tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58997242011-04-22T12:30:27.084+08:00Pooping on everything: life, religion, free thought, some politics, a little philosophy. A work in progress, in every sense of the word - for me to poop on.micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.comBlogger331100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1088654056709184242004-07-01T11:50:00.000+08:002004-07-01T11:59:37.436+08:00

Just in time for the new Spider-man movie: to insure promptness, your friendly neighborhood webslinger needs a little encouragement.

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1088475437884650942004-06-29T10:15:00.000+08:002004-06-29T10:21:36.926+08:00

Britney punched it. Christina Aguilera punched it. Abby Viduya, Maui Taylor, and Rica Peralejo punched it. The Olsen Twins are old enough to punch it. There’s talk (mostly between the wife and myself) on whether Hilary Duff or Lindsay Lohan will be the first to give in to the urge, to press… the slut-button. I imagine the slut-button is housed in a top-secret maximum security location: behind

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1088402058812375142004-06-27T19:51:00.000+08:002004-06-28T16:31:26.990+08:00

Just before I flew back from Singapore, Nette and I thought it would be a good idea to go back to Church. Having nowhere else to go on Sundays, I found myself driven to my knees, specifically the leatherette pews at Our Lady of Perpetual Succour. Being Catholic, I discovered then, was like knowing how to ride a bicycle. You never forget the right response, the right time to stand, kneel, and sit

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1088387762696969842004-06-26T09:54:00.000+08:002004-06-28T09:56:02.696+08:00

I woke up in a different bed today from the one I got out of last Saturday. Last Saturday’s bed was different from the one I got out of last January, which in turn was different from the bed I woke up in on the same day five years before. My real address has changed far more often than my online address: my reliable Hotmail account is still the same it’s been since 1996, but I’ve been making the

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1087951309215541912004-06-23T08:24:00.000+08:002004-06-23T08:46:18.540+08:00

The svelte starlet emerges from the elevator, lithe and perfumed. "I’m ready for the interview. Would you like to… do it… in my hotel room?" The jaded interviewer cocks a smug look, smirks, and says, "Well, I’ve got all my equipment ready." "You’ll use all of it… and more. Come on up." Dissolve to starlet enjoying a highball, while interviewer tries to be professional (as professional as it

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1087786397233724872004-06-21T10:52:00.000+08:002004-06-21T10:54:47.830+08:00

The house, minus the odd finishing touch, is done – and what a change a month’s work has wrought! Tiled floors in place of vinyl, smooth cream walls in place of dirty "termite-finish" surfaces, and the glow of fresh paint and varnish all over. Nothing left to do but to move our stuff back in. I’m particularly wound up about the fact that the new bookshelves are ready. Did I mention that I’m a

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1087785219127743732004-06-20T10:31:00.000+08:002004-06-21T10:36:01.526+08:00

The politicians currently wrangling over poll results want us to believe that they believe only in finding the truth. Few take them at their word. I feel particularly sorry for Nene Pimentel. Many of his former supporters have become disillusioned with his political stunts - especially after his four-hour-long filibuster for what seems to be a blemished, hopelessly-doomed cause. The rest of us

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1087555563416982662004-06-18T18:38:00.000+08:002004-06-18T18:46:03.416+08:00

From Fried Society by Chris Kelly. All rights reserved. I had a good day today, better than 99% of the days I had in Singapore. I voiced and produced a two-minute soundtrack for an AVP, and presented the finished soundtrack two hours later to a rather pleased crowd consisting of the managing director, the suit, and the video’s director. I wrote, voiced, and produced the whole damn thing myself,

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1087437088860700312004-06-17T09:50:00.000+08:002004-06-18T10:18:01.206+08:00

Abu’s been around the block further than most dogs (he hitched a ride with us to Singapore and back). He’s been a rambunctious presence in our household since he was a pup; no surprise, then, that we seem able to read his emotions like an open book, and vice-versa. Even my thinking of taking him out for a walk unleashes his uncontrollable enthusiasm - he jumps around in circles, scrambles down

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1087358541204884152004-06-16T12:01:00.000+08:002004-06-16T17:43:05.623+08:00

There’s an unspoken contract between an author and his reader. I think the most important clause is, "thou shalt not resort to cheap trickery." The line between sleight-of-hand and deception may be blurred, but once you cross it, you risk disgust, or at worst, on a personal level, a pledge never to read the author’s work ever again. If I had actually bought my copy of Dan Brown’s the Da Vinci

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1087185578294127602004-06-13T20:24:00.000+08:002004-06-14T12:45:22.616+08:00

Done with the article. I don’t think it’s that bad, considering that it’s been two whole years since I’ve written a single word for FHM. Chrissy and Alex complained on the way to the shoot last Friday, that it was hard to find a writer that could duplicate the FHM "style". Well, I wanted to say, you could have had one March at the earliest, but until last week he was hiding under a rock. Now the

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1087185504151916912004-06-13T17:57:00.000+08:002004-06-14T12:46:22.130+08:00

I’ve been struggling for the past five hours to transcribe my conversation with Czarina. A nice enough girl, willing enough to talk about awkward sex situations with an overweight mustachioed stranger armed with a tape recorder. If she has any faults, it’s her unstoppable volubility. She’s so quick with her tongue (don’t get any ideas, please, folks, I’m a married man), and her speech is littered

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1087184785394328502004-06-13T13:31:00.000+08:002004-06-14T12:49:20.300+08:00

Secondhand bookstores can provide a unique thrill, if what rocks your boat is the same as what rocks mine. When I'm in Booksale, I look for the "hhhh" moment: you're browsing in the least promising pile of old books, and you come across a beat-up volume that nonetheless provides the impetus for a sharp intake of breath. This week"s "hhhh" moment was brought to you by the Laramie Project. As

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1087183905218490202004-06-12T11:25:00.000+08:002004-06-14T12:50:39.430+08:00

"O, you're back?" says Allan, ever gruff but loveable. "Yep." "Gaano katagal ang bakasyon mo this time?" "Hindi bakasyon. I'm here for good. I think." "Good, good. May panahon ka pa bang magsulat?" Ah, the question I was so hoping he would ask. The question leads me to this afternoon's proceedings, shooting the breeze with a movie starlet. And where else but in the Philippines (and never,

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1086850442108281112004-06-10T14:44:00.000+08:002004-06-23T08:56:58.076+08:00

It's hard to concentrate on life when you're spinning out of control, and especially when you see other people's lives keep going on at an even keel. I think I have moments, nay crises, like these at least once every two years: I take a tumble, go around in circles, because I've somehow lost confidence in the direction I've been headed. When you map my life, you'll find, not a straight line

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1084870654362433322004-05-18T16:50:00.000+08:002004-05-18T16:57:34.363+08:00

Apparently, the family of the guy who coined the word "googol" is planning to sue the company Google for some unspecified sum. "They are playing off that number and not compensating us even a little bit," says the great-niece who hardly ever got to know her uncle but could use some of Google's dough she feels is coming like a gravy train without brakes on. "Ethically, they could have been more

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1083811163324640812004-05-06T10:31:00.000+08:002004-05-06T10:43:48.983+08:00

...considering the big move back home, to a few weeks chilling out, to getting back in touch with old friends. (chilling out? In this summer heat? The Manila summer heat is close to hellish - the sunlight bounces off the completely-concreted landscape, frying everything in sight.) Your humble blogger, in the meantime, has become a big political junkie. When I'm playing couch commando, the TV's

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1077195330423983812004-02-19T20:42:00.000+08:002004-02-19T20:58:47.653+08:00

In a past life, I was an English bookseller in the 19th century, who cheated on my wife with a buxom blonde babe. No, really. My psych teacher took us through this "past lives" hypnotism exercise in college, and that's what my brain dredged up. I still remember that afternoon... it seemed so real. "Close your eyes," Ms. Gustilo says, "and turn back time. When you come to the end of the tunnel

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1073553917055974512004-01-08T17:22:00.000+08:002004-01-08T17:41:02.410+08:00

Millete Caparas, 44, former KM member and editor, remembers what it was like: "Many of my friends were no longer found, some of them disappeared, some were murdered, and everybody was silent.'' "Several days after martial law was declared, we were arrested. The word used then was 'invited.' All the student leaders and campus writers were detained. I stayed inside the provincial PC (Philippine

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-107345535553808252004-01-07T13:54:00.000+08:002004-01-07T14:02:55.293+08:00

SINGAPORE - Flush from Newater's successful launch, the Singaporean government has announced plans to introduce the second of what is seen to be a long line of recycled foodstuffs. "Newburger" is expected to be launched by mid-June. "Newburger should challenge the way we think about food," says Tae Wee Wee, the new Chief Executive of Singapore's NewFoods Initiative. Tae declined to reveal

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1073213579702375072004-01-04T18:15:00.000+08:002004-01-05T20:20:31.356+08:00

This could merely be laziness on the Inquirer reporter's part, or some cynical wordslinging on the part of the speechwriters working for La Gloria, but somehow, I don't think her slavishly obedient stance on birth control provides us much of any "choice". In the rest of her statement, Gloria declares that her energies will go to "enlarging the economic pie"... We shall continue to fight for

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1072402479086357092003-12-26T09:33:00.000+08:002004-02-20T10:32:22.390+08:00

Christmas outside the Philippines bites. Maligayang Pasko, anybody out there!

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1072151033082569582003-12-23T11:42:00.000+08:002003-12-23T11:44:08.286+08:00

The door opens, and the master walks into the room, doubtless up for another evening walk around the lot. Euphoria. Buttons, the cute little dog next door, threatens to cut free of his leash and charge. Despite his cutesy bootees, he's one mean son of a bitch. Aggression. The master and the mistress, for no apparent reason, start baying like wolves. Annoyance. The lights go out, and it's

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1072063539137211592003-12-22T11:24:00.000+08:002003-12-22T11:25:54.343+08:00

I've come to expect a rhythm to my life. It's ingrained. I look forward to a wind-down at work on the week before Christmas; a couple of days before the 25th, I pack and take the first flight to Davao; then I spend two weeks mucking it up with the family, then I take a reluctant fly-back to Manila for yet another working year. The rhythm's changed drastically in the past three years. Before

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1071647637155578882003-12-17T15:50:00.000+08:002003-12-17T15:54:10.666+08:00

"When a person talks to himself, it's schizophrenia; when a company talks to itself, it's marketing." - unknown ad hack The last thing I remember, before i came out of a hypnotic trance, was an expansive white room with a shelf of awards. Marivic Gustilo, our Psych teacher, was guiding us through a visualisation exercise; apparently, if we'd done the first few parts right, we would see the

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1070516275299685552003-12-04T13:20:00.000+08:002003-12-04T13:38:05.806+08:00

Nette and I have a running joke about the ongoing Survivor series. (Well, two, actually.) The first one goes: put a full-blooded Pinoy in the running, and he’ll win over all those whining Americans. Hands down. ("What the hell you mean, you don't eat fish heads?!") The second, a little less complimentary to the Pinoy state of affairs, goes that the most challenging Survivor ever would be:

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1070430952708274602003-12-03T13:52:00.000+08:002003-12-03T13:57:38.226+08:00

From this site. What could have been. Before. After.

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1070372393837908212003-12-02T21:39:00.000+08:002003-12-02T21:50:59.716+08:00

*“I'm not interested in your dopey religious cult” in Latin. Knock knock. Bea gets the door. “Hi, I’d like to share with you the saving power of Christ.” A man wants to talk to us about Jesus. On a Sunday morning. Beside him, his six year old daughter paces the hallway. “Sorry, it’s not a good time.” Bea, after all, is not exactly wearing her Sunday best. Rubber flip-flops, old shorts, and a

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1068464539918085812003-11-10T18:55:00.000+08:002003-11-10T19:42:24.240+08:00

I'd like to say I'm living an interesting life. Considering that there's been nothing worth noting for the past four weeks, I think it's a vain hope. My wife, my dog, and my toothache preoccupy my spare time. In varying order, depending on the time of day. My evenings are for my wife and dog; the rest of the day, when I'm not agonising over the timetables or over the phraseology of the latest

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1066020361699628272003-10-13T12:44:00.000+08:002003-10-13T13:09:34.020+08:00

Spoliarium by Juan Luna We (party of three, please: Tita Didit, my wife, and myself) arrived long after the Botong Franciscos, the Amorsolos, and the Magsaysay-Hos had been consigned to their new owners; we were just in time for the last of the lot to meet their fates at the bang of the master’s gavel. A Sotheby’s auction can reveal much of the nature of wealth; the rich in the most casual of

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1065364444413936242003-10-05T22:30:00.000+08:002003-10-06T18:30:20.950+08:00

Stolen from Fark.com; view its Photoshop contest here.

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1065345691658409992003-10-05T16:49:00.000+08:002003-10-06T18:26:18.126+08:00

"Dinagyang Masks" by Didit Robillo Van Der Linden "Have you seen the invitations?" my aunt whines. "Have you seen the English on them?" I cringe. I know what's coming. "Who wrote this stuff?" Don't ask me, I think to myself. It's what I ask myself every day, and I'm no closer to the answer after a year in this place. For a country with a huge proportion of native English speakers in the

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5899724.post-1065338634634346362003-10-05T15:02:00.000+08:002003-10-05T15:23:54.496+08:00

I suppose I should be working right now. Instead, I'm devoting what little time I have to making a record of my continuing career decline. It's like this: I'm working as a writer in a country that hates writers. Or at least keeps them around long enough until they're totally defeated, then spits them back to their dumpster of origin. (Mine happens to have 7,000 islands and not a sane person in

micketymochttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05604473795605575937noreply@blogger.com0