Sweet, sweet victory: Federer finally wins Roland Garros

Do you know that scene from that episode of Spongebob Squarepants, you know, the one where Spongebob and Patrick and everybody else are playing rock instruments, they're in a stadium, and they're singing "Sweet, sweet victory?" Well, that's my soundtrack, for today, Roger Federer has finally won the French Open.

Right now, I'm watching it, and it's so wonderfully beautiful that the Swiss Anthem is playing and a solitary tear falls on Roger's face.

Soderling just called him the greatest tennis player ever, and he's joking that nobody can beat him eleven times in a row. Fun stuff.

Now, for you non-tennis fans there. There are four Grand Slam titles that a player can win: The Australian Open, Roland Garros, Wimbledon and the US open. He's already won every title out there, except for the French Open, because Rafael Nadal (then number two, now number one) has continually asserted his title as king of the clay courts. Well, until the world number twenty-five beat, Robin Soderling, came out of nowhere and beat him. He eventually beat Nikolay Davydenko and Fernando Gonzalez to eventually reach the finals against Roger Federer.

Federer has recently lost his edge. If Nadal ruled clay, he ruled grass--and Wimbledon, but that also changed when Nadal won the title from here last year. (If you think about it, it's like they traded titles. Only Nadal battled Federer in a grueling five hour match to get it.)

Nadal is out, and has been called unfit to play for the Wimbledon warm-ups. Would Federer eventually reclaim his English crown in a few months?

Ever since Federer lost his number one ranking, I stopped watching tennis. It was just depressing for me to see my idol (HSB: The commentator said that it's a shame that Federer din't win it from Nadal. He will. He will.) losing. But I think I'll be spending a few good hours watching tennis again.

Found Out

Probably every week this summer, I'd ask permission to go to Yna's house. More or less, my parents (or mostly my mom) have the impression that we'll do nice stuff: play computer games, eat, watch a movie, talk, bake or play cards. My mom had this hunch that I go somewhere to drink, but she never found out where, and when, until now.

I went to my home town of Las Pinas and went friend hopping. Meeting with one group of friends, and then to the other.

With one group, Dean, a friend-bandmate talked about his ex-girlfriend. About licking her cunt in motels, about her Chinese ex-boyfriend who claims that his parents have allowed him to date Filipinas, about a night they spent drinking booze you barely thought was alcoholic, about how'd great it'd be if she were in the band, and about how he plans to come back to her. He meshed emotional drunkenness with a couple of glasses of beer and some nasty shots of raw rum. We ended our time together by walking in the rain, him still talking about her. At one point, I told him, keep talking about her while you still can. Tomorrow, you shouldn't. Why? It's an excercise, I stupidly answered. We walked up to the church so we'd pray for forgiveness. He pissed on a tree. He chased after a cat, and after humorously failing to catch it told us, "I miss eating pussy." He threw the rest of the booze onto sidewalks, walls and plots of grass. He held us, telling he loved us, and I told myself I'd never forget this. I took a bottlecap, remembrance.

With the other group, it was with Yna and my usual group of friends. Only this time, Nikki was around, and she taught as a couple of new drinks. After all, we needed something new after we've been drinking sprite vodka and beer (Well, I'm the only who drinks it.) all the time. On the trip to get the stuff for the cocktails, they were all joking about sex. (Yes, Sinangag Express.) We did our usual things of playing card games: pusoy dos, go fish, crazy eights and if we wanted to, we could've played bullshit. We watched a couple of funny videos on You Tube: the wiener dance, the yes dance, Yu-Gi-Oh abridged, urban ninja and Dr Tran. I had to hurry up, because I promised the previous group of friends I'd hang with them again. (Mostly because we thought a lady friend of ours would come; she didn't.) I had to leave after helping them have sex. Err, buy from Sinangag Express. I missed out on cookies and eating with them, but hey, I got a hug as consolation. I took a bottlecap too, remembrance.

And yes, I forgot to talk about my mom, up to this point.

(At this point, I have to apologize. Whenever I begin to talk about my family, especially my mother, it just seems like suddenly, a headache suddenly comes into my head, and then everthing becomes a blur.)

She got pissed. I took too long. I was supposed to be back by eight. I got there by eleven. She took the wheel from me, and drove as fast as hell. I was clutching onto seatbelts, a little scared. When things began to slow down, she began to sermon me. Everything she said, I was able to rebutt, or at least, soften. To some point, I've already programmed myself to answer to every one of her sentences, but it all just happens in my mind, and the only response she'd usually get is stiff silence, with the occasional 'yes' or 'no.' Yes, after she blazed through the streets of Makati, fuming mad, in my mind, I didn't care.

Well, until she found those remembrances.

(And here's where everything becomes a blur.)

She storms into the condo, putting the bottlecaps on the table and asking me for an explanation. I mumbled that we (lie) drank them at Yna's. (She didn't know I'd meet Dean.) She asks me who taught me to drink, and she bangs on the door and shouts at the maid (who used to be a frequent alcoholic), accusing her of teaching me how to drink. I go to my room, and I fall to the floor, back against my cabinets. I close my eyes, and for a moment, I was caught in a void, where muffled voices and bangs could be heard. I locked my door, but she got the key and opened it. She asked me more questions, this time, more angrily. I go out of my void. A part of me asks, why'd you go out? Question after question after question; the easy ones answered, the hard ones received with silence. She asks me something. I knew that if I'd answer it truthfully, that if I let out those simulated conversations in my mind, I'd win. I wouldn't win against her, but I'd win something. And so I do, and it silences her. Barado, maybe. And then she begins again, and things begin to slow down. (Somewhere in between these events, I was trembling to answer why I wouldn't tell her things and ask permission; it all goes back to that night when I suggested something, and she banged the car furiously, angrily--and I was just paralyzed. Forgive me if I can't remember. As I say, some things are blurry.) The conversation ends with her as meek as a lamb.

After washing up, I come up to her room and apologize, and she answers, in a gentle voice. And now I wonder, what'd I win?

The Internet

Listen:
The internet is lethally addictive.

No, you will not die like those epileptic children who got killed by watching Pikachu's yellow lightning. Instead, you will die, wasting your time, and rotting away running through the Multiplies, Plurks, Twitters and Facebooks of your friends. Sure, I admit it's a good thing that you can keep up with your friends, but come on, why not try to meet them in person?* Most likely, the friendship you've built is made with real time.

Let me tell you why I don't like chat. A study shows (I'm referring to this study if you're about to point that where's-your-source finger at me.) that over 40% of what you say is lost in e-mails. Chat's more or less the same thing. Sure, you've got that :)) smiley, but how many of you are really laughing when you animate that yellow bugger that keeps laughing (when its jaw should be falling off already)? Do you really LOL when you say LOL? Or are you just smirking, or being polite?

Okay, I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt that it's a good thing that you get to talk to your friends, but I'm gonna go back to my suggestion that you should spend real time with them. (For the record, if ever you hang, I don't want you to spend time in malls, but that's another story.)^ When you talk to them face-to-face, consider this:

A landmark study, out of Cal State LA in 1967 and proved a bunch of times since then, it says 55 percent of human communication is based on your body language, how we stand or lean or look each other in the eye. Another 38 percent of our communication through our tone of voice, the speed we talk, and how loud. The surprise is only 7 percent of our message comes through our words.

(Quoted from Rant by Chuck Palahniuk)

There's this one webcomic I read (If I recall right, it's Shortpacked.), with a strip that points out how anybody can diss anybody on the internet, but when you're together in person, you're all polite. It's either behind a mask of anonymity, you show your true, rabid self, or with yourself bare, you show your fake, polite self. Or vice-versa.`

The internet is here to stay, and a single blog entry with a couple of considerable statistics is not going to change things. Well, I'm not going to stop you either if you want to live your life, rotting**every minute in front of a screen. I just want to tell you that there's plenty of good stuff outside the net. Like what? Hmm. Like the real world, I guess.

Footnotes:
* A good way to find out if you're not close with somebody, or if you dislike him/her, is when you talk to that person only in cyberspace.

^ Personall, I'd like to live in France. Why? Not a lot of malls. Bookshops, cafes (No, not you're goddamn Starbucks or coffee chain, but actual dens of intellectuals, where geniuses like Camus and Sartre used to hang out in.), if you're lucky, there's a river to go to or what not. Personally, I think malls are manifestations of how people are becoming more materialistic and becoming dumber. (Though to be fair, book stores in them make me feel otherwise, but if a place is riddled with Twilight books, it knocks off my good spirits.) Every week, besides from going to church, people go to malls. It's like a religion, and like most faithful, (or faithful) they listen to the gospel of Nike, Bench and Timezone, without examining it.

` You can think of it like a fight club in cyberspace. Only, it's retarded when you notice that punching is trolling, and the bleeding stops whenever you hit the disconnect button.

** Remember, your eyesight's always the first to rot. Brain's second. If there was a study that proves that brain activity slows down when you watch TV, how about the internet?

~ A special thanks to Yna for having me write a decent entry after a couple of weeks and being my proofreader.

P.S. Want an edgier take on why the internet is making your life suck?

7 Reasons the 21st Century is Making You Miserable

Chronicle of a day

Morning
Woke up badly. Sleeping late worked. Desired effect achieved. Dad brings breakfast. Still haven't talked with mom.

Noon
Headed to Katipunan. Listened to Modest Mouse for most of the trip.Was running late, and Czar stopped the taxi at McDo. I told myself: "Run, you fucker! Run!" And so I did. It was refreshing.

Afternoon
Wish's singing was amazing. Was a douche around her mom, talking relatively blatantly about money and swearing.
Rock Band 2 and Guitar Hero: World Tour. It was real swell.

Night
Felt really good on the way home. Listened to classical music on the LRT. The ticket seemed more illuminated and I understood what Mansfield said about light, a little perhaps.

Ate a 39er at Jollibee. Being thrifty is a refreshing experience.

Mom (indirectly) texted. Resurfaced bad emotions.

Walked home. Imagined someone trying to mug me on my way home. I'd throw my wallet to the road, when he turns his head, I'll push him there; maybe he'll get run over. I'll laugh, and play Mozart's "Funeral March" for the fucker. That was only a bloody daydream.

Car accident on the end of the bridge. A taxi and a private vehicle. Thanked God.

In defense of Alec Baldwin

I just heard it on the news tonight. (Yes, the news from ABS-CBN. Yes, the news that reports common crimes like--err--rape, theft and murder.)

So, if you haven't heard what Alec Baldwin (I only know he stars in 30 Rock, and I don't even watch that show) said, then here it is.

The Emmy-winning actor quipped that he was "thinking about getting a Filipino mail-order bride at this point ... or a Russian one."
(From Yahoo! Canada news (Yes, Canada.) )

It outraged a lot of high-profile people. If I heard right, Pia Honteveros is one of them and she's saying that he shouldn't joke about it.

Something horrible just happened to me today, so I really can't discuss this in depth, but if ever I'm alive in the next few days, expect me to write about this.

So, here's my response to all those high-profile people snapping out against Alec Baldwin. Every time I go to Glorietta or Greenbelt, I usually see a foreigner--most of the time American, one time Australian and one time British--with a Filipino woman. Now, I'm supposed it's dick-faced if I assume that the dudes are with mail-order wives. (I think you'll find those senators and activists dick-faced too when I start going at their statements more thoroughly). But I highly doubt that they'd elope with a common Filipina, who barely speaks English fluently, if it wasn't for said reason. Tell you another thing I bet: I bet those same people go to those fancy malls, and I'm sure it's pretty inevitable that they'd see the same kind of people I'd see.

Get real, Philippines. It's called neocolonization, and it so happens that getting mail-order wives is a form of it.

Expect, again, in depth content, if ever. And also, a defense of Hayden Kho.

Shiz like:
1. How Hayden Kho is being diagnosed as insane (Changeling, anyone? And Camus's The Stranger?)
2. How hard or easy is it to get a mail order wife
3. Russia's response to it (I suppose they're supposed to have tighter asses.)
4. How people attack Baldwin. One senator explains his outburst with his failed marriage. I mean, what the hell? The divorce rate in America is almost 50%! And also, it is not about the accused, it's about what he said. Alright?

(News: http://ca.news.yahoo.com/s/capress/090518/entertainment/tv_baldwin_philippines)

I got F l A G g ed !

What's the difference between these words:
1. Fuck
2. Shit
3. Goddamn

And these words?
1. F*ck
2. Sh*t
3. Godd*mn

You're left to your imagination. Meaning, with the second set, the second word can be shot or shat (which is the past tense of 'shit', so no) or shet (which is the Filipino word for "shit"). With the first word, it could be fack, feck, fick, fock, fu--oops--. As for the third word, goddemn would be the Filipino word for it.

Anyway, I'll consider the negative effects of being flagged. Maybe, just maybe, there'd be a swear-free Oh No Vic. What do you people think?

Therapy - 2

You're a goddamn piece of shit for not caring about your so-called best friend.
You're a goddamn piece of shit for talking more to his girlfriend than him.
You're a goddamn piece of shit for being dense to the first two facts for a fucking long time.
You're a goddamn piece of shit for being relatively cheery because of it.
You're a goddamn piece of shit for not grasping that he, as strong as his body is, can actually have a heart that can actually get heart.
You're a goddamn piece of shit for not caring.

Once upon a time, you and the gang went to a sit-down-and-order restaurant because his girlfriend was going to treat everybody. Hours of merriment later, you beg the gang to go out for Rock Band. So you do. It's just supposed to be for half an hour, because one has shit to do, and your mom wants you to start heading home. It lasts for an hour, mostly because of you, partly because your friends let you. You all head out. Time to go home. Friend asks you to take him home with your car. You refuse kindly (or so you think it's kind) saying that it's really time for you to get going. Friend argues that you already spent half an hour beyond your time; why don't you take him home? You kindly refuse once more (refer to previous phrase in parenthesis) and kindly offer him money for a cab. He says screw you and heads a taxi but not before flipping you off. You speed off into the night, pumping your anger into the pedal and actually reaching a hundred kilometers per hour. And then you exclaim really, really loudly, "SHIT!" before slamming your fists strongly into the steering wheel.

The present. You're a goddamn piece of shit.