Adventures Of A Father Davidian

(In which yours truly stars as the harrassed--not what you're thinking--student of Fr. David, my brilliant and strange Philosophy professor)

My wonderful day yesterday started with a Philosophy exam. After we had struggled through it, Fr. David began handing out tons upon tons of handouts. Guess how many pages we have to read this Christmas? On which we have another test when we come back after the break? Guess! Guess!

No, you're not even close. It's about a thousand pages worth of Foucault.

I love Christmas presents.

After this inspiring gift, Fr. David proceeded to lecture on Foucault, and as usual, when the bell rang, he said, "Just a few more minutes," and wound up his lecture with maybe two minutes to spare before the second bell. He can't resist imparting his pearls of wisdom.

I ran all the way from Bellarmine Hall, third floor to Kostka, third floor (maybe two soccer fields in length, not including the stairs yet) in my super-mega-traction Reeboks, put on that morning especially for that occasion.

I got to my Theology exam with maybe a minute to spare (yeah, maybe I should join the track team), and finished it in twenty minutes flat.

After that, I raced off to my dorm to finish typing my humongous paper for Fr. David, to be submitted at 6pm. (I reached my dorm at 1:20pm.)

And then I realized I'd left my jacket back at the Theo classroom. It took me about 2 seconds to decide that the Fr. David paper came first.

Finished the paper at 5:10.

(An aside. We were required to submit at least 12 pages worth of philosophical analyis, size 10 font, 1.5 spacing. But, Fr. David said, if you submit just the minimum page requirement, you receive a minimal grade. Length counts in this instance, he said.)

(So guess how many pages I churned out? Never mind, you'll never guess. Twenty-eight! I checked to see how long it would be in normal format--size 12 font, double spaced--well, it came to 56 pages--fully footnoted and researched, too. Hot damn. It's like a thesis all over again. And I did that in 15 hours. You may begin worshipping me now.)

Plenty of time to spare, I thought, until I tried to print it. And of course, the printer wouldn't print.

I wasted 20 minutes fiddling with it, then realized it was 5:30.

(For those who don't know, Father David is the absolute god of Punctuality. Papers even one second late are not accepted--I'm not exaggerating here--and every class, he warns us to be there hours before the submission date, just to be sure.)

"Every sem," Father David says, "there are seven people who are late in handing in their papers, no matter how much I tell them to pass them on time."

Shit, I thought, I'm going to be one of those.

I raced to school computer lab, printed out the two copies required, and realized I had forgotten my wallet.

I begged the guy to let me pay the next day, and he agreed. (God will reward him when he gets to heaven.)

I took off for the Jesuit residence, which was about forty million miles away, and got there at 5:45pm.

And then I saw that the others also had brown envelopes.

Now, I distinctly remember taking down everything Fr. David said about requirements, and I did not hear anything about brown envelopes. A lot of people had them, a lot didn't. What the hell?

The people with brown envelopes said they were required. I thought maybe Fr. David had neglected to tell our class. But what if I just hadn't heard it?

Fr. David wasn't there--he had just asked the concierge at the desk to take in the papers before 6pm.

I submitted my paper, then raced all the way back to the cafeteria to buy a brown envelope.

Of course, it was closed. Murphy's law, and all that.

I wandered around the halls aimlessly, frantically trying to think of a way to dig up a brown envelope. (Because there was no telling what Fr. David would do if the brown envelope really was required.) I didn't have time to run to National Bookstore outside the campus. I thought, dang, what if he rejects my paper? (Our entire grade is based on two papers, and this was the first.) I saw my entire life flash before my eyes. (Can you imagine flunking a class in your last sem as a senior and being forced to graduate late because of that one freakin' class?)

At this point, I saw it.

There was a brown envelope hanging from one of the bulletin boards along the walkway, slightly dilapidated, with paper stuck to it saying 'Admissions Here'. Apparently it was for people to pass their resumes to apply for something.

I went up close to take a look, and noted that there was nothing inside, and the poster asking for admissions was weeks old.

So--you law-abiding people won't want to hear this--I stole it.

Aw, c'mon, it was just a cheap envelope. Really old and dilapidated, with holes from the tacks besides. I'm sure I needed it more than that bulletin board ever did.

I ripped off the paper saying 'Admissions Here', and raced back. At this point God took pity on me and put some friends right in my way, who kindly drove me over to the Jesuit residence.

The concierge let me take my papers and slip them into the envelope--it was about 6pm then. (Nice guy, that. God's going to reward him, too, I bet.)

I went home and collapsed on my bed.

And there ends my tiring day. My Christmas break has officially started. Whoop-de-do.

Haggling

My mother is a Legendary Haggler. (Not hag, I said haggler.)

She marches up to vendors and starts talking, about the price, the weather, the condition of the doohickey she's buying, the use it'll be put to, how much cheaper it is at the other stalls, etcetera, and before you know it, she's gotten the price down to maybe 40 percent.

Vendors hide when they see her coming.

Unfortunately, I haven't inherited this useful talent.

This is me, haggling:

Imo: Magkano 'to? (How much?)
Vendor: P160.
Imo: Um, pwedeng P140 nalang? (Can you make it P140 instead?)
Vendor: Hindi. (No.)
Imo: Okay.

Or occasionally:

Imo: Magkano 'to? (How much?)
Vendor: P160.
Imo: Um, pwedeng P140 nalang? (Can you make it P140 instead?)
Vendor: Hindi. (No.)
Imo: (grinning timidly) Sige na... (C'mon...)
Vendor: Sige. (Okay.)

But the first scenario happens a lot more than the second.

It isn't that I don't know how to haggle--I'm probably an expert after seeing my mom do it so many times--it's more, I guess, that I don't quite have the nerve.

It's a bit of showmanship, I guess, to haggle with true art, and to end up with both parties smiling and exchanging sweet farewells. The vendors look as surly as ever when I leave them; my mother's vendors want to be her slaves.

I'll screw up my nerve when we go to China. The vendors will probably think, "Oh, an ignorant tourist."

Hah. Let's see about that.

Christmas Break

Some of you know this, some don't, but anyway, I won't be blogging during the break. The school's the only place where I can get free internet access.

Oh, I'll try--find an internet cafe or something, but when I go out with money in my pocket, I usually end up spending it on books. (No self-discipline, I know.)

* * * * *

I came back to the computer lab today to pay for the printing. (It was P168, in case you're interested.) I was the only person in the lab, and the technicians were overjoyed when I sat down at a computer. They said, "Take a computer! Take ten!" and one guy said, "Wow, we should hold a premiere for this hard-working student? Who's your teacher? Let's call him!"

Hah. As if I'd come to do research on the first day of freedom.

After an hour or so, however, a few other students trickled in. There are now six of us here. Whoopee.

* * * * *

I got my jacket back. Ran all over school this morning hunting down the guy in charge of that particular classroom, and he took it out from a locked closet.

It now smells faintly of turpentine, but I'm wearing it anyway because it's cold.

* * * * *

Julie came by from China for a day. We didn't get to talk much, because we were both rushing. I was on my way to the Philo exam, and she was going home to visit her family in a while.

You know how, when a friend leaves for another country, you store up everything that's been happening to tell her, and when the moment comes, everything's in a rush, and reality gets in the way, and you end up talking about nothing at all?

I miss her already.

* * * * *

We left KFC, and a street kid opened the door for us. We went to the tricycle stand, and I said, "You know, I think that kid was hoping for a tip."

Julie looked at me and said, "Actually, yeah."

I shrugged. "Tough."

Julie laughed. "I missed your callousness."

This didn't offend me in the least, as it was true. "Why, are you surrounded by bleeding hearts back in China?"

"Yeah."

"Tsk, tsk..."

* * * * *

I glanced through some of the readings Fr. David gave us. They're photocopies from various books, all on Michel Foucault. (Must've been some guy.) And then I saw that some of them were by Fr. David himself.

Published in New York, and so on. Internationally distributed books. (Critical Essays On Michel Foucault, etcetera.)

I'm desperately impressed.

Gee.

* * * * *

I'm taking down the tag-board for this break, because people's tags get erased by subsequent tags, and I won't have seen them then. Use the comments box. It's purple.

Neopets

Okay, since it's the Christmas break, you'll probably shortly be bored out of your skull.

In which case, click this and sign up.




(My username is larenleigh, in case you were wondering, because I saw it in a book once. Anyway.) Actually, what I'm really after in Neopets is the stock market. It's fun!

Anyway, it's cute, give it a shot.

Oblation Run

I can't believe this, I'm thinking, standing on the stairway with maybe a couple thousand people or more, thronging around me, filling the hallways and corridors and spilling outside the buildings. Guys, girls and gays--we're all looking for the best spot to be in when the Oblation Run starts.

(The Oblation Run, my dear innocents, consists of neophytes for the Phi Beta Alpha fraternity of UP running around campus. They each carry a long-stemmed rose to give to whichever onlooker catches their eye, and wear plastic masks. They also do this, of course, naked as jaybirds.)

Everyone's screaming and chattering, and here and there are cameramen from all the TV stations. They cover the Oblation Run every year (with censors, of course, for the--er, inappropriate body parts).

I'm not exactly sure why I'm here, waiting to see some guys run around displaying their manly attributes. It's more the fact, I think, that this is my last chance to see the Oblation Run before I graduate and leave the country, than any serious desire to feast my eyes on..er, beauty unadorned. (Please. I'm not that desperate yet.)

We spend a lot of time walking up and down and looking for the perfect spot. Along the corridors and hallways, people are already lined as though for a parade, and we finally settle on a spot on the stairs.

(We could've gotten good spots along the hallway, too, if my friends hadn't been so embarrassed about the TV cameras possibly filming them. I'm thinking, who cares?--but I go with them anyhow.)

The people somewhere outside start screaming, and the screams travel down the line of people along the halls as we see some heads (not that kind of head, you pervert) bobbing up and down past the crowd in the distance. The screams and cheers trail off in the distance, and I see the TV cameramen chasing after the disembodied heads, cameras held high over their heads. (The things these guys do for a living.)

After a lot more screams and false alarms--it's over.

* * * * *

Yeah, to cut it short, we went to UP to watch the Oblation Run, picked the wrong spot, and missed it.

All I got to see were some naked butts disappearing into the distance, through a window.

Jeez.

I feel rather cheated.

Not that I wanted to see their, er, thingies, but since I was there anyhow, and that's the whole idea of the Oblation Run...

* * * * *

There were a few Koreans and Americans scattered through the crowd. So the Oblation Run's becoming a tourist attraction?

Note

Yeah, I know I said I was going to study, etcetera, but man, who can resist an Oblation Run? Especially as it was my last chance to see it.

And I didn't see it--hmph--and I've come here to sulk.

* * * * *

Thanks to everyone who voted for me. At least I don't have just one vote to my name. Haha.

I was looking over the best blogs, etcetera, listed, and I saw that I'd also been nominated for some other categories. Hah.

(No, I did not nominate myself. Honest.)

Anyway, I've probably got a lot more chance of bagging the Best Philippine Blog Award (leading guy's got 30+ votes) than the Best Asian Blog (leading guy's got, uh, 226 votes).

Okay, I'm pretty pathetic, but it's soothing my ego to see myself nominated for something. Bear with me.

And now I've got to go read two stupid readings.

And a merry Christmas to you, too. Humph.

Bah, Humbug

I am feeling quite irritable and am liable to bite off the head of the next person who so much as looks at me. The stress is getting to me. And Father David, too.

Some utter ass in the class before ours, knowing full well that Fr. David believes highlighted texts to be proof of your having read the reading, went to class without highlights. In the chapter they were reporting on. And sat next to Fr. David in front, where he couldn't have missed seeing the total whiteness of the pages if he were cross-eyed and had double vision.

Father David interrogated the guy, found he couldn't answer many questions about the chapter (on which his group was reporting that day), and raised all hell. He inspected everyone's readings.

When our class came in, he inspected two readings at random from the front row, found they didn't have highlights in the latter 50% of the readings, and decided he would give a test this Wednesday. One objective detailed question for each chapter, to make sure we read.

He was quite reasonable about it. "Your papers on the entire Therapy of Desire are due on Friday. If you haven't read it by now, you are unlikely to read it all between Wednesday and Friday, and do a twelve-page paper."

If we get more than 4 questions wrong, we flunk the test. If we get less than 4 answers right, we automatically get an F on the paper, but we still have to pass it all the same.

* * * * *

I have read till Chapter 6, and have now forgotten all I labored through in the first six chapters.

Frigging hell. How am I going to read all 800 pages again in 2 days? (Less, actually, since my Tuesdays are booked 9am-7:30pm with classes).

Frigging bloody hell.

If I ever find out who that utter asinine moron with camel dung for brains is, who sat next to Fr. David with unhighlighted texts and hadn't even read the chapter his group was reporting on...

Forced Hiatus

Everything's happening this week. Fr. David's test on Wednesday, a new 333-page reading also to have been read by Wednesday, his 12-page paper (size 10 font, 1.5 spacing, must be fully researched and footnoted, oh, joy) on Friday.

Theology exam on Friday, our Media Law project proposals, Theology project proposals, stupid Creative Writing for Advertising class assignments (he gives one million idiotic touchy-feely workshop assignments every meeting) on Tuesday, an Asian Film paper due this Thursday.

I think the only subject that hasn't made any demands for this week is Public Relations.

Julie's flying home this Thursday to visit us, and heading back for Beijing Saturday.

Everything is happening, and there aren't enough hours in the day to keep up.

I hate to do this, but blogging does take up a sizeable chunk of time, and I think I'll have to cut it out for this week.

And I guess you won't be hearing from me over the Christmas break, either, as I access the net at school.

I'll probably give a shout around Friday, if I'm still alive by then.

Plug

Oh, yes, I hear from Tiepee that I've actually been nominated for best..er, something here. It's pretty pathetic, because I got only one vote, but who cares? I was nominated!

Anyway, check out the other blogs, also in the other categories as well, some of them are pretty interesting.

Oh, and--hint, hint--bring me joy this Christmas and vote for me.

So at least I'll have two votes to my name. Haha.

More Weird Text Messages

Okay, this is getting beyond funny.

Someone must have posted my number on a bathroom wall or something. How are these strange people finding my number?

There's this weird guy who's been texting me since a few days ago, evidently under the delusion that I'm his mother or something. (I think)

Three days ago: I'm at home. Please call
(Evidently taken from the template)

I ignored this, and nothing more came up that day.

Then, two nights ago:Txt ka nlng pag tpos kna mag CR.
("Just text [me] when you're done using the CR.") (What is this? Are they in some far-out ooga-booga jungle where they have to text each other from the bathroom?)

What on earth..? I thought, if this is some kind of pervert's slang for something, I'm getting rid of it. So I sent this intimidating reply:

Who're you?

The guy ignored me and continued sending weird messages.

Ang bilis naman yata mam
("That seems rather fast, ma'am") (Does this refer to Ma'am's bathroom usage?)

E2 nka hga 2log nko gud pm mam love?
(Er..this doesn't seem to make much sense, but roughly translated, it says something like "I'm lying here asleep good night ma'am love")

He sent this last message ten times. I kid you not.

At this point I couldn't stand it any longer, and let loose.

Alright, who IS this? How did you get my #? Stop sending me idiotic messages. You have the wrong #.

There was a stunned silence for a few minutes, then my phone began to ring. The weirdo was calling me.

I thought about it for a moment, then snatched it up and snarled, "Hello?"

There was a long pause, then, sounding really dorky, some guy said, "Hello?"

Now if there's anything I hate in the world, it's people who call you up and then keep up a hello-ing conversation for the first few minutes.

"Hello! What is it?" I barked.

There was another long pause, then the guy said again, "Hello?"

This really raised my hackles.

"Whaaaaaaaaat?!!" I snarled.

Another long pause, and then, incredibly, "Hello?"

What I thought next is unprintable--suffice to say, if only a cellphone could be banged down, I would have. Instead I just ended the call with an unsatisfying click.

After a moment, the weirdo sent a message.

K, im sry.
("Ok, I'm sorry.")

This immediately made me feel guilty of course, like I was an ogre frightening a poor guy who'd only been texting someone he'd thought was his--er, boss? mother?--whoever.

So I said to myself, okay, I'm going to be nicer to the next weirdo who texts me.

The very next night, another strange text came, and it was from the same weirdo!

Mam mazta kna tpid ko lod ko kc po wla akng lod kya ngyn lng ako txt nka uwi knb ng dorm ("Ma'am how're you am saving my load because I don't have load so it's only now that I text have you gone back to your dorm")

At this point I was frothing at the mouth. Of all the nerve...! And to think I'd felt sorry for him!

What # are you texting? I said you have the wrong #.

I was going to add some colorful remarks, too, to dissuade him from further stupid texts, but decided I'd be magnanimous and leave it at that. Besides, it would only waste credits.

There haven't been any texts after last night. Hmph. Let them just try it.

* * * * *

While we're on the subject, I'm going to tell you about three other weird texts I got. They haven't been the only ones, but they were the most memorable.

Text #1: Nane kunin na kalabw pauwi nko kunin mna
("Nane get the carabao already I'm going home get it now")

Text #2: Pare balik kayo dito nadisgrasya si Utoy. Tulungan natin pare, balik kayo!
("Dude get back here Utoy's in trouble. Let's help him dude, get back here!")

Text#3: Mama come fetch me na! I want to go home na!

This last text was sent several times in the middle of the night.

Now, I am not particularly happy when I am awakened in the middle of the night, particularly not by a message sent wrongly several times.

I was too sleepy, however, to text whoever it was and tell her off (I'm presuming a guy wouldn't run around saying, "Mama fetch me,") so I just went back to sleep.

This was followed by my phone ringing. The idiot was calling.

I reached over and aborted the call.

Seconds later, the idiot called again.

This really annoyed me, as I was still mostly unconscious and tired and just wanted to sleep. "What a freaking idiot," I remember thinking. "How can you get your mother's number wrong?"

So I reached over again, and answered it this time, but I didn't say anything and laid the phone down on the table.

I don't remember now what I had in mind, but I think I was hoping the girl's credits would be used up and she'd stop disturbing me.

Anyway, it worked, and I got to sleep for the rest of the night undisturbed.

* * * * *

Honestly. Obviously these people are either a) all playing a joke on me; b) texting someone they know well, but have sent it to my number.

Choice a) is pretty farout, but b)? What the hell...? In the first place, normal people usually have their friends' numbers stored in their phones, so they can just click on it and send. How the hell can they get it wrong?

My sister says the networks must have gotten their wires crossed or something. Hmph.

Well, I wish they'd uncross mine already. Like, yesterday.

Humbug Christmas Songs

There are some Christmas songs that just get on my nerves when I hear them being played. My teeth grind together, and my hackles rise, and I want to find the radio or whatever it is and rip it to bits.

At the top of my list is that song by Michael Jackson when he was little. The one that goes "I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus, underneath the mistletoe last night, etc."

There's this part where he says, "If Daddy had only seen Mommy kissing Santa Claus last night!"

And then he goes on to talk to some guys, saying, "I did, I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus, and I'm going to tell my Daddy!" in this annoying self-righteous tone.

Stupid kid. I know it's supposed to be cute and all that he doesn't know that Santa Claus is his Daddy, but what the hell does he want to do? Cause a divorce, huh? All because of some fat guy with a beard who only comes once a year, anyhow?

* * * * *

And then there's that idiotic song sung locally--I think it's by Jose Mari Chan. There're these lines that go "Christmas children peep into Christmas windows.."

Now what the hell are "Christmas children"? Are they little beings dressed up with tinsel and Christmas lights, maybe? Or made up to look like Santa's elves? And any homeowner seeing these apparitions peeping into their "Christmas windows" would throw a bucket of water on them.

And then there's some line about Christmas presents under the tree, and "what delights they hide". Then this really fruity female voice desperately trying to sound like a kid chimes in, "But till Christmas morning no one knows."

And then--this is probably their finest moment--they all chorus together for the next line, "Won't it be exciting if it snows?"

What the hell..? In the first place, it wouldn't be "exciting" if it snowed here; it'd be a bloody catastrophe. Imagine the effect on people who've lived in the tropics for millions of years. We'd all die of pneumonia in the first week. (Keep in mind it's a local song.)

Additionally, it is so obvious that the author couldn't think of anything to rhyme with "knows", and just came up with this total non sequitur, just so "snows" could match "knows".

* * * * *

And finally, there's this local song that's not really a Christmas song, but which carollers always sing at each house. When they've gotten the money from the homeowner, they go, "Tenk yu, tenk yu, ang babait/ babarat ninyo, tenk yu!" ("Thank you, thank you, you're so kind/ cheap, thank you!")

The stupid song with its stupid lyrics and the stupid nasal accents with which they always sing it makes me want to toss a Christmas tree on top of them. With the lights on. And then throw a bucket of water after it so they'll be electrocuted and I won't have to hear that idiotic song anymore.

Grrr.

Sites

This is just to say to a fellow blogger who's been missing in action for a while: Welcome Back!

Oh, yes, and I love Marz's new layout. Check out the little yellow floaty hearts. Hahaha! I laughed myself sick at them--dunno why, but I really get a kick out of 'em.

And finally, check out Kookie's post about her brother and his digicam. I especially love the part where he's begging to go into the bathroom. Hahahaha!

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Text Messages

I don't know why, but I always get these strange text messages on my phone.

Strange because they're from people I never met in my life (although I do get some pretty weird ones from those I do know, at that).

Two nights ago I got this:

Dko cnsbi n msm kng tao kya lang ang msm ung ssbihin at iicipin ng tao kc may iniingatan akong reputasyon ykong mcr ako s tao

(Rough translation: I'm not saying you're a bad person but what's bad is what people will say and think because I have a reputation to think of I don't want myself to be demeaned before other people)

I thought, what on earth, and then it occurred to me that it might be for my sister, as her phone died on her recently.

So I sent back this brilliant reply:

What? Who's this? Is this for Ireene or for me?

A few minutes later, I got a reply.

Hu u? wat ur name?

This annoyed the daylights out of me.

Look, what are you doing sending me messages if you don't even know who I am?

I waited several minutes before the reply came.

Pwd b pki tgalog dko maintindihan sory mbb lng pinagaralan ko pki lng tglog pls

(Rough translation: Could you please put that in Tagalog I can't understand sorry I only got primary education please put that in Tagalog please)

Okay, I thought, this guy is definitely not someone I know. And I'm wasting phone credits here.

So I didn't reply.

Jeez, how are these weird people finding my number?

Kooky Profs

We're sitting in Media Law class, and the prof (a real live attorney, by the way), is droning on about copyrights and patents.

I'm half-comatose, scribbling down random phrases that sound important.

"A patent lasts 50 years..."

Suddenly she says, "Two goats were in a meadow."

Wait a minute, I think. Did I hear that right?

She goes on. "One was eating a book, and the other was eating a film roll."

Other people around us are starting to sit up, too.

"The one eating the book says to the one eating the film, 'So, how did you find the film?' The one eating the film says, 'I liked the book better.'"

We groan in unison. "Ma'am..."

She grins at us. "Just checking to see if you were awake."

And then she goes back to copyright details.

* * * * *

I love Sir Sev. He's got this incredibly funny way of telling things, and every class is a laugh session (and we do learn, besides).

For instance, he was showing slides of Manila Zoo as a potential public relations project, and there came this slide of a kind of concrete crater with not a tree in sight. In the corner was a tiger lying on his side, so flat that it looked like he was a squashed cockroach. The tiger hadn't even bothered to look at whoever had taken the picture.

"There," Sir said, "is the most depressed tiger in Southeast Asia."

This broke us up. And then he proceeded to show us the "choreographed elephant" (comes out every 5 minutes to have his picture taken, then goes back into his hidey-hole) and the "spitting monkey" (named for obvious reasons). And so on.

Sir also loves to shout, in his boisterous way, "Go away!" when class is done. The Comm students, knowing him, laugh and gather up their things and go away.

He told us that when he tried it with non-Comm students, they simply sat there and stared at him with shocked faces.

He finally managed to shoo them out, after a while.

Food For Thought

I love Walt Whitman. This is one of his poems that, interestingly enough, came up in Philosophy class a while ago. I won't bore you with how it got all convoluted through mind-twisting dialectics.

I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain’d;
I stand and look at them long and long.

They do not sweat and whine about their condition;
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins;
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God;
Not one is dissatisfied—not one is demented with the mania of owning things;
Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago;
Not one is respectable or industrious over the whole earth.

So they show their relations to me, and I accept them;
They bring me tokens of myself—they evince them plainly in their possession.

I wonder where they get those tokens:
Did I pass that way huge times ago, and negligently drop them?

More On Father D

Why am I blogging a lot about him lately? I suppose it's because his darn class and readings take up soooo much of my time and mental energy. I stay up late at night reading stupid Philosophy readings and wake up early to read some more.

And I guess it's also because he's such a character. I love crazy, quirky teachers! He isn't exactly barrels of joy like my nutty Comm teachers, but he's a character in a different sense, and he's brilliant. Wish I had half his mind.

* * * * *

Guy Philo classmate of mine is with a bunch of other guys in the Bel field filming a documentary for some other class.

Suddenly someone says, "Excuse me, boys, I have to water the plants."

They look around, and it's good ol' Father David, still in his habitual polo shirt and slacks, only carrying a huge bucket of water. He goes up to the little saplings in the field, and gives them each a good drenching.

Then he goes away.

* * * * *

Someone told me Father David plants trees all the time on the campus. It's to make up for the tons of paper we use up photocopying the thousands of pages' worth of readings he assigns.

Haha. Penance, or something.

* * * * *

Oh, this isn't Fr. David, but the guys told me there was this teacher back in Ateneo high school who'd get seriously upset whenever anyone stepped on the grass.

"Don't step on the grass!" he'd bark. "How would you like it if the grass stepped on you?"

(Hahahahahahahahaha! Ohmigosh, I rolled around laughing when I heard that.)

And there was this boy who plucked a leaf from a tree. The teacher got upset at that, too, and--get this--had the boy tape the leaf back on the tree.

(Hahaha. Oh, dear.)

Tag-board Problems

I'm thinking of removing the Tag-board from my blog, because it always takes ten million years for the right panel to load.

I do love the extra color it adds, though.

Hmm.

Ah, if only Zonkboard hadn't started charging.

Blog-hi-ing

Hello, kids. Today I want you to make new friends. Drop by any five of these great blogs and say hi. Preferably those you've never been to before, of course.

Who knows? They just might say hi back.

And oh, yes, I want to say hi to my theo classmate, who gave me a shock dropping by out of the blue (how did you find me, and how did you know it was me?), and also to killerpusit, an intermittent visitor.

(Hmm, I sound like one of those glitzy talk show hosts: "I want to say thanks to my hairdresser, and my dog, and...")