Hindi ko alam kung bakit, pero parang takot na takot ang mga tao sa gitna ng MRT. Alam niyo yun, yung "bandang gitna" na lagi namang pinapaalala sa mga sumasakay. Parang walang naririnig ang mga tao pagsakay ng tren. Basta't nakatapak na sa tren, di na gumagalaw. Bahala na yung mga tao na nasa likod, at lalong bahala na yung mga taong gusto sanang lumabas.

Minsan, sinubukan kong pumasok sa gitna. Wala namang nakakatakot, at maluwag. Puwede ka pang sumayaw kung gusto mo. Ingat lang kasi baka may matamaan ka. At, kapag bababa ka na, kailangan mong lumapit agad sa may pintuan kasi ayaw na ayaw magpadaan ng mga tao. Siguro yun ang dahilan kung bakit ayaw nilang pumasok, kasi takot sila na hindi na sila makakalabas.

Sana kasi yung mga papasok magpadaan muna. Kung iisipin, simple lang naman yun. Pag may bumaba, luluwag. Pag lumuwag, mas maraming makakasakay. Bakit kaya ayaw magpadaan ng mga sumasakay? Kung ikaw ang bababa, parang makikipag patintero ka pa bago makadaan.

May mga nakalagay naman sa platform na dalawang arrow. Puwede namang sa kanan lang pumwesto para pagbukas ng pintuan, hindi mag banggaan. Kaya lang, hindi ito nangyayari. Kaya naman madalas may nagpaparinig at nagtutulakan. Minsan, may nagsisigawan, parang bata pa kung mag-away. Sabi ng dadaan, excuse me. Parang walang nakarinig. Excuse me, inulit niya. Wala pa rin. EXCUSE ME SABI EH! Ayan, narinig na siya. Tiningnan siya pero wala pa ring gumalaw. Nagalit tuloy, sumigaw. Hoy kalbo! Sinabi nang excuse me eh! Ayan, nagtinginan na ng masama. Sa bagay, maganda rin ito para hindi nakakasawa sumakay. Exciting. Challenging.

Marami kang matututunan sa MRT. Maaalala mo ang "center of gravity" na tinuro sa Physics. Para hindi madaling matumba, lakihan ang pagitan ng mga paa. Ibang usapan nga lang kapag rush hour, sa sobrang sikip, minsan wala ka nang tinatayuan. Okay lang din, kasi kapag ganun kasikip, imposibleng matutumba ka pa.

Kapag rush hour, sobrang sikip. Hindi ka na makahinga. Mabuti na rin yun kasi minsan, hindi mabango ang kadikit mo. Kapag sobrang sikip, hindi mo na rin kailangan maglakad papasok ng tren. Tumayo ka lang at mamaya, makikita mo. Nasa loob ka na. Parang magic. Minsan, kung suwerte ka, makakakita ka ng ibang magic. Mga cellphone at wallet na nawawala. Pero malas ka kung ikaw ang nawalan.

Kapag masyadong masikip, magsama ng bata. Kasi kung may kasamang bata, makakasakay sa bandang harap. Mas maluwag dito, madalas. Minsan masikip din. At may nagsasabi na mas grabe makipagtulakan ang mga babae. Pero huwag mag-alala, kung may bata, baka paupuin ka pa.

Minsan may mga lalaki na sumasakay sa pambabaeng lugar. Tatayo sa gitna ng mga babae at kunwari hindi alam na bawal ang lalaki doon. Pagdating ng tren, mabilis na papasok at tatayo sa gilid ng pinto, sumisilip kung nakita siya ng guwardiya. Pag nahuli at pinababa, kakamot ng ulo, kunwari wala pa ring alam.

Noong bago pa lang ang hiwalay na lugar para sa mga babae, hindi ako sumasakay doon. Napapaisip kasi ako sa "segregation scheme," hindi ako sigurado kung maganda ba ito. Gusto ko rin kasi na pagbaba ko sa tren, nandoon kaagad ang hagdan. Nakikipagkumpetensiya kasi ako sa sarili ko lagi, gusto kong makita kung ano ang pinakamabilis na kaya kong biyahe.

Kaya lang, may kasabay ako minsan na lalaki na parang masyadong nasanay sa masikip. Dikit nang dikit kahit maluwag naman sa tren. Kaya ngayon, mas gusto ko na sa lugar na pambabae kahit grabe ang tulakan.

Kahit hindi ganun kaganda, paborito ko talagang sumakay sa MRT. Lalo na kapag nakikita mo sa labas ang mga sasakyang di makagalaw sa EDSA na mukhang isang malaking parking lot. Malamig naman, at walang usok. Gustong-gusto ko na alam mong makakarating ka sa loob ng isang oras, kahit hindi ka makaupo at magulo ang itsura mo pagbaba. Kahit papaano nakarating ka.

So I'm officially married. Not because we signed the contract, said I do at the altar, and had a merry epicurean celebration after - but because, well, it's on Facebook. As my officemate pointed out, if it's not on Facebook it's not real. So it's real. On to the next question.

Why haven't I changed my name?

Well, there are many ways I can answer that question, almost as many as the names I already have. It's a nice number and it's also one reason I'm not going to change my name.

The fact that I don't plan to change my name at all also answers why I haven't changed it, but on to my many names.

I happen to have had the fortune of being firstborn in a typical Filipino family. This means I got to be named after everyone. All in all I have four given names, my middle name and my last name. None of my names are monosyllabic.

Apart from having difficulty memorizing all my names and writing them countless times on quizzes, exams, and official documents, I have also had to deal with a lot of red tape because the name on this ID didn't match the one on that form, etc, etc.

After more than two decades of filling out forms, I think it's safe to say I've gotten the hang of it, and I'm not about to go through all of that again. Changing my name means more forms. No, thank you. It’s not that I don’t like my husband’s name. In fact, it rhymes perfectly with mine, so there’s some kind of poetry there. But I’d rather not.

It may appear that my choice to not change my name is just laziness on my part, but it isn't that simple. Apart from being firstborn, I am also one of tres marias, which means our family name will soon disappear from the telephone directory. Not that many people still look through the telephone directory. On that note, changing my name will complicate things. What if my best friend in kindergarten decides to look me up one day? Would she recognize me?

Another question is, would I recognize myself? I know it may be a stretch to say that if I changed my name I'd feel funny, but the fact is, I would. And what for? If it's to indicate I'm married, I don't think taking your husband's surname does that. Neither does being married indicate what being married is about, for that matter. It's not the contract or the ring or the name, it's what you actually do.

Another reason I won't change my name is I don't want to lose my identity. I'm not saying that my name is my identity, but given the circumstances, I'd rather be referred to as me than as the wife of somebody - even if that somebody is my husband.

But am I not required to take his name?

I'm very happy to say that the answer is no. Not at all. My friend and lawyer Jing Gaddi blogged about the whole name changing thing a few years back, and I will quote him here, just in case you need to hear it from a lawyer.

He and his wife Ava Gonzales, who has retained her name, were transferring a title and wanted the title registered in both their names, as spouses. When they arrived to sign the documents, Ava's name was printed with her surname reduced to a middle initial, and Jing's surname as her own. When Jing explained that she had retained her name, and quoted Article 370 of the Philippine Civil code which governs use of surnames, the real estate developer couldn't believe him.

Article 370 states that a married woman may use:

(1) Her maiden first name and surname and add her husband's surname, or

(2) Her maiden first name and her husband's surname, or

(3) Her husband's full name, but prefixing a word indicating that she is his wife, such as "Mrs."

In his blog, Jing quotes the prominent civilist Arturo M. Tolentino: "Under the present article of our Code, however, the word "may" is used, indicating that the use of the husband's surname by the wife is permissive rather than obligatory. We have no law which provides that the wife shall change her name to that of the husband upon marriage. This is in consonance with the principle that surnames indicate descent. It seems, therefore, that a married woman may use only her maiden name and surname. She has an option, but not a duty, to use the surname of the husband in any of the ways provided by this Article."

Of course, you will notice that the article does not explicitly state the fourth option for the wife to simply retain her name. Jing wrote how this shows how patriarchally-geared our civil laws still are. He also provided a link to a court resolution that says Article 370 indicates the wife's use of her husband's surname is optional, not obligatory.

I do know people who would prefer to take their husband's surname, and a lot of people who expect their wives to take their surnames. But I'm not one of them, nor does my husband expect me to take his name. So here I am, married and still me. New civil status, same old name, and absolutely loving my husband who respects my preference to keep it.

Dear Mr. Cab Driver,

Now that the fare hike has taken effect and you can charge me forty pesos plus an additional P3.50 for every 300 meters, please be gentle. Metro Manila is not a video game, and you will not get any bonus points for overtaking vehicles. You also won't get any bonus points for running over pedestrians. Besides, we barely know each other. Let's take it slow, so I can tell you everything I've always wanted to say about riding cabs in this city.

Let's begin with your looks. I know, I know. It's what's inside that counts. But if you keep shaking the dandruff out of your hair, can you blame me for wanting to take another cab? I also know that I shouldn't judge books by their covers, but when your doors look one pothole away from falling off, I'd probably be safer in a tricycle that doesn't have a door in the first place.

Besides, you could be one of those drivers who judge passengers by their looks. You know the type. Someone signals to you, but a few blocks down there's someone else who looks wealthier, or maybe there's a foreigner, so you ignore the first and speed over to the one you think you can get a bigger tip from. Sometimes you don't even have a choice, but you ignore the one trying to get a ride just because he has long hair.

There's also the question of names. What's in a name, right? But if I'm about to place my safety in your hands, I'd prefer it if your cab weren't named Biyaheng Langit or something like that.

Next, let's talk about your air freshener. While I appreciate the effort to sweeten things up, not even the fruitiest scent can overpower moldy seat covers. I once rode in a cab that smelled suspiciously like a urinal. Fortunately, traffic was light that day, so I didn't suffer for that long. On the upside, I discovered I can hold my breath for a pretty long time. Seriously. Nothing smells better than actually being clean.

However, I'm willing to forgive you for your dizzying air freshener, on the condition that you don't fall in any of the following categories:

1. Creepy

These are the drivers who ask personal questions, most often, "Are you single?" or "Do you have a boyfriend?" these preliminary invasions of privacy are usually followed by even worse follow-ups, such as "Why are you single?" or "Where is your boyfriend?" An encounter with one such driver ended with him asking for my number.

When I declined to give it, he offered me his number, saying if I ever needed a cab I could text him. This would actually be quite convenient, if not for the fact that apart from the driver being creepy, the cab itself was questionable, with barely there air conditioning, a cloyingly sweet air freshener, and rickety doors. Gone are the days when air conditioning cost an extra twelve pesos. Now that you have no choice but to pay for the air conditioning, it should at least be there, right?

2. Delusional part 1 (destination dictators)

These are the drivers who, when flagged down, roll down their window and ask you where you're going, despite having "Manila to any point of Luzon" written on them.

Worse are those who roll down the window and tell you where they're going, as if you were hitching a ride instead of actually paying for the service. Worse still is this type of driver who not only tells you where he's going, but speeds away even if your destination is what he told you in the first place. For instance, there was this driver who rolled down his window, scowling, and telling me he was only willing to go to Quezon City. When I said I needed to go to Katipunan, he sped away without a word. While geography is not a particular strength of mine, I'm pretty sure Katipunan is within Quezon City.

A subcategory is the path dictator, who insists on passing through "shortcuts." This is the type that scowls and makes annoyed noises when they have to go through traffic, which, in Manila, is all the time. Unless it's a Sunday. Or three in the morning.

3. Delusional part 2 (price dictators)

Apart from drivers who determine your destination according to their convenience, there are those who determine the price according to your destination. They seem to think that if you're heading for a hotel or some similarly expensive place, or if they pick you up there, that they can charge silly amounts like 300 pesos from Fort to Makati. They seem to forget that their passengers are mostly workers like themselves, surviving on a daily budget. These are also the ones who insist that you add to the fare, saying the traffic is bad, or the gasoline is expensive. I don't mean to be unsympathetic, but what is a meter for?

4. Asleep

Yes, this type of driver actually exists, right next to the type that drives like he's in a video game. If you have a death wish, please don't take any passengers with you. We will respect your self-destructive tendencies, just leave us out of it.

The thing is, I rarely take cabs. As a rule, I only agree to take a cab if it will turn out cheaper than taking a jeep, or the train, or if I have too many things to carry. Unpleasant cab rides remind me why I prefer to take public transportation with fixed routes, fixed prices and more or less predictable experiences.

On the other hand, there are cab drivers who are incredibly kind and considerate. Last year, when my sister lost her bag at a club, someone called the next day saying he had found her license and other things. It turns out whoever took her bag emptied the contents, took the valuables and left the rest in the backseat of a cab. The driver who called went out of his way to bring my sister's things to her. Needless to say, we were very grateful.

But more often than not, the experience with cabs and cab drivers is pretty stressful. Which is why I'd rather take the train. But then, that's getting expensive, too. And the trains are old. Bike lanes, anyone?

I like memes. Before anyone gets confused, when I say meme, I don’t mean to go to sleep, but "a unit of cultural transmission, or a unit of imitation," according to Richard Dawkins in his 1976 book, The Selfish Gene. I do like to sleep, though, and have fallen asleep in the most unlikely (and inappropriate) places and situations, but that’s a different story.

I'm not exactly sure, but I guess before the internet, chain letters were the most popular examples of memes. You remember, when elementary kids would painstakingly make copies of letters, send them to their friends and enemies (the goal here is quantity, not quality of recipients). The contents of these letters would vary. I vaguely remember some religious stuff, and some mystical stuff. Whatever the letter was about, it always came with a promise of good fortune (your crush will smile at you) if you passed it on and a threat (something bad will happen) if you chose not to. I'm pretty sure I participated at least once, despite not believing in the supposed consequences or rewards, which were pretty ridiculous.

That's the thing about memes. Memes, by their very nature, are fun to do. Why that is, I can't say. Maybe it's fun because everyone else is doing it. (Ever notice how meme, pronounced phonetically, sounds like sheep?) Maybe it's fun because it's easy, it kills time, and it takes very little effort. Well, maybe not handwritten chain letters. But years later, when internet memes were all the rage, that was quick and painless and easy.

A few years back, I had no real job (no office, no steady income). What I did have was an internet connection, and although it was dial up and went at the amazing speed of 33.6 kbps, it was free and “unlimited” (it would automatically disconnect after every thirty minutes). All day long I would read random blogs while waiting for The Lion King to download (this took a couple of months). Eventually, I discovered memes. Soon, my own blog became a bulletin board for memes - Which Beatles song are you? What movie is your life based on? What color is your aura? Which circle of hell do you belong to?

Certainly, finding the answers to such questions is utterly useless, except for the entertainment it provides and the instant image creation it allows. Of course, results can very easily be manipulated. If you don't like what comes out, you can just refresh and change your answers. But those memes weren't pretending to be anything more than what they were - something fun to do and pass along.

Fast forward to today. Livejournal has since been abandoned by ninety percent of my friends on the site, their blogs updated once a year with one-line posts usually along the lines of "It's been a while. I should update more often." or "This is a glitch in the matrix." What happened? Well, Facebook happened, of course. There is a sort of ongoing debate about social networking, and Facebook in particular. On one hand, it builds relationships by making communication convenient. On the other hand, it destroys them by stealing the show from good old face-to-face communication. Well, that's what they say.

I think Facebook is a tool, and a nifty one at that. It's technology, and it's still people who use it, not the other way around. So there isn't anything to be afraid of, really, unless for some reason you begin to lose your identity without it. In which case, you should probably go offline for a while.

For most people, Facebook has become a habit, and the main activity, it seems, is checking out other people's walls. The instant publishing of status messages makes Facebook an ideal platform for memes. Someone posts something, someone else picks it up, and in a matter of seconds whatever it is, has gone viral.

I always find it interesting when I see everyone doing the same thing, but unlike before, I'm not so sure about joining in the fun. For one thing, I'm a bit iffy about memes that supposedly raise awareness about breast cancer, or, support the campaign to stop violence against children. The latter has actually been clarified - it appears the meme began with the simple goal of eliminating human faces on Facebook. In fact, in copy-paste haste, the message has been confused as some people change their profile pictures to cartoon characters with the message "This is for the violence against children." Scary. (See story here.)

For another, let's say the meme really was started with a campaign to stop violence against children in mind. It still isn't clear to me how changing my profile picture to my favorite cartoon character is going to support that cause. It's Alf, who isn't even a cartoon character, but that's irrelevant - just as the color of my underwear is irrelevant to breast cancer awareness, as is where I like to put my handbag, if I had one, that is.

I doubt that anyone is actually inspired to do something to stop violence against children when they see a flood of images from their childhood television fare. If anything, seeing Skeletor, Rainbow Brite, The Simpsons, Olive Oyl, Mekanda Robot, Little Foot, and countless other cartoons probably makes them nostalgic, and I imagine some would be inspired to search for existing copies of the shows they miss. It’s also a great way to date yourself, and a nice alternative to the weather for small talk. “Hey, nice profile picture! I used to watch Captain Planet, too!” But I can’t imagine anyone seeing a cartoon and thinking, “I’m going to go and help UNICEF create a protective environment for children.”

I have nothing against memes. In fact, a friend once called me the mother of memes, when I would post four or five a day. I may just change my profile picture to a Smurf, or Gumby, because ultimately, it's fun. Though it probably won’t do any good, it’s also harmless. I still don't think it's going to help the campaign to stop violence against children, but I’m beginning to feel like an alien on Facebook. Alf would be perfect. Or, in the spirit of sheep, maybe I should use Lambchop? But I've always liked Garfield, too. Hmm, decisions, decisions.

107.5 is no longer the home of NU rock. Unlike many loyal listeners, I cannot remember the first time I ever tuned in. For me, it wasn't particularly momentous, it was more like I began to listen and never stopped. I thought, hey, this is really good music, and that was that.

Back then, we would buy cassette tapes. Mix tapes were actual tapes, and more often than not the tracks would be painstakingly recorded from the radio. I remember sitting on the floor next to the speakers, finger poised above the red dot, waiting for the right song to play.

Most days began to the soundtrack of Zach and Joey in the morning. Zach's burping drove my mom crazy, but she put up with it. Listening would be cut short for school, but would resume immediately upon getting home. For many of us in high school, listening to NU was a standard, an instant method to tell if you were musically compatible. Like most all girls schools, there were distinct barkadas - but there was a grey area of people who were on the same page when it came to music preferences, and we would all hang out sometimes, listening to smuggled radios in the classrooms during lunch break, with someone on the lookout for teachers.

My most vivid memory of our final retreat is struggling to keep quiet after lights out, despite wanting to jump up and down because our favorite artists won the Rock Awards, which we were listening to, again on a smuggled radio. On Saturdays at school, working on the yearbook, we would send in our requests for Remote Control Weekend. In a way, NU was the soundtrack to our entire high school life.

After high school, I began to find music elsewhere, but instead of drifting away from the station, circumstances led to it becoming more than just a number on the dial I would tune in to habitually. It was the summer of 2002, and my friends and I were at the NU Summer Shebang at The Fort. It was early, around four in the afternoon, but Faster Than Satan was onstage and a small mosh pit was forming. Not wanting to join the fray, we headed toward the back, where Zach Lucero was standing alone. I wandered off for a while, and when I returned, my friend had struck up a conversation with him and they were talking animatedly. I cannot remember how this happened, but when we walked away, Zach had agreed to teach me to play the drums. He said he was fifteen when he learned, and his teacher had taught him pro bono. Had I had any talent at all, I might have been his pay-it-forward project. But it wasn't meant to be.

The signature shot after the University Rock debut episode

After a few lessons at the old black and red studio, and once outside Big Sky Mind, it was clear to me that I was not a drummer, nor was I on the way to becoming one, and I was most definitely not going to become the next Zach Lucero. I suspect he knew this, as well, but he was incredibly nice and didn't tell me that. Sometimes I would arrive a bit early, and he would still be on board. I remember thinking I'd want to be there someday, just to see what it felt like.

In college, I joined the UP Musicians' Organization. To be clear, I was not and am still not a musician, but I love music more than I love words, and I wanted to be with people who felt the same - who knew what it was like to fall in love with a line in a song, to feel like certain bands were their best friends. We were seventeen when the organization began, and there were just two of us who weren't playing in any band. Eventually, we became in charge of most of the production work when it came to events, which NU would always agree to let us plug on air. Several of our bands were guests on University Rock, and when we produced a demo CD and Francis Brew played it on In The Raw on December 24, we couldn't have asked for a better Christmas gift.

Years later, I misunderstood an e-mail looking for University Rock Jocks. I had already graduated, and I didn't realize they wanted college kids, so I sent in an application. In the end, I made it to the first batch of University Rock, after George and Lia graduated, so to speak. Monday nights from nine to eleven were never as much fun as the weeks I spent there, and I met some of the most amazing people because of that program. I also got to present an award for what I didn't know was to be the second to the last Rock Awards.

There was something magical about being in a booth and talking, knowing that people you can't see could be listening to you, in their cars, on their way home from work, or maybe on their way to work, while cooking, before falling asleep. The one person I knew was always listening was my dad, and he made sure to tell all his friends to listen. Once, we had a contest and he was the first caller. It was very embarrassing. But I digress.

The author's first time on board with Abi Portillo, Evee Simon and Riki Flores

NU by then, I have to admit, was no longer my default source of music. Which is not to say that I preferred other stations, but that I would usually listen to mp3 tracks, and resort to the radio when I got tired of them. This was actually very often, because my mp3 player had the impressive capacity of 512MB. At some point, I felt like the music was repetitive, and then I began to feel disappointed. But the shows were great, especially Pirate Satellite, which I would, on occasion, choose to stay home to listen to instead of going out on a Saturday night.

But of course, you don't know what you've got until it's gone. I can't say that for sure I would have tuned in more often had I known we were about to lose it, but now, I get a sinking feeling when I think about the far end of the radio dial, knowing that the familiar voices aren't there anymore. Because it isn't just about the music they played - thanks to the internet it isn't difficult to find tracks on your own. It was the sense of the community, the romance of radio. It was hearing your favorite song played out of the blue, loving the DJ for playing it and getting goosebumps knowing that somewhere out there, someone was feeling the exact same way.

It could be argued that the same thing could be said about other radio stations, but it isn't so. At least not for me. Although the first time I tuned in wasn't particularly momentous, I began listening and I never felt the need to listen to anything else after that. NU was radio. Still, Cris Hermosisima was right when he said it was a good run. Indeed, 23 years is not bad. And, cheesy as it may sound, I wouldn't be the way I am had it not been for NU. It taught me what I could (be a halfway decent radio host) and could not (be a drummer) do, and introduced me to many of my favorite local bands whose music I would most definitely not be me without.

And I'm not the only one getting emotional about missing NU. It's a bit funny how a rock and roll station is eliciting this much cheesiness from people, but we can't help it. It was a constant, something we grew up with and perhaps for some, outgrew. I could go on and on, I have so memories to share about NU. Maybe in that way, in remembering, it won't end.

A few nights ago I was walking along Katipunan and just before I reached Rustan's Supermarket I saw Magnet Gallery, no longer Magnet Cafe. Gone were the coveted seats at the smoking area, where little kids would hang around begging for coins as long as there were people. Gone, too, was the sign that would announce the events for every night - Happy Mondays Poetry Night twice a month, and OMG hosted by Vim Nadera once a month.

Almost every band in Metro Manila has found its name on that sign, at least once. Magnet is memorable for many reasons - the bathroom walls that suggest suicide, the overpriced beer that prompts college kids to get sufficiently buzzed elsewhere before heading over, the surprisingly delicious Fried Kesong Puti. One summer the second floor disappeared beneath layers of white sand, and guests shuffled about with bemused expressions.

Before Happy Mondays, I would rarely find myself at Magnet, but I remember those visits fondly. Once, I was there on a supposed date. I had a green mango shake and we were supposed to go to the Bellarmine field, but we didn't, so all I really remember from that date was the taste of that green mango shake and the traffic rushing by outside.

Another time, there was a gig and it was over. The waiters were packing up but the musicians from different bands had taken their instruments out again and they were playing the blues. I can't remember what it sounded like, but I remember the feeling.

All of a sudden, I feel really sad about Magnet not being there anymore. I know it's just a place, but places are like people, too. You get acquainted, and every time you see each other again, something's changed. You notice new things. Some things you like, others you don't. But you still keep coming back, because some places, like good friends, just let you be.

Missing Magnet reminded me of other places I wish were still around. Sanctum Unmasct in Intramuros, an absolutely lovely place with couches everywhere and popsicle sticks instead of stubs for the free drink. Despite the stone chamber walls and iron wrought doors, inside was a place of freedom. I remember wrapping my hands around my salabat, mesmerized by the stained glass windows, completely in awe of the Spoken Word Slams. I was in high school, but I would go there as often as I could manage.

Mayric's along Espana is another place I miss. I would go way too early, because I didn't want to be commuting late. I would attend Buzznights, almost always alone because I didn't know anyone else who wanted to watch Popular Days or Candyaudioline or Soft Pillow Kisses or Daydream Cycle - all local bands, and I promise you, much much better than the songs you hear five times a day on the radio. I miss the calendar posted by the door, and how it was always full.

I know Mayric's is still there, sort of, except now it's name is Sazi's, but for some reason I can't bring myself to go there. I suspect that if I do, I'll just feel really nostalgic, or just old.

There's 6 Underground which was really underground, at the basement of a building along Palanca Street. Predictably, Sneaker Pimps lyrics
covered the walls. It was dim and smoking wasn't allowed inside, so all the smokers would sit in a box-shaped area outside, poisoning their lungs together. I once saw a guy passed out there, his friends arguing about what it was that did it. Someone insisted that he was mixing drinks, someone else said it was the drugs. I realized I was staring, so I offered my tissue paper.

6 Underground has moved to Pearl Drive in Ortigas, and it's now on the second floor. It's also changed it's name to 6UG, and while I'm a fan of brevity, I feel a bit betrayed. I'm pretty sure Sneaker Pimps would, too.

I know it's silly to feel betrayed by a place that didn't really do anything other than grow, but I can't help it. I had memories there, crossed paths with old friends and made new ones. I'd heard poetry that changed my life and music that changed me. If I step back, I could say that the place was just a detail, a backdrop, the where and not the what or how or why.

But that isn't completely true either. Places have character, and that's why Dorothy was right when she said there's no place like home.

Still, places are where and not who. Everyone's here, Joel Toledo told me last month at Carljoe Javier's book launch of The Kobayashi Maru of Love. It was at this place called Ilyong's, somewhere I had neither heard of much less been to before that night. I looked around and saw that he was right. Everywhere was a familiar face. At the time, Magnet had just closed and everyone was wondering where to go next.

I miss knowing where I'll be on Monday nights, and this might be funny but I really miss the Fried Kesong Puti. I miss the narrow stairs and the waiters who were always pleasant, and the window behind the stage that let you know if it was raining outside.

Of course, there are lots of other places to go to, places with character, places that feel like friends. I try not to think about them too much because more likely than not they'll be gone eventually. I can't keep places, but I can keep the friends I've made along the way, and of course, the enemies, too.

It's difficult to deny that much of blogging is just navel-gazing, and this not-so-obligatory birthday post is proof of that. Birthdays are usually license for a lot of things, mostly involving getting your way. While I have no intention of being a birthday brat, I'm using the license for this self-indulgent entry.

I had a professor who didn't celebrate his birthday. He said he celebrated every day, and while that doesn't seem like bad advice, he turned out to be a less than credible source, having made indecent proposals to several students. Ah well.

I'm not fond of parties, especially expensive ones. The idea of spending so much for a few hours seems like a waste. Not that I haven't had parties. There were three, I think. The first two were large productions, complete with clowns and pabitin - but I don't remember them. The third was my "debut," which I managed to get through in jeans and slippers. No, there was no dancing.

A few weeks back I had a conversation about kiddie parties with a friend, and we agreed the kid would probably prefer a nice quiet afternoon blowing bubbles to a noisy party filled with strangers. I wouldn't say a nice quiet afternoon blowing bubbles is what I want, or what I wanted as a kid, but yes, a pleasant quiet time is much better than a stressful party that not only costs you but requires you to look decent. For little girls, this usually involves an itchy frilly dress.

The standard birthday celebration in our family involved eating out and getting to choose something - usually a book. We would spend hours and hours at the bookstore, browsing the shelves, eventually getting to finish a couple before picking the one we really wanted. Books were expensive - they still are - and it was a real treat. That is why I have a date with Bookay Ukay along Maginhawa for today. I'm spending my birthday the same way I did when I was six. Also, the things on my wish list are a sun jar and a Twilight Sea Turtle Nightlight. I wonder if that's something to worry about. I remember there were some birthdays that felt momentous, and others that felt like nothing. 13 was big. 19 was nothing.

After 20, somehow birthdays stopped feeling very different. It's just another year, isn't it? Or maybe it's because last year's birthday kind of slipped by unnoticed, the day having been spent mapping people who were stranded in the typhoon. A few years back, it was Milenyo. In school, my birthday would always coincide with an exam. It's as if you aren't supposed to celebrate when you're born in September.

The late Alex Remollino wrote "Sa malaki-laking bahagi ng daigdig, ang Setyembre'y siyang huling buwan bago ang taglagas, kaya't nagbabadya na ng kalungkutan." I won't try to translate this, but think of falling leaves, bare branches, cold wind. September is a sad month.

There really is something about September. The way it begins with Christmas carols playing mercilessly on the radio, that alone is a sign of more gloom to come. Recent Septembers have been particularly cruel. 9/11, Milenyo, Ondoy, the death of Cory, the murders of Alexis and Nika. "Wake Me Up When September Ends" is a song I don't really like, but I have to admit has a valid point.

I used to look forward to Septembers. As a little girl, my dad and I would make a big production of counting down the days, looking forward to the ber months. I can't recall what it was exactly about the ber months that appealed to me. It was probably something to do with the misconception that the ber months were cold - an excuse to wear flannel pajamas and drink hot chocolate. Maybe it was the anticipation of Christmas - the one night kids could stay up way past their bedtime.

As I grew older, September lost its charm. It would always rain, and rain and rain. Also, September has a way of popping up unannounced, all of a sudden, two thirds of the year is gone and your resolutions have amounted to nothing.

This year though, it hasn't been raining that much. And the month has been kinder, somewhat. Still, I don't really feel like celebrating. I think it's partly because I know my birthday isn't really about me. After all, I didn't really do anything for it to happen. This is something I realized seven years ago, on my own daughter's birthday. It was also September, and there was a storm. Its name was Onyok. Twelve hours of labor without anaesthesia later and I met her. She was incredibly tiny and I wondered how she would like this world, I wondered how the world would like her.

She turned seven this year and she loves her birthday. Since she was born, we wake her up at midnight to eat cake, though she was born at 3:03 in the morning. She knows about birth - one of her favorite things to do is to trace my stretch marks with her fingers and tell me that they're because she used to be inside. That should suffice for now. No need to tell her about contractions and all that. One day she'll experience it for herself and realize that birthdays are great days to celebrate. They're also great days for giving credit where it's due. In this case, hello Mama and Papa, thank you. I know they're reading because they're my biggest fans, but that's okay - the admiration is mutual.

There's bad luck, and then there's stupidity, and then there's the particularly unfortunate combination of both. You know that quote about the universe conspiring for your heart's desire? Sometimes, it seems the universe does conspire. Against you.

While I'm not really a material girl, I do value my things. Mostly for sentimental reasons. Sometimes when I'm bored, I look through my bag and reminisce about each item's origin. I take pride in being more street smart than most people, I walk fast, keep my things where I can see them, and for the most part, attached to me. I once got scolded in college for not removing my bag from my lap the entire class. But could I be blamed? Valuables often went missing, even on campus.

I've lost things before, once, a wallet that fell out of my pocket in a movie house. I can't remember what movie it was, but I remember I had a ticket to RENT in that wallet. It was free from some goodie bag and it had South Park characters on it. I also lost my phone in high school, it had fallen out of my bag in one classroom. Mang Jose, a dear fellow, found me and returned it to me saying he knew it was my seat where he found the phone.

I had also lost a wallet previous to that, at the 2001 U.P. fair. Someone thought it would be a brilliant idea to open my bag, and everything fell to the dusty ground. Also lost in that incident were my friend's phone, and her shoe. It's funny now, but at the time, believe me, it was hard to laugh.

I've been held up, too, and I remember it clearly. Everything went in slow motion, and I glimpsed the thief’s eyes which were red and looked even more afraid than I was. Other than those incidents, I haven't lost anything else, until last Friday.

I was watching Arigato Hato at their send-off gig at The Collective in Makati. If you haven't been there, you should know that it's the sort of place where thieves would find better luck stealing anyone else's stuff, not mine.

I was taking videos for the article I was planning to write. My friend got his camera from my bag, where I had been keeping it safe, then he went off to take some pictures. He returned as the song was ending - it was Mister Music Maker, then I pressed stop on the office-issued phone I was using to video, slid the phone in my bag which I had placed on the speaker platform behind me and probably said something to my friend. This sounds very dimwitted, but the next thing I knew, my bag was gone.

Common sense told me whoever took it had left the scene (and the scenesters who all seemed to enjoying the show), but the part of me that believes in Santa Claus was hoping it was a friend playing a prank. It wasn't. It's been almost a week, and my bag has most definitely disappeared. As for its contents, they've probably been sold, or disposed of. The painful part is, my treasure has most likely been trashed. It's almost as painful as the fact that I've resorted to speaking in cliches. At this point, you should stop reading if you hate cliches.

There's no use crying over spilt milk, so I didn't cry. But, when life hands you lemons, make lemonade. Or better, get a tequila shot. In this case, I wrote about it and came up with this letter.

Dear person who stole my bag,

I'm pretty sure it was that office-issued phone you wanted. Part of me wishes you had just asked for it instead of getting my whole bag. I mean, that was a pretty huge bag, man. Or woman. You know, we used to trade bags to make character sketches. If you were to make a character sketch of me, you hit gold. Now you know my six names, the street where I grew up on, my father's residence. In case of emergency, call him. No, really. He's a doctor.

You also know what I had for lunch yesterday, it's written on the receipt in my wallet. well, one of the receipts in my wallet. As you can see, I keep all my receipts. Not particularly to keep track of expenses, but to save paper. I'm rather fond of writing miniscule notes to people. And postcards. There are pictures of those in the phone-the one that caught your attention. You'll also see pictures of the person those postcards are for, he sent me a few, for my eyes only. Stop looking.

Back to what I had for lunch. It was Kangkong Singapura, sounds fancy, right? You see, the canteen at my place of work isn't called Creative Concepts for nothing. Oh yes, you can also see that I work for a website. You also have my media ID, my school ID, and my alumni ID. Those are in my other wallet, the pretty plastic one, with girls doing laundry. There's a picture of my daughter in there, look at her smile. This morning she asked me, mama, why did the bad person steal your bag? I told her that the bad person might have been hungry. Well, if you were hungry, there isn't much to eat in there.

You can see, I only have around 500 pesos in there, and my latest ATM receipt will tell you I don't have much left to withdraw. Would you like my ATM pin? It's only four digits, and it's the bank-released pin. I never got around to changing it. I also never got around to shaking the tobacco out of my bag - pardon the mess.

Oh yes, there's a barely smoked pack of cigarettes in there, and a lighter that says Pinoy ako forever. I usually stick vegetarian stickers on my lighter, but you got that one before I could do that. It would probably have told you that fish are friends, not food.

About that recorder, it looks like nothing but it's got a mean microphone. I used that for countless interviews - from my thesis on intercultural conflict management to recent things for work. You could go through the contents if you like, there are some monitoring tracks of dzBB, an interview with Noel Cabangon, Jess Santiago, and you can also listen to the opening of the Active Vista film festival. Ronnie Lazaro's speech is particularly funny, and Lourd de Veyra's delivery does justice to his biting humor like no one else's can. Go on, listen, you can't eat it but it will fill your mind. By the way, that recorder may look cheap, it can only hold 512mb. That's why there are only 11 tracks in there, which I've been listening to on repeat since March. The last one by Mike Benedicto is the most-played. Listen to it and tell me you can't stop. That recorder has a name, too. it's Leigh-Cherie, and it was a mothers' day gift to me from my mama, in 2005. It's been places and so has that bag.

So I guess you know I like to watch shows a lot. The tickets to Halaw and Sampaguita are there, and most recently, CATS. There's also a complimentary ticket for the Manilart fair at the end of the month. You should go, it'll be great. That ticket came from Egay Fernandez, by the way, so if you bump into him at the fair, say thank you. It's only polite.

You also have the keys to my house, and my sheep ring. I put it there because my fingers are too thin for rings. You can't tell from the photos of me - they're all ID pictures. But you have my sister's graduation pictures - she's pretty, isn't she? I used to always tell her to make sure her bag is in front of her. I guess I should have told myself that. But you see, I was tired, my back hurt, and I just wanted to take a video of Arigato Hato to embed in the article I was planning to write about the event. Right after Mister Music Maker, Michael got his camera from my bag, he went to take some pictures. I pressed stop on the video recorder and put the phone in my bag, then I guess that's when you quickly grabbed it and ran. Or maybe you didn't run. There were so many people and it should've been easy to disappear in the crowd. Before I forget, you might also want to watch the videos in there. The lighting is almost always too dark but the audio is excellent. You'll see lots of Outerhope and some Arigato Hato, but then you knew that already.

There's also a video of my daughter playing at home. Whoever you are, I hope you're happy. You see, I am. Despite the fact that I now have to deal with the inconvenience that comes with lost valuables, my life is pretty good. But then, you weren't asking.

P.S. In case you feel guilty and wish to return any or all of the above, well, call my Ma. Her number is there, in the phone. Not the one you wanted, the nondescript one. You could also just reply to her last message to me, I'm sure there's one. She worries about me, in fact you can see there's a message there about my lungs and liver. I wish you could realize that that's all you need, people who love you and care about you. I also wish you weren't so mean. Or desperate. I don't know. Who knows. Maybe you'll sell the phone and feed some hungry kids. That would be nice.

When you are late, do not hurry. You're already late.

This was the advice that one of my good college friends loved to give. To his credit, he did always have this Zen-like aura about him, as if nothing in the world could ever faze him. I envied his ability to glide through the days, his unaffected demeanor. He was cool like no one else was cool.

I on the other hand, I was always rushing from point a to point b, what others would consider a sprint, I assumed was a leisurely stroll. This brisk manner is, I believe a result of two things. First, as my father's shadow, I had to keep up with his much longer strides. I learned to take quick steps.

Second, my father was very fond of schedules. He still is. For him, there is no such thing as Filipino time. If you come early, you're on time, and if you're on time, you're already late. If you're late, well, don't bother showing up at all.

So it was that I realized many of my college friends found me to be a wet blanket, always bugging them to head for their classes instead of hang around at the brick wall that had seen much better (pre-war) days, puffing on their cigarettes and creating a cloud of smoke to rival the jeepneys that clunked by.

While it can be argued that arriving early, or on time, isn't as simple as it sounds, I'm generally able to keep my tardiness to a minimum. There are several defenses for being late, however, and one very good demonstration of this is the records section at my high school. One of the questionable policies our school had was that tardy students must fill out late slips (name, date, time, reason, and signatures) before entering the classroom, thus causing them to be later than they were in the first place.

A particularly memorable student once wrote that she was late because she had blindfolded herself at the eating area and couldn't find her way back to the classrooms.

Other reasons included traffic going upstairs and crossing the street. Not as amusing, but still, admirable in the way that only reckless youth can be.

Had I enough guts to tell the truth, my late slips would reveal that I spent way too much time worrying about germs - the time it took to disinfect doorknobs and handles and of course, my own hands made me move considerably slower than the maximum time for me to make it by the first bell.

There is something about Lewis Carroll's frantic White Rabbit that I identified with. Also the Energizer Bunny that kept going, and going, and going, and going. I always feel like I must rush or else. Or else what? Who knows. But I can't help thinking if I pause for more than maybe a minute,

I'll miss something.

There's an entire lifestyle called the Slow Movement that encourages, well, slowness in everything. I know the idea isn't bad, but I'm afraid my city mouse sensibilities would be offended by that sort of pace.

My mother often tells me that Filipino time is a result of the Pinoy tendency to prioritize immediate situations over the bigger picture, such that if they are on the way to a meeting and they run into a friend they haven't seen in a long time, well, the meeting can wait. I'm not very convinced, but hey, 'values personal relationships' sounds so much better than 'unprofessional,' right?

I used to beat myself up for not getting my college degree on time. Apart from feeling left behind, there was that awkward classification as an 'irregular' student. It made me feel like my skin was blue or maybe purple every time I'd have to register. In the end, it became a good thing because I'd have around 9 units every term and a whole lot of time to do a whole lot of nothing, including joining an organization, volunteering for another one, and doing freelance projects here and there. In a way, being delayed taught me how to enjoy things more, absorb the details and linger in the moments.

I'm not, by any means, advocating that students prolong their stay in college. When you start taking classes being taught by your batch mates - it's not really funny anymore. I'm just saying that sometimes, too much speed takes some quality away. Like that turtle who won the race by just plodding along, slowly and surely, in the end maybe focus is more important than being fast.

Then again, I could just be making excuses for this very, very late entry.

As far as I remember, we were never the sort of family that aspired to leave the country in search for a better life. Even our short trips were within our borders.

Our vacations were thorough, tedious affairs which involved choosing a spot in the Philippines we hadn't seen before, canvassing for places to stay and things to do, then mapping out a detailed itinerary that suggested "training" rather than "vacation."

Still, despite the structure, we enjoyed our educational vacations.

Eventually, I learned to wish we could go to other places, see more of the world, that sort of thing. Of course, travel is expensive, but we were fortunate enough to be given a few opportunities here and there.

Seeing countries that are generally better off than ours (at face value, at least — cleaner streets, efficient transportation, taxes that actually serve the people, laws that are more than suggestions) I can't say it's depressing. If anything, it's curious.

One wonders what they did to achieve such a state — how it works, and will it work for us?

In the first place, why are we in such a mess, and why can’t we get out of it?

I won't go into a discussion of history and politics or any of those things worth a serious, well-informed debate. I'm just going to focus on how it feels to love a country, even when it doesn't feel like it loves you back.

Cheesy as it sounds, loving a country isn't easy to explain.

I mean, really, just because you're born on Philippine soil, or your parents are Filipinos, none of that warrants undying love. Where you're born is more of, chance, I think, besides, turn the earth a bit and you'd still be on the same soil. So no, love is not about location.

It can't be learning, either. Especially not the kind where you memorize every region's product, language, and flora and fauna.

If you want to make kids hate nationalism, shoving national this and that down their throats is the best way to do it. So no, love is not learned.

It is most definitely not about food, either.

I never understood how some people can say, "Oh I love the Philippines. Adobo is my absolute favorite dish!"

To their credit, they must have other evidence of their love, they were probably just too taken with the savory dish to come up with anything else.

I find that loving your country is strange and abstract.

In theory, you owe your country because it nurtured you, but it's pretty difficult to see how that works, given our many many influences from other shores and, of course, that word again — globalization.

So how do you know you love your country?

I know it's love, because every time I leave, I want to come back.

When I'm not here, I think about it all the time.

Every moment I'm elsewhere, I compare the new things to what we have, I marvel at how some things are so similar and others, so different.

I like listening to the local radio stations, and watching local bands play. I like learning about their music, and sharing tracks from my own favorite local artists.

I like it when I get to meet people who have never heard of the Philippines.

I talk with them and I let them see how Filipinos are — cheerful, polite, and slightly off their rockers. I'm kidding. Really.

I know it's love because no matter how many other beautiful places I see, no matter how many subways and trams I ride, no matter how many seductive languages I hear and try, mostly in vain, to pick up, it's true — there's no place like home.

Nowhere I'd rather be, and nothing sweeter to the ear than our own words — Nangulila ako sa iyo. Mahal kita.

It isn't going to be pretty anytime soon, and it's been said it's a sinking ship.

But I'd rather sink to the bottom here than surface elsewhere. Which isn't to say I'm content to sit back and do nothing while we all drown. But that's another story.

My early experiences of elections are a hazy picture of shortened classes giving way to election-related activities. I remember we would form parties in class based on either our class numbers, or phone brigade groups, or even a lottery.

Back then, a party was simply a necessary splitting that had to be done so we little ones could go through the process of nominating and electing our leaders.

We would push our chairs to the side and sit on the floor in groups, discussing our platforms as seriously as single-digit aged individuals could.

Back then, if you were good at making acronyms — you were valuable.

Also, come Miting de Avance, possession of performance skills whether they be singing, dancing, or gymnastics meant you would be a star.

Extra points if you sang things like Heal the World or If We Hold On Together.

Having an over-eager stage parent all too willing to bake batches and batches of brownies, painstakingly labeled with a cute and flowery card telling your classmate to vote for you also came in handy.

I'm pretty sure service wasn't on our minds when we ran for president, vice president, secretary, treasurer, representative, or, everyone’s favorite — P.R.O.

Being a Public Relations Officer meant you got to be excused from class a lot.

For what reasons, I can't really remember.

I do remember one candidate saying in her speech that it was her "fervent wish" that we would vote for her, and I was floored by her extensive vocabulary.

We were in second grade at the time and in retrospect I should have known she probably had a speech writer. Or maybe I'm just sourgraping. I never got to use fervent in a speech.

In any case, grade school elections were pretty much a popularity contest.

Kids would win because they had great sticker collections — which they generously distributed among the class. Kids would lose because they wore glasses, or braces, or both.

In high school, it got better.

By this time, we actually cared about who would be on our Student Council.

Of course we cared. We were teenagers and we liked to think we had rights (or maybe we just liked to think we were right).

When I got to college, I developed an aversion to local politics.

Come election season, I would arrive at school either very early or very late.

Whoever designed our campus had the brilliant idea of having exactly one entry and exit point — a nightmare of quarreling couples or worse, frats.

This was also a nightmare for people with OCD, because campaign period meant the candidates would be strategically (annoyingly) positioned along the narrow walkway where all conscientious students would have to pass on their way to class.

To get to class, one would have to shake an average of six hands, none of which were clean, I'm sure.

Growing up watching Safeguard ads that always magnified crawling germs may be to blame for my paranoia.

Failing my ninja arrivals and departures, I would distribute the contents of my bag so that my hands were literally full and no one in their right mind could still expect a handshake.

Maybe politicians (even the campus breed) really are a bit off their rockers.

Some of those candidates would keep extending their hands to me, as if their limbs were permanently positioned that way.

It isn't just the handshaking that bothered me.

So much mudslinging, so much dirt. There was one group in particular that loved to assault the general public by calling anyone who wasn’t one of them apathetic.

I would have loved to tell them that just because a student doesn't take to the streets it doesn't mean that student isn't doing anything for the country, but I didn't think they'd hear me over their megaphones.

I'm all for casting your vote and getting your voice heard, but I'm sure you'll understand if I say, not now, I'm tired.

I'm tired of seeing poster-plastered walls that I just know will be there as long as the walls are there. I'm tired of not being able to sleep because of the inane jingles blaring from the street. I'm tired of not being able to sleep because of news that someone got shot again because they were running for this or that, or worse, someone got shot because they were mistaken for a candidate.

I'm tired of hearing people say they're voting for someone, without being able to say why. I'm tired of the slim pickings. I'm tired of thinking that my vote won't matter.

Even so, I will be voting, because I did not line up for hours to register for nothing.

I will be voting, because whether or not my choices win, I want them to know that at least one person believes in them. I will be voting, but before that, I think I’ll stay away from all the noise.

I just know my candidates won't win. For the same reason that all my favorite things disappear from the menu.

I seem to like the stuff that people don’t even look at. I'll still vote, though.

I'll admit that I still fall under the young and idealistic category. I want to change the world. I just don’t think politics is how.

This is one reason why I'm vegetarian, but that's another story.

It is my not-so-secret wish to someday have achieved something that will qualify me to speak to a bunch of graduates so I can tell them what I think.

And my first words will be: Have fun today, because it's the last day you have a legitimate excuse for being jobless.

That is, of course, assuming you aren't planning to pursue further studies. And that is the real topic of this entry. The masters degree.

Most people balk at the idea of spending more time in school. And rightly so.

When you think about it, we spend a couple of years in pre-school, six or seven in elementary, four in high school, and another four or five in higher education. That's almost two decades of your life right there. So why would you want to prolong the agony?

There are lots of reasons for getting a masters degree, ranging from the infuriating "wala lang" to the more common "it's a requirement for my job" to the rare "I just love school so much," said with a dreamy look usually reserved for matinee idols.

Writer (and MA student) Siege Malvar once told me that what's important is your motivations are clear to you.

For me, a masters degree is a chance at redemption.

Assuming you can afford it (it's not that expensive, especially if you convince your parents they love you and want you to study what you really, really want), attaching an MA to your name (no matter how long it already is) is not a bad idea.

Let's say you enjoyed yourself a bit too much in college and let your grades slip a little.

Just a little, you still finished with a decent transcript, and you learned a lot more than your Latin honored batch mates who never said yes to a social invitation. And that's all good.

Even if you didn't slack off in college, and your grades were great — if you get a masters, they'll be even better!

Especially if you aren't quite sure what to do with your undergraduate degree, which was true in my case.

Let's say your undergraduate degree is one of those glitzy-sounding courses, the ones you can't quite explain. The jack of all trades courses, and yes, master of none.

The masters degree is an excellent solution to feeling too thinly spread out. You may feel like an all-purpose product, saying you were trained to do this, and that, and that, too.

But what are you good at? A masters degree will give you some focus.

Let's say you're the type that loved school so much, you dreaded sembreaks and summer vacation.

You're the kid who can't wait to go to school to check what section you’re in, who makes lists of school supplies to buy, and lovingly covers and labels every ruler, notebook, and protractor.

Sometimes you even label your pencils.

You're the kid who smiles to himself in the middle of a particularly stimulating lecture. The thought of not going to school makes your heart pound and your stomach turn. This separation anxiety is easily solved by staying in school.

And then let's say you want some vindication, a shiny happy new transcript to distract future employers from your lackluster undergraduate record.

A masters degree will give you that, especially if there's a rule that states graduate students may not incur a grade lower than 2.0.

Also, something that will qualify you to be compared with your sister, who was born to outshine you.

For instance, your batch rank is 9, hers is 2. You pursue a masters degree, and she goes into law. That sort of thing. Don't worry. There's always a PhD.

P.S. Among the serious things I will say in the unlikely event that I am ever asked to address a graduating class are the following:

• Wear sunscreen. Seriously. Mary Schmich really knew what she was talking about. And with El Nino’s cruel 38 degree weather, not wearing sunscreen is just loony.
  
• Don’t worry about your resume. Eventually, your work experience will overshadow your education, and you won’t have to put that you were “Most Improved.” In kindergarten.
  
• Remember the times you swore you would never, ever, do that again? Whether that refers to cramming for a presentation or drinking way too much on a weekday — it isn’t true. Work is like school. Except you get paid.
  
• There is no such thing as overqualified. No task is too little to matter.
  
• There is no such thing as underqualified. According to spell check, and because no task is too difficult to master.
  
• Every time you think you’re sure, someone will prove you wrong later.
  
• When in doubt, figure it out. Ask. Also, if you’re shy, Google is your friend.
  
• Tell your parents you love them and you will treat them to dinner with your first paycheck. Better yet, give them your first paycheck.
  
• Eat your veggies. Especially if you have vices. Which are alright, as long as you know what they are.
  
• Wear sunscreen. It’s so important, it needs to be said twice. Also, give credit where credit is due. In this case, here: Everybody’s Free (To Wear Sunscreen), by Baz Luhrmann, the musical interpretation of Mary Schmich’s 1997 essay “Advice, like youth, is wasted on the young.”
  
• Last, and not in least bit least, don’t listen to me. The only thing I know is I know nothing.

Sometimes, the most random of things can remind you of entire years of your childhood. An Eraserheads song, for instance.

Although not so random as far as frequently played anthems go, whenever I hear one of their songs I always feel like I'm back in the late 1990s and early 2000s.

Anything from Cutterpillow, and suddenly I'm in my uniform, not-so-fresh from school, Indian-sitting on the yellow sixties tiled bodega floor, singing along to every song with my cousin, flipping from side a to side b until it's time for dinner.

The Metrotren is noisy in the distance and the neighbors are playing basketball, but who cares? In that bodega, with that album, we could shut the world out and nothing could disturb us from singing "I'm a traveling man! Straight from the can! I'm a thousand miles away from my number one fan!"

Anything from Natin99 and well, hey it's 1999!

I'm in high school, and I've discovered other bands but every time anyone comes to school with a guitar, it's still Eraserheads songs that everyone sings at the top of their lungs, until we hear the ominous clicking of some killjoy teacher's heels coming down the corridor.

And of course, that day in 2002.

I heard it on the radio, the same way I found out about Alexis Tioseco, and although it was definitely not a life that had ended with Ely Buendia's farewell via SMS, it certainly felt like something had died.

Later on, the Eraserheads breakup became a favorite drinking topic, and fortunately for us, questions were limited to what ifs, and not what now.

Though some would argue that the Eraserheads were unbeatable, the individual members have gone their not-so-separate ways, and are still rocking and rolling to different beats.

Marcus Adoro is not the Eraserheads, but Markus Highway is definitely Rakenrol.
Raimund Marasigan is not the Eraserheads, but Sandwich is definitely Food for the Soul. Buddy Zabala is not the Eraserheads, but The Dawn is definitely, well, The Dawn.

Still, you can't help but miss the Eraserheads, and I was one of the thousands of fans who went to the open field in Fort on August 30, 2008.

I remember it was raining at around 6 pm. I was in a class in the new College of Arts and Letters building, and it was very, very dark outside.

I began to feel nervous as I imagined the jeepney ride to the MRT, the overflowing train ride, and the problem of getting to the open field from Ayala.

But just thinking about the concert made me giddy, and I was having a fine time just imagining it.

There were so many people when I finally made it, and after considering hitching a ride with a stranger, we decided to walk.

We got there in time, not knowing if the magic passes would truly get us in.

They did, and within minutes, we disappeared in the crowd of fans, all abuzz with anticipation. I could taste the excitement. It tasted like dust, cigarette smoke, and that elusive high only good music can bring.

We walked around, sat down, stood up, walked some more.

People were so wired, you'd think they were the ones who had to perform for fans who had been deprived for 5 years.

People eyed the limited refreshment options, wondering if their hunger could wait, if the insanely long lines were worth it, or worst of all — if the band started playing and they were still in line.

We gave in and lined up to by some enhanced water — the type that comes in candy colors and looks more like it belongs in the hands of a lab-gowned wild-haired inventor.

Before you could say "hold-up," people were counting down, hugging each other and screaming and squealing arbitrarily. And then.

It was like coming home.

They were onstage.

They began with Alapaap, playing through the set in classic Eraserheads style, too caught up in the music to stop — to heed the ridiculously sweet chant of "group hug! group hug!" or, in Buendia's case, to give it a rest.

The rest of the show was a vivid blur.

It felt like swimming in the sound, the collective bliss of seeing them perform one more time, Buendia's voice nearly drowned out by the fans who knew every single word, the open sky that decided to cooperate and held back on the rain.

Even the stars hardly twinkled, as if they knew the night, this time, wasn't theirs.

After the abrupt ending, I was too happy to be disappointed.

Of course the hospitalization didn't make me happy, all I mean is I didn't feel like I wanted the second set, or the third set. I felt those fifteen songs were enough, and maybe that's all that was meant to be.

It felt like being greedy to ask for more.

Apparently, I was wrong, because they played again in 2009.

The morning of March 7, I was at the station for an orientation for University Rock. Someone was brave enough to ask for tickets to the Final Set, and we wrote our names on small pieces of paper.

I had one in seven chances of getting tickets. I didn't get any. I never win raffles. Maybe it was just as well.

I had said earlier that I didn't want to go, because for me, the August concert was perfect. I was afraid to expect something as amazing and I didn't want the possibility of being let down.

I'm pretty sure I haven't seen more than five Eraserheads gigs, but I've heard their songs countless times, whether on purpose or accidentally, and I sort of feel like I know the band.

Not personally, of course, but it comes to a point where you can plot your life against the albums. You know how it is when you love a band, you can't quite decide if you want to declare it to the world or keep it to yourself, like treasure in a box you hide under your bed.

But then, there are some bands that are so good, you don't mind sharing them, because you know that every chord progression, every bass line, every drum pattern, every word, brings back a memory that no one else but you remembers.

At the same time, you know that any time you start singing one of their songs alone, the person next to you will most likely sing along.

And that, I think, is why the Eraserheads is the seminal rock band of the nineties.

Five years ago, I lined up for three days at three different venues, for a total of maybe fifteen hours.

I'm not one to cut lines, in fact, it's safe to say I enjoy lines to some degree.

There are lots of things to do while waiting in line, beginning with counting tiles.

The infinite permutations of math problems you can do in your head with tiles guarantee lots and lots of fun and entertainment. That is, of course, assuming you're blessed with a line-mate who is tolerable, lest you be unable to focus on the numbers.

By tolerable, I mean clean-smelling, polite, and willing to do mutual favors (holding your place while you run off to the washroom, or to smoke, or eat, or go home and bathe, depending on how extreme the line is).

If you’re lucky, you may even have an interesting line-mate, someone who doesn’t ask creepy questions, or share too much information, but is pleasant to converse with for the duration of the wait.

Souza says happiness is a journey, not a destination.

In this case, it could be the line and not whatever's at the end of the line. Or who, as the case may be.

Five years ago, I was in line for the Neil Gaiman book signing.

To be specific, I was in line for other people. Was I paid? No. Was I bored? Maybe. Why did I do it? Who knows.

I vaguely remember the rules limiting fans to having just two books each signed.

My sister, who was celebrating her birthday, took care of Stardust, and got a kiss as well as an autograph.

I had Good Omens, a very well-loved (tattered) copy, and I was having my doubts about getting it signed.

Not only was it in a pitiful state, it was co-authored, too. Would he mind? I wondered.

I ended up entrusting Good Omens to a friend, who was also in line, and just lining up for someone else, who had more than two books to have signed. Which reminds me, my friend still has my copy of Good Omens.

Books should be like homing pigeons, I think, but that's another story.

We took our time before lining up, loading our tummies with ammunition, which we anticipated the long wait would require.

The line began along Aurora Boulevard, more than a block away from the mall entrance. It then snaked into the mall, up the escalator, round the stairs, and finally, finally, into the bookstore where Neil Gaiman sat, signing book after book.

We took a side trip to the grocery to buy two cans of Red Horse beer, which my friend Phil thought the author would appreciate.

I had my reservations about giving him warm beer, but I was too giddy and the weather was too warm for such discussions.

Instead, we were content to hang out in a convenience store, stocking up on cold drinks to sustain us for the next few hours.

Five or so hours later, we finally reached the end of the line.

This meant I would step aside and let my friend take my place, and have his book signed.

I don't really remember why I didn't take the chance then. I have a fuzzy recollection of saying, "It's okay, I'm not that big a fan, I'll line up for you."

Perhaps it's true, I wasn't that big a fan then.

Despite having read a bunch of Sandman comics (a rare concession I made, because comics in general make me dizzy) and loving Good Omens, enjoying Stardust, and getting a bit too carried away by Neverwhere, I was too caught up in other reading material to realize that I was missing the opportunity of a lifetime.

Or was I?

When my friend returned, blissfully hugging his signed book the way Smeagol presses the Ring to his chest, I felt a strange sense of regret.

We have around five Gaiman books at home, (thankfully spared from Ondoy floods), none of them signed. I could be sourgraping, but is a signature really all that?

I suppose you could argue that it isn't the signature, really, but the few seconds of proximity to the star. Or does a signature make the work more valuable?

When he signs it and writes your name on the dedication, does he know who you are?

Will he remember you? I'm probably over-analyzing here, but it's only because I am now officially a Neil Gaiman fan.

Not just because he writes wonderfully, but because he wants other people to do so, as well.

Fortunately, it looks like he's willing to return. Again, and again, and again.

He supposedly said the basis for him coming back here is dependent on how loud the fans get. The fans were pretty loud last night, so I’m hoping he’ll be back next year.

Maybe then I could afford to buy the necessary 2,000 pesos worth of his books to get a book signing pass.

Or not, because I think that if I were ever to meet him, or any other author for that matter,

I'd want it to be because we had something to discuss.

On second (or third) thought, no.

If I ever got to that level, I don't think I'd want to meet people I look up to. It's a bit like fairytales.

Wouldn't you rather the characters stayed in the stories? Wouldn't meeting them make them somehow, ordinary?

When Neil Gaiman came here the first time and was met by a "wall of sound," I was there. I didn't contribute to the noise, I was too overwhelmed.

Writers are solitary figures who rarely get recognized, I thought, how is this possible?

"In the Philippines, the people are enthusiastic on a level that makes the Brazilians look reserved and polite. They shout very loudly when they're happy, too. There's a noise that a few thousand of the locals make when they all shout at once to let you know they're happy to see you that made me finally understand the idea of a wall of sound..." he later blogged.

I used to think being noisy was limited to girls from my high school, but it looks like noise could be a national thing.

The best thing about it is despite being "shellshocked" from signing books until the wee hours, Neil Gaiman was equally supportive of his fans.

He said Filipinos have such a wealth of mythology, and such immense talent.

He said he was depressed that there seemed to be a lack of outlets for this kind of creativity, and so the Philippine Graphic/Fiction Awards was born.

He, together with Fully Booked brain Jaime Daez, made it possible.

PGFA goes where traditional award-giving bodies can't, or won't, and on its third year, it even includes a short film category.

For internet addicts who want something else (from, you know, Facebook) to do, the shortlisted entries can be seen here.

In the middle of reading through this thread on how to show Filipino pride, I found myself uneasy.

At first I thought it might just be the odd disturbing comment (suggestions like posing with the peace sign and squinty eyes, which I hope was meant as a joke and will not be taken seriously) that was causing my queasiness, but I soon realized what was wrong.

Every ten comments or so, someone would say something like "rephrase the question in Filipino," or "Managalog tayo."

Suddenly it struck me as strange that I was writing about love for country - in English.

I was so disturbed I had to stop for a while and over-analyze the situation.

Memories of my unhappy childhood entered my mind, and then, in a moment of clarity I decided there was no problem.

I told myself that I don't need to speak the language to show my fealty, or any other aspect of my nationality.

Being Filipino is so much more than speech.

I'm not saying it's not important. It's very important, and if we were to have an educational system similar to the one in Malaysia, our language scholars would probably be very happy. On the other hand, our call center industry would not be as, what's the word? Booming.

I am in no way opposed to the Filipino language, but I don't think speaking Filipino is a simple method of showing Pinoy pride.

First of all, the word itself is derived from another language, just like the Panatang Makabayan.

Second, Filipino is not the only local language we have, not to mention the dialects. If there is a single characteristic definitive of our nationality, language isn't it.

I must admit, however, that I think in English.

This is the result of being raised in a house where no one speaks any other language, at least not to each other. It is such that when one of us says something in Tagalog, it sounds surreal.

I know that many people would have plenty of negative things to say about this, but here is my defense.

My parents agreed that we would learn English at home, because they figured Tagalog would be easily picked up at school.

While I recall being laughed at by my school mates and excluded from games, I don't regret my parents' decision.

Sure, I got ostracized, but I eventually got the hang of speaking in Tagalog, especially after my Grade 1 teacher, Ms. Cariaga, took me aside and told me I would have to learn, or else.

Nothing like a gently delivered threat from an idolized teacher to strike fear into a five year-old’s heart.

My parents reasoned that English is harder to learn in school, because to master a language, you have to be in an environment which requires its use. Pretty straightforward, isn't it?

It wasn't like we had fees at home for speaking in Filipino, it's just that English was what came naturally for us.

We had those in school, in certain subjects. Having to pay 25 cents for every Filipino word, now, that was wrong, I thought.

What was common in my parents' decision and the school's questionable policy was the well-meaning goal, which was to produce fluent speakers of the English language.

And why not?

Even the most rabid pro-Filipino activist cannot deny the fact that knowing how to speak proper English is an advantage. Job advertisements show just how much of an edge this is.

I think if it helps you improve, it's worth working for.

On the other hand, it goes without saying that your native language shouldn't be abandoned.

Still, nationalism goes beyond the words you use.

No matter what language, if what you say has no meaning, then you may as well just shut up completely.

While we were raised speaking in English, we were also raised in an extended (and constant) classroom. No matter where we went, we had a running commentary.

Whether we were crossing the street or riding the jeepney (which cost Php1 at the time), we were treated to a highly informational informal lecture on society and philanthropy. This is what happens when your parents are teachers.

My childhood memories are sorely lacking when it comes to street games, but they are rich with field trips to Pasig River and Smokey Mountain (Riding in a garbage truck was one of the highlights of my life, no kidding. Unfortunately, it cannot be said that my mother shared my enthusiasm, as she was in charge of the laundry department at the time).

We were brought up with a mission to be useful citizens — worthy occupants of the small (but beautiful) space our overpopulated country affords us.

The idea is not to be proud of your country, but to be someone your country can be proud of.

It's safe to say we do this, each in our own ways, however strange, or, forgive the word, foreign, they may seem.

Although I did get the hang of speaking in Filipino, I never mastered the language, and I still get laughed at occasionally for awkward phrasing and misused words, but it isn't for lack of trying.

In high school, when we were required to read Noli Mi Tangere, El Filibusterismo, and Mga Ibong Mandaragit, I made a pact with myself to resist the temptation of the comic strip versions.

I am proud to say that I read those books from cover to cover, and understood most of them.

When I was applying for admission into the Creative Writing program, a former professor told me to try Malikhaing Pagsulat, instead.

For a moment, I was tempted, but I realized it would be foolhardy.

The point of art is expression, and to force myself to write in a language other than the language in which my ideas are formed would defeat the purpose.

After all, doesn't a lot get lost in translation?

Speaking (and thinking, and writing) in English doesn't make me less Filipino.

I could even argue that the true Filipino is marked by an extraordinary ability to relate harmoniously with others, and my language skills enable me to do this in international situations.

That could, of course, be taking it a bit too far.

It's a continuing effort, this language mastery, and I consciously strive to learn as much in both languages. Still, I am more at home with English, but that doesn't mean I don't love my country.

This may read like an overly defensive obligatory EDSA post, but it isn't.

I wasn't there, not wholly, since at the time I was just three months in the making, but my parents were there.

They were there, in front of the tanks, among the thousands of people who wanted to be free.

So here we are, 24 years later. What are we doing with our freedom?

Which begs the question, are we really free?