There's no point to this entry. It's just one of those Saturdays, with a lot of little nothings.
I wake up trying to remember the things I need to do. Take-home work, thesis, overdue book, what else? Please don't rain too much today.
I try to listen to the rain. None. Good.
I hitch a ride with my dad to the MRT. Have to be in UP before lunch, because the Econ library closes at 12 on Saturdays (Econ people are clearly not book readers). I walk up the stairs. The queue wasn't long, points for MRT! I pass through the gates and chance upona billboard on the upper platform area. The picture has PGMA's huge smiling face (this is what greets passengers on their way to the trains every single day. Imagine that.) It also has a simple outline drawing of the MRT Line, telling me "You are here", and shows the other existing LRT lines and proposed LRT lines, and how they link up with this particular Line.
I work for a consultancy that specializes in infrastructure. We (well, the experts) built LRT2. And some of our partner firms in that project built LRT3 - MRT to everyone else. I ponder on that fact as I try to decipher the criss-crossing lines of the different LRTs in the billboard. Amazing. Transportation. How these blocks of cement and metal (and all the big and little things I don't understand) can carry people from Paranaque to Quezon City to Recto to Kamuning. I look around at people scurrying by, rushing to the trains, and wonder if they can see that, these huge arteries that carry our lifeblood all throughout the metropolis, every second of every day - unless there's a power outage or some other malfunction, then everyone takes the bus and road riots ensue.
What was I saying? Ah. For a brief moment I feel slightly proud of the people and entities who work to build trains and roads and bridges, even though in the actual fact I've never had anything to do with the design and construction of any piece of infrastructure.
I walk away from the billboard immersed in that thought, and go down the stairs to the platform.
Crap, the doors are closing. GMA and her stupid smiling face just made me late for my train. Oh wait here comes another. Is it me or are things working well today?
It takes me about 20 minutes to get from Taft to Quezon Ave, and I spend it listening to the Beatles . Good times, the 60s.
I board the jeep at the terminal beside Quezon Av station. A young boy sits in front, in his mother's lap, with his father in the driver seat. The father keeps on tickling him all throughout the ride, arousing fits of laughter and little legs flying over the dashboard. At Philcoa the boy straightens up and shouts joyously, "Ahh--UP, UP, UP, UP!" cajoling people to get in the jeep in the biggest voice his six-year-old body could muster. His parents laugh at his attempt. Of course this doesn't stop him from belting out once more. I don't feel sad like I usually feel when kids do what adults are supposed to do. Probably because this child isn't working, he isn't being abused (at least not today?). He's playing - the way young middle class children put on their daddies' ties and their mommies' heels, prancing around the carperted room until they trip over their grown-up costumes. For this one Saturday afternoon, I feel slightly...relieved.
I stop at the Econ building and run to the library, to be greeted by an irate librarian who huffs, "OVERDUE." So where's your fire huh, Ms Dragon? I pay the fine and leave immediately. I go to the SC to surf the net and wait for Mark. Lunch at Rodic's would be fabulous today. And it was. The hustle and bustle, the clanking of metal plates, the carinderia-style call-outs for food, and the air of 60 years of Rodic's history invade my senses. Then of course there's the yummy tapsilog. I eat and think, I want to write about this place. I will, I promise.
Later on, Mark and I pass by the "70% Sale" at ISSI before going to SURP. I mull over a pair of Lee jeans while Mark buys shoes. Hm, should I buy these jeans? They look like they fit, but do they? I'm not allowed to fit, so I stare at the thing for a good ten minutes. I finally ask Mark, and he asks back, "is it an immediate need? How many pants do you own?" Well, thanks a lot for the support, man. Parang linya ko ata yan. Tip: Never go to a sale with a man. He will crush your faith. They do not understand it. Yes we do know, sales are not really sales, they are schemes, and often end up ripping us off more than normal purchases do. I know I don't really need the jeans, and I know that logically I should not buy them because, personally, I need to know that they actually fir me, and there's no way of of knowing that here. I even know that it's not actually 70% off. But that is not the point of going to a sale. Going to a sale means feeling good about yourself. Period. Bah.
The rest of my afternoon is spent at the SURP library, trying to lift my mood. I think I'm growing library roots, honestly.
I go to thesis consultation a little later, then off we go to Glorietta to watch Pirates of the Caribbean.
What a funny movie! Could not stop laughing. Can not. Hilarious story, funny characters. Gorgeous Orlando Bloom. After the movie I see a girl whip out her digicam and take a picture of a Pirates poster. I bet you she's zooming in on Orlando. But why would you endeavor to get a 2D copy of a 2D copy of a person? I'd shave off one degree of Kevin Bacon: Picture Version, and plot to get the whole tarpaulin instead. Unless it's a life-size standee of Kimi Raikkonnen, then I could have my picture taken with my arm woven through his cardboard arm. Which I have done by the way, in Duty Free. Hahahaha.
Anyway I go home still laughing at the running cage scene, and with a mental note to watch the first Pirates movie.
So that was my day. It was a good one. Yun lang.
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