The People In My Neighborhood

August 16, 2010

I found this nice, hole-in-the wall barber shop in our village which is probably the best thing to happen to me since summer (Seriously, it is.). It’s got two chairs but only one barber, it has decent air conditioning, and it’s even next to a Miggy’s so I can conveniently grab a cheesedog on the way home.

The barber’s not bad either. He looks like he just got out of prison but he’s all coño like: “So anong haircut natin today, Sir? What’s your name nga again, Sir?” But he doesn’t engage in small talk, which I really like. In the three times I visited his fine establishment, the only thing he’s ever said to me other than the usual salutations and the aforementioned questions was the time he asked me which color Eye-Mo he should get because his eyes dry up on occasion.

When he cuts my hair, it seems like he doesn’t know what he’s doing for the most part. He’d trim off a portion of my bangs then start razoring my nape. And then he’d go back to the bangs. But I’m not complaining since I like the results that that he’s produced so far. Plus he only charges fifty bucks and I tip him another fifty because that’s how I roll.

I’ve also been frequenting Ruins at Parañaque lately because my shitty-ass 4G connection isn’t torrent-friendly, so I rely on the local DVD pirate folk for some TV and movie booty. Speaking of which, you know one thing that sucks about being single? Not having a shameless and legitimate excuse to ask my favorite DVD pirate lady if she has the latest cycle of America’s Next Top Model in stock.

If I tell her it’s for one of my sisters, I imagine she’d be like: “I know your sisters, and they don’t watch that crap, you sad-sack lonely, girlfriend-less girly boy. Why don’t you hit on more parking lot cashier ladies you shit-eating loser. Yeah, I’ve read your tweets. Now here’s your DVD, so beat it before you infect me with your lonely sad-sackitis and I end up slitting my wrists right here.” She then erupts into boisterous, lap-slapping, downright insulting laughter. In slow motion.

And if I ask anywhere else and say that it’s for a lady companion, I’d be lying.

Anyway, if anyone has ANTM, and seasons 2 and 3 of Breaking Bad, hit me up. I shall pay you in sex dollars.

I Don’t Want to Be That Asshole In His Mid-30s Who Dates Girls Who Were Born On the Year That Kurt Cobain Died

July 12, 2010

My friend Papu and I were talking about relationships last week and she asked me why I seemed like in a rush to get into one. It’s not that I’m in a rush, I’m just starting to feel that pressure: the pressure of not wanting to be that asshole in his mid-30s who still lives with his parents and dates a girl who was born on the year that Kurt Cobain died (that’s a depressing decade-long difference).

 

Sure, I’m only 26, but I guess I’m just afraid of seeing myself in that position. But then again, I definitely don’t want to just close my eyes and settle. So I boldly declared to my friend my current three-step plan of 1. Car – 2. Home – 3. Wife.

 

I’ve nailed Step One using my life savings (and I still intend on upgrading to a brand new automobile someday), so now I’m off to Step Two. I don’t care if I do end up with a girlfriend pretty soon; I’m not marrying her until I find us a home. I’ve always wanted a house in the quiet suburbs, but we’ll see if the city life in a condo would be more befitting.

 

And then there’s Step Three. Of course, there’s going to have to be a Step 1.1 or a Step 2.1 where I get myself a girlfriend first, and this is where I’m going to be a bit more particular. It doesn’t mean that the lady has to be everything that I’ll mention below, it’s just not going to be a one-or-the-other type of deal unlike Steps One and Two.

 

So here goes. I want:

 

-a girl who laughs at my dumb jokes when no one else does.

-a girl who doesn’t smoke, because I need her to make me quit.

-a girl who cooks, and if not, who at least makes a mean sandwich.

-a girl who never asks me if she’s fat, because she consciously, but not obsessively watches over her figure. I mean, I still want a girl that I can go to Shakey’s with.

-a girl who is street-smart and can commute to my place when I’m sick and bring me oranges, donuts, and quesadillas.

-a girl who sleeps longer than I do, so I’ll always have time to get her breakfast in bed and videotape her while she’s snoring and show her the video when she wakes up and laugh at her until she cries.

-a girl who has porcelain skin.

-a girl who rocks a miniskirt or short shorts and whose gorgeous gams would go on for days. I’ve always found myself lucky in this department.

-a girl with only one boyish quality (hopefully not in the crotchal department, i.e. a tiny, concealed penis), but perhaps a girl who doesn’t roll her eyes when I mention Chris Jericho, or who watches the occasional Formula One.

-a girl who doesn’t care that I drive a beat-up ’91 Corona.

-a girl who is not that into music, and wouldn’t mind listening to the crap that I play in my car.

-a girl who is into movies, who wouldn’t mind watching the crap that I enjoy, and who would drag me into seeing stupid, girly movies from time to time.

-a girl who doesn’t know much about technology as I do, so I can impress her when I tinker with her computer.

-a girl who will never ever find out where I keep my porn.

-a girl who thinks that motels and strip clubs are disgusting.

-a girl who gets along well with my family. I’ve always found myself lucky in this department, too.

-a girl who knows a lot about the stuff that I never would bother handling myself, like credit and banking and travel planning and things we have to affix our signatures to.

-a girl who is the initiator maybe around 2 out of 5 times we do the nasty.

-a girl who keeps a few secrets, but who never lies to me. Hopefully, those secrets aren’t of the “I’m two-timing you” or the “I killed a man once” or the “I drink my own urine” kinds.

Retro TMB: The World Cup!

July 7, 2010

(I posted this four years ago on the The Man Blog; proof that I was just as irrationally angry and horrible at writing then as I am today. More notes at the bottom.)

The Philippines has never participated in the World Cup (I just wiki-wiki-Wikipedia’d your ass), so I’m a bit confused as to why it’s getting so much attention in the desolate wasteland of sporting activity that is our country. We’ve never been good at sports, as evidenced by our ceaseless piss-poor efforts at the Olympics.

The only individuals that we take pride in are either billiard players (i.e. drunkards), or Manny Pacquiao.

But there’s one thing I bet you Manny Pacquiao can’t do, and that is to competitively play the game of football, or even drum up the insane amount of money to harvest a world-class football team. Made entirely of brownies.

So what’s the big deal about the World Cup? Why do folks who don’t even know what an offside is converge at hip bars to watch the games live, and cheer for players whose names they can’t even spell? What’s that you’re saying? These pretentious ass-clowns attend World Cup viewing parties because it’s the cool thing to do these days? No fucking way! I refuse to yield to that notion!

There really is nothing wrong with enjoying the World Cup. I just hate it when everyone suddenly becomes an authority on football when the Cup comes-a-knocking.

For tips on how to deal with these faux experts, read this article*, and simply do away with any reference to The Da Vinci Code and apply the necessary phrases like “Pretentious soccer jackass” and “Shoot said jackass, please.”

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*This was supposed to link to an amazing article by Adam Mordo about the Da Vinci code, and how evey person who read it and acts like they were there when Jesus was crucified should be punched in the armpits.

I just found this article saved as a Word document on a CD-R here at home, and this is not the full version. I remember having written a paragraph about going to soccer camp when I was 11, how the last full match I had seen at the time I wrote this was the Germany-Brazil final from 2002, and something about name-dropping Wayne Rooney every five minutes.

Anyway, if you’re a stranger, join up at the new and improved Man Blog Forums. It’s super clean, family-friendly fun. It’s so wholesome, the Pope gave us an award for like being totally moral-tastic.

Also, these are all lies. We have members who have experienced raping other people. Enjoy!

Homework

July 5, 2010

First real homework for Spanish class: Describe your bedroom in… Spanish! Surprise!

But first, a conversation between me and our professor during last Saturday’s session:

 

Profesora: Coco, ¿de que color es el amor?

Coco: Para mi, es negro. (I was the last person she had asked, and everyone before me had pretty much answered with rojo and blanco, red and white, for passion and purity).

Profesora: Ay, ¿por que?

Coco: Porque, para mi, es representa… ¿como se dice “constant failure” en español?

This was met with scattered, awkward laughter. Fuck you, classmates.

Anyway, homework. Here goes nothing.

Mi habitacion favorita es mi dormitorio. Es una habitacion amplia y romantica. Tengo una estante de los DVDs. El television esta medio de la estante. Tengo dos lectores de DVD son debajo del television. En encima de la estante son CDs, figuras de accion, y mascara de Darth Vader.

Mi cama esta delante de la estante. Tiene sabana estampada con rayas de la cebra. No risas, por favor. El ordenador esta a la derecha de la cama. Tiene muchos MP3s y fotografias de las bonitas. Armarios y tocadores son a la izquierda de la cama.

Finalmente, el cesto de la ropa sucia esta entre los armarios y la puerta.

¿Como Se Dice “Douchebag” En Español?

June 7, 2010

Day One of Spanish school was last Saturday. And in what can only be described as a dastardly display of its twisted sense of humor, Fate decided to pair me up with a college girl for a class activity. She also happened to be cute and CHINESE.

If you know me well, then you’ll have to agree that that shit is like impishly dangling the carcass of a gazelle 12 feet over the den of a lion that hasn’t been fed in a week.

Or perhaps it is similar to tossing a suitcase stuffed with freshly-mashed triceratops parts next to a toddler tyrannosaurus rex. You know that little son of a bitch can smell the blood, but he unfortunately lacks the opposable thumbs (or the jugular strength) necessary to pry that goddamned thing open.

So I’ve been single (or I guess the better term would be “emotionally uninvolved”) for I think a couple months now. This is the longest I’ve gone in this state in seven years. If we go all the way back to the year 2000, I’ve only been “romantically detached” for a combined nineteen months.

The reason why I bring these numbers up is because I’ve been wanting to settle down since I was twelve years old. I’ve had six girlfriends since then (only two of which lasted for more than a year), so statistically-speaking, I guess you can describe this mate-hunting endeavor as A GROSS, HORRID FAILURE.

Surprisingly though, I’m not slitting my wrists over it. My family’s been great (I just helped my sister and her friend write a rap song about peeing), and I’ve been diverting my innate urge to spoil my girlfriends to friends-who-are-girls instead: driving them around, treating them to movies and shit. (If you’re reading this, A-Team’s still on me.)

Anyway, I’ll just go along with… whatever the fuck this is. I’m not really setting a deadline for myself; I don’t want to put myself in that kind of pressure.

Though if I don’t get a new girlfriend by the year’s end, I will swallow my own fist and repeatedly punch myself in the stomach, from the inside.

That’s how I roll. Or should I say, “Asi me manejo yo.”