If This Is The Future Of The Internet, I'm Pulling The Plug
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Posted:Feb 16, 2010 6:47 am
Last Updated:Jul 4, 2010 6:17 am 31395 Views
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I haven't blogged for a while, but some new developments that came to my attention pried me out of the blogging apathy that's gotten hold of me because I felt a serious need to get the word out there.
A friend of mine was freaking out over the IM because she just caught her teenaged on both the chatroulette and Omegle sites, which are apparently the newest trends to sweep the internet. The premise of chatroulette is that you can cam and chat with random strangers matched up for you by the site, and if you're not feeling some chemistry, you can click on to the next random profile. Naively, I asked her what was wrong with that--the premise seemed harmless enough. She dared me to check them both out.
So check them out I did, first logging on to chatroulette (with my cam not enabled--wasn't going to put myself out there just on a whim), where within 10 seconds I realized why she was freaking out.
Perverts. A whole lot of them. A whole lot of bird flipping, cyber soliciting, a whole slew of horny college boys asking you if you're a female and would you turn your camera on and raise your blouse so they can check your boobs out. Disturbingly, on cam, making me wonder where the hell their parents are considering the plethora of perverts I encountered there. Close ups of the male organ being worked to a frenzy, making me wish whoever those idiots were on the other end of cyberspace would pull a nerve and do themselves a major injury. I lasted all of 10 minutes.
Omegle wasn't much better, although this one had no webcam involved, just random chatting with strangers whose age or gender remain unknown unless it was volunteered. A lot of on that site. A LOT of . A lot of perverts as well, and boy, did I have fun with THOSE. My foray into the Omegle world went thus:
You are now chatting with a random stranger. Start typing!
Stranger: Hi
Me: Hi
Stranger: asl?
Me: Female, somewhere in Asia. You?
Stranger: Milano, male.
Me: Oh, that's lovely, Italy's wonderful.
Stranger: Can I ask you a question?
Me: Shoot.
Stranger: Would you like to see Italian c**k?
Me: No thanks, I bet I've seen better salami. *Disconnect*
You are now chatting with a random stranger. Start typing!
Stranger: Hey!
Me: Hey!
Stranger: I've got a big d***!
Me: I bet mine's bigger than yours!
Stranger: WTF??? *Disconnect*
You are now chatting with a random stranger. Start typing!
Stranger: I'm a girl with big boobs and I want to talk dirty!
Me: Honey, I'm gay. Bet they're implants, too.
Stranger: *Disconnect*
But there were some connections that were actually worthwhile. The young Korean college student who wanted to be a policeman and needed someone to practice his English with, and was so profoundly grateful for the impromptu English lessons I gave him that it touched me. A 17 year old new mother who needed a break from breastfeeding, and was feeling depressed and disconnected from her friends. A 19 year old young man who was so impressed with the fact that I knew who Yngwie Malmsteen was that he dropped his guard and took me to his metal band's FB page, pronouncing me "major cool" for a 41 year old matron.
On the whole though, I have a beef with these sites, simply for the fact that they are SO unregulated it's only a matter of time before some pedophile pretending to be 17 catches a 14 year old unawares (and yes, some admit to being actually younger than 14--I'm just hoping they're all undercover cops patrolling the site, though that's too much to wish for), if it hasn't happened already.
So this is really me sounding the alarm to parents out there, and to those who have young, computer savvy relatives.
As if we needed any more reasons to be vigilant over the web.
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RIP Corazon Aquino
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Posted:Aug 1, 2009 3:51 am
Last Updated:Feb 16, 2010 6:48 am 27446 Views
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You will be missed. You became a symbol of hope and a galvanizing force after two decades of darkness.
May eternal light shine upon you, Tita Cory, and may you rest in peace.
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I'm A Fangirl
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Posted:Jul 28, 2009 9:09 pm
Last Updated:Feb 8, 2010 5:31 am 24784 Views
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That's right, I've become a bona fide Mark Morford fangirl. To those of you who haven't heard of him, get thee to Googly and type his name in, and you'll find links to his articles written for the SF Gate/San Francisco Chronicle. He's gorgeous (see pic), smart, funny, snarky, with the ability to make piercing analysis of political situations while maintaining a tongue-in-cheek attitude about the whole thing. But that's not what made me a fangirl, although I've always admired his very concise and incisive writing from the first time that I laid eyes on it.
What made me a fangirl started when, on a whim, I sent him a friend invite on FB, and what do you know, he accepted! Turns out he started an FB account on a lark, and told himself that he would accept anyone who would be kind enough to invite him. I managed to be included into his network circle of 5,000--which is apparently the limit of the number of friends that you can have on FB. Having reached that limit, he has now reluctantly started a Fan Page (he preferred the coziness and the more personal touch that a network provided), to which I've subscribed to.
But more than being accepted into his network, it's the fact that he took the time to reply to my comments to his FB posts despite being a busy well-known writer that impressed me. This morning, while battling with my good friend Annalou to the death over FB Scrabble, I noticed that Mark came online on the FB IM. I sent him a short post, saying that I just wanted to pop in to say hello since this was the first time that I had seen him on IM, and that I've always loved his writing. I also told him that I wanted to see what he had to say about the birthers, who have been vociferously insisting that Barack Obama is not an American despite all evidence to the contrary. Mind you, considering that he didn't really know me, had 5000 “friends” on FB, was most likely busy with his work (he's currently writing a book and is also a Vinyasa yoga teacher), or answering hundreds of other IMs as well, I didn't expect any reply at all, so I just ended by saying that I was off, and wished him a good day.
Lo and behold, when I opened my FB account again this afternoon, I saw that he had sent me a lovely reply minutes after I had logged off. He thanked me for my kind remarks, and said that, serendipitously, he was already at work on an article about birthers. That he took the time to do so despite the fact that he didn't have to earned him high marks with me. It took all of ten seconds for him to post a reply, but those ten seconds made all the difference. Those ten seconds showed me what a decent human being he is. A small thing? Perhaps. But I find it's the little things put together, more than the grand gesture, that shows a true picture of what a person is really like. Now I wish I hadn't logged off when I did–because then I might have had the chance to pick that very extraordinary mind of his, if he was inclined to let me.
I've a thing for good manners, and if there's anything I consider as dealbreakers, it's rudeness and arrogance and making you feel like you're too insignificant to be bothered with. The way I see it, it takes the same amount of energy to be nice as it is to be nasty, so it makes me wonder about people who constantly choose to be nasty instead. It was absolutely refreshing to encounter someone like Mark Morford who, despite his success, hasn't forgotten the little civilities that make this world a better place to live in.
This is why I make sure I reply to every comment in my blog or to offlines in my IM–the people who were kind enough to leave a comment or a post took their time to do so, and to ignore them would be akin to showing them that their efforts were unappreciated, that they didn't matter at all. If Mark Morford, whose schedule is most likely ten times as hectic as mine can do it, what's my excuse?
Mark Morford. Writer. Yoga teacher. An awesome man. And I'm a fangirl, you betcha.
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Seen On A Sign In Manila
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Posted:Jul 22, 2009 7:41 am
Last Updated:Sep 28, 2010 2:16 am 24828 Views
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Oh-kaaaaaay, I know it's supposed to read as "Handy Job" considering the periods on both sides of the letter "d," but well...
...did they REALLY have to put THAT icon of a closed fist with a thumb sticking up right there, too? I mean, talk about an inadvertently APT illustration of the sign in question.
(still cracking up)
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That's A Wrap
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Posted:Jul 16, 2009 3:15 am
Last Updated:May 28, 2010 10:33 am 25873 Views
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I've been on a kinky article kick lately (but then again, when have I NOT been on a kinky article kick? They seem to find me no matter where I hide). It's almost like a compulsion, one that, for the sake of my self-improvement and further enlightenment (and to show Sir John that, yes, I AM capable of bringing my uncontrollable urges to heel), I should overcome. So check me out on New Year's Day of 2010 ‒ I'll be the one by the azaleas flagellating myself with a garden hose while having a marathon polka session with Lawrence Welk's Greatest Hits–all for the noble purpose of self-censorship.
But before I retreat into self-imposed kinky article detox, here's one more that caught my eye while reading Glamour. Apparently, another devoted reader sent on this priceless tip:
"One day, I brought saran wrap (plastic cling wrap to you people unfamiliar with the term) to my boyfriend's house and wrapped him up like a mummy. I cut holes to let his nipples out, and the sensation was amazing when I rubbed my fingers across his covered skin. Plus, when the saran wrap was peeled off, his skin was ultra sensitive. He was blown away by how cool it was."
Now, I don't know about you, but saran wrap reminds me of sad little sandwiches with limp lettuce, mystery meat and watery tomatoes trussed up and sitting forlornly on a cafeteria display case. Or that guy from The Full Monty trying to shrink his beer gut by wrapping it up with the darn thing. Or Bruno, being wise to this trick, trying it on himself and declaring, “I ist your über skinny spring roll of love!”
Plus, I'm thinking, by the time I finish mummifying hubby with it, I'd be so tired I'll pass out face down on the bed, snoring.
Nevertheless, being the adventurous middle-aged semi-cougarish (being 3 weeks older qualifies me as one) housewife that I am, I get hubby to read the abovementioned tip, and then, brandishing a brand-spanking new roll of GLAD wrap, I give him my best come hither look.
Sad to say, hubby has no sense of adventure. And now he's taken to hiding the aluminum foil and the wax paper, too.
Darn it.
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Another Edumacational Post
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Posted:Jul 9, 2009 5:33 pm
Last Updated:Sep 30, 2009 3:08 am 25552 Views
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*Author's note: Some anatomically correct terms have been replaced by more acceptable words, denoted with an *, to deliberately confuddle the ff censors.
So here I am again, breathless with the excitement of sharing with all you glorious folks out there another saucy tidbit about men, women, and their body parts. Or more specifically, men, a woman, and those body parts.
Melissa Noble of YourTango wrote an article entitled "Sexy Stupid Human Tricks" which got me gaping over my morning coffee. To find out what made me resemble a slack jawed Mark Sanford (which, admittedly, doesn't take much effort on his part), read on:
Just when we were beginning to feel as if we've got it going on in terms of sexual prowess, a few uber-talented upstarts swoop in to make us look like amateurs.
Typical.
Take Tatiata Kozhevnikova for instance. Tatiata is a Russian overachiever who has the world's strongest coochie*. Yes, you read that correctly. Her hoo-ha* is strong–like, in a Mr. Universe kind of a way. Unfortunately, we don't think it's bulging with muscles (but haven't seen any pictures...). She's exercised her nether regions the way we do our abs for the past 15 years and now Ms. Kozhevnikova broke some sort of world records after she lifted 14 kilograms worth of weights‒ almost 31 pounds with her tunnel of love*. (shudder)
How does one get a stronger va-jay-jay*? Wonderful question. Glad you asked. This was Tatiata's workout regime:
"After I had a , my intimate muscles got unbelievably weak. I read books on Dao and learned that ancient women used to deal with this problem using wooden balls. I looked around, saw a Murano glass ball and inserted it in my honey pot*. You insert one of the balls in your love box*, and it has a string attached to it with a little hook at the very end. You fix a second ball onto this hook. It’s enough to exercise your * (ok, ok, I've run out of euphemisms) five minutes a day, ladies, and in just one week you’ll be able to give yourself and your man unforgettable pleasure in bed."
Next we have a group of men who are good with their hands, have vision and think outside the box. True artists. But instead of carving woodland creatures or throwing clay, they create skin shapes out of their pen1ses. Again, yes, you read that correctly. Puppetry of the Pen1s (we can't make this stuff up) is an ensemble of men who strip down and show audiences how pliable their pen1s skin truly is by "shaping, folding and manipulating them into the shapes and likenesses of food items, wildlife and international landmarks." They'll start performing Off-Broadway in New York City in August.
Sounds nice. One minute it's a flaccid pen1s and the next it's the Easter Bunny. How cute. The Puppetry of the Pen1s will put the balloon twisting clowns out of business. Just watch.
Now I'm wondering if anybody out there was, like me, sick enough to actually speculate over what would actually happen if Tatiata ever hooked up with one of them Puppetry guys?
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HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SENSY!!!
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Posted:Jul 6, 2009 6:07 pm
Last Updated:Jul 10, 2009 3:54 am 22581 Views
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According to the FB quiz "How Old Do You Look?"--you only look 16. But them boobs probably already looked 18 while you were just 13, too. 
Happy, happy birthday, you! 
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I Thought Darth Tater Was Insidious Enough...
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Posted:Jul 4, 2009 6:37 am
Last Updated:Dec 25, 2009 5:33 am 24391 Views
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...but now I give you Opti-Mash Prime!!!!
I gotta get me one of these. Um, for the boys, you know.
(Now I'm thinking Hasbro should come up with a version of Mr. Potato Head and call him--what else?--The Spudmuffin)
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5 Lies Women Tell Each Other About Pregnancy
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Posted:Jun 30, 2009 12:55 am
Last Updated:Jul 28, 2009 8:55 pm 26243 Views
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I came across this article written by Sarah Jio for Glamour, and by Jove, if she didn't hit the nail right on the head! This, THIS is the real reason why I won't try out for a anymore, never mind that even at past 40 my mother in law still keeps bugging me with not-so-subtle hints every chance she gets. (FIVE grandsons, see, and no girl in sight)
Do you ever get the feeling that your friends with want you to become a parent--ASAP? Maybe your pal with a baby goes on and on about how wonderful motherhood is, how easy her baby is, how pain-free her labor was. Well, it's time to call BS! Check out this list of lies women sometimes tell each other about pregnancy and motherhood...
****
The lies, according to Sarah Vine and Tania Kindersley, authors of the new book Backwards in High Heels, as reported by The Times:
1. It doesn't matter if you get fat, the weight will drop off afterward, especially if you breastfeed. (Hell yeah--I went from looking like an obese manatee to a slightly overweight cow six months after giving birth. Isn't progress wonderful?)
2. The birth itself isn't that bad, and anyway your body is biologically programmed to forget the pain. (I was given a drug that made me drift in and out of consciousness, and boy was it GREAT! But post-delivery was a pain once the epidural wore off, and THAT'S when you find out how much it hurts to pee with an episiotomy)
3. Breastfeeding can be a little tricky to start with, but in the end you'll get the hang of it. (Not to mention your nipples bloat to the size of coasters; not to mention they get DARK. I screamed the first time I saw them that way, making my hubby rush up fearing the worst, only to find me, bawling and hormonal, gibbering while pointing at my breasts)
4. You get used to not having as much sleep as you used to. (Ha!)
5. The experience of looking after a newborn can really bring two people together. (Ha! Ha! and Ha! Hubby had to endure me railing, "This is all your fault!!!" at him every time I had to get very painful iron supplement injections every month for six months after the delivery because I lost quite a lot of blood)
The truths, they say (and as a woman who has been there, I vouch for every single one!):
1. Her stomach will never be the same again, not even if she goes to the gym every day (which she won't be able to because she won't have the time), breastfeeds until her goes to university and observes a strict vegan diet. (Flabby skin. Cellulite. Stretch Marks. And now the ones responsible for giving me all these talk back to me)
2. The birth is quite terrifying, gas and air doesn't work like they say it does, having stitches is horrible, midwives don't always get it right, there will be more blood and bodily fluids than an episode of "CSI Miami," and having half the world staring at your most intimate parts while you make noises like a demented pig is not, in any sense of the word, empowering. (Up until now my OB GYN still refuses to tell me about any of the things I said when I started surfacing, but dangit, she keeps having a fit of giggles every single time she remembers)
3. Breastfeeding can be very hard indeed, you feel like a useless failure if you can't do it, you will almost certainly get mastitis (which is like the worst toothache you can imagine, only in your breast), old ladies will give you horrid stares if you try to do it in public, breastfed babies do get colic, you may have curious and uncomfortable anxieties about being a prize heifer, you will leak in public, your nipples will feel like they've been sandpapered and your breasts, like your stomach, will never really recover. {The worst pain I EVER experienced was the first time my milk came in--my breasts got as hard as rocks, and I gasped in pain every time I moved. You can imagine how it felt when the baby latched. I'd have screamed in agony if I wasn't in the hospital nursery. That's on TOP of the pain you get from your episiotomy)
4. You will go insane with sleep deprivation. You really will. Even the hardiest of military men were reduced to wrecks after three days of no sleep in Japanese prisoner of war camps, and you were not trained for this. There will be days when the very act of putting clothes on your shattered body will feel like a major achievement. a?? (Yep. Yep. And YEP. And then your baby gets colic, oh joy!)
5. Once the initial euphoria has subsided, you and your partner will effectively become shift workers: when he's awake you will be dropping off to sleep, and vice versa. You will become resentful of his ability to leave the house in the morning, bound for the comparatively stressless world of work. In the back of your mind will be the sneaking suspicion that he is spending longer and longer in the office because he would almost rather be anywhere than at home sterilizing bottles and dealing with a frazzled you and a wailing babe. Sex will be implausible, not so much because of the physical changes wrought by giving birth, but because you will both be spectacularly exhausted, and no one feels like having much sex when they're tired. And smelling slightly of sick. (Post-pregnancy sex--the biggest oxymoron ever)
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Wang Wang-kers
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Posted:Jun 23, 2009 8:32 pm
Last Updated:Jul 9, 2009 5:51 pm 25032 Views
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Let me just scream this for emphasis:
I HATE, ABSOLUTELY HATE, ABHOR, DETEST WITH A PASSION BORDERING ON THE FANATICAL, IDIOTS WHO FEEL SUCH SELF ENTITLEMENT IN THE STREETS OF MANILA THAT THEY CONSTANTLY BLARE THEIR STUPID SIRENS ANY CHANCE THEY GET!
This includes low level government officials who, after being voted into some two-bit office, now think that they should be above traffic jams the rest of us ordinary joes suffer through. This also includes garden variety morons who buy sirens off the peddlers of Banawe Street (where most stolen car goods end up, as everyone here knows) and blare them just to make people think they're SOMEBODY IMPORTANT that we have to get out of their way. Like RIGHT NOW. And it doesn't matter if you're all stuck in a traffic jam.
It's an automatic reflex on my part–the minute I hear a wang-wang (our local term for sirens) and find that it's not an ambulance, a firetruck or a police car, I grit my teeth, pop out my contrarian devil horns, and start slowing down on purpose. Moreover, it's a direct violation of a Presidential Decree (No. 96, in case any of my fellow countrymen would want to throw it out) for anybody not a member of the Armed Forces of the Philippines, National Bureau of Investigation, Land Transportation Office, Police Departments, Fire Departments and hospital ambulances to use a siren or a blinker, so these douchebags are really asking for it.
So it transpired last week as I was sitting in my car listening to a favorite song (Thursday by Asobi Seksu, in case you're asking), in a buoyant mood while patiently waiting for the light to turn green in a two lane street, that I heard that hateful sound again. This time it was a private SUV that kept blaring its siren (oh, like we're supposed to get out of your way just because you're driving a Ford Expedition, huh?), collectively pissing all of us ordinary wang-wangless hoi polloi off. And it was like a collective Borg thing–we the people all took our own sweet time moving forward when the light turned green. The impatient twit in the SUV tried to counterflow, overtaking vehicles on his right by using the opposite lane.
Predictably, the dumbass ran right smack on to the oncoming traffic. Nobody, but NOBODY, in the right lane (where I was) was giving him any leeway to merge into it. The turd had no choice but to skulk onto the shoulder on the opposite lane while getting honked and yelled at by oncoming cars, and wait for everyone else to get through.
Karma and comeuppance. Such wonderful things to see unfold right before your very eyes.
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