Beckham
I’m wearing David Beckham’s LA Galaxy shirt. I don’t know why I’m wearing a shirt from a dude who’salready 34, earns $5 million a year, yet his team is scrambling to get a win in Major League Soccer. And oh, he’s in Milan now on-loan playing with the likes of Kaka, Ronaldinho, and Alexander Pato. And their team captain is an aging 37 year old, Paolo Maldini.
It gets me to thinking about my similarities, if any, with Mr. Spice himself. Hmmmm.
1) Golden Balls.
Fans call him GOlden Balls, not because of his testicles, but for his ability to curve balls into the net. I can’t bend balls like Beckham, but sometimes I bend rules to fit me. And I’m sure good at weaving my way into life.
Great start for both players. Score: Becks, 1; Willy boy, 1.
2) He’s 34.
Hehe. He’s 34. But Good old David is still being recalled to the England team in his usual right midfield position, usually reserved for quick bats who run up and down the field. Thanks to his old Real Madrid coach, Now England boss, Don Fabio who earlier dropped Becks and recanted. I’m 27, yeah, but I still have a lot to prove not to mention a lot to earn.
Becks sends a magnificent long ball. Score: Becks 2, Willyboy 1
3) Beck’s got Spice.
Whoever’s not drooling about Posh Spice is not a man. And she all belongs to Becks, mini skirts and glossy lips and all. I’m still single, still waiting for the right time to get my own Posh back.
Becks pounds the wall with a direct to the balls. Becks 3, Willyboy 1
Well, I guess the man deserves the shirt, his pay, and his wife. i just have to contend myself with the sirt and hopefully be like him in some way. And I hope he won’t return to LA.
Sinkhole
I was roaming around the office for a few minutes. I asked around. I looked around. I sifted around. I was looking for a little roll of toilet paper.
I realize our office is a microcosm of society, of life. It starts with lofty ideals but gets shot right smack into the sinkhole. I see this by looking at the things that get lost in our office.
When we were in our old creaky office in the uptown area, things were good. Everybody was happy despite the small pay and all were working for what many call as the greater good. Back then, the most valuable thing in life must have been the ballpen. Leave your money, your beeper (no cellphones yet), your soul and it stays intact. Leave your ballpen and in 30 seconds it’s gone. It’s irritating at times but you get to smile at how funny this little ballpen could mean in a newsroom.
Fast forward to the new millennium. Suddenly, big things had started disappearing. My favorite mug sudenly teleports from my desk into the IT room overnight. Suddenly my earphones sleepwalked and woke up in the sports section. Now this annoyed me. These things are really valuable. Like society, like people, we started as idealistic in our existence but we ended up chasing and loving the material things. Almost always, we end up being materialistic.
Then comes Sept. 30, 2006. I was looking for a roll of tolet paper. The assistant said they are not taking out toilet papers from the stocks easily anymore because it gets lost. People are also hiding in their drawers the toilet papers they get for fear somebody (like me) would come and get it. Maybe somebody takes the toliet paper home? Or maybe someone goes to the sink one too often (I could be guilty of that). But toliet papers are toilet papers. It’s supposed to be used. It’s a man’s best friend next to dog and women.
Despite our sprawling building complex, a recent accross-the-board salary increase, I realize we have gotten ourselves even deeper into the sink. There is no more respect, even for one’s most private moments..people hide toilet papers already. NO more sharing. No more caring. It’s me and my toilet paper. Mind your own problem.
So just like the days of cavemen and jungle wars, I sneaked into one cubicle, peeped into a box of documents and saw a roll of toilet paper. People in dire need of something..money, self-esteem, release sometimes stoop down to the level of criminals just to get what I want. I was not born a criminal. I am not a bad man, but my society, my office made me one.
By hiding toilet papers.
blank…
I’m in one of those days when people who play with words for a living like me just become plain scrappy, edgy, empty. As with the other days, I’ve tried all the rituals I’ve known which worked before—taking a cat nap, closing my eyes and flying into a void black space, drinking a cup of warm tea, reading other people’s work, listening to music. Still, nothing.
Must be the eyes. SInce I started editing news stories on Valentines Day 2005, my word pad has grown from ‘normal’ to ‘150%.’ My font has warped from Times New Roman 12 pts, to Arial 14 pts to the present Tahoma 18 pts.
I’m hearing the banter of our photographers from one far corner of the newsroom. I hear the merciless cracking of our police reporter’s keyboards. I hear the TV’s late afternoon singing contest, a laughter from the lifestyle section. I stop to look at my mind and try to squeeze some juices out of it. Nothing.
Just one of those days when you I wish I should have ticked that ‘other’ course I would have wanted to take when I filled up my UPCAT form. One of those days when I think what would life be if I’m just a simple clerk, a policeman, a call center agent, a medical representative.
I have to stand up now. Myabe I’ll find that big idea somewhere down the hall.
High Low
I was turned down for a job today. My qualifications “although excellent” did not fit the needs of the company. At the same time I also learned that my present company gave out accross-the-board increase in the salaries while upping the allowances of everybody. Funny how things in this world come in package deals. In two’s. In tandems.
I do not know whether I’ll be sad or happy. Sad because my ticket out of this hole was snagged, happy because somehow I have additional extra money to spend. It could mean my last remaining days here could be in relative ease. But it also means getting out of here is not as easy as I have thought.
Life.
What a day
I went to a massage parlor as I usually do. This time there were two things different: I went to a parlor near my place, and the place looks, feels and — as I will learn the hard, kinky way — touches weird.
The moment I stepped into the place, goosebumps moved.Together with the blast of the aircording wwere eyeballs of men sniping right at me. The massage therapists were interstingly bulky and muscled…like bodybuilders.
One client who was about to pay was obviusly one from the third sex. The other one sitting on the couch fired a head-to-foot glance at me. He was male, but he was reading Cosmopolitan. Had he talked or moved I could have assessed orientation with a higher level of confidence. But Cosmopolitan was enough for now.
“Hi Sir,” my therapist introduced himself. Gulp. This guy could beat me up black and blue and I’m lucky if I could live to tell tha tale.
I sat down and removed my shoes and socks. BUt I could hear the crunchy snaps of fingers whisking on a back of someone from the inside. I want that too. “Can I have a body massage instead?”
“Sure” my bodybuilder therapist smiled. It turned down to be one of the worst decisions of my life.
I slipped into a thin white boxer shorts. Looked up to the ceiling as if in prayer and laid flat down with my head right into those head hole. Maybe I’m just paranoid.
Then the guy stood directly over my head. Stretched. Then reached out for me. I realzied that the top of my head was touching an area of his body I dare not say. I imagined and smiled at how morbid we looked like if one was to watch us from a distance.
The dude, from the same position, then reached for my shorts and pulled it down. I kinda expected it. Until he pulled it fully down. With my buns screaming for the light, kissing the sweet dew of the airconditioning breath. I’m dead.
“Is this your first time here boss? I haven’t seen you here before,” he asked,” i muffled something just to make some sound. This is what molestation is.
So while i laid down flat, and he standing straight with my head uh, smack down his uh crotch, he reached down for my uh…buns. First it was only his thumbs which were on the soft pudgy mound, making smooth, slimy circular slides from the base of my spine to the two cheeks. But then the eight other fingers joined. No matter how much I deny it, his two hands are grasping, clawing, munching its way into my big fat butt.
“Is the pressure okay, boss?” he said. “Yeah,” I muffled. This is hell.
After almost two hours of squeezing, squeaking and fondling. My ordeal was over. Trembling, I drank my little cup of tea which was actually water with lots of sugar and some green coloring in it.
Then my bodybuilder walked towards me. Smiling. His biceps bulging. His chest exploding from his tight white undersized shirt. His hair shimmering and his teeth glistening through the soft yellow lights of the hallway He gave me a card. Then smiled. He actually had dimples.
Trembling, I looked at the card.
“Sanny 09273237765″
No way!
Day 1
I’m starting a big project today. About what, I still won’t say. I’m afraid other reporters would see what I am up to. As if there is anybody reading this blog. But I am working on something. I am planning to leave and I want to get out with a big hurrah, a coup de grace. There are so many things I would have wanted to achieve before I ‘move on’ but circumstances and that devil behind her big bloddy desk forced me to time warp to that day when I have to say goodbye to this company and to the people I have been with for eight years.
But I’m not done yet. I’ll finish this special report first. And I have another one already scribbled in my little blue book. Argh. I thought I’m on my last lap. And here I am outlining two lengthy huge projects.
I make an outline. Thank you English composition teacher Mrs. Capili of St. Mary’s College. You taught me how to make outlines. The way it looks, I’m bound for a three-part series. Humm…I’m starting to imagine the long and late hours at work. I gotta have my oxygen mask…uhmmm…now where are my headphones. Shit. I need music to keep me alive, lest I’ll be hearing sounds of Sa Piling Mo murmuring from our lifestyle section. Also made lists of people whom I can interview. Gee, there are lots of them. I also need three “common tao.” One rich, one poor, one normal – not so rich, not so poor.
Then I’ll go send faxes to the people I’d like to talk to. They’re busy people you know. Some with the private sector, businessmen, who would really prefer not to get their names in the newspaper about an issue that affects the community. Affects the community meaning, it hurts the people because some people are not doing their jobs. Those sort of things.
This is where a skill I learned from high school would come in handy (thanks Letran Knights). I talked to two secretaries of two big men and got them to commit thet they’ll find time for me. They’re Cecille and Emily. Cute. Let’s roll.
I have landed
I am a journalist. I am part of that rare breed of men and women who see themselves as rare, exotic, special. I always have a pen in my pocket (average lifespan: 2 days), and some piece of paper somehwere in my body (average lifespan: 2 hours). I have an inelegible handwriting (encrypted notes to prevent copying), and I only have a few friends outside the industry. That is my life, that is my curse.
Many journalists consider their work as a staus symbol. They brandish their press cards and announce to every room they enter that they are journalists and they should be treated special. Many of my colleagues driver their SUVs or walk around like celebrities. Most of these guys are dead. Like many other industries (politics especially), our profession lives in a world of hypocrisy. We fight for other people’s rights yet many of our kind are underpaid. We call for fairness and equal access to everybody yet we flash our press card likes it’s an access pass to just about anywehere (screw the rules I’m from the press). We announce that we represent the people yet we think we are celebrities who deserve special attention, who deserves pampering, especially from government officials. We are as worse as everybody else.
But many are still here. I am here. This is my livelihood. I am like an accountant, an engineer or even a call center agent. I am here because I earn from this industry. I stay here because this is what I do best. There is no money here. There are a lot of problems here. But this is home I guess. That makes the difference.
