Monday, April 11, 2005
7:23 PM |
The Sweet Reason For Tweezers and Other Sorts of Madness Perfect for Summer Nights
{this is
absolutely priceless}
[from the ceaseless wandering of
clee villasor]
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
7:23 PM |
The Sweet Reason For Tweezers and Other Sorts of Madness Perfect for Summer Nights
{this is
absolutely priceless}
[from the ceaseless wandering of
clee villasor]
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
7:23 PM |
The Sweet Reason For Tweezers and Other Sorts of Madness Perfect for Summer Nights
{this is
absolutely priceless}
[from the ceaseless wandering of
clee villasor]
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Sunday, April 10, 2005
10:14 AM |
Something for Sunday Morning
The beautiful Margie Udarbe emailed me this, a perfect inspiration to start what seems to be a very promising week:
The Mayonnaise Jar and Coffee
When things in your life seem almost too much to handle, when 24 hours in a day are not enough, remember the mayonnaise jar... and the coffee.
A professor stood before his Philosophy class and had some items in front of him. When the class began, wordlessly, he picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was.
The professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.
The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with a unanimous "yes."
The professor then produced two cups of coffee from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar, effectively filling the empty space between the sand. The students laughed.
"Now," said the professor, as the laughter subsided, "I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life. The golf balls are the important things -- God, family, your children, your health, your close friends, and your favorite passions -- things that if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full. The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, your house, and your car. The sand is everything else -- the small stuff."
"If you put the sand into the jar first," he continued, "there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, you will never have room for the things that are important to you. Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Play with your children. Take time to get medical checkups. Take your partner out to dinner. Play another 18. There will always be time to clean the house and fix the disposal. Take care of the golf balls first, the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand."
One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the coffee represented.
The professor smiled. "I'm glad you asked. It just goes to show you that no matter how full your life may seem, there's always room for a couple of cups of coffee with a friend."
Now, I shall go and have Sunday lunch with my mother...
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
10:14 AM |
Something for Sunday Morning
The beautiful Margie Udarbe emailed me this, a perfect inspiration to start what seems to be a very promising week:
The Mayonnaise Jar and Coffee
When things in your life seem almost too much to handle, when 24 hours in a day are not enough, remember the mayonnaise jar... and the coffee.
A professor stood before his Philosophy class and had some items in front of him. When the class began, wordlessly, he picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was.
The professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.
The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with a unanimous "yes."
The professor then produced two cups of coffee from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar, effectively filling the empty space between the sand. The students laughed.
"Now," said the professor, as the laughter subsided, "I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life. The golf balls are the important things -- God, family, your children, your health, your close friends, and your favorite passions -- things that if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full. The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, your house, and your car. The sand is everything else -- the small stuff."
"If you put the sand into the jar first," he continued, "there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, you will never have room for the things that are important to you. Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Play with your children. Take time to get medical checkups. Take your partner out to dinner. Play another 18. There will always be time to clean the house and fix the disposal. Take care of the golf balls first, the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand."
One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the coffee represented.
The professor smiled. "I'm glad you asked. It just goes to show you that no matter how full your life may seem, there's always room for a couple of cups of coffee with a friend."
Now, I shall go and have Sunday lunch with my mother...
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
10:14 AM |
Something for Sunday Morning
The beautiful Margie Udarbe emailed me this, a perfect inspiration to start what seems to be a very promising week:
The Mayonnaise Jar and Coffee
When things in your life seem almost too much to handle, when 24 hours in a day are not enough, remember the mayonnaise jar... and the coffee.
A professor stood before his Philosophy class and had some items in front of him. When the class began, wordlessly, he picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was.
The professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.
The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with a unanimous "yes."
The professor then produced two cups of coffee from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar, effectively filling the empty space between the sand. The students laughed.
"Now," said the professor, as the laughter subsided, "I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life. The golf balls are the important things -- God, family, your children, your health, your close friends, and your favorite passions -- things that if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full. The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, your house, and your car. The sand is everything else -- the small stuff."
"If you put the sand into the jar first," he continued, "there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, you will never have room for the things that are important to you. Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Play with your children. Take time to get medical checkups. Take your partner out to dinner. Play another 18. There will always be time to clean the house and fix the disposal. Take care of the golf balls first, the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand."
One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the coffee represented.
The professor smiled. "I'm glad you asked. It just goes to show you that no matter how full your life may seem, there's always room for a couple of cups of coffee with a friend."
Now, I shall go and have Sunday lunch with my mother...
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Saturday, April 09, 2005
11:50 PM |
There Goes the Fairy Tale
[Sitting down, clicks TV on for
The Tonight Show]
I get such great satisfaction from breathing in the air of a newly-cleaned apartment. I like the smell of Lysol and roses everywhere. I feel so clean, it's almost sinful to feel this way, because it somehow approximates -- for a lack of a better comparison -- a huge
orgasm. I cleaned the pad from five o'clock in the afternoon till now, and it's almost midnight. Watched the whole Royal Wedding all throughout.
Which made me think: why is it that the media crucifies Camilla Parker-Bowles -- now Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Cornwall -- too much?
Two things, I think:
First, Princess Diana, who had a master's degree in public relations savvy, had publicly decried Parker-Bowles as The Other Woman, the breaker of everyone's favorite fairy tale marriage. People still imagine that iconic 1980s wedding (with Diana in her cake of a gown) and they sigh, because Diana as Princess of Wales fulfilled some kind of unfulfillable longing in their souls, perhaps brought about by too much Grimm Brother tales. That Diana died a tragic death makes her the martyr, transcending even the reality of her. Who can compete with a legend? As Sidney Pollack's version of Sabrina once put it: "Illusions are dangerous things, because they are always perfect."
Second, Camilla Parker-Bowles does not exactly have the face of a princess. Jay Leno and the rest of the world even enjoys calling her a horse. A favorite joke goes this way, that Charles first met her in Ascot, for the horse races.
Where else? (Cue laughter.) And we indeed laugh, because our idea of a princess has always been someone with the sweet-faced demeanor of a Snow White, or a Cinderella -- the Walt Disney versions.
While cleaning, however, I thought: Camilla has always been Prince Charles's first love. She was there before Diana was even there. In a sense, Diana was...
[Hey, they just let Paul Newman car-race with Leno! Now that's something you don't see everyday.]
... Diana was
the interloper, the bride of an
arranged marriage. So now, Charles and Camilla have somehow demonstrated to all of us that icky concept of "love conquering all," of "love being triumphant in the end."
Isn't that the more regular kind of fairy tale?
Oh, bollocks. I don't know why I am even talking about this.
[Signs off. Settles down to read a book.]
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
11:50 PM |
There Goes the Fairy Tale
[Sitting down, clicks TV on for
The Tonight Show]
I get such great satisfaction from breathing in the air of a newly-cleaned apartment. I like the smell of Lysol and roses everywhere. I feel so clean, it's almost sinful to feel this way, because it somehow approximates -- for a lack of a better comparison -- a huge
orgasm. I cleaned the pad from five o'clock in the afternoon till now, and it's almost midnight. Watched the whole Royal Wedding all throughout.
Which made me think: why is it that the media crucifies Camilla Parker-Bowles -- now Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Cornwall -- too much?
Two things, I think:
First, Princess Diana, who had a master's degree in public relations savvy, had publicly decried Parker-Bowles as The Other Woman, the breaker of everyone's favorite fairy tale marriage. People still imagine that iconic 1980s wedding (with Diana in her cake of a gown) and they sigh, because Diana as Princess of Wales fulfilled some kind of unfulfillable longing in their souls, perhaps brought about by too much Grimm Brother tales. That Diana died a tragic death makes her the martyr, transcending even the reality of her. Who can compete with a legend? As Sidney Pollack's version of Sabrina once put it: "Illusions are dangerous things, because they are always perfect."
Second, Camilla Parker-Bowles does not exactly have the face of a princess. Jay Leno and the rest of the world even enjoys calling her a horse. A favorite joke goes this way, that Charles first met her in Ascot, for the horse races.
Where else? (Cue laughter.) And we indeed laugh, because our idea of a princess has always been someone with the sweet-faced demeanor of a Snow White, or a Cinderella -- the Walt Disney versions.
While cleaning, however, I thought: Camilla has always been Prince Charles's first love. She was there before Diana was even there. In a sense, Diana was...
[Hey, they just let Paul Newman car-race with Leno! Now that's something you don't see everyday.]
... Diana was
the interloper, the bride of an
arranged marriage. So now, Charles and Camilla have somehow demonstrated to all of us that icky concept of "love conquering all," of "love being triumphant in the end."
Isn't that the more regular kind of fairy tale?
Oh, bollocks. I don't know why I am even talking about this.
[Signs off. Settles down to read a book.]
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
11:50 PM |
There Goes the Fairy Tale
[Sitting down, clicks TV on for
The Tonight Show]
I get such great satisfaction from breathing in the air of a newly-cleaned apartment. I like the smell of Lysol and roses everywhere. I feel so clean, it's almost sinful to feel this way, because it somehow approximates -- for a lack of a better comparison -- a huge
orgasm. I cleaned the pad from five o'clock in the afternoon till now, and it's almost midnight. Watched the whole Royal Wedding all throughout.
Which made me think: why is it that the media crucifies Camilla Parker-Bowles -- now Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Cornwall -- too much?
Two things, I think:
First, Princess Diana, who had a master's degree in public relations savvy, had publicly decried Parker-Bowles as The Other Woman, the breaker of everyone's favorite fairy tale marriage. People still imagine that iconic 1980s wedding (with Diana in her cake of a gown) and they sigh, because Diana as Princess of Wales fulfilled some kind of unfulfillable longing in their souls, perhaps brought about by too much Grimm Brother tales. That Diana died a tragic death makes her the martyr, transcending even the reality of her. Who can compete with a legend? As Sidney Pollack's version of Sabrina once put it: "Illusions are dangerous things, because they are always perfect."
Second, Camilla Parker-Bowles does not exactly have the face of a princess. Jay Leno and the rest of the world even enjoys calling her a horse. A favorite joke goes this way, that Charles first met her in Ascot, for the horse races.
Where else? (Cue laughter.) And we indeed laugh, because our idea of a princess has always been someone with the sweet-faced demeanor of a Snow White, or a Cinderella -- the Walt Disney versions.
While cleaning, however, I thought: Camilla has always been Prince Charles's first love. She was there before Diana was even there. In a sense, Diana was...
[Hey, they just let Paul Newman car-race with Leno! Now that's something you don't see everyday.]
... Diana was
the interloper, the bride of an
arranged marriage. So now, Charles and Camilla have somehow demonstrated to all of us that icky concept of "love conquering all," of "love being triumphant in the end."
Isn't that the more regular kind of fairy tale?
Oh, bollocks. I don't know why I am even talking about this.
[Signs off. Settles down to read a book.]
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Friday, April 08, 2005
Like my gorgeous writer friend
Wanggo, I am in a constant state of emotional repair and hopeful skirmishes with human life. All life's a battle, someone wise -- and probably chastened with living -- once said; sometimes I suspect it is even a full-fledged war, the goal being
perfection. One lives in a sustained effort of high expectations. Kuya Moe tells me this is the very prescription to disaster and dissatisfaction. I have no heart to tell him that I have no choice:
I am a Leo, and my kind roars for details kept precise. It calls for the absolute illustration of
being in control -- and sometimes, I feel, also its underside: the
loss of it. Life must always be lived on the edge of things, teetering in an obsessive-compulsive paradise. Otherwise, when we choose to let go, when we allow everything to "hang out" as they are, our world stumbles into darkness. Today, for example, I see my pad in shambles again, when I can still remember having cleaned it from top to bottom, like it was only yesterday. (To be precise: only last weekend.) The place screams, for me at least, to be swept clean and arranged to exactness. When I was a kid, I used to drive myself to distractions, letting everything in my bedroom "fall apart" from the utter chaos of everyday living. I'd even help things along by deliberately putting clutter on the floor, by not making the bed, by leaving bread crumbs all over the desk, by making the books on my shelves become disorganized by defying the Dewey Decimal System. This would last for a day or so, until my skin itches from the sheer reality of the pigsty. And then, in one inspired moment, I'd pick up and scrub everything to perfection.
My life has always been the same, even since then.
It can be infuriatingly repetitive. Oprah-like, I begin every week with mantras of controlling a life I've felt have gone astray from a prescribed path. "Today is the first day of the rest of my life" is the usual anthem, complete with a wholeness of emotion, a fullness of determination. That has been put to use promising of stories to pen, projects to finish, wishes to finally bring to fruition. One recent episode had me promising to read at least one book a week. Another one is to do one thing I haven't ever done my whole life in the same span of seven days. Like diets, they fall to the wayside, and I am the savage again, berating myself for being so weak. Sundays are beautiful days for such promises. Thursdays witness the slow crumbling of resolve, the descent to the animal I thought I had killed by all those Mondays. Resurrection, precise as clockwork, comes by the weekend.
Another resolve. I have such talent for self-delusion, I even believe myself.
It's a cycle.
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Like my gorgeous writer friend
Wanggo, I am in a constant state of emotional repair and hopeful skirmishes with human life. All life's a battle, someone wise -- and probably chastened with living -- once said; sometimes I suspect it is even a full-fledged war, the goal being
perfection. One lives in a sustained effort of high expectations. Kuya Moe tells me this is the very prescription to disaster and dissatisfaction. I have no heart to tell him that I have no choice:
I am a Leo, and my kind roars for details kept precise. It calls for the absolute illustration of
being in control -- and sometimes, I feel, also its underside: the
loss of it. Life must always be lived on the edge of things, teetering in an obsessive-compulsive paradise. Otherwise, when we choose to let go, when we allow everything to "hang out" as they are, our world stumbles into darkness. Today, for example, I see my pad in shambles again, when I can still remember having cleaned it from top to bottom, like it was only yesterday. (To be precise: only last weekend.) The place screams, for me at least, to be swept clean and arranged to exactness. When I was a kid, I used to drive myself to distractions, letting everything in my bedroom "fall apart" from the utter chaos of everyday living. I'd even help things along by deliberately putting clutter on the floor, by not making the bed, by leaving bread crumbs all over the desk, by making the books on my shelves become disorganized by defying the Dewey Decimal System. This would last for a day or so, until my skin itches from the sheer reality of the pigsty. And then, in one inspired moment, I'd pick up and scrub everything to perfection.
My life has always been the same, even since then.
It can be infuriatingly repetitive. Oprah-like, I begin every week with mantras of controlling a life I've felt have gone astray from a prescribed path. "Today is the first day of the rest of my life" is the usual anthem, complete with a wholeness of emotion, a fullness of determination. That has been put to use promising of stories to pen, projects to finish, wishes to finally bring to fruition. One recent episode had me promising to read at least one book a week. Another one is to do one thing I haven't ever done my whole life in the same span of seven days. Like diets, they fall to the wayside, and I am the savage again, berating myself for being so weak. Sundays are beautiful days for such promises. Thursdays witness the slow crumbling of resolve, the descent to the animal I thought I had killed by all those Mondays. Resurrection, precise as clockwork, comes by the weekend.
Another resolve. I have such talent for self-delusion, I even believe myself.
It's a cycle.
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Like my gorgeous writer friend
Wanggo, I am in a constant state of emotional repair and hopeful skirmishes with human life. All life's a battle, someone wise -- and probably chastened with living -- once said; sometimes I suspect it is even a full-fledged war, the goal being
perfection. One lives in a sustained effort of high expectations. Kuya Moe tells me this is the very prescription to disaster and dissatisfaction. I have no heart to tell him that I have no choice:
I am a Leo, and my kind roars for details kept precise. It calls for the absolute illustration of
being in control -- and sometimes, I feel, also its underside: the
loss of it. Life must always be lived on the edge of things, teetering in an obsessive-compulsive paradise. Otherwise, when we choose to let go, when we allow everything to "hang out" as they are, our world stumbles into darkness. Today, for example, I see my pad in shambles again, when I can still remember having cleaned it from top to bottom, like it was only yesterday. (To be precise: only last weekend.) The place screams, for me at least, to be swept clean and arranged to exactness. When I was a kid, I used to drive myself to distractions, letting everything in my bedroom "fall apart" from the utter chaos of everyday living. I'd even help things along by deliberately putting clutter on the floor, by not making the bed, by leaving bread crumbs all over the desk, by making the books on my shelves become disorganized by defying the Dewey Decimal System. This would last for a day or so, until my skin itches from the sheer reality of the pigsty. And then, in one inspired moment, I'd pick up and scrub everything to perfection.
My life has always been the same, even since then.
It can be infuriatingly repetitive. Oprah-like, I begin every week with mantras of controlling a life I've felt have gone astray from a prescribed path. "Today is the first day of the rest of my life" is the usual anthem, complete with a wholeness of emotion, a fullness of determination. That has been put to use promising of stories to pen, projects to finish, wishes to finally bring to fruition. One recent episode had me promising to read at least one book a week. Another one is to do one thing I haven't ever done my whole life in the same span of seven days. Like diets, they fall to the wayside, and I am the savage again, berating myself for being so weak. Sundays are beautiful days for such promises. Thursdays witness the slow crumbling of resolve, the descent to the animal I thought I had killed by all those Mondays. Resurrection, precise as clockwork, comes by the weekend.
Another resolve. I have such talent for self-delusion, I even believe myself.
It's a cycle.
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Faith will always be fragile if it is something that prospers, or is allowed to, only by ignorance or lack of challenge. Or worse, by treating challenges as the devil's machinations and moving to stamp them by murder of the body or soul, or both. I have seen enough intolerance, from religious and secular faiths, to last me a lifetime. Oh yes, there are secular faiths too, which punish "heretics" with the murder of the body and soul, the murder of the soul taking the form of expulsion from the fold -- the secular equivalent of excommunication -- and body in the form of "killing fields."
I've always thought you could still be a Christian while saying, like Rushdie, "I am a modern, and modernist, urban man, accepting uncertainty as the only constant, change as the only sure thing." Or you could still be a Christian while saying, as a friend of mine, a priest, did more insightfully some years ago, "Faith is the tension between doubt and certainty." He tried to show it in a poem about a priest who is gripped by that tension at the moment he hoists the host to sanctify it. Faith is a plunge, but it is not plunging willy-nilly.
People have a right to believe? Yes. But they do have a right to doubt, too, along with it.
[from
conrado de quiros]
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Faith will always be fragile if it is something that prospers, or is allowed to, only by ignorance or lack of challenge. Or worse, by treating challenges as the devil's machinations and moving to stamp them by murder of the body or soul, or both. I have seen enough intolerance, from religious and secular faiths, to last me a lifetime. Oh yes, there are secular faiths too, which punish "heretics" with the murder of the body and soul, the murder of the soul taking the form of expulsion from the fold -- the secular equivalent of excommunication -- and body in the form of "killing fields."
I've always thought you could still be a Christian while saying, like Rushdie, "I am a modern, and modernist, urban man, accepting uncertainty as the only constant, change as the only sure thing." Or you could still be a Christian while saying, as a friend of mine, a priest, did more insightfully some years ago, "Faith is the tension between doubt and certainty." He tried to show it in a poem about a priest who is gripped by that tension at the moment he hoists the host to sanctify it. Faith is a plunge, but it is not plunging willy-nilly.
People have a right to believe? Yes. But they do have a right to doubt, too, along with it.
[from
conrado de quiros]
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Faith will always be fragile if it is something that prospers, or is allowed to, only by ignorance or lack of challenge. Or worse, by treating challenges as the devil's machinations and moving to stamp them by murder of the body or soul, or both. I have seen enough intolerance, from religious and secular faiths, to last me a lifetime. Oh yes, there are secular faiths too, which punish "heretics" with the murder of the body and soul, the murder of the soul taking the form of expulsion from the fold -- the secular equivalent of excommunication -- and body in the form of "killing fields."
I've always thought you could still be a Christian while saying, like Rushdie, "I am a modern, and modernist, urban man, accepting uncertainty as the only constant, change as the only sure thing." Or you could still be a Christian while saying, as a friend of mine, a priest, did more insightfully some years ago, "Faith is the tension between doubt and certainty." He tried to show it in a poem about a priest who is gripped by that tension at the moment he hoists the host to sanctify it. Faith is a plunge, but it is not plunging willy-nilly.
People have a right to believe? Yes. But they do have a right to doubt, too, along with it.
[from
conrado de quiros]
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
1:15 AM |
The Daily Non-Sustenance
I liked this from The Beebox Girl:
Years and years back, when I was a single girl trying to make a place in the world as I knew it, I would buy the Sunday papers and all day I'd read it down to the last newsprint page; the ads to keep up with what's current in my field, the national headlines to be in tune with the times, the global news to keep tabs on the world's pulse. Each Sunday I would do this, and soon enough the stack of papers in the hallway was taller than me. I threw no issue away, thinking there might be a fact or a news item that I would one day need to re-examine.
But the time for verification did not come. I realized the news did not really change. Sure the names, dates, and places varied, but the content was the same: bullets kill, children starve, wars breakout, prices go up, priests molest, politicians get fat. No, nothing changed much. Except me. I began to notice that, after reading the papers I would end up in a foul mood, ready to argue issues to the death, angry at all the things that are so blatantly wrong with the world. I felt misled, betrayed, helpless.
So I stopped reading the Sunday papers.
As for me, I just read the Lifestyle section. And the comics. Read the rest
here.
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
1:15 AM |
The Daily Non-Sustenance
I liked this from The Beebox Girl:
Years and years back, when I was a single girl trying to make a place in the world as I knew it, I would buy the Sunday papers and all day I'd read it down to the last newsprint page; the ads to keep up with what's current in my field, the national headlines to be in tune with the times, the global news to keep tabs on the world's pulse. Each Sunday I would do this, and soon enough the stack of papers in the hallway was taller than me. I threw no issue away, thinking there might be a fact or a news item that I would one day need to re-examine.
But the time for verification did not come. I realized the news did not really change. Sure the names, dates, and places varied, but the content was the same: bullets kill, children starve, wars breakout, prices go up, priests molest, politicians get fat. No, nothing changed much. Except me. I began to notice that, after reading the papers I would end up in a foul mood, ready to argue issues to the death, angry at all the things that are so blatantly wrong with the world. I felt misled, betrayed, helpless.
So I stopped reading the Sunday papers.
As for me, I just read the Lifestyle section. And the comics. Read the rest
here.
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
1:15 AM |
The Daily Non-Sustenance
I liked this from The Beebox Girl:
Years and years back, when I was a single girl trying to make a place in the world as I knew it, I would buy the Sunday papers and all day I'd read it down to the last newsprint page; the ads to keep up with what's current in my field, the national headlines to be in tune with the times, the global news to keep tabs on the world's pulse. Each Sunday I would do this, and soon enough the stack of papers in the hallway was taller than me. I threw no issue away, thinking there might be a fact or a news item that I would one day need to re-examine.
But the time for verification did not come. I realized the news did not really change. Sure the names, dates, and places varied, but the content was the same: bullets kill, children starve, wars breakout, prices go up, priests molest, politicians get fat. No, nothing changed much. Except me. I began to notice that, after reading the papers I would end up in a foul mood, ready to argue issues to the death, angry at all the things that are so blatantly wrong with the world. I felt misled, betrayed, helpless.
So I stopped reading the Sunday papers.
As for me, I just read the Lifestyle section. And the comics. Read the rest
here.
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Monday, April 04, 2005
Bubu's on the way to stardom! He has won a small part in GMA's
'Wag Kukurap, with seven lines in all -- which is not bad for a guy barely out of college. He got the part in one turn of audition, with the show's director himself. Tomorrow, he's off to Zamboanguita to film his part.
Do I hear showbiz calling?
You bet.
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Bubu's on the way to stardom! He has won a small part in GMA's
'Wag Kukurap, with seven lines in all -- which is not bad for a guy barely out of college. He got the part in one turn of audition, with the show's director himself. Tomorrow, he's off to Zamboanguita to film his part.
Do I hear showbiz calling?
You bet.
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
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