New Girl's Nick Miller is so funny in an annoying way. Among the characters in the series, I have most affinity to him. He's the roommate who's near rock bottom--dumped by girlfriend, quit law school, doesn't use his phone too much, bartends to bide time, exists with the bare minimum, has no health insurance, has let go of himself to the detriment of his physique, dances naked in front of the mirror before a date to convince himself that he still looks good, is cranky all the time, and yet insists that he's just fine. In season 17 when he gets confronted by the luxury that Dermot Mulroney's character Russel exudes, he loses it. Hilarious stuff! 

Here are some of the funniest quotes:  

While Jess was accepting Russell's offer of borrowing his car after hers needed to be towed: 

Nick:"We are the 99%, Jess!!!" 

While coaching Jess what to say when she returns Russell's car: 

Nick: “March into his office and say, ‘Hey Mr. Fancyman, you can’t tell me what to do! Your money doesn’t own me!’ And then throw away your phone!”

Jess: “Yeah! I’m gonna throw my phone into the fiery chasm where he keeps his poor people!”
Nick: “Actually, scratch that. My mom’s got your number in case of emergency.”


While inside Russell's house in their attempt to occupy it: 

“For starters, look at this [house]. I’m betting at one point there was a moat. Rich boy!”

“A kitchen island? Be a man! Let your counter attach to itself.”
“I want to sit at that desk and veto a law. When I put my hand on this desk, I feel sexually proficient for the first time in my life.”
“Do you smell that? It smells like leather and Teddy Roosevelt and wistfulness.”
“It feels really good in my hand. Is it possible to be sexually attracted to an object?” (regarding the phone Russell gave him)
[To a wooden duck] “I want to kill you… because I respect you.  [To Jess] I think I understand hunting!”
“I don’t know why I put the sweater on. I just came in here and it smelled likeShakespeare – if Shakespeare were a damn cowboy — and a hawk’s nest and boat fuel and cigars and bourbon. Man stuff!”
“He smells like strong coffee and going to see a man about a horse.” 

But the best line for me was something like "You've got to give him a chance, Jess. Even I am in love with him!"  

What have i just done?

I just signed myself up for suicide. I'm climbing Mt. Apo in November just because Air Asia is giving away flights to Davao for free. That means I have to do Pulag in April for a pre-climb climb or whatever you call those. Carry lang. I just have to be more serious with my belly-busting routine. I've been eating less and more wisely for two months now, I think so that's good. I just have to stick with the exercise part. Still, I'm getting nauseous just thinking of both mountains.

Number 1 for Fun!

At first I was like, "Meh." And then I thought, it's just awkwardly long. But now I am sold. When I think about it, everything is indeed more fun here.<3

*spin-off campaign by Roland Benzon, photo by Jay Jallorina

I only whine once a year. a few years back i couldn't help whining in front of someone. It was hard core whining which scared the hell out of him. Tonight i did my 2011 whine in front of a hot fudge hot caramel McDo sundae duo. And yes, when I thought of CDO and Iligan I whined even more. When I realized I was whining and that it was ridiculous, I whined one last big whine, then drank some water and checked my mail.

Ansaket sa matris!

Dispatch: Solitary Vigan NIghts

Wow. I’m in Vigan again. But now for fieldwork and alone here for the first time. It’s going to be interesting.  

I am billeted in an old house turned quaint inn near the center of the town. It’s 1:23 am right now and I am hearing a group of men from the cafe just across the street sing pop ballads in succession with a guitar like it’s not a working Monday in a few hours. I don’t know why I always feel at home in this town. It’s the same feeling I get when I walk through UST. Maybe it’s because of the old architecture, or maybe I lived here sometime in my previous life or maybe it’s just that my mom used to tell me a lot of stories about these places. My maternal grandfather after all, hailed from Vigan, met my grandmother who is from Tuguegarao and they settled in Aparri to build a (very big) family. I remember finding a set of yellowish nearly-tattered correspondences between my lolo and lola once inside the drawer of a dilapidated mah jong table. I read them, of course, (are you nuts?!) and some were stamped from Vigan to Aparri. They were already married then and my lolo was out for business of some sort and my lola was manning their newly-installed drugstore. What I loved most was that in between serious talk of business and the trivial details, they still managed to squeeze in some thoughtful expressions of endearments which didn’t sound cheesy or contrived.

This evening I was eating my supper in the inn’s cafe: Pipian – that’s chicken soup with ground rice and smashed kamias infused with achuete for color. Across me in the intimately drawn place near the bar was a couple seemingly on holiday and at the other table, three men drinking beer talking about wedding photography. In another section were families of 4 and 5 and in the separate function hall was a group of elderly who seem to be celebrating something. I scanned the menu. Everything was familiar to me. Ilocano dishes that are sinful and flavorful and simple all at the same time. I envied the men drinking beer. I thought of how it must be nice to share a beer with someone else right now. But I smelled the homey aroma of coffee and decided that drinking it with cake later sounds more apt. The beer will come sometime soon. I texted some friends and gushed about the place. Somehow the Christmas lights in the dim-lighted brick-enclosed tableau made me happy and a bit nostalgic.

As I walked along the cobblestoned street of Calle Crisologo to look for an ATM machine, I wondered at how convenient it is to be alone. I never liked being with people whom you have to campaign what you find interesting to. But as I grow older and experience more things, I recognize that the inherent call is to share these to others. Life is too beautiful to keep bottled up. There’s always that urge to make others see what you find fascinating. With that comes disappointment if people did not share your excitement or fear for being responsible for another person’s quality of experience. Those always kept me in containment. And always I dreamed of someone whom I did not have to explain myself to. But I guess God is smart in that he made us different and created a need for communicating. It’s encourages humble effort of reaching out. If everything would have flowed perfectly between and among people, and everybody understood each other automatically, we would have been only be emotional robots.

I'm pretty sure there's an unfinished thought there somewhere but I'm sleepy and there's something in the air that tells me it's okay to let things hang for a while. Every town or city has a personality. To me,Vigan feels like an old friend who is open to new things but knows that it does not need to accumulate these or show-off to look worthy or important. It just lets time take its steady course accumulating stories, even if unfinished, along the way. This confident laid-back quality rubbed off on me somehow. As if  I were in a couch dialogue that has spontaneously commenced after supper, with throw pillows and a warm blanket, I've already settled in.

idk why, but this gets to me all the time

my favorite voice version 

my favorite instrumental version

*image by Grant Snider

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss — we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.

- What the Living Do, Marie Howe

Toni showed me this last week. Isn't it delightful? I love cozy corners. <3

The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes. Some would be devoted to acting against consciousness, Like the flight of a moth which, had it known, Would have tended nevertheless toward the candle's flame. Others would deal with ways to silence anxiety, The little whisper which, though it is a warning, is ignored. I would deal separately with satisfaction and pride, The time when I was among their adherents Who strut victoriously, unsuspecting. But all of them would have one subject, desire, If only my own -- but no, not at all; alas, I was driven because I wanted to be like others. I was afraid of what was wild and indecent in me. The history of my stupidity will not be written. For one thing, it's late. And the truth is laborious. - Account, Czeslaw Milosz

---

We wanted to confess our sins but there were no takers. White clouds refused to accept them, and the wind Was too busy visiting sea after sea. We did not succeed in interesting the animals. Dogs, disappointed, expected an order, A cat, as always immoral, was falling asleep. A person seemingly very close Did not care to hear of things long past. Conversations with friends over vodka or coffee Ought not be prolonged beyond the first sign of boredom. It would be humiliating to pay by the hour A man with a diploma, just for listening. Churches. Perhaps churches. But to confess there what? That we used to see ourselves as handsome and noble Yet later in our place an ugly toad Half-opens its thick eyelid And one sees clearly: "That's me." -- At A Certain Age, Czeslaw Milosz

A Sunday's Haircut

Today, a handsome Korean man cut my hair. He was tall, but not too tall. His long hair was tied in a loose bun. He was wearing a crisp light blue polo which fitted his trim torso well, the cuffs rolled up to reveal the fibrous muscles of his lower arms. His ironed trousers clung just right and he accented his look with a tan medium-width belt. Come to think of it, I did not notice his shoes. But I liked his chunky black watch.

Whenever he was not looking at me through the mirror, I studied his face. Unlike other Korean men, his features were not very feminine. He had just enough eyebrows to frame his chinky eyes. Above his thin lips was a fair amount of moustache which suited him. His aquiline nose complemented the planar quality of his angular face. He looked a little Japanese, and he may very well be a little Japanese. He reminded me so much of Tadanobu Asano. I thought that the faint keloidal scars at the upper side of his jaw which looked like stitches from the past gave his face an interesting texture.

Most of the time though, I looked at his working hands. They were good hands. Not too long, not stubby. Not too smooth with just the right amount of veins showing. His hands worked in swift decisive but careful movements. I wondered at how his whole body worked in the same manner: two feet planted wide apart, facing my side, his upper body tilted backward while his arms were raised to support his hands clipping away. Once he dropped the comb, picked it up, blowed on it and wiped it on his trousers while softly apologizing. Such reverence for a mundane thing such as cutting hair. He made it almost ritualistic. Then he ran his fingers through my hair lightly and slowly. They never tugged.

I remembered you. I never said it but I thought you had beautiful hands. They were definitely softer than mine and I was slightly ashamed of that. I remembered your hands because they had a penchant of softly brushing away hair that would always find their way across my silly face. I remembered your hands and how they'd butterfly across moments I decide I will never put into words. I remember your hands as they dropped a mug on purpose while we were in a seaside resort. It was a cheap simple mug emblazoned with your zodiac sign -- and hers -- you shared the same. Lastly, I remembered your hands as they had been on the metallic table of a fastfood joint, flicking a cigarette, fidgety and ever so remote. It was the last time I saw them unadorned.

For the third time the Korean man asked me if I was okay. I thought it was customary practice in the salon, but that's not it, I realized. I've been coming here every two months for two years now and nobody since asked me that in the middle of a job. Maybe because he was new, it was his way of being friendly, I assumed. I was rather quiet the whole time just smiling a little when he'd look at me from the mirror, shyly revealing a bit of his laugh lines. I was relieved that the language barrier prevented further inquiry. Because, "Yeah," I told him, "I'm okay." And I wanted to leave it like that.

I think I should relocate to where there is a season called fall and flowers look this way (photo and flower arragement by saipua)

Of taking risks and cancelled trips and how my heart, I insist, is indefatigable

I hate that I am deliberately missing my Vietnam trip. A few months ago, on a spur of the moment, I booked myself piso fare tickets to Ho Chi Min City. I took the available seats as a sign because they coincided with the Angkor workshop dates perfectly. I applied this year and I was slightly more confident that I'd finally make it. But I did not make it (again) and now I am left with a 10-day trip at the end of November with nothing in particular to do.

I won't go for a number of reasons: One, the Angkor Workshop would take care of my food and lodging and without those, I would be really short of cash. Two, even if I can scrounge up enough for ten days, I am in no mood to move around Indochina alone. Been there, done that. I want company this time. Three, some of my friends whom I told about my booking just in case they'd want to meet up with me after the workshop did book tickets...on earlier dates. Errr, yes. Four, having decided I won't go, I already scheduled fieldwork in Ilocos for those dates.

From the start, I knew it would be a gamble so it's not much of a shock when Angkor emailed me. Still, I'm a bit sad that another opportunity has been jinxed and another ticket shall go unused. Also, I was supposed to go to Batanes with some friends for my birthday. I've been looking forward to it although with some temperance because of a previous devastating canceled Batanes flight experience. When a supertyphoon came on that particular date, even if in my heart of hearts I had an inkling something like this would happen again, it sucked nonetheless.

Now I'm reading about a new international photo workshop in Bangkok for October 2012. And this morning I was tempted to book myself another 12-peso HK or Incheon ticket for March. When will I tire of wanting things so badly and being disappointed in the end? Maybe soon but not yet.

A Prayer of Oscar Romero

It helps, now and then, to step back and take a long view.
The Kingdom is not only beyond our efforts,
it is even beyond our vision.

We accomplish in our lifetime only a tiny fraction
of the magnificent enterprise that is God’s work.

Nothing we do is complete,
which is a way of saying that the Kingdom always lies beyond us.

No statement says all that could be said.
No prayer fully expresses our faith.
No confession brings perfection.
No pastoral visit brings wholeness.
No program accomplishes the Church’s mission.
No set of goals and objectives includes everything.

This is what we are about.
We plant the seeds that one day will grow.
We water seeds already planted,
knowing that they hold future promise.
We lay foundations that will need further development.
We provide yeast that produces effects far beyond our capabilities.

We cannot do everything,
and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that.
This enables us to do something,
and to do it very well.

It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning, a step along the way,
an opportunity for the Lord’s grace to enter and do the rest.

We may never see the end results,
but that is the difference between the master builder and the worker.
We are workers, not master builders;
ministers, not messiahs.
We are prophets of a future that is not our own. Amen.