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I watched "Superman Returns" on its premiere night, and watched it two more times on its regular run... I'm a Superman addict. And whaddya know? I AM SUPERMAN! Haha! :)

You are Superman

Superman 70% The Flash 70% Iron Man 60% Supergirl 57% Hulk 55% Green Lantern 55% Robin 54% Spider-Man 50% Batman 45% Wonder Woman 42% Catwoman 25%

You are mild-mannered, good, strong and you love to help others.

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Here's A Throw Back To The Late 1990s

Geez... I was going for "You're Angel!" Pero okay na din. At least it didn't say "Eeewwww... You're Giles!"

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SPIKE You are Spike. William the Bloody. The Big Bad. Dangerous on the outside, a big ball of fluff on the inside. You always want what you can't have.
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"Hoy! Alas Singko Na!"

DISCLAIMER: The views expressed in this blog entry are essentially the products of the writer's very fertile imagination, irrepressible mental farts and incurable verbal diarrhea. Everything mentioned actually happened... except for the Regine Velasquez chismis which could well be the result of the writer's fondness for the written word, including Abante, Bulgar and People's Tonight. Now on with the show.


Blame it on Carrie Underwood.

I am a product of the generation that saw Regine Velasquez transform (literally) from an awkward, lanky girl with huge shoulder pads and hair spray-soaked hair that defied gravity to the (rumor has it) surgically enhanced vixen she is now. Of course, when she was singing her huge lungs out on television, I was still pre-pubertal, worried more about how I was gonna keep all those tutubi I caught (I tried keeping them in glass jars, but forgot to make holes on the covers… Yeah, I’m guilty of tutubi genocide long before I became single-handedly responsible for causing a palaka holocaust in biology class!), than with the adolescent bane – acne. Mom won’t admit to it now, but she was a fan, I think, of the flat-nosed, chinky-eyed, flat-chested Songbird – R1980s, which was a more natural, less recognizable earlier edition of R2K. My older sister, brother and I, on the other hand, would wait for the Bulilit segment of that program to find out what Banig would belt out then. Then there was Donna Yrastorza, the younger, chubby, gopher-looking, horrendously buck-toothed version of Donna Cruz. Maybe Regine can learn a thing or two about “metamorphosis” from Mrs. Yong Larrazabal (Yong, incidentally, was a pseudo-mentor of mine when I rotated in Ophthalmology as a clinical clerk and he was taking up his residency, but I digress). It’s more appetizing (in a male-hormonal kinda way) to see a gradual, believable transformation from an ugly duckling to an elegant swan the way Donna did it (Unless you’d consider wearing braces a form of artificial enhancement, coz if you do, I might have to kill you! Just kidding.) than the “I-swear-I-didn’t-go-under-the-knife-so-I-don’t-have-to-say-salamat-dok” technique Ms. Narito-Ako used.

The newer versions of Filipino singing contests and talent shows, sadly can’t compete with Ang Bagong Kampeon for the following reasons: First, the contestants back then had pipes that didn’t need amplification. I’d bet you could hear them singing from miles away, and not be roused violently from your peaceful slumber, coz most of their voices had a soothing quality, whereas now, contestants’ claim to fame would be their ability to produce sound only animals can hear. Also, I’d bet again that the “losers” back then could easily beat the crap out of “winners” now if pitted against each other. Second, the judges’ panel then had the likes of Ryan Cayabyab and Professor Umali (who, I suppose, had to be very good, coz he had this “Skeletor” – if you don’t know Skeletor and you were born in the 80’s, then you clearly had a deprived childhood – aura you’d only see in academic people who lived and breathed music). Now, the panel would be a hodge-podge of non-talents, semi-talents, and wanna-be talents. I have nothing against having the likes of Danny Tan, Mel Villena or Verni Varga. They’re good at what they do. And what they do is compose, arrange or sing extremely well, respectively. But why, on earth, would you ask Jaya to sit on the panel? Her stray and bum notes outnumber her good ones. And that is on a good day! Yeah, she has this “black sound”, but I’ll take Pinoy sound + on-key singing anytime over her “black sound” + “where-did-that-note-come-from?!?” Even more insane would be the person who asked Agot Isidro or Pops Fernandez to sit as judges. They’re okay, I guess. And as people, I don’t have any doubt that they’re nice. But putting them on the judges’ panel? Crazy. There’s got to be someone else out there, someone who can tell the difference between singing (with full notes) and breathing heavily on the microphone. They’re okay singers. But there are lots of better ones out there. Anyway, Philippine Idol is supposed to put together Ryan Cayabyab, Pilita Corrales and Francis Magalona. That should be something to look forward to. At least, these people know what they’re doing and what they’re talking about. Francis Magalona might seem like an unusual choice, but I honestly believe this guy’s really talented. Anyway, he should be on his toes, coz if he ain’t, he’d easily get drowned by Pilita and Ryan. Third, nobody can beat the tandem of Pilita Corrales and Bert Marcelo as talent show hosts. Even when they’re bad, they’re good. Now, we have Regine Velasquez (But I have to say I usually flip the channel to GMA just to see how “healthy” and “prosperous” her “future” has turned out to be… Feel free to translate this verbatim into Tagalog, hehe!) and her “There can only be on Pinoy Pop Sooooperstaaaaaaar!” Geez. And don’t get me started on the younger ones in ABS-CBN. In fairness to some of them, though, they do show some promise, like, in particular, Sarah Geronimo and Sheryn Regis. But the guys suck (Okay, I meant that figuratively, so no matter what you might have read in the tabloids, I didn’t mean what you thought I meant. Get your mind off the gutter, hehe!).

So, like any corned beef-fed, Spam-nourished and Tang-guzzling child of American television, I turned to American talent reality shows to check if they’re also fond of self-flagellation as we Filipinos appear to be. We didn’t get to watch the first two editions of American Idol coz cable television didn’t start airing the reality show until its third season. Of course, we had a lot to cheer about when the third season featured two Fil-Ams in the final 12. I must say I was a fan of Camille Velasco, but her incurable stage fright and “deer-caught-in-the-headlights look” every time she went onstage got on my nerves by the third episode. As for Jasmine Trias, she with the calacuchi or gumamela or *insert whatever tropical flower here*, she could do a concert with Jaya anytime and I couldn’t care less. I was rooting for the pink-haired girl (Amy Adams?), not because she was really good, but because she could’ve been the product of Jay Leno’s moment of weakness with Janet Reno. LaToya was overrated, Fantasia was histrionic, Diana was hysterical, George was gay, err, I meant happy all the time (hehe!), John was Conan O’Brien’s love child, and “What’s her name?” (the big-boobed African American girl** with big hair, big thighs and big voice) was just too forgettable. *Fantasia won. Insert confetti, fireworks and applause here* Whoopee! *rolls eyes*

Last year, though, was something else. I mean, Carrie Underwood! Woo-hoo! And Bo Bice! Yeah! I’ve always resented Simon’s brand of pimping, but with Carrie Underwood, the guy just couldn’t help it. Of course, Paula was acting more inebriated and durog than usual throughout most of the episodes, but when you’ve got Bo and Carrie onstage, who cares about Paula’s tribute to the gods of analgesia, right? I didn’t miss an episode. Even when I was out of town, I made it a point to turn the TV on when AI:4 would be airing. I got hooked on American Idol 4. No, what I meant was, I got hooked on American Idol. Period.

This year, I followed AI:5 from the auditions to the finals and never missed a beat, err, an episode. I had my early favorites, and the earliest would be the girl solely responsible for the McPheever. Katharine was a goddess as far I was concerned. I didn’t really care about her voice, for as long as she graced the screen, ayos na! Kumpleto na araw ko! Haha! But as the show progressed, I knew that the person who should’ve been in the finals (and who should’ve won it!) was Elliott Yamin. Man, that guy’s good! No, that guy’s excellent! Too bad that in the US, as in Banana Republic, people care too much about pogi points… and Elliott had way too much chompers. But if there was any fairness at all, he should’ve gone home with the prize. Not that biologically-impossible progeny of George Clooney and Jay Leno (at the rate Jay Leno is going, he could be populating this miserable place with dreadful seed). Anyway, I now have a copy of the Encores CD that the finalists made and I’ve uploaded the songs to my iPod. I’ve played “Moody’s Mood for Love” dozens of times, and “Midnight Train to Georgia” and “Superstition” at least a dozen times. I should’ve rooted for Paris Bennett and Bucky Covington more. But Elliott stole the show, err, made the CD his own. I hope the three come up with their individual albums and I’d be trooping to Tower Records then. Sorry Kat and Taylor. This guy’s a Yamin fan.



** JENNIFER HUDSON! There you go! Finally remembered who that girl was...

"TMNKKBSNNgAKo!"

I’ve never been fond of Tagalog titles. It must be coz of the way we were raised. Growing up in a Bisaya household (both my folks are from the south: dad’s an Aklanon while mom’s from CDO), our exposure to Tagalog programs, books or music was not quite that extensive. Our shelves were stacked with English titles, from collections of nursery rhymes and fairy tales, to classic novels; from “alphabet books” to Collier’s encyclopedia; from basic science books to Isaac Asimov and Stephen Hawking. Of course there were the occasional “Funny Komiks," especially when I had 25-centavos saved from my usual daily school allowance, but most of the time, I’d be raiding the bookshelf for “My Bible Friends” or “Fairy Tales”. I wasn’t much into pictures… I just loved reading new words, then looking them up in the dictionary for their meaning. I remember asking mom, over lunch, what the word “virgin” meant coz I read it in “My Bible Friends” (about the Immaculate Conception). I was five or six then. Syempre, I got a mouthful from mom. Something about spending too much time on books (Weird… some folks would literally shove books to their kids’ faces, but there was my mom, telling me to stop reading!). She said I should go out into the streets like most kids and play tagu-taguan or patintero with our neighbors (kids from the squatters’ area… our subdivision was plagued by a squatting problem, but they were generally not much of a headache for us residents). Hmmmm (insert here: light bulb on the head)… Mom didn’t want me to know what “virgin” meant. I figured it was a dirty word or something. So, naturally, when she wasn’t looking, I reached for the dictionary and looked the word up. As in most cases, when I did something my mom warned me not to do, I got caught just as I was about to look up the meaning of the word “hymen” (coz it was mentioned in the word definition for “virgin”). En flagrante delicto. Caught in the act. I didn’t understand the definition, but judging by my mom’s reaction, I held the belief that it was a dirty word, up until I got into high school, something like “pakyu” (kiddie version) or “sheet” (that was how the neighborhood kids pronounced it). Of course, I didn’t see the word definition for “pakyu” in Merriam-Webster, neither could I comprehend why “sheet” would be considered a cuss word. That early experience with the word “virgin” taught me to lay my hands off on anything profane or even remotely profane. I believe the first “bad word” I said out loud was “gago” and I felt super guilty right after saying it. And I was already 15 then, in college! Grabe talaga! That was a really sanitized upbringing… To borrow a phrase, oft repeated by a good college friend of mine who graduated from Pisay (Philippine Science HS) – repressed, oppressed, depressed! Pero, it was really cool, coz I turned into a very verbose kid who knew exactly the right words to express whatever I felt. I gave my dad a headache every time I’d reason out. Namimilosopo talaga! Hehe. The kids in our house developed a taste for everything American. It wasn’t really colonial mentality. It was just that my mom’s grasp of the Tagalog dialect was (and up to now) quite pathetic (sorry, mom!) and, just to avoid conflict, everyone was encouraged to really learn and speak (or write in) English. No, we didn’t run around the house like American cretins, but we were able to hold our own against other English-speaking relatives (most of them from dad’s side of the family – the Sillimanites).

I first read about Bob Ong when a friend of mine forwarded a really funny text message, apparently lifted from one of his now popular books. It was extremely hilarious, by the time I got over how funny it was, my tummy hurt really bad and I kept breaking the wind. During one of my frequent “field trips” to Power Books, I saw a Bob Ong book proudly displayed on the stand right smack in the middle of the aisle. I remembered the funny text message, grabbed a copy, browsed through it and found myself looking for other Bob Ong titles. That day, I went home with “ABNKKBSNPLAKo,” “Bakit Baligtad Magbasa ng Libro ang mga Pilipino?” and “Ang Paboritong Libro ni Hudas.” I absolutely loved each one, but my favorite would be “ABNKKBS…” I found it to be a funny yet poignant, humorous yet bittersweet recollection of public school experience which most of us who had been public school-educated could really relate with. Every detail brought me back to my first three years of schooling in Malabon Elementary School. Those were my happiest years in school. If I had a say on the matter, I wouldn’t have transferred to a private school after third grade. But we moved from Malabon to Laguna during that time, and mom insisted that we get enrolled in a private school since most provincial public schools weren’t even half as good as their Manila counterparts (they still aren’t as of last check). I don’t really know much about Bob Ong, aside from the fact that I think he’s a really funny and smart writer, prolly the funniest and smartest of the contemporary writers (no offense to Jessica Zafra, who I think is also super funny and smart), so I can only make an assumption that maybe, just maybe, we are from the same generation. Wait, he did say he’s a Martial Law baby. So we’re prolly of the same age, give or take a year or two. The nutribun, Crest toothpaste-toothbrush-disclosing tablets combo, white-shirt-blue-shorts uniform, everything just screamed early 1980’s public school. There’s also something about his self-deprecating but honest humor that never fails to tickle your funny bone and tug at your heartstrings at the same time. Those were really good years, when all I worried about was how to keep my immaculately white shirt clean (coz mom would have a fit if my brother and I got home with mud-stained shirts). I don’t even remember really studying for an exam, but somehow, by end of term, my folks would repeatedly go up and down the stage and I’d be bringing home a silver medal every year. I thought I did something good to someone, which merited such good attention from my teachers. Bob Ong was right. It’s only now that I realize what amazingly great people my public school teachers were. Kids usually remember the really good (translation: you learned a lot from them) and the really scary (the “Tigangs” and the “Miss Uyeharas”) teachers. In my 17 years of formal schooling (from grade school, high school, college, medicine), the ones I remember the most are Mrs. de Guzman (petite, pleasantly plump and morena, with a mole on the right side of the face, just above the fold between her nose and her upper lip), Mrs. Gungon (mestiza, really fair, red lips, curly hair, easily the prettiest of ALL my teachers, bar none… tragic surname, though,. haha!) and Mrs. Sy (short hair, heavy make-up, really round eyes… she was responsible for my demotion from second honors to, *shock*, fourth honors… but I was okay with that, hehe!). I dunno where they are now. And while I might only be a footnote in their lives, I would like to think that all the things I am now, I owe a lot to them. So, if you know any of them, please let them know that somewhere in the south of Manila, is a really grateful doctor who remembers them and occasionally misses them… And thanks, Bob Ong, for that wonderful trip down memory lane…

"Buhok!"

Last week, I went to a mall south of Manila to buy a few stuff for my laptop. Since I got there just as most people would be trooping to the canteens for their lunch, I decided to go straight to the computer shop and let the others have their lunch, avoiding “rush hour” inside the restaurants. Working in the medical profession, I know exactly how the people in the fast food counters feel when people troop to them. It gets really “toxic.” And sometimes, people lose their temper. So, I figured I’d have my lunch a good full hour after the others had theirs. When I got in the shop, I found myself lost in all the gadgets that greeted me. I felt like a kid left alone in a candy shop. A self-confessed pseudo-techie, it goes without saying that a planned 15-minute (tops!) stay in the computer shop turned into a two-hour field trip where I touched practically all the new gadgets I hadn’t seen the last time I was there. I really worked up an appetite, so by the time I was ready to have my lunch, I was primed to gobble up anything on my tray. I’d usually go to a Jap resto every time I get to have lunch out, but my fave Jap place was a good 20-minute drive to where I was and my tummy was already growling, demanding immediate attention. My next choice was a Mexican place. But I just had lunch in Taco Bell earlier that week, and one more trip to that place in a span of a few days would’ve made me suspect for stalking a certain server named Lisa. Hehe! Instead, I went to another place, a few feet away from my usual watering hole. I normally wouldn’t go for an “all-beef patty, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun”, but I was so famished it seemed like a logical choice at that time, since most of the other restos had “hepatitis” written all over them. Logical? I was wrong. Midway through my sandwich, I felt something inedible and strangely icky caught between my braces. When I pulled it out, I was aghast when I saw a dark strand of hair, about an inch-and-a-half. And it was curly. Sonofa*bleep*! I was ready to complain to the staff, but one step towards the counter, I realized the “kids” manning the counter looked all super tired, prolly from the really hectic lunch hour. So I just wrapped what was left of my sandwich, put it back on the tray, walked out of the resto and charged everything to experience. Last time I checked, you couldn’t get hepatitis from a strand of hair cooked with a beef patty on a grill, so it’s all good. I just had to make a quick trip to the men’s room and brushed my teeth silly. It pays to always carry a toothbrush and Sensodyne with you anywhere you go.

-=@@@=-

I went back to the mall yesterday to pay my overdue Globe bill. While I was there, I passed by my usual “hair cutting” place, so I figured, what the heck! Since I was there already, I might as well get that haircut people have been pushing me to have. Last time I was there six weeks ago, my usual “hair guy” was on his day-off, so someone else snipped my mane off. He was so limp-wristed by the time he was done with me, he transformed me from a dignified professor/medicine man, to a callboy, complete with the pseudo-mohawk top. Buti na lang I was gonna go back to Cebu where I stayed for two weeks so that the people I know back home wouldn’t get a glimpse of that horrible, horrible haircut. Yesterday was another bad day as far as the history of my hair goes. Usual hair guy wasn’t there again, and same limp-wristed hair guy did my hair. But I made it a point to tell him before his pair of scissors touched me to take it easy on the top and stay out of mohawk territory. It wasn’t really bad. At least I don’t look like a callboy now. School boy perhaps, coz it’s ridiculously short and it kinda reminds me of the haircuts our neighborhood barber gave me back when I was in grade school. It seems like limp-wristed stylist only knows two looks: callboy look and school boy look. I saw the other guys whose hair he cut that day. They all looked like they belonged in Ermita, right in front of the PWU campus, along Taft Avenue, which gets transformed into a meat market every night. Anyway, okay na sana, He didn’t go to mo’ territory, but just as he was finishing off my cut, he noticed my eyebrows. And our conversation went like this:

Limp-wristed hair guy: “Swir, ang kapwal ng kilay mwo.”
Me: “Oo, nga eh.”
Limp-wristed hair guy: “Gwusto mwo, linisin kwo?”
Me: “Paano?”
Limp-wristed hair guy: “I-pluck kwo lang, o threading(?).”
Me: “Di bale na lang…”

Oh wait, I think I said…

Me: “HELL, NO!”

-=@@@=-

This afternoon, I had the best laugh I’ve had in a long while. I didn’t have anything to do today so I stayed in the house, taking care of a few paper works and organizing my lecture materials in preparation for my midterm set of lectures. While I was having lunch in front of the TV with Manang Nora, our super-galing housekeeper, the Alpo ad ran. You know, the one with the golden retriever and the beagle and a mutt, I think. Manang Nora went to the bank earlier that day, and while we were watching the ad (I love dogs! I hate cats! Cats are evil! Haha!), she told me about this dog she saw in the bank:

Manang: “’Ni, kanina sa bangko, may aso dun, dala nung babae.”
Me: "Talaga? Pwede pala magpasok ng aso sa bangko?”
Manang: “Ewan ko, pero ang ganda nung aso, parang laruan!”
Me: “Anong klase? Di katulad ni Sam (our golden retriever)?”
Manang: “Hindi, maliit siya, ang ganda!”
Me: “Chihuahua?”
Manang: “Hindi ata, kasi mataba… at PURO BULBOL!”
Me: (Choking on my pearl cooler) “Ano po?! Pakiulit?”
Manang: “Puro BULBOL!
Me: (Beet red, pearl cooler squirting out of my nose, laughing my ass off)!

The Empty Nest...

I was really busy for two days last week, spending my work hours (which for most people, including myself on certain days, would be between 8am and 5 pm) in front of a group of at least 100, babbling about urine. And salt. Urine and salt would be like my "bread-and-butter." Weird combo, I know. I'm a nephrologist. A kidney specialist. And when I'm not asking people how many times they urinated in a day, or if there's any weird-looking thing growing on their thingy, I'd be, like, talking to students about urine and male and female thingies. And kidneys, of course. So for two days, I talked myself hoarse, and downed several cups of "salabat", which I took with taisan loaf (an entire loaf!) when I got home. But I had to keep Friday free. I promised my nieces I'd be taking them out to lunch. That was last Friday. Today's Sunday. They left with my sister, their mom, yesterday evening, to live in jolly ol' England.

Writing has always been therapeutic for me. Long before weblogs, I'd put my thoughts down on a piece of paper. That's what I'm doing right now. And this is supposed to be therapeutic. My first niece, Nicole, has been with us ever since she was born. She was our baby. And I doted on her pretty much like a dad, although only 16 years and 11 months separated us. She was spoiled rotten by the constant affection and attention we showered on her. But she's an angel. Even when she acts all impish. Bianca, on the other hand, stayed with her dad, my sister's ex, for four years until she came to live with us. And for seven years, she slowly came out of the shell we found her to be cloistered in when she first came to our lives. I'd often tease her, and I wouldn't stop until she'd end up in tears - it really didn't take too much to make her cry. But she soon got used to living with an "insane" uncle. And they, Nicole and Bianca, are like my own kids. They ARE my kids, except that I didn't have to directly contribute any body fluid to make their existence in this world possible. Haha! Still, seeing them board the van that brought them to the airport last night left me with a searing pain I couldn't bear. It's like seeing a piece of your heart slowly being ripped off. Unlike mom and dad, I intentionally avoided accompanying them to NAIA. I hate long goodbyes. And the less-than-an-hour's drive from our house to the airport would seem like a lifetime of torture for me. Besides, I didn't want them to see me get misty-eyed. Men aren't supposed to cry. So, I just walked them to our gate and saw them off. I turned my back against them as soon as the van's door slammed shut. And going back inside our house, the silence that greeted me was deafening, I simply had to turn the TV on. Between ogling at Regine Velasquez's artifically enhanced ample bosom and listening to Heidi Klum say "auf wiedersehn" from my fave seat, I couldn't resist taking passing glances at the arm rest of the sofa where Ate Coie frequently left her tumbler, which never failed to irritate me, strict as I was with keeping the house clean. But the faint smell of baby powder on the couch still lingered long after Binky spilled some just that morning. On a normal day, I would have raised my voice and scolded the culprit. But last night, I was secretly hoping I'd see a "sweating" tumbler making moist circles on the wooden varnished arm rest of the sofa, or sneeze from the baby powder entering my nostrils. It's a good thing Manang Nora was there to keep me company while we watched the Pinoy pop superstars make fools of themselves, and Danny Tan, Jaya and Floy Quintos make even bigger fools of themselves. "Smile though your heart is aching... smile, even though it's breaking..." I miss my nieces. Darn, there goes a tear... Haaay...

Oh well. I've to sleep early for tomorrow's another day. And I've to save up for a roundtrip ticket to London. Imma go there this semestral break. Yeah, that's the plan. Goody! Something to look forward to, at least. :)

"69"

Soixante-neuf. There is something perversely fascinating about the number 69. When written separately, the numbers “6” and “9” are not particularly special like, say for example the number “1” which evokes an image of perfection or excellence. Or the number “8”, whose uniqueness is imbedded in its symmetry. Or the number “0”, which most don’t actually consider a number since it carries an impression of void or nothingness, but ironically also represents a cycle that has no beginning and no end. “6” and “9”, however, are “odd” (read: weird) numbers. But right next to each other, they “explode in a conflagration” (not of the orgasmic variety!) of contrasts and diversity that, interestingly, translate into something unified. Distinct, yet similar. Unique, yet surprisingly alike. Flawed perfection, or perfect flaws, or whatever. East and west. Hot and cold. Good and bad. Oh, yeah, the traditional Asian concept of the yin and yang. Coolness! Or Hotness! Whatever. It’s funny how a number strikes different people differently. Wala lang. I was just rambling about the number 69, coz I realized it’s been exactly 69 days since my birthday. But I feel exactly as I did ten years ago. I think I might have grown older in years, but my outlook is still adolescent for the most part. I was a precocious kid. Mom said I used to cry a lot when I was younger. But I was an early reader. And I already tinkered with the ivory keys of our piano at age four. And I was the youngest in my medical class. I still read a lot. And I still pound on the same ivory keys. Man, I just realized our, or should I say MY (It has become my personal property, coz I’m the only one regularly using it right now) piano is actually older than I am! At least I can rightfully brag that I’m not the most archaic resident of my room. Haha! Anyway, my really good friends and I are either approaching three-oh, or a little over three-oh. And while it is true that I belong to the 2nd of three generations living in our house right now, my brain still occasionally leads me to act like one of the brats. So I have to constantly remind myself that I have to act a certain way. A more mature way. But sometimes, it’s nice to walk barefoot on the grass, play in the rain, have your hands licked by your dog, or simply act silly with all the other kids in the house, even if you clearly have some, if not all, of the ten signs that you are, after all, already an adult.

10. Suddenly, getting eight hours of sleep every night is a quest similar to the search for the Holy Grail.

I can’t get eight hours of sleep every night. No responsible, employed, driven guy over the age of 25 gets eight hours of sleep every night. But that’s what catnaps and power naps are for. I sleep in the car (of course, I wouldn’t be behind the wheel!), in the bus, on my desk after lunch. I’ve even been known to sleep with my eyes open… Hehe!

9. When you’re eating out, calorie-counting becomes more important than mentally calculating the cost of the menu entries.

I’d like to think that I’m pretty good in math. For someone who doesn’t deal with a lot of numbers and equations on a daily basis, I do go beyond basic arithmetic. And this is put into good use every time we go to a restaurant. Some of the friends I hang out with don’t know Dutch if it hits them between the eyes, so I sometimes end up footing the bill. I’ve pretty much mastered the art of juggling having a convo with a friend while inconspicuously listening as the others rattle off their orders and doing the numbers in my built-in hardware. Lately, though, the numbers have gone way past the cost of dinner and entered into the realm of total caloric intake. I used to be a fast metabolizer. Now I’m not so sure about that anymore.

8. You gain weight even while sleeping.

I thought sleeping makes you gain weight. Then we learned that even as a person sleeps, he burns up 75 calories an hour. And this I know from experience… On my post-duty days during my training, I’d be so tired I’d usually just hit the sheets even before I’d attend to my gastronomic needs. Result: I lost weight faster than anybody could say Helicobacter pylori correctly. Of course it came with gastritis (both the habitual skipping of meals and the H. pylori). Now, I think I gain at least a pound even with just power napping. Darn.

7. You lose pounds only after half-a-day’s stay in the badminton courts...

...Then you gain ‘em back again after gorging on food you stuffed your mouth with as reward for beating your opponents’ fat asses.

6. Mr. Security Guard in your old school now address you as “Sir” or “Ma’am”, instead of “Hoy!” when you pay your alma mater a visit.

I went to Ateneo last week and, of course, I wanted to look “presentable”, which, in my profession, meant something like Patrick Dempsey in Grey’s Anatomy. But, of course, nobody could look like Patrick Dempsey even on a good day. So I jumped into a pair of khakis and topped it with a yellow button-down shirt. And I got a polite, semi-enthusiastic “Good morning, sir!” from manong guard. I guess I pulled it off. But I do miss the “Hoy, ID mo!” I think right now, I prefer it over any polite reference to how formal (and old) I look. Sheesh.

5. Wear pink and you’re easily mistaken for a gay pedophile.

I was, and sometimes on a really bad day still am, a fagnet (magnet to the fags). When I was 15, I went home early from class and I took this bus (the station was still in Lawton, right in front of the main Post Office building) bound for Laguna. I took an empty seat (yung pang-dalawahan) and waited for the bus to get at least half-filled coz that’s when we could leave already. I kinda expected a long wait coz there were only four people inside a bus that can hold 60 or so. It didn’t take too long, though, before a portly (read: fat bastard) Caucasian guy entered the bus and (Horror of horrors!) squeezed himself right beside me! Scared out of my wits, I tried to look tough (Believe you me, Arni at 15 was like any other boy at, say 12 ?! I was a late bloomer) but I guess I didn’t succeed coz the pink mammoth started making convo with me. He talked with an Aussie drawl. And he was wearing a pink shirt that screamed PEDOPHILE! What saved me was quick thinking… I faked a bum stomach and ran the hell out of the bus. So today, every time I see a guy in his 30’s or 40’s or older, pot-bellied and wearing a shade of pink, I’m brought back to the time when I almost ended up in Bantay-Bata as a victim of pedophilia. Haha! But I used to wear pink back in college. I had a pink Giordano T-shirt, a pink polo-shirt, and a pink long-sleeved polo. My mom liked seeing me in pink, coz I was his fair-haired boy. And I’d like to think I look good in pink, but I try not to overdo it coz there’s a fine line between being a fagnet, and being mistaken for a Tinkerbell. Haha!

4. People start asking you when you’re getting hitched.

And the answer would be… Imma get hitched when I have my own home, a new car that can hold a growing family, and at least a million pesos in my savings account. Oh, add to that list a trip to Europe before I take a trip down the aisle. Based on today’s economy, that would be like in 5 years or so… When you’re a guy doctor, the older you get, the higher your market value becomes. Haha! Girls on the other hand end up in ukay-ukays on a buy-one-take-one-free bargain. Haha!

3. Children affect you either positively, or negatively; you either dote on them, or they bug you like crazy!

My older sister had her first kid at 22. My brother at 28. Now, I have three beautiful nieces, and two hyperactive but adorable nephews. I was only 16 when my first niece was born and I became a “dad” vicariously through my older siblings. It’s nice doting on kids especially when you know that you can spoil them rotten without having to worry about dealing with their tantrums; let their folks take care of that. So, yeah. I love kids. But only my sister’s and brother’s. Haha!

2. You suddenly care about politics and the weather.

I don’t care about politics. Neither do I care about the weather, except that I enjoy walking in the rain and I love playing under the sun (my skin doesn’t agree with me, though). So, I guess I’m still young. Yeah, right!

1. Everything goes south, except for the hairline.

I’m “blessed” (insert sarcastic face here) with a high forehead. My mom thinks it’s the reason why I’m “soooo smart.” Baloney! I got it from her side of the family (the forehead, and the brains na din. Haha! Mom, I hope you’re reading this!) so I wouldn’t expect her to take responsibility for this thing that I used to hide under ridiculously long bangs back in high school. I look at my dad, and at 68, he still has a full head of hair, slightly thinning at the back, but you still couldn’t see all the way to the scalp. And, look Ma! No gray hair! Mom on the other hand, has very fine hair, which all of us “kids” got! So there it is, high forehead + really fine hair. I hope I don’t get premature alopecia. But I do thank mom for one thing… when others would be going crazy dyeing their hair and adding highlights, including them metrosexual (What’s with that word? I think it’s just a cleverly disguised term for sexually ambiguous or confused. Haha!) guys, I have naturally lighter-colored hair. I used to hate it, including my high forehead and really fine hair. But, with age comes acceptance. We embrace who we are and what we’re given. I just wish I had a narrow forehead, and dark wavy hair with a loose curl forming an “s” right in the middle of the forehead… And I also wanna have a red cape with a blue body suit, red underwear and red pair of boots. And I wish I can fly.