Dogbert’s Whip

When I was a gawky youngster, the passage of June meant the end of lazy summer days spent playing games and hunting for spiders. This dreaded month gave my mom the power to pluck me off the neighborhood streets amid my protests. To justify her Martial Law-like actions, she would remind me that in a matter of days, the school gates open for the next 300 days, and I ought to get used to sleeping early again. However, school, for me, was the easy part. Back then, we still managed to play patintero and touch ball during recess time, right? There is another thing associated with June that I really disliked even then: the rain.

I really don’t know why I always have this peculiar feeling of glum whenever the rainy days arrive. Just today at around two o’clock in the morning, I was roused from sleep by cracking thunder and rain. As the cold breeze crept through the curtains, I glanced outside and realized that I didn’t have an umbrella and that my water-proof jacket was still with the cleaners. Being the jaded commuter that I am, I would have to endure another torturous trek to the office with falling rain and mud puddles. For that, I resented the rain even more for ruining my first day of June so early.

***

The rain actually made its presence felt early on. A few days ago, I observed that my officemates were no longer bitchy about the sweltering summer heat. Before, most of them would whine like kindergarten students deprived of nap time and lollipops. Now, everybody seems at ease in their cubicles even as the heavens were painted a drab grey, accentuated only by darker gray patches that threatened of late May showers.

“Are you glad that it’s finally about to rain?” I asked the Queen of Pain and Tardiness (QPT), my self-proclaimed techie officemate, over lunch. “Well, yeah, at least it’s cooler now,” QPT mumbled as she hungrily scooped yet another bite of her chicken kebab. “Weird. I’m probably the only person not happy with the rain,” I said, as I lazily sliced a thin slab of pork tonkatsu.

I peered through the cafeteria window and saw a few long droplets obscuring the smog-filled Makati skyline. And though I’m probably as melodramatic as Mon Tulfo in a ballet recital, I felt sad. It distressed me enough to lose my appetite and not lick my dish clean. Ask anyone who knows me good enough and they’ll swear that in matters pertaining to gastronomy, this does not happen often.

***

Today’s gloomy weather mirrored the same mood that I felt last Sunday. I woke up to see gray clouds looming over the horizon and in an instant, felt no drive to do anything meaningful. In between bouts of extreme boredom and shallow slumber, the 10,000 Maniacs’ “Like the Weather” kept playing in my mind. I even scorned Shirley Manson for attempting to outshine Natalie Merchant with smooth lines like “I’m only happy when it rains…” during my fleeting moments of lucidity.

That evening, I got bored of being bored inside my termite-infested room and decided to touch base with the Perpetual Soul Searcher (PSS), my equally bored friend who I haven’t seen in about two months. PSS and I made our way to Gateway Cubao, hoping to catch the last full show screening of “Bikini Open,” the latest sexy comedy offering of Seiko Films, with no less than the triumvirate of Francine Prieto-Diana Zubiri-Nina Ricci Alagao taking the helm. We chose Bikini Open over other effects-laden American films to support the dying (literally) Filipino film industry. More importantly, with our depressed and bored demeanors, we only wanted to laugh.

Soon enough, we found out that Bikini Open was no longer screened in Gateway. “Star Wars Episode 3: Revenge of the Sith” alone had four theatres in the taking, bumping off less profitable films. Feeling dejected, we settled for “House of Wax.” The Elisha Cuthbert-starrer packed lots of gross and gory stuff that made even me sick to the stomach. But in the end, I found myself smirking when the killer impaled a steel bar on Paris Hilton’s forehead. It was the perfect revenge for all of us who are annoyed by Paris’ countless bimbo antics that she successfully cashes on.

After the movie, PSS and I grabbed a couple of burgers and sodas. While munching through the cholesterol-laden beef, PSS was wondering if he’ll be able to secure parking space near the Makati Stock Exchange (MSE) building the next morning. See, PSS decided to accept a job offer from a call center based there while he reviews for the Nursing Board Exam. Like most fed-up Filipinos slaving in our gahd forsaken country, PSS will soon join his parents in the US and try his luck there. I mentioned that a part-time call center job would definitely cover up his expenses until he takes the Nursing Board. And besides, he won’t have to review much since he’s already a medical doctor. Along with his Nursing and Medical degrees, PSS also has a Law degree tucked under his belt. With all his degrees and achievements, PSS is still able to joke and laugh about his “career misfortunes.” In contrast, I would’ve committed harakiri now if I were in his shoes!

Feeling more down than ever, I glanced at the people outside the glass-encased walls of the burger joint. Some were walking briskly as if in an Olympic walkathon. Others were walking demurely as if they were parading candidates of a beauty pageant. Within seconds, most of them began to run with their jackets and bags over their heads, dodging for cover from a torrent of water bullets. Witnessing this, I rested my back on the seat, took another munch of my chicken burger, and begged the high heavens for the rains to stop.

Hate is a subtle word that I could come up with to describe the way I feel about Toshimitsu Takagi right now. Since yesterday, I have done nothing but obsess about solving the twisted riddles of his equally demented flash games. In case you’re scratching your scalp with questioning thoughts (“Who the heck is that Japanese guy?”), let me give this background check: Takagi is a guy behind web-based mystery games like the Crimson Room and the Veridian Room. Takagi’s games basically challenge players to figure out how to escape the blasted rooms by searching for hidden clues. Players would have to rely on their creativity and the all-essential IQ to couple the clues together to unlock the mysteries bound in the rooms, and eventually, open the door knob for sweet freedom. It’s basically CBS’s Crime Scene Investigation meets sushi and bad English. And trust me; it’s so easy to get hooked.

My hate affair with Takagi’s creations started when an officemate sent a mail with the link for the Crimson Room. Along the mail was this message:

There are 13 items hidden in this room that you’ll need to find in order to let you get out of this room. If you found:

(a) 0-6 items à Your IQ is very low; you’re a total idiot!
(b) 6-8 items à Your IQ is low; you’re still an idiot!
(c) 9-10 items à Your IQ is in the normal range.
(d) 11-12 items à Your IQ is high; you’re a slice above average.
(e) 13 items (and found and you get out of the room) à Your IQ is very high; you’re a genius! J

I’ve always fancied flash animated games, and sensing that the Crimson Room sounded rather simple to accomplish, I accepted the challenge. After a frustrating hour of just trying to find the missing battery and attempting to open the secret vault on the wall with a secret number combination, I almost smashed my computer to smithereens. Even if I was close to losing my cool and sanity, I finally finished the game with a self-imposed tap on the back after ninety minutes. After that, I was not modest about my “achievement.” I visited the cubicles of my officemates who were also obviously agonizing over the game and gloated at how brilliant I was to solve such a mind-bending game.

Still intoxicated with feelings of quasi-intellectual superiority, I decided to play the next level, the Veridian Room. The mechanics of the Veridian Room are similar to that of the Crimson Room except that the former is much spookier with the presence of an adult skeleton sprawled on the floor. The objective, I think, is to trap the disgruntled spirit of the dead guy in a mystical box before the player could escape the room.

I soon realized that the Veridian Room is way, way harder that the Crimson Room. Because of this, I teamed up with my self-proclaimed techie officemate (QPT) to solve the game since after all, two heads are better than one. We swear that we have figured out the single problem that prevented us from trapping the dead guy’s soul in the box. Except that one crucial problem came along: the frigging game has bugs! For some reason, we could no longer retrieve one crucial item, the lighter, hidden beneath the trash can. With no lighter, we could not burn the incense and the hair strands to complete the ritual required in the game. After numerous reboots, the stupid trash bin woudn’t lift up despite our frantic clicks of the poor mouse. We finally gave up at around eight in the evening, or around thirteen hours since we stepped into the office. We can’t believe our misfortune over that measly bug and felt like like rubbish, rotten meat, and carpet lint, all at the same time.

As I end this blog post, I’m fighting really hard to resist the urge to get back to the Veridian Room. After what I’ve gone through yesterday, it’s no longer worth it to even make another attempt. And while I’m at it, I think I’m starting to hate Toshimitsu Takagi even more. I hope he gets locked up in a real-life room with all the psychotic twists and loopholes that goes in my mind. I hope it takes him eons to figure out the how to make his escape. I hope his entrapment will make him feel like a helpless claustrophobe with a puny brain. I hope he loses sleep over some stupid bug and suffers for it. I swear; I hate his guts. It would certainly take a lot of Cheetos and Reese’s peanut butter cups to make me get over this.             

Two Richards, Richard Schickel and Richard Corliss, movie critics of Time Magazine, recently came up with the list of the 100 Greatest Movies of all Time. Browsing through the list, I was feeling rather uneasy since majority of the listed titles sounded alien to me. Although I haven’t actually watched some films that made the list like Casablanca (1942) and Citizen Cane (1941), these films were familiar since I’ve seen stills and clips of the movies at one point. Feeling dejected over my seeming ‘movie barbarian’ status, I resorted to counting the films that first screened at around the time that I was already alive and kicking. Surprisingly, twenty-six films in all were included in this list, and these are:

• Berlin Alexanderplatz (1980)

• Mon ocle d’Amérique (1980)

• Raging Bull (1980)

• Blade Runner (1982)

• E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial (1982)

• Brazil (1985)

• The Purple Rose of Cairo (1985)

• The Singing Detective (1986)

• Nayakan (1987)

• Wings of Desire (1987)

• The Decalogue (1989)

• Goodfellas (1990)

• Miller’s Crossing (1990)

• Leolo (1992)

• Unforgiven (1992)

• Farewell My Concubine (1993)

• Schindler’s List (1993)

• Chungking

  Express (1994)

• Drunken Master II (1994)

• Pulp Fiction (1994)

• Kandahar (2001)

• The Lord of the Rings Trilogy (2001, 2002, 2003)

• City of God(2002)

• Talk To Her (2002)

• Finding Nemo (2003)

In my opinion, the 100 Greatest Movie list of Time is a balanced representation of the best movies through time. It is quite neat that twenty-six movies since the year that I was born in (1979) made it to the countdown. That means for every year that I polluted this Earth with my existence, a good movie came along and earned a slot in the greatest movie list. It also felt vindicating that I’ve managed to watch a third or twelve of these films to date (in bold face and underlined). Technically, it’s a total of fourteen if each of the installments of the LOTR were counted. However I’m still pretty sore about the fact that no film from 1979 made it to the list. It’s somehow disconcerting to be born in year that reeks with cinematic mediocrity. And the feeling gets worse when you realize that three films from 1980 made it to the list.    

On a good note, I was especially glad that E.T. made it to the list. As far as I could remember, E.T. was the first movie that I ever watched in a cinema. I was in Nursery school back then with my mom and older brother. Like most kids, I dozed off before the movie could wrap up. E.T. the alien didn’t probably catch my fancy back then, and probably, I had gobbled up all the snacks and decided to devote my blood supply for digestion.

Greatest movie listings, or any ‘greatest listing’ of any kind for that matter, are sure to spark debate and controversy. But as the Two Richards from Time contend, such lists make for good conversation topics, and could even pave the way for a good dose of intellectual discussion. In the meantime, I’ll try to search for the other movies I haven’t seen yet. With the advent of accessible and affordable digital technology (read: pirated DVD discs and the like), I guess it’s never too late to acquaint myself with classical film culture and break out of my barbarian shell.

Scenario: My self-proclaimed techie officemate, the Queen of Pain and Tardiness (QPT), sent me (the Geoscience Hunk Wannabe or GHW) a couple of MS Excel files with gizmo listings that sell at discounted prices. Below is the e-mail transcript of our conversation. We’re simply two people who are, for the lack of a better adjective, bored stiff at work–

QPT (2:17 PM): Thought you might appreciate it, otherwise you’re a hopeless non techie doomed to create corny jokes.

GHW (2:34 PM): My birthday’s 2 ½ months away. Doesn’t this make gift-giving easier?

QPT (2:35 PM): Only that you’ll probably give it away anyway to some techie friend of yours who might appreciate it better.

GHW (2:36 PM): NOT! With my superior intellect, I can breeze through any gizmo in record time.

QPT (2:40 PM): I have no doubt about your unmatched mental skills. You just don’t appreciate these gizmos. Better yet, make it your belated happy birthday gift for your very pretty friend.

GHW (2:41 PM): Pretty friends, I have a lot. Unfortunately, none of them work in this office.

QPT (2:41 PM): Panget!

GHW (2:45 PM): It’s a good thing I’m quite mature now. If you told me the same thing fifteen years ago, I’ll be robbing convenience stores now.

QPT (2:46 PM): Huh? <clueless>

GHW (2:49 PM): Research has shown that children who suffered verbal abuse are more likely to become deviant characters in their adulthood. Most petty thieves endured abusive conditions during their formative years. Do you even know anything?

QPT (2:50 PM): So how come you’re deviant anyway? Somebody told you nasty things before? Aw… poor thing, you.

GHW (2:55 PM): I’m not deviant. I’m just bored most the time. Unlike you, you sissy conformist!

QPT (2:56 PM): You’re not bored; you’re a rebel without a cause. You eternally crowd your head with lousy issues. Ha!

GHW (2:59 PM): I do not! I represent all oppressed twenty somethings who suffer the injustice of having to live in a society where their full potential cannot be attained.

QPT (3:01 PM): Maybe because what they do is whine everyday without lifting a finger to improve their pitiable plight. On a different note, double slit experiment is the one that’s producing suspicious results right? Alternating light and dark bands right? So it’s more proper to talk of light as waves right, instead of particle photons?

GHW (3:03 PM): All I can say is that we whine for a valid reason. Light has both particle and wave properties. You’re much safer by specifying both. It’ll make you sound smarter. Balimbing ka nga lang!

QPT (3:04 PM): I know silly. I’m trying to cite experiments where light exhibits more as a wave, and experiments where light behaves more like a wave.

GHW (3:07 PM): And who says you’re allowed to waste time thinking of photons and waves? Admit it; you’re also a bored rebel like I am.

QPT (3:09 PM): I am so NOT! Unlike you, I transform my boredom into something sensible and fun like thinking of double-slit experiment to show light as a wave and Compton Effect to show light as particles. Bet you don’t know what Compton Effect is. You said it yourself, do you even know anything, you bored rebel, you?

GHW (3:16 PM): I make sensible blog entries during my free time, which in this case is most of the time. But that’s not the issue. You ALSO get bored and you tend to do things that are not in your job contract during office hours. That qualifies you as a rebel. And I know what Compton Effect is. What’s Google for, anyway?

There’s something about early morning rides in the Metropolitan Railway Transit (MRT) that makes me think of fertilization and zygotes. I often imagine the MRT train as an elongated ovum of metal chunks, eagerly anticipated by throngs of sperm cells disguised as disgruntled commuters, hoping to beat the early morning rush. In paced intervals, the train comes (no pun intended) in an anti-climactic halt, greeted by the reverberating orgasmic groans of overly eager passengers. As the doors spread wide open in a single enticing slide, people start to elbow each other on their way inside, hoping to catch the remaining space on the seats.

Once you step inside the train, it’s a virtual anatomy lesson. This morning, for example, I made the following observations: To my anterior was a slightly obese woman with frisky hair and drab, brown outfit. Her hefty glutes, which protrude like twin gigantic boils on a barren plain, would shame Jennifer Lopez to retirement. Beads of sweat started to form on my brow as I struggled hard not to brush her gargantuan bum with my, uhm, pelvic region. The last thing that I needed was a middle-aged hag shouting “Manyak! Manyak! Manyak!” while slapping the bejeezus out of me.

On either sides were two men who were taller than I am (Yes, I’m really insecure about my height, by the way). As fate would have it, both men habitually cleared their throats with icky phlegm. Since both men held on the ceiling railing, their sweaty axillary regions were within a few centimeters from my face. On my posterior were various objects (handbags, file folders, etc.) and body parts (elbows, “bosoms,” “heads,” etc.) poking me like tree stumps. However I didn’t dare turn my head back. I was too scared to get my nose on another man’s hairy armpit.

As the train drags on its tracks, I entertain myself with weird thoughts to distract myself from my predicament. A typical scenario that plays in my mind is this—

DAUGHTER: Itay, may sasabihin po ako sa inyo… (long pause with quivering lips)… buntis po ako… (tears flowing like the Amazon)

DAD: (initial shock lasts for about 30.26 seconds) Umamin ka! Sino ang p***ng inang lalaki ang may kagagawan nyan?!? (shakes the daylight out of his daughter)

DAUGHTER: Hindi ko po alam… (wipes snot on her sleeve)

DAD: Punyeta! Paano nangyari yun?

DAUGHTER: Mabilis po ang mga pangyayari; sumakay lang po ako ng MRT…

Call it corny or nonsense but this scenario makes me laugh. What if people can actually do it inside the MRT? What if a nymphomaniac decides to rape a clueless gal, with the latter not even aware that it happened? Since it’s so freaking crowded inside, what if people around them wouldn’t even notice? I know; it’s too far off. But when you’re almost always bored like I am, these absurd thoughts will start to make sense.

Any regular MRT commuter will agree that you’ll never feel more violated in your life once you step out the train. Even if the experience lasts for but a few minutes, it’s enough time for countless people to press their warm and smelly bodies against your once shower-fresh self and immaculately pressed office garb. When you finally reach your work place, you’re all sweaty, ruffled, and miserable. Sadly, since the MRT provides the fastest and most economical way to go from QC to Makati in less than an hour, I’m probably doomed to relive the experience day after day until I save enough moolah to buy my own ride. I’m aware that it may take me an eon or two to fulfill this. But keep in mind that that there are other immoral and/or illegal ways to fulfill this (think: carnapping or robbing a bank). I just might resort to that once I get desperate enough.

On the bright side, I may not have realized that now is certainly not the right time to consider scary concepts like marriage and babies if not for my bumpy early morning rides aboard the MRT. I guess contending with unbearable riding conditions is a far more attractive option that a screaming baby waiting to be bottle fed. In the meantime, I’ll concede to the carnal advances of my co-passengers and refrain myself from wanting to become the next nameless guy who sired another bastard in the crowded train.

I’m not sure if it’s just the scorching summer heat but nowadays, I seem to get frustrated by even the smallest things. Take my Friendster blog, for example. After I posted my “sniff” entry last week, my blog won’t load even after countless attempts to refresh the page (Yes, I tried pushing the ‘shift’ button as I clicked on ‘refresh’). After the weekend passed without me being able to figure out why, I swallowed my pride and asked for the assistance of QPT, my “self-proclaimed techie officemate slash weekend beach bum.” Alas, QPT’s quasi techie skills failed her, and gave me the lame recommendation of writing an e-mail to the Friendster staff and ask them: “WHY THE HECK WON’T MY BLOG LOAD?!?”

Since you’re able to read this entry now, it’s plain obvious that I finally figured out why my blog won’t load for days. The solution was so simple that I found myself cursing under my breath for being such a dim-witted pile of dung. Of course, I’m not going to write down how I solved the mystery of the “blog that won’t load.” Let’s just say I’m hoping that somebody, preferably my close friends, will also commit the same mistake. As you guessed correctly, there’s no way I’m giving out information for free. It took me days to solve the problem so I intend to gain a bag of Cheetos or a pack of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups when I divulge the trade secrets.

As I savor the feeling of “cyber dominance” over my clever solution to my blog woes, I suddenly remembered the frustrations of days ago. You see, I’m considered as a project consultant in my company since I got here almost a year now. Although you won’t find it in any thesaurus, a synonym for ‘project consultant’ is ‘contractual employee.’ It’s not exactly my ideal first job but with the economic turmoil and the fiscal crisis that looms like a stalking jackal, I was thankful that I was hired in a geology-related job in the first place. Besides, I’m still lucky that the pay is decent, brewed coffee is free,  and I get to work (okay, pretend working) in an air-conditioned office. But then again, a sad fact still lingers: I’m not entitled to health care and other “regular employee” benefits.

The lack of a health care plan led me and QPT (Remember her? Coincidentally, she’s also a ‘project consultant’ in our department) to approach Vince, the MediCard contact person in our company. Vince gave us stapled sheets of paper that contained information about MediCard plans and the corresponding monthly dues. Saying that he was not really familiar with the application procedures, Vince even gave us the contact number of Alice, a key MediCard person. He further assured us that Alice will accommodate any inquiries that QPT and I will have.

After a jillion attempts to call Alice, the irritating recurrence of the busy tone made me raise the white flag. With nothing else to do, I leafed through the papers and decided to read. While I was carefully thinking which plan that I will avail of and which members of my immediate family that I’ll designate as my ‘dependents,’ a line on page three quickly burst my bubble. Under the rules of ‘Membership Eligibility,’ it was indicated that the ‘Principal’ (that would have been me) should be “salaried personnel at least 18 years old up to age 60 and employed by the company on a permanent basis. “

I quickly dialed QPT’s local to inform her about the latest injustice that ‘project consultants’ have to endure. As expected, we just laughed it out. Perhaps it helps that we’re both single with no rowdy kids and unemployed spouses to support. But when you think of the other contractual guys who support their extended families, it will make you wonder how they even survive and maintain their sanity. Admittedly, we’re not yet a hundred percent sure if contractual employees are ineligible for MediCard plans. A chat with Alice would’ve confirmed this. However, judging from the endless busy tones that I receive when I dial her number, QPT is convinced that it’s a sign of impending rejection. As we ponder on the fate of our bone dry lives, we console ourselves with the fact that we’ll see better days and that we’re definitely smarter than the average Jack. That is, until another blog-related problem comes along.         

People in general are nosy about other people’s dirty laundry. This is  probably the reason why brainless ‘chismis’ or gossip shows have thrived in television over the past years, and have made unlikely celebrities out of not-so-telegenic rumor mongers like Cristy Fermin and Lolit Solis. Chismis shows are also valuable sources of revenue for their parent TV stations since advertisers typically prefer to place their ads in programs with high ratings.

Over the weekend, an interesting twist happened. Apparently, top-rate advertisers like Coke and Jollibee withdrew their commercials from “The Buzz” (ABS-CBN) and “S-Files” (GMA) amid protests over the airing of alleged sex videos of celebrities like Ethel Booba and Piolo Pascual. People connected with these chismis shows, TV executives and hosts alike, cried foul over this move. Concepts like “freedom of expression” and “people’s right to know the truth” have been argued by the television sector over the perception that their chismis shows have irresponsibly resolved to trashy obscenity to entice the continuing patronage of the public.

While some pretentious factions of the church and government laud this move by the ad giants, majority of Filipino households that stay glued to chismis-oriented shows probably did not even notice the ad boycott, or even cared for that matter. In an article that appeared in the Philippine Daily Inquirer (PDI), the marketing and production head of GMA even announced that ad load in the station’s chismis shows is practically the same as it was before the ad boycott. This is probably how the world works. People will always relish on the filthy issues, real or imagined, hounding the personal lives of others. This type of gossiping will always be an entertaining fare, unless the tables turn and the rumor hawks turn you their unwitting prey.

An officemate and close friend, whom I shall refer to as “The Queen of Pain and Tardiness” (QPT) from hereon, learned this the hard way. Last weekend, she was booted out of the house by her traditional and overbearing mom for doing actions ill-suited for a “decent lady.” You see, QPT and I spend a lot of time together. We eat our meals at the same time, annoy and ridicule each other over the phone or in each other’s cubicle, and whenever she has evening classes in UP, we share a cab as since I live in-campus. We probably click so well since we have the same demented minds, and she’s amazingly tolerant of my teasing and infamous hypothetical questions.

Our officemates in the company naturally couldn’t resist weaving tall tales about my friendship with QPT. After all, the closeness between a single guy and an unattached girl can never be platonic, right? Wrong! QPT and I are not even remotely attracted to each other. While our office mates wish, prattle and gush about our blissful future together, QPT and I just play along. We thought that if would ignore everything, the issue would inevitably die a natural death, right?

This time however, it was our turn to err. We missed one crucial component in the equation: QPT’s father also works for our company. Although QPT’s folks appeared tolerant about our “budding romance” at first, persistent rumors probably got the better of them. When QPT’s mom had the chance to confront her (QPT) about the real score, sparks flied and ending scene sent QPT and her older sister packing their bags and spending the rest of the long weekend in their grandparents’ house. (I won’t elaborate how her older sister got into the picture. Let’s just say that QPT’s mom really went ballistic and decided to boot both of them out of the crib.)

QPT and her sis have since returned to their house. Their mom’s still pretty pissed though. An outburst such as that will take some more time to cool. Until now, we still can’t believe how one stupid rumor could earn QPT her mom’s volatile ire and her temporary eviction from the family abode. It’s a good thing that QPT and I are not celebrities; imagine what a field day Boy Abunda or Kris Aquino will have with all the “action-packed” and telenovela-like sequences that have transpired over the weekend. Now, whenever QPT laments her parental misfortune to me, I say what any real buddy will utter: “Ha! Kawawa ka naman, buti pa ang mga magulang ko, mabait!” 

It has been my daily ritual to check the news over the internet. Don’t get me wrong; I’m still a big fan of the broadsheets and the occasional gossip tabloid. But if you’re dying to know who got booted out of this week’s episode of American Idol or which team won in the current NBA play-off matches in real time, you’d rather press that mouse, right?

This morning, while I was scanning through the news section of Yahoo, I stumbled on this interesting news bit: “Groom Still Wants to Marry Runaway Bride.” Still feeling lethargic from the long weekend, I decided to read it. And how I regretted it! It was definitely an awful way to start the week.

Let me give you a synopsis of this oddity: A crazy woman from Duluth, Georgia who goes by the name Jennifer Wilbanks gets cold feet a few days before her would-be lavish wedding. She then leaves her wallet and engagement ring at home and embarks on a cross-country bus ride that ended in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Getting there, she phoned the Duluth police from a phone booth in a local 7-11 outlet that she has been assaulted and kidnapped by a Hispanic man and a blonde woman. Even before she made that phony call, her jilted fiancé exhausted all efforts to find her. Volunteers turned up left and right for her safe recovery. The City of Duluth even spent thousands of dollars to search for her. But in the end, the FBI was able to extract this not-so-shocking discovery: Jennifer’s distressing story is fake.

After closing out on the news item, I remembered “Runaway Bride,” a Julia Roberts movie that makes it to my list of “One of the Worst Movies that I Had Spent My Hard-Earned Money On.” I guess I don’t have to elaborate why I hated every minute of this movie. I’m even getting the slightest hint that this is Ms. Wilbanks’ favorite movie.

Cold feet or plain psychosis, Jennifer Wilbanks does not deserve a morsel of sympathy. She represents all the spoiled and unreasonable women in the world who make life difficult for men. I feel sorry for Jennifer’s fiancé. He’s caught in a sad dilemma: either he calls off his engagement with his looney girlfriend and be condemned by feminists everywhere, or he goes on with the wedding and be doomed forever with that stupid girl. Since he’s announced to do the latter, I guess that makes him even more stupid. But then again, it’s so much easier to decide on that matter in the USA since divorce is legal. If this happened in the Philippines, Jennifer is doomed for spinsterhood unless she finds a replacement groom in the dingy halls of San Lazaro.