Where were you when...

...Venus Raj plucked her answer from Neptune?

Photo Courtesy of cbsnews.com

 I was surfing the net looking for beautiful streamer designs at a classmate's boarding house. The wi-fi is free and the television is far away. The sounds are barely audible you'd think the Ms. Universe pageant was broadcast through radio (with matching ek-ek-ek-zzz). I actually went there just to check. ( It is indeed a TV, albeit the video quality was deplorable.) That moment the top ten was about to be announced and I was happy (honest!) that Venus was in the top 15. Then I got tired of the long commercial breaks, so I went back to my work. After a short while the spectators raced towards my spot (which is the common area, incidentally) in hysteria. Apparently voicing out their utter disappointment, shaking each other, pounding the table and yes, holding back tears. Feigning interest I asked what happened and confirming what they said, I opened my Facebook account and found it studded with status updates that were either announcing Venus' rank or simply stating the word "major, major." Now, it has become a very hackneyed expression. (More like over, over and  pagxur oi!). I reckon Venus tried to translate bonggang-bongga to English. That is, I bet she was trying to say Wala akong bonggang bonggang problema. 

And it has become so popular. I am a major, major fan.

... the SWAT was apparently swatted?

I was at school the whole day. When I went home I passed by the ATM booth adjacent to the guardhouse at the exit of the institute where the flat screen television (Ows?) was tuned to ABS-CBN News. People were glued to it, and I tried to absorb the spectacle before my eyes. What I was able to process was " Quirino Grandstand." Then the bus, then the reporters and then the police. (Corny joke: Why did they send a SWAT team, what, is the hostage taker a fly?) Then there was Rolando Mendoza, who was a former policeman. I heard myself go, "WHAAATTT??" Afterwards, I noticed the bus was painted with Chinese or so characters. I thought they're Korean. (Say goodbye to SuJu encore concert). Later on it became clear to me, they were Chinese from HongKong. I felt morbid-- morbidly disappointed. I thought of the consequent tension in the international arena. I even thought of Venus Raj redeeming some of our sweet perfume to the nations. Then I went home. I murmured "Goodluck" in my mind.

Plant Tour MMX: Purging one of the 7 deadly sins

I never thought standing in front of the real, tangible Magellan's Cross would be hair-raising. Previously we've been to Pepsi Cola Products Philippines Inc. (PPCPI) where I committed indifference and earlier committed envy with the laboratories of the University of San Carlos. My goosebumps or horripilation or in medspeak, cutis anserina   (I claim to be a frustrated medical student) could be attributed to these depravities. It's as if the historical and religious ambiance was declaring someone like me unfit for the visit. But still I insisted. I admit indifference is a crime, and I often label it as The Sin, but boredom is a sure excuse to feel indifferent and to not feel envious when dumbfounded with equipment beyond your level is impossible. Hence, I concluded it was all forgivable. Don't ask me why, we can't confirm it with God, can we?

Here's an interesting fact we non-Cebuanos share. We saw this same image from our elementary Sibika at Kultura book. (Remember the Burnham Park, the Hagdang-hagdang Palayan?). I was enthralled to see it for real and unable to help myself, asked: " If Magellan brought this cross centuries ago (1521), erected this during the country's first Catholic rites, then how come it looks new?" Disregarding the idea of termites afraid of the consecrated wood and sanctity-induced immunity from biodegradation, I read the signpost at the foot of the cross. It says that the original wood is now enclosed by the new one, probably for aesthetic reasons. For me, it also gives an additional eerie feeling knowing that beneath the superficial gloss is that thing that symbolizes all of Catholicism-- the first ever to be engraved in the minds of the Filipino natives. It's the mystery factor that prevailed. 

Nearby is the Basilica del Sto. Nino where the statue of the Holy child is kept. It has become a tourist spot partly because it is thought to be miraculous, answering deep devotees' prayers (It's the apparent trend. Saints only answers prayers from devotees. It's called reciprocation. Duh) and partly because historically, it was given by Magellan to the then chieftain of Cebu, Rajah Humabon in 1521. The Sto. Nino is the patron saint of Cebu for which they dedicate the renowned Sinulog Festival. Strolling around the vicinity of the basilica was lethargic. It smelled like the Spanish era was just around the corner. And one more thing, the balloons smelled like childhood. I felt like having one.

Thank you Wenggay for the pic and the pose.

To prove that you can learn something from this post, the ones responsible for the artwork on the ceiling of the Magellan's cross were Serry M. Josol and Jess Roa. Moreover, the enclosure is octagonal. Nothing. I just figured it would help me win a million someday. Ahh, gameshows!

Photos by Karl Ondoy. Again, tenchuu.

Plant Tour MMX: Envious on the first day.

Still feeling like everything is shaken by the tempest of the sea, we ushered ourselves into the official place of stay—Cebu Business Hotel located in Colon, Cebu City. Colon is well, your usual populated district. The place reminded me of House trying to defend why he is certain that heaven is non-existent when in fact he hasn’t been there. “You don’t have to go to Colon Detroit to know that it smells.” Nonetheless, the agency arranged for the accommodation and as I’ve said, I’m not so good at complaining. It’s tiresome.

The moment we set foot on the hotel, everybody went straight to the dining hall which was named Sapphire, probably because of the color of the tablecloths. Our breakfast was already waiting to be devoured, and yes, we really devoured it. The food was ordinary—corned beef (not sure if it’s really beef, it looked like horse meat), sausage, and sunny side ups. It was supposed to be “eat all you can,” and with the famished appetite of everyone, the utensils were lucky they didn’t end up churned in gastric juice. The eating was incredible you’d wonder why the rice on everyone’s plate is red. Apparently, it’s the corned beef served in an amount that would make you think it’s the staple food and the source of carbohydrates.

But the day has just started. By 10 am we immediately proceeded to the first place of visit— University of San Carlos. We were greeted with yellow USC shuttles which seem to remind us how small our campus is. However it was not enough of the intimidation. Our purpose there was to visit their renowned Chemical Engineering Department.  Renowned because they have an adequate Unit Operations Laboratory. For those who don’t know what a unit operation is, examples are agitation, distillation, mixing, and other operations that doesn’t require a chemical reaction. It is contrasted to a unit process such as clinkering, where limestone and shale is converted to cement.

Back to the tour.

 The feeling of being confounded with Unit Operations laboratory 1 and 2, a research facility, wastewater treatment laboratory and a separate laboratory for chemical analysis of biodiesel and biogas was nothing short of envious. That was my first time to see actual machines like the lab-scale heat exchanger, the fluidized bed apparatus, the plug flow apparatus, the equipment for sedimentation, even a plate-and-frame filter press! Add to that the towering distilling apparatus that seems to be the pride of the department. Everyone seemed to be staring in awe as the apparatus stands 2 storeys high. I need not mention how grandiose it is. They have all this equipment, and their laboratory activities utilize these. On the other hand we utilize styro cups and thermometers, and of course, heated water. Their school, with the affluent studentry, can afford those high sounding equipment. Well what do you expect from a state university whose net tuition expenses for an entire degree equals that of a single semester tuition at USC? This argument could lead to the issue of separation of IIT from the MSU system for which I feel no sentiment to discuss. The Chemical Engineering Department of USC is housed on a 2 storey building, with the 2 Unit operations laboratories on separate infrastructures. The Department of Chemical Engineering at MSU-IIT is “roomed” on Room 318, sharing the space with the Ceramics and Metallurgical Engineering faculties, with a unit operations laboratory that is next to defunct. While the USC students were busy separating the volatile components of their mixture in their gigantic distilling apparatus, we were busy waiting for water at 60 degrees centigrade to cool to room temperature, and from that work our way to complicate the laboratory reports to compensate for the apparent simplicity of the performed activity.

However it is interesting to note that while knowledge of the fundamental chemical engineering principles is augmented by the utilization of such equipment, the Chemical Engineering Department of MSU-IIT never lacked the edge to perform well in the board exams. It would probably feel good to rationalize our deficiencies with our good performance, that even though we failed to get our hands to play with these apparatus we’re still at par with them. However, I believe a Chemineering student of MSU-IIT would excel and outlast if given the same resources. True, the tuition is never enough, and if ever the millions of peso required would be solicited from the government, it would take a jillion years to be realized. But without constant lobbying and requests and follow-ups, the department would continue to feel envious of such facilities and schools who own those.

It actually felt very informative and good to be able to visit other school’s ChE department. But it feels better if we have the capacity to let other schools tour on our department instead.


Photo taken by Karl Ondoy. 

Plant Tour MMX: Ang Paglalayag.

Ordinary. The last time I traveled by sea it was awesome because the vessel was ginormous. This time, the passengers were clearly clamoring for space. In the economy class, lying down becomes precarious as changes in sleeping position could lead to a man overboard emergency. Well, my bad. I chose to get an accommodation at the economy class. However, it turned out to be an advantage. The sea wind overcompensates for the air conditioning, and this makes the entire area air continuous a.k.a. "air-con."

Plus, you're supposed to pay 300 pesos additional for a tourist class accommodation (tourest, as heard many times) and I hate to part from my three hundred pesos. After all, I only utilized my economy bed for 2 hours. I slept by 1 am, I woke up by 3 am to get ahead with the shower. Most of the time, I loitered at the tourist area, with my classmates very eager to have me there to contribute to the body heat against the extreme air conditioning that turned it into an accommodation at the North Pole. 

The Trans-Asia ferry lifts anchor by 8 pm, and in order to deal with the waiting, I played cards with my classmates. The loser shall bear the punishment of the baby powder and shall walk around the place with demeaning white streaks all over the face. I'm quite lucky with all the training I got with card games. Back home, I'm a frequenter of gambling houses and gambling at wakes and that was way way back when I was  still at high school. I'm not kidding.
When everyone had enough of the powdery sensation, the restobar was already on fire. They almost had the videoke machine broken with the input volume of songs and too bad for me, because of unrestrained loquacity earlier during the trip, my voice was not in the tip top shape. But still, I sang. (Malat nga lang.) After I murdered Irene Cara's "Fame", I realized I would never light up the sky with a flame. So I decided instead to explore the "vast territories" of the ferry. 

I found myself at my bed. Seriously, I went to the topmost portion of the vessel before I got to my bed. All I got was wind and more wind. At least the view comforted me-- a canvas of black. And I mean really black, although there were some faint illuminations of a few candelas, enough intensity to make fireflies proud. I decided it wasn't at all life changing, and the shortness of my stay up there is testament to my diffidence about talking to someone I ought to explain myself to. As such, I preferred the "comfort" of my bed.

Notes: I got to the shower first. It's deplorable. I'm glad I'm not whiny. I don't usually voice out my complaints. It's tiresome.

Photos by Karl Ondoy. Doy, tenchuu.

When all caution and censorship have let go: The Story

In connection to my previous post regarding inspiration that denotes lifting the lid of the unconscious, Jostein Gaarder, in her masterpiece, Sophie's World, tells us a story in illustration of the importance of the artist to not let reason and reflection control a more or less unconscious expression. (Warning: It's a very serious and sad story.)

Once upon a time there was a centipede that was amazingly good at dancing with all hundred legs. All the creatures of the forest gathered to watch every time the centipede danced, and they were all duly impressed by the exquisite dance. But there was one creature that didn't like watching the centipede dance- that was a tortoise.'

'It was probably just envious.'

'How can I get the centipede to stop dancing? thought the tortoise. He couldn't just say he didn't like the dance. Neither could he say he danced better himself, that would obviously be untrue. So he devised a fiendish plan.'

'Let's hear it.'

'He sat down and wrote a letter to the centipede. " O incomparable centipede," he wrote, "I am a devoted admirer of your exquisite dancing. I must know how you go about it when you dance. Is it that you lift your left leg number 28 and then your right leg number 39? Or do you begin by lifting your right leg number 17 before you lift your left leg number 44? I await your answer in breathless anticipation. Your's truly, Tortoise."'

'How mean!'

'When the centipede read the letter, she immediately began to think about what she actually did when she danced. Which leg did she lift first? And which leg next? What do you think happened in the end?'

'The centipede never danced again?'

'That's exactly what happened. And that's the way it goes when imagination gets strangled by reasoned deliberation.'

When all caution and censorship have let go

Some writers claim that their hands have minds of their own when writing sometime of the day, say, at dawn. For some, it's amazing, and some of them grow out to be prolific writers whose work reflect poignant experiences concealed in characters that are in introspect, mirror images of themselves. In reality, the "mind" of the hand is actually the subconscious of the wielder of the pen, resurfacing and manifesting itself when all caution and censorship have let go. However, for me, it's just scary. To live a life full of caution that borders on paranoia, I have never really let some part of me go berserk-- i mean, out of control. When I write, everything is within my umbrella of consciousness, and I guess this is where I come to be problematic.

To lift the lid of the unconscious is essential in creative writing, for the very fact that the unconscious houses a whole universe of experiences that when exploited can lead to works like "The Tell Tale Heart" of Edgar Allan Poe, or even "Letters of St. Paul to the Corinthians." Different writers have different ways of lifting the lids of  their unconscious. Edgar Allan Poe, the father of the english short story, writes when drunk. His famous short stories, like the Cask of Amontillado, even reflects his fondness of wine. Similarly, the writer Ernest Hemingway who wrote the short story " A Clean Well Lighted Place" (a phrase I utter everytime I'm asked where i want to eat) was a heavy drunkard, and even this short story of his was definitive of his neurosis which eventually drove him to suicide. 

On a lighter note, some writers (not just writers but artists in general), drown themselves in coffee and then smokes. I know of one who even named his blog after the empty coffee cups that was the detritus of his artistic side, and an esteemed debater and writer of my school smokes a lot. The revelry of the experience is the closest they could to obtain the "high" that would allow themselves to let go of repression and let the inner artist take control. But then again there's drugs. Drugs, and this is not taboo, is popular also for some artists, who says the experience is irreplaceable and accept no substitutes. Artists who take this course though, oftentimes unwarily, or even warily (eerie!), leads themselves to self-destruction(think Kurt Cobain).

Liver cirrhosis aside, or worse, suicide (Oh the ignominy!), I realize that If I want to ace in writing I must find ways to access my subconscious. Right now, coffee solves the problem somehow. But I know for certain that there is only one reason why I cannot develop my writing to a deeper extent. It is because, tadaaa!, I'm too busy with struggling to graduate this year in an engineering course. When you're supposed to commit gluttony with living upon reaction rates and Laplace transforms, you cannot expect to commit wholeheartedly to devouring the novels of Ian McEwan, Robert Ludlum or Michael Crichton much more Immanuel Kant's Critique of Pure Reason. (Personal sentiment: Add to the list the Complete Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, which until now remains impossible for me to read because I'm busy with equipment design.) I must say no amount of coffee could leach the stain of a straightforward prose so devoid of creativity it reminds you of the solution of a problem involving quadratic equations.

I think I have to allow myself to graduate first before I allow my subconscious to resurface because seriously by that time, all hell will break loose.

The 14 shades of gray

Good thing about being fond of people who are smarter than you: you get trivia feeds when you're with them. Proof that you can go gaga over him/her and not lose I.Q points.

Consider a typical conversation where you reach the word "gray".

Trivia injected: There are 14 shades of gray.

(At this time you have to thank God that you're not being asked how much you know about Khmer Rouge.)

Template Reaction: Oh really.?? If you come to think of it, a color can have infinite number of shades.

(With a trace amount of sarcasm, probably due to thinking, "How come I don't know that?")

Retort: No, I mean shades with a name. Like for red there's crimson, etc.

Feigning Intellectual Remark: Yeah, and there's vermilion for orange.

Attempt at Overthrow: Vermilion is a shade of red. Duh.

Impulse of Pride: No. It's a shade of orange. (To self: I know it, I know it.)

Challenge: It's a shade of red, even if you check it through internet right now.

Resolution: Vermilion, sometimes spelled vermillion, when found naturally occurring, is an opaque orangish red pigment, used since antiquity, originally derived from the powdered mineral cinnabar.

Whopee-doo. It's both a shade of orange and red. Safe. Win-win.

But I digress.

I looked for that 14 shades of gray. And what I found is a music anthology totally undiscovered by my ears: the music of Staind. This one here is So far Away from their album, 14 shades of gray. 

Unfortunately I found 26 shades of gray, excluding black and white.

Shades of gray
Gray	Arsenic	Ash gray	Battleship gray	Bistre	Black	Cadet gray	Charcoal	Cinereous	Cool gray
Davy's gray	Feldgrau	Glaucous	Isabelline	Liver	Payne's gray	Platinum	Seal brown	Silver	Slate gray
Taupe	Purple taupe	Medium taupe	Taupe gray	Pale taupe	Rose quartz	White	Xanadu
The samples shown above are only indicative.

But I enjoyed the 14 shades more.

Finally, a real film from Regine

With her award-winning portrayal of Abby, a retarded woman seeking acceptance and love in one of Maalaala Mo Kaya's episode entitled "LOBO" (she won the Best Performance by an Actress during 2002 Star Awards for Television, beating Sharon Cuneta, Vilma Santos, Jacklyn Jose and Glydel Mercado, how's that?), Regine never actually rose beyond romantic films involving common love team plots. Well, there's Paano Kita Iibigin with Piolo Pascual, which movie sprang because of the MMK team-up and saw Regine with a heavier acting role although still attached to the usual lovebirds theme. But as an avid fan dying to see his object of fanaticism try something new, it was disappointing. Until now.

Ladies and gentlemen, after lending her voice to Princess Urduja, let us welcome, a deglamorized Regine as Mrs. Recto, from Panoramanila, directed by Dante Nico Garcia, who also made and directed Ploning which starred Judy Ann Santos. Hah! Oscars.

An impassioned call to arms

After a handful of hapless individuals who gave MSU-IIT the reputation of making students end their otherwise promising lives and dispelling out-of-wedlock pregnancy as the domineering fad, everyone's heightened attention was once again aflame when a freshman nursing student was reportedly stabbed to death after being mugged in one of the peaceful mugger-infested-but-neglected baranggays of Iligan.

Being a victim of mugging myself, aka holdup, for twice in a row, I was passionate enough to announce that muggers aka holduppers should be burned at the stake while impaled. Hah! And not just that, first their nails must be smashed with boulders from a cement quarry and take note, one by one, nail by nail. Attention future muggers: Please find a new holdup prospect. I'm not rich. Ala kayong mapapala sa kin. The next time you pounce at me, I might ask you if we had known each other.

Before I sound like Jigsaw I must say many share my sentiments. Luckily for me, the items that were taken were not laptops.

They got my archaic, vintage copy of Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet, enough to make me hesitate to give my bag away, causing the mugger with a sick mind to hit me on the shoulder with his GUN.

Plus, the textbook of Chemical Engineering Thermodynamics which unfortunately costs more or less a thousand and more unfortunate for me because, in bold letters, IT'S NOT MINE!

Plus, my cellphone with a loyalty and service award ( I regretted that they got it because my mom recorded a song there for me. It was not usual for her to do that. She must have done it accidentally, while exploring my phone's features.) 

And of course, photocopies of the notes that would be opened in the exam the following morning.

Reverberations: I was mugged at 4 am, my exam starts at 7:30 am. All that I have studied, if there are any, evaporated. Incidentally, the exam was all about EVAPORATION. 

Ripple effects: Medical check-up and X-Ray for the possibility of shoulder blades dislocation or my clavicle giving away at any moment.And how can I forget becoming instant celebrities, with everyone you meet asking you about what happened. I feel for my companions during that time (we were three), I wish I could wrestle the muggers and put shit siling labuyo into their mouths.

But I realized i was still lucky that I'm still alive. (hey, that was a GUN. A freaking GUN.) That's why I thoroughly support the cause of concerned IITians who marched around MSU-IIT and paraded towards the consciousness of local authorities, not just in Brgy. San Miguel, but in every baranggay in Iligan City to remind them that part of their responsibilities to the people is ensuring that they are all SECURE. 

The slogan reads, "Pagmata na, Captain".( Wake up, Captain). If you will not, what will happen to our ship.?

Are they even familiar of Maslow's hierarchy of needs?

Do not let night catch you walking along Brgy. San Miguel. You'll get mugged and worse, you'll get killed.

I must say not just in that baranggay. Tibanga is also infested with fiends and whopee-doo , they're practically everywhere.

Oh captain, my captain. What were we doing all along?

You might ask, what was I doing in Tibanga Hi-way at 4 am.? No I was not picking-up costumers, I was merely going home to a friend's boarding house after studying from another friends boarding house (B-HOUSE HOPPING) 30 meters away. I know, I know. I shouldn't have done that. And this brings me to my point. Securing security is a mutual effort. It's not enough that we leave everything to the baranggay officials. We ourselves should exercise prudence and vigilance since the world will always be full of people who have sick minds, to describe them lightly.

However, you who were elected to perform your duties of a peaceful society should not use this point to rationalize your negligence. After all, it is in the knowledge that your constituents are secured in whatever time of the day, that you can be rest assured that you yourself and your own family are safe.

I still won't rest my case.

Photos Courtesy of Manny Cabido. Last two photos courtesy of Mary Bernadine Dumaog.