Confused Alcoholic Tries To Steal Free Drinks

Don't want to alarm anybody but I'm currently in Changi Airport and I'M COMING HOME AMERICA!!!!

Oh no wait, where am I from again? I should check my underwear.

How good are the free drinks in this place? Phwoar, scotch samples in duty free, keg airport! Eat your heart out Steve Sanders and Leichhardt party house.

(Oh and I guess this is the end of my blog. It's been, um, emotional... See you in Australia, idiots)

...and another thing...

Why does everybody keep apologizing to me about Steve Irwin? I mean, I know he’s set back the international acceptance of Australians as real, sober and complex human beings by at least a decade, but seriously, I can deal with that. I’m a tough girl.

Paul Hogan probably did worse: If anything, could you please sympathise with me over Crocodile Dundee? And what about Yahoo Serious? I mean, he did some real shite work on the Australian identity that guy. So abominable, in fact, that he had to do it under a completely implausible pseudonym.

What’s going on? Did I miss something? What? What?

Parents to Blame as Che Dally-Watkins Takes to Mountains for Community Wall Painting

Ahem. It’s all true. Those of you who remember me from such conversation-killers as “JESUS I smashed my Guccis”, “NON-vintage Moet? But father we’re at the races!” and “Please don’t touch my bag with your filthy hands it’s a Fendi” will howl that a year in the wilderness has changed me. Others may find recent socialist rants about health and education a sure sign that I’m never going to get on with my right-wing old man ever again.

Not true. I’m still a swinging voter with expensive jeans that I paid somebody else to pre-love. Nevertheless, last weekend in the forest I did contribute to a mural depicting a rainbow serpent and some scary gun-slinging chicks in the act of annihilating a band of tree killers. It was fun, messy and completely out-of-character. Or was it....?

Natural Activist, or Victim of Maternal Ambition?

Looking back, I guess I’ve always been the type to dabble in issue-based craftwork, a tendency for which my Mother is culpable. While other kids went to the movies to see Who Framed Roger Rabbit? and Honey, I Never Get Sick Of Shrinking Those Little Bastards, Caroline and I were treated to such mind-expanding fodder as Gorillas in the Mist, Project X, Rain Man and my personal favourite, The Last Emperor (“...but mummy, how did the sink water turn communist red? Did he use his special emperor powers?”)

Afterwards, we were urged to draw alternative storyboards for the epic masterpieces, highlighting fatal flaws where the director had sold out history to earn extra dollars at the box office. At other times we were encouraged to create posters urging workplace reform for chimpanzee actors, including bargaining rights for nude scenes and the implementation of a minimum daily wage in bananas.

Oh my, the memories. On free weeknights, few and far between, Mum would supply us with scissors, uhu sticks and a pile of Earth Watch magazines so we could create issue-based pastiches depicting, say, the impact of communism on whaling in the South China Sea. Such projects were fun and inexpensive ways to learn about human screw-ups that would eventually inspire my very first embargo on canned tuna at Big Lunch in 1984 (1).

(One of Mum’s side projects was empowering us to be informed consumers of our lunchboxes. Some days she would even set tests: “Did you notice where the pitted dates were from today Lizzie?” “Yes Mummy, they were from the USSR” “Well, why did you eat them, Lizzie? You should never eat anything from Chernobyl.” Sadly, I never had the heart to tell her that lentil and date sangers tasted worse by midday than what I imagined even the most craven gulag cook capable of, and in my opinion constituted a childrens’ rights abuse all of their very own.)

Persecuted Paternal Figure Retreats Into Garbage, Blames Whitlam Government

“I don’t remember voting for this,” my father would mumble at the dinner table about the mandated tofu patty that occasionally appeared on his plate.

“You didn’t, Kelvin, but there are four people in this house, and while my kitchen remains a participatory democracy, then we will eat what the people want.”

“But Dad likes to eat out of the bin. If we eat what he wants then we’re all going to get impetigo and die.”

Caroline was right, of course, and her words spoke volumes about the first basic flaw of democracy, in that many people just aren’t smart enough to make important decisions for themselves. In a literal sense, she was also spot on: that very morning we’d caught Dad rifling through the bin to salvage a pack of Iced Vovos that Mum had thrown away, just after cracking him over the head with them.

However, such outright acts of civil disobedience were unusual for my father. Like most men who might find themselves stranded between a rock and a herd of politically marginalised Pakistani harpies, he preferred to remain aloof rather than to involve himself in the crimson tide of leftist ideology that constantly beached itself in his living room. Even when both sons made their first real-life tv appearances, starring as arrested student activists in a news item in 1974, he only swore mildly before going down to the station to post bail.

Besides, he had big dreams. These specifically involved the marriage of at least one daughter to a first grade rugby league player who would, in time, become a Liberal prime minister of Australia and install him at Kirribilli House. In his ideal future, he imagined a world liberated from ranting pinko-commies, where he could peacefully watch re-runs of Hey Hey It’s Saturday and Red Faces while eating meat from cans that he didn’t have to salvage first from the recycling.

(To be honest, I’m guessing at most of this. I have no idea what actually occurs inside my father’s head, nor do I want to have any idea. I can only really recall a conversation we had one Saturday morning in 1987, in which he explained candidly over a couple of bourbons in the garage that in his suburban utopia, he wouldn’t have to conduct A.C. Nielson exit polls each morning to determine whether or not it was safe to come home for dinner.)

On his 60th birthday, when I presented him with a homemade card screaming “DID YOU MURDER THIS ENDANGERED ANGOLIAN MOUNTAIN FERRET?” above a picture of a skinned, bug-eyed rodent and my own carefully inscribed “HAPPY BIRTHDAY FATHER” in sanguineous gothic calligraphy below, he nodded in grave agreement.

“What a nice personalised card, Lizzie. But gee whiz sweetheart, I wish you’d hold your shoulders back or you’ll never marry Ian Roberts.” Then he grinned cheekily at my Mother, “Have you still got that nice coat I bought you, Margie? You were a real stunner in that.”

Well, yes, I guess she was. What was my point again?

(1) Popular terminology among trendy five-year-olds for Normal Lunch, since Little Lunch commonly referred to morning tea. To use Lunch without an identifier might cause confusion among non-trendy colleagues and result in the eating of big lunch at morning tea time (see related discussion on the first basic flaw of democracy.)

You Fill Up My Senses, Like WD40

If you want success, find a suitable mentor. Emulate their achievements, workshop your problems, seek their advice. Older people have gained wisdom through years of experience. In your twenties, you simply can’t know it all.

-Conventional wisdom, maybe Confucius or Oprah said something like this once

Dear Tommy Lee,

My name is Lizzie and I am 27 years old. I am a devout disciple of rock n’ roll from the Filipino provinces. I am searching for answers in life and was wondering if you could be my mentor. I actually think I might be a little mentally ill because I sometimes find you attractive on television, especially when you take your shirt off and go ape on the drum kit. Painted men and jail breakers are hot.

When I grow up, I want to be a rock star just like you. I discovered I wanted to be a rock star after watching your show, Rockstar Supernova. My favourite pastime is actually watching Rockstar and laying into a bit of sweet, sweet alcohol on the living room couch, although this means I’m always turning up to work drunk because Rockstar airs in the Philippines at 8 am on Wednesday and Thursday mornings.

I’m not the only one who thinks I have star potential. My friends sometimes tell me I “rock the house”. Often they say “wow, that’s so rock n’ roll space cadet” when I tell them about stuff I didn’t actually do on the weekend but wish I had.

Furthermore, I’m really good at falling asleep in strange places and looking haggard in the morning. Oh oh, and like all the time, when I turn up at parties an hour late, other people will say crazy things like “whoa, look out, now here’s trouble” and slap my arse. Does that ever happen to you?

I’ve been learning the guitar and am good at John Denver’s songs. I know he’s not very r&r but I’ve been told that Denver is musically similar to the Stone Temple Pilots if you stand in an enclosed space for long enough after it’s been WD40-ied. I’ve never tried getting high on household cleaners (can it be done?), but I’d totally like to bring a bit more hum to the works of Denver, because at the moment all the ho’s there but it’s sautéed in wrong sauce. I think we could really rock that mutha tractor biatch Annie’s Song out with a bit of hard kore bass, maybe stripped back a bit, and some phat superhero he-man geeetar upfront.

Perhaps you could tell me whether my idea is sautéed even mildly in the right sauce? I should ask the house band, since without them we would all be nothing. Actually, I would also like to ask them if they play any house music ‘cause I am a massive fan of house music, especially C & C music factory’s pre ’91 stuff (you know, before they got signed and were still struggling artists doing running man busks on street corners in Seattle. Didn’t they do some collaboration with Black Francis? I mean, they were so much truer to themselves before Things That Make You Go Mmmm).

The only other thing I wanted you to clarify was which wrong sauce you keep referring to. It’s a pretty cool thing to say, but there are so many wrong sauces in the Philippines that it’s really hard to find a right one.

But, like, awesome, wow, WOW!!! Can I throw it back to Brookie on the stage now?
xx Rock Star Lizzie Supervehicle

PS Is rock star one word or two? I need to know ‘cause I’m changing my title by depole and I’d totally hate for people to be laughing at me like I was some kind of moron if I screwed up.

Ode to Ceres

The bus terminal. Nine o’clock.
A wiry man
with a determined stride
and a smell of fried things
nods with absolute assurance.
He whistles to a friend,
another smelly one,
who pushes me onto a bus.
Not the front of the bus
or the side of the bus
or the back of the bus
or, indeed, anywhere near fresh air.
In the smelliest,
hottest,
darkest part of the bus
In minutes that creep,
infected by second hand karaoke
and last night’s insomnia
I wither. I shrivel slowly,
riddled with hangover.

Ah, praise be to timetables,
for they are all thrown away.
Some have even been used
to hold salt for hungry travellers,
devouring duck embryos.
Much of the embryonic fluid
embraces lovingly
my acute alcoholic poisoning.

In two hours there is a yell:
We Are Off!
Off ma’am, completely off!
Really? What a riot.
Oh, how lovely to be woken up
Just at the moment of bothersome sleep.
Asleep on this bus?
Hell no, what a silly thought indeed.

The bus winds its wild way
Through territory home to NPA
And broken vehicles the sorry prey
Of precision Pinoy driving skills.

Jesus.
LOOK OUT FOR THAT CORNER!
Whoops, I’m just a passenger.
Sometimes I forget
when I am thrown up the front of the bus
or throwing up at the front of the bus.
Airborne and heroic,
for a second or two.
Look mummy, I’m flying
and that nice man is putting corn in my face.

None for me thanks.
I had ten bags of peanuts for breakfast.
But perhaps you could tell me
When this lovely journey is already finishing?
Would it be tonight, or tomorrow,
At the mental home?
Or perhaps at my funeral?
No idea? Oh no, that’s okay.
Maybe we should all just pray.

God Bless Our Journey
proclaims our driver’s mirror.
I briefly permit myself the blessing
To consider the journey without god’s good grace.
My bruised rear is the very definition of Satan’s wrath.
Satan on Monday morning after a big weekend
On the piss
and I think there might be a team meeting
with the other branch from hell.

No, wait.
Could we be here?
Surely not.
No, wait we are. I recognize this place.
This is the same smell I smelt before.
And look, there’s the same pile of garbage from days of yore!
We’re not one hundred metres away, we’re so, so near!
Tap tap.
What’s that?
Oh no wait, we’ve stopped.
Three Pinoys extract themselves from the roof space.
We start again. Seventy metres when
Tap tap!
Again?
A balut seller climbs through the window,
Then climbs out.
On we roll.
Then we stop.
The driver has a quiet smoke,
buys a bottle of luke warm coke,
while five schoolchildren file out.
Twenty metres, ten, again
Tap tap!
WHAT THE FRICK HAS NO ONE HEARD OF A BLOODY BUS STOP!
Mortified by my shocking moan
I exeunt to walk the rest alone.

Are we in Australia yet?

Expert Admits To Not Being An Expert

I am an expert on many things, the topic of “English as an International Language” not being one of them. Nevertheless, this is the title of a talk that I am fearlessly giving (hopefully in English) to some graduating English majors at West Negros College next Thursday.

Anybody with a spare ninety minute speech on this subject is urged to contact me asap, no further questions asked.

STARK RAVIN' NOISY

I’m dumb-founded at my newly acquired tolerance for loud noise, gained in just the space of a year. I’ve always had a soft spot for silence and thoughtful reflection. These days I’m just a massive fan of any noise environment that doesn’t result in irreversible deafness.

A case in point... Today I am sitting at my desk with gritted teeth. Located directly outside City Hall are six of the biggest sub-woofers I have ever seen. All six are currently pumping out, in slightly mistimed unison, the greatest hits of Survivor for the sixtieth time today. Unfortunately, Survivor only had one great hit, that being “Eye of the Tiger”. I’m trying to persevere with a bit of statistical analysis on important topics like child malnutrition, access to government health programs and disabilities in Bacolod. Unfortunately, most of the under-privileged children in the city currently appear to be outside my window throwing Rocky-like punches in the air every time the MC cranks “risin’ up, straight to the top...” over the airwaves, again and again and again.

I could be irritated but the atmosphere’s a bit too infectious. The whole city, except for me, is waiting for Filipino ‘man of the moment’ and adopted son of Bacolod, Manny Pacquiao, to arrive. I feel like a bit of a party pooper, but I’d attract too much of a spectacle if I went out there and joined them all. I might even end up on the teevs, and I’m wearing my fat clothes today.

How times change. I used to complain when my Pyrmont “work colleagues” (you know who you are) would talk loudly and provocatively about me outside my office. These days I have to put up with maoist revolutionaries screaming “Out with America, out with all white people who look like Americans” just next to the Fountain of Justice in the courtyard.

Yesterday, there was an anti-Gloria demonstration, led by an angry Pinay who barked about corruption and accountability in Ilonggo, allegedly the happiest language in the Philippines. This lasted for four hours in Luzuriaga Street, while disenchanted locals sang various anti-Gloria jingles, made screaming references to Hitler and ignored the on-going barrage of distorted feedback from an obviously pro-Gloria loud speaker that was trying to sabotage the whole event. The overall effect was a comprehensive showcase of the most offensive noises Earth has to offer.

Some days I think no one else must be able to hear themselves, since the noise is constantly inappropriate, uncalled-for and/or off-key. Whether it originates from blaring car horns, noisy screaming children or illegal karaoke set-ups on street corners, I can quite literally write that there’s always something offensive lurking in my ear canal.

It seems that the Pinoys don’t even stop to sleep. Last Monday night I was awoken at 4 am by the Macarena pumping out of the PA system at the Provincial Lagoon, four blocks from my house. No one will ever convince me it was a Macarena emergency. This appalling start to the day was followed by an assortment of Spice Girls, Kylie and Starship songs, leaving absolutely no doubt in my mind that Bacolod City really was built on rock n’ roll. (Perhaps that explains why significant parts of it are prematurely falling down.)

By all accounts the clamor should have driven me mad by now, but strangely in the middle of each racket I always end up laughing in a very noisy way that feels a lot like crying. In fact, it’s a lot like that Henry Rollins song where he laughs in a mentally deranged way for about five minutes before swearing to remain a liar.

In any case, I’m now well-versed in making my own hullabaloo. If you can’t beat ‘em, you might as well join ‘em, and join ‘em in a deadset crazy way too says I.

Good For What Ails You

It’s been a while since I last wrote, since I've been a little ill. I don’t usually like to brag about my own achievements, but I often do anyway so why break a habit: the last couple of weeks have seen me blowing chunks with the dignity and grace of a professional athlete.

Ah yes, parking the tiger neatly down the side of a jeepney maneuvering its way through heavy traffic requires both precision and skill, and I did just that, not once but three times, the weekend before last. Furthermore, it takes considerable strength of character to raise one’s head after the onslaught is over, apologise meekly to splattered passengers, and not leap into oncoming traffic mumbling “I’ve never felt so crap and embarrassed in my goddamn entire life, please kill me now.”

As predicted, my western stomach has been intensely challenged by Filipino cuisine this year. I’ve lost more weight than I’d care to mention and my digestive system just isn’t capable of processing any form of carbohydrate anymore.

It’s just as well that the Pinoys have as many ways of curing you as poisoning you. Here are a few of my favourites:

Rice

This is the number-one cure all for everything. Hungry? Eat rice. Not hungry and retching your guts up? Eat more rice. Dying of bubonic plague? Eat rice and ‘zus if you can’t finish that pile then give it to me you ungrateful Australian wench.

Coconuts

Nature’s wonder nut is credited with everything from intensifying the shine and texture of dull, lifeless hair to restoring a youthful glow to pollution-stressed skin. However, if you have a sore throat then WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THAT FREAKING COCONUT IN YOUR HAND YOU IDIOT??? Apparently coconut steals the voice away. I’ve been told that’s why I sound so bad on the vocals sometimes.

Minty Smelling Muscle Rub

My office mates like to use this as cologne when Dr Didoy sets up his massage shop next to the office toilet on a Friday afternoon. Working magic with his hands as he methodically cracks each joint in his patient, Dr Didoy relieves the body of stress and other “evil mojos” that can be real spoilers for the weekend. One day he found a “bubble” in my back that was allegedly responsible for a lot of my life problems. After half an hour of contortions we evicted the evil bubble from a joint in my right thumb. Since that day I’ve undergone considerable separation anxiety from my bubble and had to create a whole new host of life problems to fill the empty void.

The Humming Lady

This one is reported by housemate Elaine, whose office is regularly visited by a humming masseur. Whilst liberal amounts of rubbing goo and cracking work magic for Dr Didoy, rubbing lady can achieve similar results with a bit of the old bzzzhmmohhhhmmmahhhhyeahhh.

Elaine’s office mates swear by the efficacy of the humming lady, and have even offered to send her around to our place on a Saturday morning (at “special rates”) to set the right karmic vibrations for the weekend. My only concern is that she will attract even more mosquitoes to our house than are already there, ultimately causing a dengue epidemic even as she fights all the other evil spirits squatting in our chi energy paths.

Curing the Common Cold

My driver advises me to stay away from computers, since apparently they spread viruses. I’d advise the rest of us to stay away from my driver. Stupidity is catching.

Saliva

Mindoro Liz reports that the crazy cats up there have found a host of other uses for spit. Having had the misfortune to be bitten by a possibly rabid dog, Liz was brought to the village priest who wanted to press his chafing lips to the wound and suck out what was ailing her.

Yaummmmy. Mmm mmm.

The next week her office mates were again looking for the dribble of a happy person to rub on the tummy of a sick person. Despite being unanimously voted the happiest and dribbliest person in the office, Liz had to decline a sample of her own specimen on account of the fact that her rabies was beginning to make precision dribbling difficult.

Crap

My counterpart tells a charming story about a witch doctor who chewed up some dog poo and spat it in his ear as a boy. I have no idea what the outcome or punch-line of the story is, but knowing my counterpart I strongly suspect that there isn’t one.

Chicken

Cath had a cold one day and was told to avoid the chicken soup at the native food stand at all costs. We’re still not sure if this was at all pertinent to her sniffling or just good general life advice. (It’s been proven time and again that nothing says “hella salmonella” quite like tepid Pinoy chicken broth.)

Guns and Deadly Bladed Weapons

A reliable source tells me that guns and deadly bladed weapons are great ways to prevent bullet holes and knife wounds. In fact, everyone knows that the only better way to stop a speeding bullet is with a bible in the breast pocket.

Guns and deadly bladed weapons also make great show pieces for security guards, taxi drivers and crazy people who want to do crazy things. Furthermore, they’re a fantastic mood booster, giving your self confidence a considerable leg-up if you’re feeling insignificant, depressed, or on the verge of a mental breakdown of any kind.

In fact, I am yet to witness a situation in the Philippines where the possession of a firearm is deemed inappropriate. Whether clambering over rocks on a quiet weekend bushwalk, running the dirty washing down to the dry cleaners, or just holding up a bank when you’re a bit short on cash, there’s nothing like a bit of packed heat for curing other idiots of nailing you first.

Silay, the Paris of Negros

It goes without saying that the Philippines have something for everyone. Whether you’re looking for shandy in a can, beans in a dessert, the world’s largest presidential doll collection or just an enthusiastic renewal of your gun licence, you can find it all here. Some days I wake up and the plethora of options freak me out a little. Some days I just end up staying in bed.

Not so last Sunday, when German volunteer, Elaine, and myself decided to explore Silay, the self-proclaimed “Paris of Negros”. Keen for a day of high European culture, breathtaking architecture, history, music and romance in the French quarter, we consulted the German Lonely Planet for guidance, downed a quick can shandy at the monster mart for some Dutch courage and headed off to Robinsons Mall to hook up with our contiki tour aka Baby Bong Jeepney the Fourth.

“Rock n’ roll, gay Paris here we come,” said Elaine as we found a seat, only to be confronted with a wall of sound that sounded very much like the speakers beneath us shattering into a thousand pieces. Sandwiched between fellow passengers, who sporadically broke into tears as strange frequencies tore at their eardrums, I tried to explain to the driver that even at 120 dB, there’s a world of difference between Air French Band, and Air Supply, Australian band.

Hay naku. Turn that s^&% off.

Luckily, it was all worth it when we made it to Paris, whoops I mean Silay. We de-jeepneyed at the church, where San Juan flipped us a peace sign that seemed to say “Je ne sais pas mais je suis tres Francais”. Around the corner we were confronted by a typical example of French cultural imperialism, where a “no to cha cha" sign served to remind us of their passionate hatred for Latin American dance.

In a leisurely mood, Elaine and I decided to wander the streets for a little, taking in the atmosphere even while the ringing notes of Air Supply bled from our ear canals. Very soon we were lost in a gorgeous French barangay setting, where passing minstrels belted out Hotel California on improvised karaoke machines and street mimes tried to run us over in their trisikads.

We decided to ask for directions at Pepsi's Sari Sari Carrefour, where we attracted a crowd of Parisian-Filipinos who wanted us to take their pictures. We obliged for a couple of minutes, before hitching a ride with a trisikad mime who, completely dedicated to silence, would respond to neither French, English, German, Latin, Visayan, Tagalog nor Ilonggo. Most hilariously, he also insisted on miming a sense of direction. While Elaine and I cleared the last few minutes of digital memory from our cameras, we were taken on a very convincing journey to nowhere, past several French Caribou idly chewing their cuds whilst being hit with batons. So masterful was our driver’s illusion, that when we pulled up at the local tire shop for a smoko we almost believed we were looking at the Eiffel Tower.

Lucky for us, divine support was close at hand. Just as the sticker on the cabin window said, Santo Nino stepped in to assist us in our wants, which at that moment was getting the hell out of the forty degree heat and into a bit of shade. At the Bernardino Jalandoni Ancestral House we found some cool respite, as well as the low down on Silay’s very own Joan d’Arc, the ever fragrant San Diego de Alcala.

San Diego de Alcala

Diego was not just any only Diego. Diego was a man of many talents: hermit, gardener, healer, grower of miraculous grapes and heroic victim of gangrene. I am sure he would have led the Spanish in combat had there been an appropriate occasion to do so. As it so happens, there wasn’t and so he did the next best thing by dying peacefully and leaving a fragrant corpse. The story of Diego’s life ends aromatically when, tragically contracting skin rot just like Shane on Home and Away, he:

Willingly and happily handed himself over to God... Diego’s body did not undergo decomposition and still emitted a pleasant odour after death. His uncorrupted body is now still enshrined in the Cathedral of Alcala, Spain.

Our guide wasn’t too fussed by Diego’s story, preferring instead to take us through Filipino history, grittily depicted in ken dolls. Elaine and I were suitably impressed, commenting time and again that “the dolls look like real Filipinos”. From Cory’s oversized afro, to Ninoy’s blood splattered face and Imelda’s glittering shoe collection, the sense of “wow, now I know what it must have been like to start my own ill-conceived coup d’etat” was ever present.

Personally, I found the brief history of the Filipino flag the most fascinating part of the exhibit. Its evolution from KKK to skull and cross bones, to the recognizable emblem we all know and love today was a real eye-opener. Any old idiot can design a flag, but it takes an ingenious Filipino to see an outlaw’s good idea and use it to inspire a nation.

The guide then carefully explained the nature of the house.

“The staircase. German. The roof, nice German one too. The walls, they’re from Hamburg. This nice jug. It’s from Bacolod. Very nice jug too, originally from Berlin.”

“Vive la France!” Said Elaine in German.

The Bakeshop

The next stop was the local French bakeshop, with the very cosmopolitan name of “El Ideal”.

And it was ideal, (if you use the term as loosely as I do). Chowing down on a parisian halo halo, reflecting that the ube paste and beans really were at the cutting edge of fusion French cuisine, my only care in the world was the strange odour emanating from the kitchen each time the door opened. It was quintessentially Eau de Philippines ie. the stench of rancid, three day old fat just crying out for a bit of Diego’s corpse to freshen the air. I’m sure if they could bottle it the Pentagon’s chemical warfare arm would be more than interested.

In the jeepney home I added that to my list of things to ponder, as the afternoon storm finally caught up with us, revealing in flashes of lighting crazy street signs by the roadside.

“Don’t stick your elbow out too far or it may go home in another car.” Warned one.

(If only, I’m outta here, my two-timing elbow thought resentfully.)

“Drive slowly, see Negros. Drive fast, see our jail.” Suggested another.

The jail, I thought, what an "ideal" plan. I’ll save that one for next weekend.