Take the Treo 650.

Launched four years ago, the smartphone has proven itself more popular than its previous incarnations, even helping rivals widen the appeal of a digital organizer doubling as a mobile phone or vice versa.

However, because of its unmistakably masculine qualities—it is wider and bulkier than most phones—the Treo 650 isn't exactly the portable communication device for everyone. This was not helped by the fact that a brand new unit in 2004 cost about twice the price of a mid-end mobile phone.

Never an early adopter but nonetheless a former Palm Pilot owner (I got myself a IIIX in 2000), I waited for the right time to get my hands on a Treo 650, used or otherwise. The fateful moment arrived a little more than two years ago when a professor-friend of mine decided to ditch his device because he had, in his words, "grown tired of it."

He then offered to sell me his 650—including a spare battery, a desktop charger, an adapter for a regular earphone jack, among others—for a very friendly price.

I bit.

It was one of the best decisions of my electronic life, inaugurating what may well be the start of my—pardon the exaggeration—mobile digital odyssey.

Besides allowing me to surf via GPRS (whatever that means), the Treo 650 enabled me to write a draft of a blog entry while inside a fastfood outlet. (Naturally, it was about the benefits of having an easily accessible handheld computer while waiting for the rain to subside.)

And thanks to Documents to Go, I was able to edit a feature story on the fly, beating a deadline in the process.

But that's not all.

After having installed TCPMP—The Core Pocket Media Player, one of the best free apps around—I have seen episodes of my favorite shows on the Treo while in transit. Not to mention the fact that I have regularly beaten the computer in the Palm version of Monopoly.

To this day, the Treo 650 helps me keep track of my schedules, website passwords, and titles of the books I've read since 2007.

Indeed, the Treo 650's usefulness knows no bounds.

About a week ago, I installed two new software apps that have made me grateful that the phone's technology—despite its age—has not been rendered obsolete.

The first app I installed was Life As I See It, a digital diary best suited for the phone's extended keyboard.

Not only does it allow users to type in their thoughts instantly, the app's also features password protection, allowing secrets to remain that way.

While no such privacy guarantees exist in HiMoney, its features as a personal expense software far exceed expectations.

With provisions for both income and expense accounts, HiMoney 1.0a assists users in categorizing costs and, if so desired, putting them in graphs and pie charts.

Both old but free, the applications have made me feel proud that I have three Palms, two organic and one digital.

Approximately fifteen hundred vehicles enter the paid parking garage of this popular Quezon City mall every single day, presumably more during the weekends. Of this figure, five drivers on the average forget their keys inside their cars.

Or so says the mall security officer I talked with just this week.

"Sometimes a day passes without anyone forgetting their keys inside their cars," the security guard tells me. "But those days are rare."

The security officer is young, alert, and agile, three qualities possessed by more than half of the Filipino male population except for myself and some of my egghead friends. (Which is why we drink beer. But that's another story.)

However, unlike most personnel assigned to the graveyard shift, this particular security officer is congenial, personable, and warm. He also conducts his business professionally.

The minute I told him I left the keys inside my car, he took it all stride. Which is not something that can be said for the driver who was already sweating bullets and swearing like someone who has Tourette's syndrome.

The officer coolly spoke into his walkie-talkie, requesting assistance in code. "We have a kilo situation here in B2," he said. "Are the valets still around?"

"Negative," came the almost immediate reply.

My heart sank, knowing that the valets assist those who lock themselves out of their vehicles.

So there I was, in a basement parking facility at ten in the evening, raring to go home. Instead of either reading in bed, drinking beer, or checking out the latest in...uhm...adult online entertainment, I was shooting the breeze with the security guard. Make no mistake, however.

For all practical intents and purposes, the security guard was an all around nice guy, a great conversationalist, a potential talk show host.

Except that besides telling me that I should go get a coat hanger to force the door lock, he was of no use at all. On top of the fact that coat hangers—new and used—are generally unavailable in covered parking lots, especially during late nights.

And so, like most married men who have run out of options, I decided to call my wife, who held on to one of three sets of car keys that we keep.

As I was waiting for her to pick up, I already braced myself for a tongue-lashing. I was expecting cruel and unusual punishment—justifiable under the current circumstances—especially since I had committed various atrocities, the most serious of which involved my purchase of two roundtrip cruise tickets to Mexico, no thanks to a pesky telemarketer.

To this day, I still maintain that it was a great deal, a steal, a once-in-a-lifetime offer. Of course, she disagrees, especially since we weren't able to use them when we were in the US.

But I've gotten over that.

After all, she was kind enough to meet me in the mall, just to open the car doors. At the risk of sounding uxorious—look it up, it perfectly describes me—I must say that I just love my wife.

The American Embassy in Manila can't seem to get its act together.

That is, in so far as parking is concerned.

Two weeks ago, I reprised my role as the official chauffeur of my wife, who was invited for "morning coffee"—at least that's what they called it—at the embassy with a high-level Washington official who flew to Manila.

My wife was one of four female Filipino Fulbright scholars who were invited. As expected, her husband was excluded from the affair for reasons far too many to mention, his congenital inability to become a man of scholarship being the first and foremost.

True to form, my wife's spouse wore his uniform—a T-shirt, a pair of shorts, and sandals. It was just the perfect attire for someone who wanted to blend in the crowd that cooled their heels at the drivers' lounge.

After all, my job description—as far as that day went—involved sitting behind the wheel, complaining about the traffic, and tolerating the posters of a certain public official whom I will not identify as Bayani Fernando.

The job, however temporary, failed to indicate that I had to contend with the complexities of parking a car in one of the most secure and anal-retentive places in the country—the US Embassy.

Upon arriving at the embassy's Roxas Boulevard entrance, a security guard rushed to my window and immediately asked me to state my business.

My wife promptly handed him her embossed invitation from the US Ambassador. This saved both of us from the potential embarrassment of shooting my mouth off, something which I am known to do at the office.

The guard examined my wife's invite, and after confirming that it neither carried anthrax nor endosulfan, led me to the rightmost lane of Roxas Boulevard which was cordoned off by orange traffic cones. Ever the obedient driver (and repeat US visa applicant), I complied, falling behind a red Honda Civic whose driver, I supposed, received the same instructions.

Never one to be late, my wife got out of the car, almost forgetting to bid me goodbye and give me a kiss.

Not one minute later, I saw the red car back up, forcing me to put go in reverse as well.

As soon as the Civic sped off, I promptly shifted into first gear and entered the same lane, awaiting further instructions from security.

None came.

So I sat there, unable to do anything except wait and fidget, looking very much like the idiot that I am in real life.

Before I knew it, the vehicle in front of me—this time, an old SUV—also expressed its intentions in leaving the lane by backing up.

I initially resisted the move, insisting—through various articulate hand and facial gestures—that I had already backed out before and was not inclined to do so again.

Thanks to the lack of support from embassy security, the SUV's driver was forced to step out of his vehicle in order to deal with a middle-aged oaf impeding his exit. When I saw that he was tall, heavyset, and could force me into the glove compartment with very little effort, I immediately changed my mind. I told him that I was the last guy to get in the way of his progress, even if it meant shifting into reverse.

I then hightailed it out of there.

Later, I found a spot right by a famous coffee chain where I sat down and wrote the first draft of this blog on my PowerBook G4.

As I sipped my café Americano, I told myself that the next time we paid a visit to the embassy, we were better off taking a cab.

Which is exactly the thought that came to mind when someone else's car plowed into the right rear door of our 12-year-old Toyota, leaving a dent the size of a small barangay.

Fortunately, no one was hurt.

Save for the financial injuries that would be sustained later by the guilty party, no human, animal, or plant life was harmed by the incident.

Although I did lose sleep. Literally.

After all, the incident took place at six in the morning and I was roused from bed by our excitable landlady who lived two doors away.

According to her, the minute she heard a crash, she was already at our door, knocking relentlessly, with the urgency of someone demanding rent from difficult tenants.

Her persistence paid off.

As soon as I answered the door, I promptly told her that our rent was current and that my wife and I preferred to deal with matters domestic once we were wide awake.

But when she told me what happened, I became as sober as a priest performing extreme unction.

I immediately rushed to the scene, right across the street, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and a cheap, loud shirt that said, "Ask me about homeopathy."

Upon my arrival, I was accosted by a guy much like myself, only older, more useful to society, and had better taste in clothes.

He pulled on his cigarette as he extended a hand in greeting. I then heard him mutter an apology and say something about how his son caused the whole trouble in the first place.

He pointed to a boy barely in his teens with a weak smile on his face.

Turns out that the boy that morning was given the keys to the family car. And while waiting for the designated driver to bring him to school, he turned on the ignition, fiddled with the wheel, and pretended that he was either Michael Knight or Michael Schumacher.

The boy's illusions were shattered the moment he crashed his right front fender into our car, which had undergone a general checkup the previous month. (To ensure that it ran like a dream, we had to go through a financial nightmare.) Unwilling to be worked up by the whole situation, I immediately demanded a settlement, one that was in my favor.

Besides telling the father to have the whole door repaired, I demanded that some dings in the car's exterior should also be fixed and repainted as well, as consolation and payment for our inconvenience.

I knew I was pushing it.

But there is such a thing as good luck.

The father was only too happy to comply with my requests since he happened to run a specialty automotive shop in the area.

Right after we both examined the extent of the damage, I gave him the keys and we began to talk about the difficult art of maintaining an automobile.

It was the beginning of a mutually-beneficial relationship, based on trust and goodwill.

Once the door is fixed, I'll be asking him to give me an estimate for the car's paint job.

No harm in requesting a deep discount.

There are two ways of doing just about anything in this world: You can either do it yourself or you can hire someone else to do it for you.

The same principle applies to fixing toilets: You either get a wrench or call the plumber.

Weaker beings – those afraid of pain, daunted by physical labor, and threatened by sewage – are expected to pursue the latter option, especially when faced with faulty toilets.

This is not unnatural.

After all, the possibility of encountering sewage brings out the worst in humankind. Whether in amounts both big and small, in forms both raw and processed, no one wants to see it, smell it, touch it, let alone find themselves tasting it, accidentally or otherwise.

Which probably explains why the toilet – despite its usefulness – has always been kept out of sight in most buildings and establishments. Very few individuals are comfortable with being reminded of what these facilities represent.

For better or for worse, I consider myself one of them. Thanks to a voracious appetite, a weak stomach, and a superhuman resistance to constipation, I remain awed by a technological marvel that swallows virtually anything that can fit in its receptacle. And as someone who has used restrooms in more than 15 cities around the world, I have become familiar with all sorts of knobs, buttons, and yes, pedals used for flushing toilets.

In Kuala Lumpur, I almost took a shower while testing a handheld bidet that could have been better used as a water cannon against protesters in Mendiola.

Just last year, I nearly fell into Parisian sewers, courtesy of a slippery squat toilet 10 times the size of my ass. And twice in my life, I have been caught using the facilities, so to speak, while the plane I was on was busy making a rough landing at Ninoy Aquino International.

All these experiences, I believe, were sufficient to prepare myself for fixing a faulty toilet on our apartment's first floor.

The problem seemed simple enough.

All I had to do was to stop water from coming into the tank once it was filled to the brim. However, complex issues came into play. The mechanism, already old and rusted, needed replacement.

To do so required taking the whole thing apart, a plan that involved using tools, many of which were either misplaced or left unreturned by well-meaning friends.

In short, I had to abandon the project altogether and shut off the water flow to the tank.

Now, instead of pushing a handle to flush, you had to turn on the faucet, and wait for facial hair to grow until the pail was full of water.

Not that I actually bother to do that.

There was still a perfectly functioning restroom on the second floor.

While I now have to run up the stairs every time I need to go, huffing and puffing to beat the deadline, I at least have the convenience of a flush toilet. On top of the fact that I need the exercise anyway.

Journalists — self-proclaimed or otherwise — rarely postpone meetings with sources, especially those offering new information.

But last week, I did just that.

Luckily, I managed to remind myself that I was not a journalist. I was a deadline-beating drunkard, good at making excuses, avoiding work, and curing hangovers (i.e., lots of fruit juices before dozing off).

Thanks to my set of special skills — honed by years of practice — the only time people take me seriously is when I say I'm thirsty. This explains why no one believes me at the poker table. Besides being too inebriated to bluff, I also am too eager to bet, given a good hand (which in turn cuts my winnings, however few).

But that's another story.

Last Thursday, I was forced to postpone a meeting with a source.

I told the person I had orders from above to cover an event about Heart Evangelista, the newly-minted GMA contract star whom I previously wrote about.

On the afternoon of that same day, Ms. Evangelista was scheduled to hold her first-ever online chat with fans from around the world, an event sponsored by iGMA.tv. My assignment was to interview her immediately after her online chat — get her initial impressions about the event, pick her brains, and probably even talk about her future projects.

It was a daunting task, especially for someone whose idea of work includes putting beer in the fridge.

Fortunately, the source understood the tedious demands of my profession.

"Let's move the meeting to next week," he said in a text message.

"After all, she has better legs."

The source was unimpeachable.

As soon as the online chat was over, Ms. Evangelista stood up to be interviewed by reporters. She wore a short skirt which showed her shapely lower limbs, attractive to most men from ages eighteen to one hundred-eighty.

Seeing her exchange warm pleasantries with everyone on the set made me wonder why her ex-boyfriend reportedly left her for another woman.

But I wasn't there to indulge in idle speculation — there was more than enough time for that once I got back to my desk.

I was there to work, or at least pretend to do something that would not elicit the suspicions of Ms. Maricar, our HR officer.

And so work I did.

After taking a deep breath, I swallowed hard, and turned on my voice recorder.

Much as I tried, I was unable to focus.

My encounter with Ms. Evangelista set me off on a prolonged catatonic state that would rival any statue on Moñumento. In short, I turned into an idiot, a hopeless, hapless, tongue-tied weakling, intimidated by the presence of female beauty.

By the time I formulated a question — has she thought about taking a vacation anytime soon? — the crew was packing up and Ms. Evangelista was rushing off to another appointment.

I knew I blew my chance to personally interview Ms. Evangelista. As I left the set, I felt my throat suddenly dry up.

(For not submitting an article on Ms Evangelista for the Entertainment section, Mr Basilio has been barred from taking fruit juice after a night of beer drinking. - Ed)

Despite occasionally making fools of themselves in public, husbands fulfill various functions which are beneficial and important to society.

Besides carrying unwieldy appliances, moving heavy furniture, and opening tightly-sealed containers, husbands are useful for taking out the trash—dry or wet, plastic or paper—rain or shine, given proper training and motivation.

But of the many duties husbands perform, nothing compares to the task of driving their wives to their destinations, whether for business or pleasure.

As a skill, manipulating a four-wheeled vehicle through the city's chaotic streets is difficult enough.

However, as an errand, driving your spouse—who is usually running late for an important appointment—requires the patience of a saint, the willpower of a workaholic, and the luck of a lotto winner.

This has been my lot for the past year or so, especially since my wife has refused to take driving lessons.

Although I continue to beat deadlines, I have also become my wife's part-time driver, bringing her to various functions all across the city as the need arises.

God knows it remains a thankless chore, like washing dishes, fixing the plumbing, and cleaning out the cat's litter box (all of which I have also managed to do).

But then again, I'm not complaining.

For services rendered, I have been generously paid with regular lip action, the occasional shake in the sheets, and vows of undying love.

Recently however, I have begun to doubt whether I have received just compensation.

Just a few weeks ago, my wife—a US government scholar—was invited to a party thrown by the American Ambassador to the Philippines.

Upon receiving the invitation, she conveniently forgot that she was married—an error which I hoped was accidental. I saw that she had faxed back a form confirming her attendance, which also indicated that she would be driven by someone identified as Robert.

It was an oversight I conveniently ignored, to my great dismay.

As the event drew near, I sent my blazer—the only one I owned—to the cleaners so that I could make a good impression on the diplomats.

After all, drinking free beer while wearing semi-formal attire doesn't look half as bad as getting drunk with a T-shirt on as you feast on appetizers.

It turns out that I would neither have the occasion to wear the blazer nor drink beer, let alone any cold beverage. Nor would I have the opportunity to rub elbows with consular officials.

On the day of the party, my wife told me that she would go to the event unaccompanied—a euphemism which meant that her bitter half would be left behind.

Despite having resented her decision, the part-time driver brought her to the embassy, finding very little consolation in avoiding reckless bus drivers, wayward traffic enforcers, and posters of Bayani Fernando.

I wore a T-shirt and shorts, thinking if I was going to wait for two hours in the car I might as well be comfortable.

OF the countless risks which can cause heart attacks—alcohol, tobacco,cheeseburgers, and relatives—none can prove more potent, and perhaps even more devastating, than entertainment news.

You got that right: celebrity gossip can kill you, especially if taken in large, unregulated amounts.

Compared to arteries clogged by bad cholesterol, liver damage wrought by beer, and lung cancer brought about by smoking, none can make your ticker go into cardiac arrest faster than a juicy sex scandal involving a starlet.

And if the piece of information includes graphic evidence accessible online, the news—and the vicarious thrills it brings to males such as myself—is likely to cause anyone to kick the bucket.

This explains why like all pleasures in life, I take Chika Minute in moderation. And thrice or so a day at GMA's 24 Oras seems the perfect dosage.

Unlike regular males of my age (old), income (low), and temperament (grumpy), I remain genetically predisposed to having a heart attack.

Various doctors have warned me that I am at risk for a seizure because my paternal grandfather died of it before he turned forty (which, in hindsight, was good because Delfin Sr. never had to endure an intransigent grandson, let alone contend with a stubborn son).

Despite going to the gym twice weekly and cutting down on my food consumption, I always try to keep excitement at bay.

For instance, before logging onto Philippine Entertainment Portal (http://www.pep.ph) or tuning into GMA Network, I take a deep breath, preparing myself for the best—and the worst—the colorful world of showbusiness has to offer.

If the day's events are unusually rife with controversy, with accusations and counter-accusations filling the airwaves, I make an effort to hang out at the water dispenser to drink my fill of the soothing liquid.

But sometimes, in the face of great adversity, cold water and deep breaths remain ineffective to combat tension.

Take the showbiz highlight of last Friday.

During the early evening of that day, the Philippines’ leading broadcast network said that it already had signed up Heart Evangelista, allowing her to join the company's stable of artists.

There I was, beating a deadline for the Philippines' leading news website—GMANews.TV, what else?—when a picture of Heart Evangelista
flashed on the office's TV screen and a voice-over announced to one and all that she was a newly-minted member of the Kapuso network.

When I heard this news, I nearly fell off my chair and almost suffered a minor stroke.

Fortunately, the water dispenser was just a few meters away from my desk, enabling me to get a refill of cold water—the calming effects of which I so desperately needed.

For more than five years, I had kept track of Heart's career, ever since I saw her face in an ad for a cellphone company. And years later, when she did that soap commercial in which she bared more skin than usual, I was smitten. I still am.

Since Ms. Evangelista is a Kapuso like myself, I am now looking forward to seeing her around in the GMA Network Center. And by that time, I hope that I would no longer need a cold glass of water.

WORRYING about age is one of the reasons why people grow old.

Which is why birthdays—and the rituals associated with them, however simple or extravagant—are more a curse than a blessing.

Besides running the risk of having your exact biological age become as public as the posterior of a certain surgery patient, birthdays attract various kinds of events, both conjured and fortuitous, which generally fall under the rubric of BS.

Take the gimmick of my favorite mobile phone company, which will remain unidentified for reasons related to advertising, free and otherwise.

On the very day I turned another year older, the telecommunications company sent me a text message, wishing me a happy birthday.

"Warmest wishes to you," the message said. "You are most dearly remembered on your special day. Happy Birthday!"

I was touched, if only for the fact that it may have waived a P2.50 fee it usually charged for text alerts.

But then again, if anything, my mobile phone company was in the business of remembering.

Just a few days before my red-letter day, my service provider never forgot to send me a text message reminding me that I already owed them money.

Apparently, I had failed to keep my account current, a hobby I occasionally indulge in, especially whenever I run out of cash.

Despite my failure to settle my obligations immediately, the company never did cut me off.

Which was a good thing.

It was, after all, the week of my birthday and the company—to its credit—decided to cut me some slack, something which I so richly deserved.

Not only was I among the company's loyal customers (having been a subscriber for eight years and counting), I have also been among those who have suffered from its atrocious service.

Three years ago, when my wife took me on an all-expense paid trip to Bali—she had to attend a conference and I had to take care of the luggage—the company failed to enable my roaming service.

After filling out forms, signing various agreements, and faxing these to the company's offices, it was unable to give me mobile service in Indonesia, turning my precious Nokia 1110 into a fancy alarm clock.

But that wasn't the end of it.

A few months ago, the company disconnected me for failing to remit a measly P30 in payment. In short, my cellular phone service was cut off for the price of siopao.

While I have raised hell about these inconveniences, I nevertheless have tolerated the telco's oversights, knowing fully well that moving to another service provider would mean changing my number.

Since it was an undertaking I was unwilling to take—especially not during the week of my birthday—I simply counted my blessings, grateful that the telco abandoned attempts to disconnect my service.

Or at least just for this month. And this was a good gift as any during my birthday.

On top of the fact that I'm probably way too old to change my number.

P. J. O’Rourke reads Adam Smith so you don’t have to.

Or so says the blurb—printed in boldface—on the front inner flap of his latest opus.

Entitled “On The Wealth Of Nations,” the work is the American journalist’s take on Smith’s classic as part of Atlantic Monthly Press’s Books That Changed The World series.

The offer is just too good to be passed up, both for fans and first-time readers of America’s funniest Republican.

Besides allowing readers to experience the dense, wry prose of the famous Scottish economist, On the Wealth of Nations also promises to showcase O’Rourke’s biting wit once more.

Considered as America’s funniest republican, O’Rourke has conjured highly original one-liners while avoiding wayward missiles in Iraq, periodic gunfire in Lebanon, and corrupt policemen in the Philippines (his piece about Edsa I is included in Holidays in Hell, one of his very best books, next to All the Trouble in the World and Give War A Chance).

As Rolling Stone magazine’s foreign affairs desk chief, he was also the most well-traveled conservative commentator, giving his readers something to laugh about every time he submitted dispatches from abroad.

Sad to say, his latest work falls below expectations.

Like his previous two books—The CEO of the Sofa and Peace Kills—On The Wealth Of Nations arguably shows that being something of a television celebrity—through his regular appearances at HBO’s Real Time with Bill Maher—may have blunted his edgy, no-holds barred, take-no-prisoners writing style.

This is not helped by the fact that O’Rourke in On The Wealth of Nations is “all over the place,” according to one discerning Facebook user, noting the author’s awkward attempt to establish a unifying theme to hold the book together.

Instead of dishing out outrageous, racy, and funny diatribes, O’Rourke simply quotes liberally from Smith and then provides weak insight that does not befit someone of his stature.

Originally printed in a shorter and different form in a UK publication, the book also includes an Adam Smith Philosophical Dictionary, as compiled by O’Rourke, his literary nod to Voltaire and Ambrose Bierce whose The Devil’s Dictionary remains cited to this day.

In an entry called “Homeless, an alternative view on the,” he quotes Smith as saying “The beggar who suns himself by the side of the highway, possesses that security which kings are fighting for.”

While the material—900 pages long in two volumes—may have cramped his style, the O’Rourke faithful, myself included, can still take refuge that the work is not totally devoid of humor.

“At my house I see a Made in China label on everything but the kids and the dogs,” O’Rourke says in Chapter 8. “And I’m not sure about the kids. They have brown eyes and small noses.”

Here’s hoping that his next book would prove to be funnier than his British Airways commercial (which, by the way, is available on YouTube.)