The fight between Manny Pacquiao and Miguel Cotto was one of the best I'd seen in years. Never did I dream that I would get to see Manny Pacquiao fighting a bigger fighter like Miguel Cotto, let alone destroyed him JUST like that. Getting his 7th world title in 7th weight division couldn't have come in a very convincing fashion for Pacquiao. When I lurked in some boxing forums hours after the demolition to see how critics would react, they were unusually quiet. Nobody dared say darnedest things.
You can just feel how Filipinos erupted in ecstasy after the fight. Even the guy who just lost his wife and two kids in a fire that gutted their house in Bacolod a few days ago still managed to jump in joy while watching Pacman clobbered Cotto. I wonder if he watched it live in a theater or in the wake?
To be honest, I didn't expect Pacman to win the fight by technical KO. Humiliating Cotto like that was huge. Remember, this was the same guy who had beaten bigger elite fighters like Zab Judah (the man who almost beat Floyd “Money” Mayweather) and Shane Mosley (who beat the prime Dela Hoya and Antonio “Plaster King” Margarito). By beating Cotto, Pacman became the beast himself. A real freak of nature, you can say.
No wonder Cotto got KOed!
And now a Pacman-Mayweather fight looms. Boxing experts said the clash is inevitable since this will determine who between the two is the real pound-for-pound king. Besides, there's just too much money involved here, which professional boxing is really about.
As much as I don't want to become the bearer of bad news, this might be the end of Pacman's winning streak. I said it previously in my blog, and I will say it once more: Mayweather is way too smarter than Pacman. He will surely beat him---if the fight happens NOW---on points.
I just wonder how many fights should Pacman accept before he hangs up his gloves. Or how much money he will need before he can say he has enough. Even the Malacañang doesn't have anymore awards to give. Only Chavit wants him to continue fighting. And, perhaps, Krista. Or Ara. Or Matt. He has already stamped his legacy on the map of the boxing world. There is nothing else to prove. Other than one thing... His love for Jinkee!
The truth is hard to swallow. But you have to swallow it anyway.
Basketball supremacy is not really destined to get by the Filipinos. We may say that have victories in the past, but it's not relevant anymore. Besides, most of those victories we have had in basketball since the olden days were limited to Asian tournaments. And the fourth place we had at a World Championship in the 1950s was, although commendable, not really something to be used as a motivation to be in the top 10 in the sports. The wind's direction has completely shifted. This territory now belongs to China, Korea and some Middle East countries. Take a look at the 7'6 Yao Ming who toyed with Asi Taulava last Asian Games. What about Korea's 7'4 Ha Seung Jin who couldn't be stopped by our prayers? Even James Yap, our best shooter today, couldn't catch up. How then can we possibly beat these guys and confine them back to playing ping pong other than basketball?
Ha Seung Jin: You want to beat us? Eat lots of Kimchi!
We need to become taller! Basketball is 75 percent about height! It is something that we Filipinos lack.
But why height? Basketball is not just about height, you may protest. I know, but it's like saying a ridiculously skinny model can win eating contest against a sumo wrestler. You can't be serious pitting David against Goliath in a game of basketball, right? There are three areas in basketball where taller guy is at advantage against a smaller guy. Rebounding, scoring and defending. Although scoring is the area one is always not sure about, rebounding and defending are totally different. Once you control these departments, only sudden bouts of retardation can make you lose a game (e.g. you all forgot you had a scheduled game that day). How can you win a game when you can't even attempt to shoot for fear of getting blocked? How can you win a game when you know you would just be tiring yourself out jumping and jumping up for the ball that is already in your taller opponent's hand?
The story of my schoolmate serves as an example. For a time, he was so good, a talented guy who could have been given a chance to play for PBA (at least that's what we believed). He could shoot, rebound, defend and pass very well. People encouraged him to play for a varsity, which he eventually did, when he accepted an offer from an impressed varsity to play with them. We paid handsomely to get the best front row seat so we can watch him closely in action on his first game and, perhaps, have the face to cheer for him. But like the audience who felt like sinking in their seats watching Binibining Pilipinas candidate Janina San Miguel, we half-closed our eyes as we watched him played the worst, pathetic game in his life. It was like a nightmare. He, who used to score at will against players in our Barangay, could not even score a single point against varsity players. But how, if you may ask? Didn't I say he was good? He was. But well, unfortunately, he was, from head to toe, a Filipino with a height of, what else, a Filipino. He was 5'4! Just two inches taller than Jose Rizal. That made an effing difference! He couldn't drive into the basket without getting stopped and blocked. He couldn't defend either (try guarding a six footer). And while he could jump higher than a normal guy, it was embarrassingly useless against a six footer who could jump as high as he could. To make this goddamn story short, he was benched for all season and never even got the chance to hold the tournament's ball again other than his! The last time I heard about him, he was playing serious chess with his niece.
Playing chess is fun. No goddamn loudmouthed coach, no disgustingly sweating teammate, and definitely no height requirement!
Now that we have identified the problem, it's time to solve it. If it's all about height, then the solution lies in, err, becoming taller of course(what else, stupid!). I enumerated the solutions I found to become taller as to play and win a basketball game. I actually managed to squeeze it into three types, deciding against my previous plan of stuffing this entry with nonsensical adjective-filled sentences just to be called an awesome blogger.
1)Take Vitamins! --- If we wanna grow taller so we can ram ourselves against the Great walls of China, then it's time to take our vitamins and some supplements. One of which is Vitamin A which is required very badly to promote the growth and strengthen our bones. Certain supplements such as calcium and Vitamin D are also helpful to make those bones stretched like rubber band (see Monkey D. Luffy of One Piece). Taking glucosamine and chondroitin are also helpful, said one user in a forum named “DrQuack2009” (let's just trust the Internet, can we?). Vitamin C is also good as researchers working for a Vitamin C manufacturer have recently discovered (they are also finding another discovery about condom which they will release in the future once their new condom is sold in public). B1 and B12 are also good, as they are found in growth-taller products. Taking Vitamin E and Vitamin K can also help. And don't forget Vitamin B6. In short, just take all those goddamn vitamins!!!
2)Wear rubber shoes with thick soles and high heels --- Bingo! This is the easiest time-tested trick I could think of. Though it could empty their pocket in one shopping, this is the closest thing to making them feel like inches taller, so it's worth it. Besides, our players get as much as P300,000 a month cursing spectators and “cooking” some games, so spending a little over P5,000 won't hurt them that much. Rumor has it that Ryan Agoncillo, who stands at 5'6, used this kind of trick to avoid getting bullied by his girlfriends (I wonder if this is effective against Judy Ann Santos' massive arms, though). John Prats has also tried this while with Heart Evangelista, but I presumed Jericho Rosales wore much higher shoes than his. Just imagine the situation when our players are playing one on one against a guy five inches taller than they are. Now their rebounding ability is going to be equal to that of their taller opponents. And not only they can defend squarely against him, they can also intimidate him by showing how their big shoes can crush their feet. When things heat up inside the court and all hell break loose---they know what to do with their new shoes. To be honest, we have high percentage of winning in a riot than in basketball. So we're actually hitting two birds with one stone here.
3)Bribe the referee! ---I don't know why I tired myself out thinking about the previous two bullshit solutions when frankly speaking, those are nothing compared to this. When all “legal” ways have been exhausted and their freaking opponents are still unfairly determined to embarrass the team in front of millions of Filipinos watching inside the court and at home, then it's time to use our trump card---bribe the referees! This is the secret all those stupid people are ignorant of: it's the referees who control the game! Remember that the final decision about fouls, scoring, rebounding, assisting, blocks, line, etc. lie in the hands of referees. It's even their goddamn call to throw players, coaches, managers and consultants out of the game. Bribery is where we Filipinos are best at, and we'll be doing ourselves a really huge favor if we can utilize it not just in the local arena but in international scene as well. All we need are dollars which we can ask from the FG (he's going to get it from our taxes anyway). But first, we need to spot who among the referees are hungry or greedy... or both. I learned this from GMA herself, when she did her aging generals huge favor in return of their loyalty, thereby controlling the AFP completely. We can certainly do it with referees who are underpaid like most rank and file employees in this country are. These type of guys are easily controlled. Let's control those who control the game. Man, I'm so genius.
If these three still don't work, then let our players just play their own goddamn balls. After all, Filipinos are also good at it.
To play with the balls, you sometimes need to use your tongue!
This is too easy even for a third-grader who has just been introduced to the dark side of Adobe Photoshop. But the caption was NOT photoshopped, I can assure you. Instead of 'Aquino,' it's really 'Arroyo' you're seeing here. This appeared at the issue of Manila Bulletin today. It's the second time something like this happened since ABS-CBN mistyped 'Aquino' as 'Arroyo' in their news last Tuesday (which also appeared in Yahoo News). We don't know how the Arroyos and her minions would react to this, but one thing is sure: this will NOT put her down. It's already been proven that no amount of criticism and sarcasm can put her down. I'm more worried about the person behind the caption. He or she may be searching for a new job at this moment...
Apparently, the National Artist Award, the highest recognition given to Filipinos who have displayed excellence in the practice of their art form and who have made significant contributions to the development of Philippine Arts in general, has lost its esteem and reputation since yesterday for turning blind eye to the stature of other much more deserving artists in favor of someone who, while unmistakably has a name in popular mainstream, has yet to receive the nod of fellow artists and respectable critics.
Such is my pet peeve about the subjectivity of arts---when some people maximize its usage to defend worthy art works, others do the same to glorify obscure, if not worthless, art works. I could only shake my head in disappointment while trying to digest the news, the news which will soon be etched in many future art and film books as a fact.
Carlo J. Caparas may have created komiks like Panday and Bakekang, and directed films like The Cory Quirino Kidnap Story and Vizconde Massacre, but for what it's worth even an art student who has an understanding of the history can claim that he is not YET in the same league with other dead and living artists from film and visual arts who were and are practically worshiped by past and present practitioners of the field. Without abusing the license to use subjectivity for “art sake,” one may wonder how he surpasses Mars Ravelo, Tony Velasquez and Francisco V. Coching in the very field which, from what I heard, most of the National Artist Award Committee officials have been allergic of. One may think deeply how his “massacre films,” which fed on true-to-life stories, surpass those of Peque Gallaga, Mike de Leon or even Tikoy Aguiluz. Even artist like Gerry Alanguilan, who are among the people who have as much rights to be critics as people from the committee officials do, doesn't have the vaguest idea. I wonder how the so-called experts from the visual arts and film fields maneuvered the short list of nominees on the very first deliberation. There had to be a powerful force, dark force I can only surmise, which might have tarnished the process of selecting the nominees in the arts world, dulling the radiance of the most prestigious art award in the country. Politics?
Your guess is as good as mine.
Unfortunately, what has been done has already been done. I, myself, a minuscule observer in the world of art, could do nothing but end his nutty rant with the words from Gerry Alanguilan himself: “This is the day that the National Artists Award lost all its credibility. As an artist, I am deeply saddened, offended, and disgusted.”
While telling stories about skin problems at lunch yesterday(that's how nasty we can get), I happened to remember the time when a battalion (yes, a battalion!) of warts infested my left foot and threatened to turn it into another major source of embarrassment (as if its bad smell was not enough). It happened five years ago when I was working my ass off in Saudi Arabia.
Wart, as I found out, is a virus that can easily be acquired when in contact with the skin of an infected person. It is also possible to get warts from using towels or other objects used by an infected person. Since I don't share towel (that's gross) I figured that the shoes I sometimes borrowed from other people when playing basketball was the real culprit why I got warts. And yes, perhaps why I got the bad smell, too!
I wasn't really particular about “foot hygiene,” especially when the excitement of playing basketball was already in an overdrive. The thought of dribbling and shooting was enough to make me tremble in excitement (that's no exaggeration). I didn't give a damn whether I would be using Indian-made shoes, or crazily-branded snickers. Who cared? I wore my own socks. But like a goddamn curse, I found out that these small, rough tumors were spreading wildly around my toes. I tried to ignore them, thinking that they would soon disappear without treatment (perhaps because of the smell of my feet). But I was dead wrong. Soon enough, they were freely populating my foot like squatters.
Nakakapanggigil!
The goddamn warts even managed to cross Asian countries. Yes, I still had them with me when I got back in Manila, wrapped like babies in a pair of newly-bought smooth Burlington socks. It wasn't long until I grew tired of uncomfortably watching the warts comfortably living on my foot. I had enough of it, especially after finding out that my finger on my left hand got infected, too. On the advice of some friends, I used Trosyd, an antifungal cream, thinking that fungi and virus are the same. Of course, it was no use. I tried other medication, some more anti-fungal creams and some nasty chemicals whose name I can't remember anymore, and expectedly, to no avail. In the end, I resorted to using the hard way, the poor man's way: kill 'em through cigarette burn (since virus can be killed with heat). Perhaps the thought of “burning at stake” would be even enough to scare the crap out of them. It hurt like hell, but it still didn't kill the doggone viruses completely. They will grow again if they are not uprooted, I was told. But I'd had enough of the pain so I decided to stop burning the warts and think of some other means. True enough, the pesky warts got back on my feet after a few days, re-rooting themselves and pissing me off again, like nothing happened.
One day while strolling the mall, I dropped by a skin clinic to inquire about warts removal. I asked them how much they would charge me for it, and the attendant said that it depends on the size of warts. I showed her the lone wart on my finger which was way bigger than the ones on my foot. The attendant's mouth dropped slightly open, as if she got a birthday surprise, while looking closely (and amusingly) at the pepper-sized wart like a prized diamond ring. “Baka, one thousand yung ganitong case, Sir...” she said, explaining the characteristic of the wart like it's a living person, “medyo nakakapit na yung ugat ng virus sa second layer of skin ng daliri nyo, e.” I was like floored. I only showed her my hand. I was thinking, what about the other goddamn warts on my foot? Then I estimated the amount in my mind. It would cost me hundreds of thousands of pesos to get rid of those warts! Just for warts, can you believe that? No fu@#$% way!!
I was about to give up when the thought of surfing the Internet for treatment popped out. Perhaps there were some alternative ways. Google. Yahoo. How to treat warts. Banana peel. Natural oil. Crushed Vitamins C tablets. Blah, blah, and more blahs. Forty-five minutes more of searching over the net and I finally came across a no-nonsense, non-commercial, non-expensive advice about warts removal. Salicylic acid! Yeah, the type you can easily buy over the counter. It said that warts can be removed by repeatedly applying the acid and removing the dead skin with nailcutter afterwards for weeks, two times a day. And oh boy, it worked for me!
Amazingly enough, the goddamn warts succumbed in just three weeks. I could still hear the them asking for mercy while I mercilessly applied the acid over my fingers and left foot, har, har, har! They enjoyed living for some time rent-free on my feet, and now it's payback time! Die warts, dieee! Har, har, har!
I still keep salicylic acid in the medicine cabinet just in case the warts contemplate revenge. I was warned that they can recur without warning, so it's best to be forearmed and ready. Since I managed to get rid of my warts, people have been asking for the acid and exact instructions. I'm always glad to lend my salicylic acid which, by the way, cost only around P40. Its cheapness adds to the satisfaction of killing those pesky warts.
What about the smell? I'll get to that some other time. Har har har!
Every time I read newspaper, I normally don't give much attention to headlines other than the bannerhead. After the bannerhead, I go straight to the sports page and, if there's an interesting trending topic, the entertainment page. Unless, of course, I find the day so drab that leafing through pages of books, periodicals and magazines is the only thing to do.
But for some forces of bad luck, last Sunday was different. I didn't know if it's the coffee or the bread, but I mysteriously came across an article, or a poem---no, an article (or whatever piece of “shitlit” you may call it)---which occupied the shamelessly spacious column entitled “Me, Starzan” in the entertainment section of the broadsheet Philippine Star. Guess who the writer (“the powet”) is? It's Joey de Leon.
After reading the first paragraph of his “powetic” article, I was nearly tempted to relegate it to trash where its “kinds” really belonged. His corn farm was really killing me. But for some good vibes surrounding the beautiful Sunday morning, I managed to give it the benefit of the doubt; after all, it was the great Joey de Leon writing here. Perhaps there were some sense to his powetic article than I first gave him credit for.
It turned out that Joey de Leon's article is really what I suspected it was. What a crab! I regretted reading it. He thinks that the world is not yet fed up of his corny knock-knock type of jokes he mindlessly picks up from his Iskul Bukol days; he seriously believes he can also leave a legacy in print. In his column's article tastelessly entitled 'Michael-Likot At In-Jackson' (Philippine Star, July 5, 2009), I believe that a portion of his “powetic” article was referring to Charice Pempengco, the wonder girl who sang her way to international stardom. Here's the excerpt:
At marami na naman ang gustong pumapel, Kesyo close daw sila sa nasirang si Michael, Kahit ano nga ngayon pwede nating i-tell, Favorite nga ni Jacko noon ay Dyesebel!
Meron pa daw biglang naging idol s’ya, Mabubuking mo dahil iba mga kanta, Laging birit Beyoncé, Celine at Mariah, Nang bumigay si MJ, umiba ang gaga.
Tigilan na nuno ng kasinungalingan, Kesyo kinukuha raw para sa one-on-one Nila ni Michael Jackson gagawin sa London, Beat it! That is Bad, puro kayo ka-cheap-an.
You've got to read between the lines. From what has been going on recently, Joey de Leon was obviously talking about Charice here. It had been reported that Charice was supposed to join the late Michael Jackson for his comeback world tour at the Oz Arena in London. As she recalled it herself, she was attending a private party of Warner Brothers when Jackson’s lawyer approached her and told her that Jackson hand-picked her to be one of his special guests in the series of concerts where they would do a “showdown.” MJ had reportedly stumbled on her in Youtube singing “Billie Jean” while doing the famous moonwalk.
Give us a break, man. Why pick on the talented kid when there are more hullabaloo going on around your backyard? Couldn't you find some nice topic to talk about that you now seem to share Freddie Aguilar's warped view of nationalism (who indirectly called Charice and Arnel Pineda “monkeys”)? Where's your wisdom after decades of learning from your past? My father and uncle idolize you, but I'm telling you, they will really get disappointed after reading this.
Admittedly, there are some “truth” to what he said about people trying to get a share of the spotlight from the death of MJ; the generalization is valid, but to specifically attack Charice in a subliminal way is different. If Joey de Leon had only the time to press his keyboards and research over the Internet, he would have seen it for himself that the little girl had been singing and dancing MJ's songs even before his death. In fact, in Korea, where she was first thrust into instant popularity, she wowed the Korean audience by dancing ala-MJ, doing the moonwalk and robot moves, right after mesmerizing them with her mind-blowing rendition of “And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going.” You see, man, it's not all 'ka-cheapan' as you said it was. Performing with Michael in a world tour is a far-fetched dream for many American singers, let alone for Filipinos. Who wouldn't be proud and elated to be given a chance to perform with the King of Pop?
Joey de Leon's article would have been better off praising our very own talents who have done tremendous job of putting our country back on the map of entertainment world. Unfortunately, this guy wasted his time putting people down. There are many "users" in the world of showbiz who ride on the popularity of one person or event. Which I believe is true, but one should have at least exercised caution in referring to such persons. Filipinos are not stupid.
But come to think of it, Joey de Leon actually used the death of Michael Jackson to fill out his pathetic column, too!
Even if it's a fact that we will all eventually kick the bucket, hearing the news that Michael Jackson had just died still blew my mind off. He had left no trace of sickness. Nor had he given hints of physical deterioration, except of course the natural effects of aging, which the King of Pop was said to be afraid of. He just suddenly ceased breathing, and before anybody could give any idea what was going on, he died. At 50, with a teen body that executed lots of crotch-grabbing, moonwalking dance moves, and a child-like facade which caused him more troubles than praise, he suddenly went away, without a warning, to the place where, who knows, someone might finally come to understand him...
Last Sunday was Father's Day. People around me were asking how I, a first time father, would celebrate it. Honestly, I don't even know if it's really time to celebrate my being a father. My only fame to claim at the moment is that I do have a child. I don't want to believe that it's what makes me a man. Because if it's so, what makes me different from any other guys who think having children is the way of macho?
Back in the days, I had this anxiety about something a normal guy my age wouldn't waste time worrying about; that is, how to raise a child. I've seen lots of men losing themselves in failed marriages, financial mess and earthly vices. The result was almost always the same: a broken family. And then, relationships falter, wither like dry leaves. How can these things stop man from becoming a good father, or any other relationship for that matter, when becoming one doesn't depend on such things? I wonder.
Then again, I'm still a novice when it comes to this field of life. I have never been there. I can't compare my months of becoming a father to the decades of ups and down that many parents have been through. I still have a long way to go to say I've finally done what I had and wanted to do. But right now, thinking of what might go wrong torments my head already. What would become of my child a couple of years from now is still a question mark that would continue to chase me and my wife.
I thank my father for raising me to become the person I am today. If there are role models to emulate, my father should come first and be placed on top of my list. He may not be the “coolest” dad who knows the ways of his son's generation, but he has had his share of being the best when everything else is going bad. Of course, having been a teen like anybody else, I had my own stories of rebelling against something which I thought I understood. We had our times when we were soaked in idealism, when we wanted to correct which we deemed were wrong, when we thought nobody had any idea what we were going through. I thought I had surpassed the knowledge of the preceding generation. Instead of immediately swatting my beliefs and bombarding me with the usual preach, he would exercise his usual passiveness, much to my embarrassment. He would say a word or two about what he believes is right, but wouldn't nag me to do this or that. He would continue doing his fatherly obligation, going on to give the best part of him through our needs. And suddenly I'd just ask myself if my know-it-all attitude warranted any recognition at all. I'd been lazy and all while my father threads through life to give us what we need to become good persons in this world. Seeing my father's sagging skin, his thinning hair, his wrinkled face while eating dinner with my mother---and sometimes, alone---I wish I could have been more worthy a son to him.
I realize that I'm a part of the cycle of fatherhood. Once a son, I'm now a father. I now worry about what might happen to child in the years to come, perhaps the way my father worried about me many years ago. I know that a large chunk of what he will become lies in my hand. I could only wish to provide my child everything he needs and to teach him what he needs to learn. Having a child won't make me a real man; raising one will. But I guess until I am able to see my son becoming a grown man, a responsible citizen and a loving husband to his wife---will I tell myself that, finally, I am a real father.
Just over a year after Gab came to our life, things that need to be done and fixed have been piling up. Minor stuff that we ignored in day two are now surfacing like wild grass around the house. The wedding photos, the baptismal album, the papers and certificates, the mothballed online business, etc. are enough to really make us feel dizzy. And recently, we just came up with another plan! Whew! If we had not been this composed, things would have become a real mess. We can no longer do the things we used to do back in the days (I've already warned April about marriage, but she was stubborn, hehe).
Truly, becoming a parent is a demanding responsibility. Not that we complain about it. These things make up for an exciting and challenging life. It's the same with having a commitment and surrendering what you have and what you can become to the persons you love, and it's a risk that you are willing to take in exchange for another kind of happiness, the kind only parents can feel. I am one of those who are more than glad to have taken that risk.
At present, we still don't have a realistic plan to get all the things done and clear our heads of those trying to snatch our attention. But I guess we'll just have to let those stuff pile up in the meantime. We're too busy "creating" moments and we can't really let these spoil the fun. ^_^
This is too late. Michele, Gab and I wish to thank all our friends and families who came over to grace this once-in-a-lifetime occasion. I couldn't attend to all the visitors for obvious reason. But I do hope you enjoyed what we had prepared. Till next time, probably after two years or so, when our second baby comes. ^_^ Thanks a lot!
Call all the gods and saints. Get advice from Feng Shui experts. Better yet, have your palm read. Do all this in the name of a get-rich-quick scheme. With a winning probability of maybe around .000000001% (even this is a wild guess), you'll surely need a lot of luck to hit a lotto jackpot. But then again, you only have P20 to lose, and probably few calories to consume while waiting in a long line of desperate-to-become-rich individuals like you and me. Yeah, you and me. Admit it.
As of today, the jackpot for the 6/49 lotto has reached P288,146,473.20. Nobody was able to correctly guessed the six number combination yesterday. Lucky us. By Sunday, it is expected to reach a record P300 plus million, thanks to all of us who continue to jack it up with our self-proclaimed winning combinations. Wow. P300 million. That's crazy. If I win, I would buy a helluva lots of properties, from condos and lands, to buildings and farms. I would buy resort islands. I would buy houses overlooking a city and ocean. I would buy stocks from companies (by the way, Meralco's stock value is soaring). I would everything. DREAM ON, BABY.
I have to place my bets earlier. It's gonna be a wild chase to the lotto windows. I remember the time I failed to place my bet when I had taken too much time thinking of the winning combination. It sucked big time. Good thing the numbers didn't appear in the winning combination the following day. Otherwise, I would have never forgiven myself.
Let's wish fate had different plans for all of us. To those who discourage you to bet, tell them to shove it and back off. I don't think playing lotto will ever become a vice, nor an addiction (since there is really nothing enjoyable about it other than the thought of winning it). Lotto is just a platform of hope, a rudder to a dream, an escape pod from a torture ship called reality.
Can money buy everything? Of course not. But who wouldn't want to have enough to buy ALMOST everything you want?
On December 29, 2008 at 9:48pm, Gabriel Enrico, our first child, was born. His cry was the most beautiful cry I ever heard in my life. So fragile, so delicate. He was a sight to behold! He was the fulfillment of a dream my wife and I had weaved through the years. Suddenly, we felt so complete. It was the moment when all you want to do is stare and smile at that little angel and wish he already knew how much he means the world to you. His coming into this world really blew us away. We love him to death and our lives are his forever! Our cute little angel named Gabriel
A gentle and loving species of nuts dabbed on unpredictable absurdity. A half-baked Utaku. An inquisitive half-human, half-spider living in a webbed corner of the Philippines. A self-proclaimed guitarded. A scribbler of nutty ideas.
Our cute little angel named Gabriel
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