Finally Facing My Waterloo

A few people, on occasion, ask me what I do for a living. I tell them I write. The follow-up questions to this are, “Do you write books? Or do you write for magazines and newspapers? Where can I read your work?” By this time in the conversation, I’ve adopted a glazed over look and my mother takes over. She explains, with a kind of patience that I’m not sure I’ll ever develop, that I am a freelance writer working for a company that operates overseas. She adds helpfully that I’m also an editor for an independent publishing company. (They have a book out, she says, would you like to see it?)

I typically find these conversations fascinating, because while it’s happening, a whole separate conversation goes on in my mind. “I write, yes, but writer? No. I’m a paid hack.” The thought entrenches its ass in my head: You are a hack. Say it. SAY IT. THEY HAVE TO KNOW.

Remember, this inner dressing down is happening as my mother is offering the visitor a hot beverage, and I have to excuse myself (to save said visitor from seeing me frothing at the mouth and raving madly about being a shitty writer) to retreat to the silence of my desk.

My playlist is playing in the background, it’s a mixtape of music that was lovingly assembled and given to me several months back. It’s a great mix of slow numbers about having all kinds of time and a light that never goes out, and fast numbers about elevator love letters and flowers in the window. On my computer screen, a blank Word document stares back at me with silent condemnation.

You’re supposed to be writing, the cursor blinks at me angrily. Yes, actually. I should. I’m some 8 thousand words into this thing – it even has a prologue and a chapter and a half.

When Remi asks me how the writing is going, I look at my feet and say, “It’s okay, I guess. It’s just that it’s shit. I’m putting a piece of crap into book form!” She gives me a hug and tells me to stop saying stupid things.

And my friends. Oh, I have such good (and faithful) friends. Lei tells to stop the crazy talk and cheers me on. I asked Karl to test read for me, and since I believe in properly labeling emails, I put in “Crap” on the subject line. Karl replied, “Oh, you writers and your silly self deprecation.”

I don’t know guys. This story is just too big and too out-of-control for me. It feels like it’ll open its giant maw at any moment and swallow me whole. (And if it’s feeling especially mean, like it’s that time of the month or something, it’d regurgitate my half chewed carcass and then eat me again. Just for the shits and giggles.) I’m ill-equipped for this. When dealing with giant monsters that breathe fire and spit acid, you’d want to have the best possible equipment – like a giant robot armor for example. Or even maybe a Rambo knife.

I’m staring at this monster, my monster, as it looms over me, and I’m scared. To death. My wooden sword of Hopes and Dreams seems feeble in my hand. My thick carapace, developed through years of criticism, seems weak and brittle in the face of this monster. Still, I put on my Oh-Screw-It-All Hat (patent pending) and hack away. I retreat often, with my hair singed in places and probably missing both eyebrows. Still, onward I go. I’m not sure why I’m doing it, because dammit, this is probably one of the shittiest things you can ever do to yourself, but onward and forward we go.

Someday (maybe through sheer luck and with my mixtape of awesomeness playing in the background), I’m going to hit that giant rat bastard where it hurts and who’ll be the bitch then?

MSI FX420X-i5545+ Review: Bang for the Buck

I am hardly what tech sites would call a “power user.” I don’t actually render videos or edit images, but I do have a habit of multitasking (read: I overwork computers to the bone) and working long hours. After my Acer AO751h (Acer Vergel) up and died on me and my desktop Old Faithful before that, I’ve finally decided to get a new notebook. I needed a desktop replacement that could still pass being called a mobile computer.  A preliminary online search boiled down to two contenders: the MSI CX480X and the Samsung NP300E4C-A01.

Once we stepped in SM North’s Cyberzone (which is by the way, one of my motherships), the game changed pretty quickly. We found two other contenders, the MSI FX420X and the Lenovo G480. The FX420X won both Remi and I over. Why?

MSI FX420X

The Specs Sheet

For its price, the FX420X-i5545+ specs were eye-catching. It has a second generation Intel Core i5 (2450 which packs a 2.5gHz punch with 3.1 Turboboost), 4gb of DDR3 RAM (16gb max), 500gb HDD, ATi Radeon HD6470M (with 1GB of dedicated video memory), THX sound, 2 USB 2.0 and 2 more USB 3.0 slots.

Design

The other MSI available, the CX480X had pretty much the same specs at the FX420X except for the GeForce video card on the former. It was cheaper by about a thousand pesos, but it was only available in white. The FX420X, on the other hand, had an “anti-fingerprint” textured pattern on the palm rest and lid. According to the manual, it’s also there to prevent scratches and general wear. Personally, I like the finish. It’s not brushed aluminum, but it does not look cheap and plasticky.

Performance

Officially, I’ve only had the notebook for a day and so far I’m impressed. It’s actually advertised as a gaming platform (I do plan to try out Skyrim on this rig) but I think it’ll do for an all-around notebook. I’ve yet to put it through the paces so I’ll maybe do another review once I’ve made it make it jump through flaming hoops.

At the moment, I’m feeling very good about this purchase and am actually tempted to call this rig “Bogart” or “Bruno.” Among the options I had, it offered the biggest bang for the buck. In case you’re wondering why I didn’t get the Lenovo, even though it had a spanking new third gen i3, it was because it’s still i3. No Turboboost. Plus, as a personal rule of thumb, chipmakers win over computer makers. 

Hitting age 29 and the subsequent after effects

Hitting age 29 (also known as two shakes away from 30) three weeks back was nearly the same as hitting 28 last year, except this year, I found myself looking at rent-to-own houses (just 8,000 for a two-storey house!?) and cleaning my “home office” desk.

Let’s start at the beginning. You can see the two previous birthday posts here and here. This year I celebrated without hoping for fireworks and all that hoopla. (Actually, I was on an oh-some vacation the weekend before the long weekend that my birthday heralded so there’s really no reason to complain. I even got two cakes!) My actual birthday was spent like any normal day, because really, there comes a point when you just fail to give a flying fart about it because you’re up to your neck in deadlines. However, there are certain signs about hitting 2-9 that need to be noted.

First, houses. Last week, Nanay was talking to me about Avida’s condo housing, in which she called 30 square meters “cute.” I told her that we (and all our belongings) would not fit in a cubbyhole like that, and thus I subsequently searched for houses that were substantially bigger and cheaper. Then I started looking for houses that fit my budget, with extra room I could convert to an actual home office. I caught myself about 10 web pages in, while I was wondering about down payment and amortization schemes for a 2-storey, 50 square meter house with a balcony and a garage.

Today, I looked at my desk, which normally looked like a tornado sucked up random shit and regurgitated it on the poor unsuspecting table, and put everything in order. (Family members typically don’t touch my stuff either because they’re afraid they’d accidentally throw away a vital scrap of paper with an important plot point or they’re simply waiting for me to clean my own shit, which never really happens.) Nanay had gotten a small multi-purpose drawer which I immediately swiped and I organized everything into it: bills, writing implements, various screwdrivers, camera stuff, and notebooks.

So yeah. The signs point to an aging sensibility and a warping set of priorities, but more importantly, I realized that I lacked the alarm that came with ‘God, I’m old’ epiphanies. I never really minded how old I was on paper as long as I was left in peace with my Legos, so there’s no “OMFG I’M MATURE LOLz” sort of reaction. I still got hit by the typical hoshit-I'm-29-and-have-nothing-to-show-for-it feeling, but overall, I like where I am and wherever I'm going, I'm going to get there eventually. (Midpoint of writing this paragraph, I obviously forgot what my point was.)

So anyway, 29. Camown mamown, lesdudis. 

Wanted: Kilig

Kilig is a tagalog word that doesn’t have an English equivalent. I like to think it’s because it’s such a beautiful and dangerous thing. The closest thing that can describe/define the word is butterflies in one’s stomach – it basically makes you all mushy and giggly inside.

My friend, Lei, is in want of kilig.

The first thing we need to discuss is why. I am a firm believer that everybody deserves and needs kilig in their lives. Seriously. It’s the stuff of magic (and procreation, but I’m getting ahead of myself) and dreams and unicorns and rainbows. The mere fact that it exists is a wonder in itself since let’s face it, a whole lot of people don’t need love or kilig to procreate. For some people, all that’s needed is alcohol and maybe some stupid notion that the world needs their offspring. Lei is a perfectly pretty, smart, and capable woman. (I’ve said this before, but I’ll say it again: Had she been born a man, women would be flinging themselves at his feet, begging for him to sire their children.) It’s a wonder however, that she keeps encountering rat bastards and until about a year and a half ago, we had been making Spinster Contingency plans together.

Her heart has been broken several times, and seriously, this shit has to stop. Her most recent heartrending adventure involved a guy who was okay on paper. He’s moderately successful, not married, and was sufficiently smart enough to keep up. My friend had again fallen victim to good packaging.

Do you know why chips come in those shiny packages? We’re drawn to pictures on the outside of the bags, barely paying attention to the helpful nutritional information at the back, because fuck calories, you’re already sure that crispy goodness awaits inside.

We’ve all fallen victim to this wretched thing. We take the bag of chips to the checkout counter, happy until we get home and discover that roaches had beaten us to the punch. The classic mistake is that we hold on to the bag.

Wait, I’ve digressed. Obviously, I have a whole slew of things to say about this, and not all of them I can say aloud in front of my mother, who will wash my mouth with muriatic acid. And believe me, my Nanay has an entire shelf of patience for me and my foul mouth.

The last rat bastard she dated, who we shall call Not-Derek Ramsay, slept around because decency is apparently too much to ask. (If decency is something that you feel you can’t provide, then by all means, say so. If you can’t be decent, I hope to Batman that you can be fair because for all you know, that’s what you’d wish you had been once you’re staring at the undercarriage of my car after I’ve run you over repeatedly. Sorry, Hulk mode.)  

Anyway, like I said, my friend Lei needs kilig. She’s great, but you’ll need to deserve it. You need metaphorical balls (not just the anatomical appendages) to date her, because seriously any woman with a good head on her shoulders will require you to possess balls of solid steel.

According to my friend Mabie, it’s a tall order. “It’s hard to find a guy with his own set of those when the girls have emptied the shelves long before,” says the woman with a self-awarded Ph.D. on Heartbreak. “What we need is a guy whom we can entrust our own balls of solid steel for practical use and safekeeping. We have a uterus already for crying out loud!”

Lei, in addition to having in her possession a set of metaphorical balls and a uterus, has a career, cares deeply for her family, and can give you all the happiness in the world. I want for her to realize that she doesn’t deserve a roach-infested bag of chips. She deserves a lot more. And I think that’s the fatal flaw in all of us. We tolerate what we think we deserve, not realizing that we deserve the world, we deserve fidelity for heaven’s sake, and we deserve respect.

So again. My friend is in want of kilig. She REQUIRES kilig. No, not that shallow idea of having somebody she can have coffee with or can have sex with. She deserves somebody who will give her kilig for the rest of her life.

P.S. Can you help me find kilig for my friend? Or better yet, can YOU provide kilig for Lei? If you feel you can, then please say so in the comments below. You'll need to prepare a Certificate of Singleness, a certificate from a psychiatrist that you are of sound sanity, and a 1000-word essay about why you deserve somebody as awesome as Lei.

Tales from the Trenches

*Caveat: In case you haven’t noticed, I bitch a lot. It doesn’t mean I abhor what I do or anything like that, it’s just that sometimes a Bitch Break is all that’s needed to move forward.*

At around 5 AM today, I finished the first part of a nightmare. There are approximately 8 or 9 more parts to this nightmare so at the rate I’m going, this’ll be ready by the end of the next century. I need it sooner than that, of course, and I’m looking into cloning and also time travel.

Officially, this is the first time I’ve ever done this kind of thing, as I knew that it is a major soul sucking endeavor and I would have to be crazy to even attempt it. All the other writers will understand when I say this: It feels like I’m slathering shit upon a page. I feel like I’m back in high school again – writing stuff that sucked so severely that they didn’t merit saving.

At one point, I considered deleting the draft and never looking back. Seriously, I don’t even know how Remi can put up with me when I’m in this state. It starts with a feverish bout of maniacal writing, then the steam goes kaput and I go into a downward spiral that ends in a pit that’s as shitty as my writing.

Actually, no. If you want a more eloquent explanation, check out what Libba Bray has to say about The No Good, Horrible,Very Bad Writing Day.

Still though, I whine but at the end of the day, I have to bust out the drums and sing The Battle Song of the Storyteller (by Chuck Wendig). Sing with me:

I don’t know what the fuck my story is.

But I know that it is more than ink on a page.

It’s blood. And spit. And sweat. And milk.

The story is whatever I want it to be.

Anything at all. Open season. Empty page. Tabula rasa. Solve-for-X.

I am a storyteller and I swim in possibilities.

I am a storyteller and I command the ideas to get in line and march as I say.

I am a storyteller and the audience belongs to me as much as I belong to them.

I am a storyteller and I will nail this narrative to the wall.

I am a storyteller and I will write the tits off this motherfucker.

I am a storyteller and this is my sexy party, yo.

I am a storyteller and I am the story told.

I am a storyteller and I will finish the tale I am telling.

Wreck-It Ralph trailers

Personally, I avoid videogame movies or crossovers like the plague – or at least, I wait for them to be shown on free TV or cable. However, Disney’s newest animated offering Wreck-It Ralph piqued my interest since Remi and I first caught the trailer. Come on, I’m a videogame geek (actually, we both are) and how can we resist seeing all of those videogame villains in one epic movie?

Judging from the trailers, the movie centers around Ralph, the villain in the game Fix-It Felix, Jr., is sick and tired of being the bad guy and thus seeks to find approval. Well, of course, shenanigans then ensue. The cast is pretty solid with John C. Reilly as Ralph, Sarah Silverman as Vanellope von Schweetz, and Jane Lynch as Sergeant Tamora Jean Calhoun.