesomeness.

Monday, January 13, 2014

Facebook Really, Really Sucks

I had a more incensed post about Facebook planned earlier today, but Live Writer is a genius. It ate the whole thing when I tried fixing its HTML code. Bravo Windows Live Writer. You are made of 100% win. And by win, I mean you fail. In life. Terribly. Like Macaulay Culkin.

Anyway. I was on Facebook earlier today—one of the few times I’m on the service—and I notice how there are only three kinds of posts:

  • People trying to be cool.
  • People trying to be witty.
  • People trying to hide the fact that they can’t stand some things about their friends so they’re attacking them from the side without their knowledge. Because they can’t stand confronting the friend, so they think this is a smarter move. Because time changes everything, time heals all wounds, and if they don’t do anything about it, then it might fix itself like a miracle. And pigs might fly.

People have way too much access to online social media. And half of these people have no idea of what to do while they’re there. Hell, some of these people don’t even know how to act while they’re on social media.

Let’s use me (and my friends; say hi to my friends) as an example.

If I post something about a song on Facebook, then that’s me trying to be cool. That’s me trying to say, hey, I think this song is cool. You should, too. Listen to it! Also, I’m a douchebag know-it-all! (I really am, in real life; this is a good example of art imitating life).

If I post something relatively smart on Facebook, that’s me trying to be witty. Note that I’m not really very witty; I’m just a windbag with a lot of things to say, and the vocabulary and English acumen to say it.

And I tend to flake on my friends whenever there’s a party. This makes me a very big target for #3, because since I’m their friend, they won’t confront me about being a flake directly, and just poke fun at me indirectly by calling me things like the Great Flaker, or posting items that can indirectly be attributed to me, but are vague enough that if I bite, they can say “why so defensive?”, and laugh in their secretive little corners thinking “MISSION SUCCESS!”

This is why I seldom sign into Facebook itself. I’m online via Facebook Messenger all the time, through Pidgin Chat, or the Facebook Messenger app on Blackberry. I don’t check Facebook that often, because I find that I become pig swill, and am mostly surrounded by pig swill, whenever I’m on it.

If you’re cool, then you don’t need to work too hard to flaunt it. Coolness will manifest itself in how you act. Showing you like cool things does not make you cool. Anybody can like cool things. ANYBODY. Even losers. Like you.

If you’re witty, then the same applies; stop trying so hard. If you’re not witty, then find out what other skill you have to flaunt. Trying hard to be witty only makes you look like a sad, sad little man, and I want to bring you to that hug cafe in Japan so that you can get the hugs you so desire. Because I’m not hugging you, since I’m a jerk.

And if you’ve got a problem with a friend, then either you talk to that friend, or you forget that he your friend, even. If you can’t make the time and the effort to deal with that friend’s problem, then why do you even consider yourselves buddies in the first place, when obviously you’re not concerned about him, but more concerned about how you’ll have to bother yourself with him? If I’ve a problem with you, then I will tell you that I think you’re an asshat, for example.

And Facebook birthdays. Goddamn how I hate it that people only greet you on your birthday because Facebook told them it’s your birthday. I should change my birth date to 1801 and see how people react when my birthday comes around.

(To some of my friends’ credit, they did try to talk to me about being a flaker. It changes nothing. I will still flake when I can.)

cheese rolling
And now, on a totally unrelated note, cheese rolling. From ESPN.

80% of my friends unfriended me after reading this post. Or I suppose they did. I don’t know. I don’t check Facebook that often.

Wednesday, January 08, 2014

A Society Inured to the Dangers of The Darker Side of Morality

Yesterday, Davao mayor Rodrigo Duterte publicly stated that he will hunt out rice smugglers in his city, and he would kill them. I find this ironic, since the good mayor seems to be trying very hard to sound like Liam Neeson’s character in the first Taken.

Monday, January 06, 2014

To Steven Moffat, With Love

Dear Steven Moffat,

First off, Happy New Year to you and yours! I hope you had a great celebration of the turning of the years. Goodness knows, your year-ender—a fantastic shift from Matt Smith to Peter Capaldi—was fantastic, to borrow Christopher Eccleston’s catchphrase. There’s every reason for you to celebrate 2013.