Nandram Discusses Bayesian Statistics at DLSU

De La Salle University once again exposed its mathematics and statistics department to a wider world today at the Ariston Estrada lecture room, with a lecture by Dr. Balgobin Nandram, Professor of Statistics at the Worcester Polytechnic Institute in Massachusetts.

Undergraduates taking up Mathematics and Statistics, along with graduates and faculty, attended his workshop on Bayesian Statistics and Small Area Estimation. After a short introduction by faculty member Shirley Ocampo, Dr. Nandram proceeded to his lecture, showing slides in his own handwriting, scanned fresh off a notebook. “It is an honor,” Ocampo said. “This visit from Dr. Nandram is timely,” as it coincides with the university offering MS Statistical Science for the first time, and the opening of the new Statistics Laboratory.

He introduced the basics of Bayesian Statistics, then followed with four simple examples, starting with a Normal Mean Data Model, then a Beta-Binary, an example on Non-response and Poisson-Gamma. His example on Non-response made use of data from his class back in Worcester, with the survey question “Are you from Masachusetts?” Out of his 103 students, he had 80 responses, and 60 of them said ‘yes’. He then continued to illustrate the use of Bayesian statistics in taking consideration the absence of the 23 other responses. He compared the Pattern Mixture Model with the Selection Model.

His workshop ended with the discussion on the Hierarchical Model, and will continue to expound further on this with the Gibbs Sampler during the second part of the workshop, at the Ariston Estrada Lecture Hall, room L126, this coming Friday, June 15, 2012, 2:30pm, exactly on the closing of De La Salle University’s Centennial Celebration.

The notes from his lecture can be requested from the De La Salle Mathematics Department, at room J201. Dr. Nandram will also discuss his most recent paper on June 22, 2012.

To know more about the esteemed Dr. Balgobin Nandram, visit his page at Worchester Polytechnic Institute.

Elevator Stories

Up and down a shaft with metal ropes streaming from the twenty other floors above, the people take the elevator as the choice vertical transportation. And in a building with some twenty floors, three thousand freshmen, and an additional number of upperclassmen and law students, oh, you bet something interesting goes on.

Chaos is the standard here.

Welcome to Froshland, where all freshmen are subject to take their classes, and where all students from the De La Salle University College of Law and College of Education are sentenced to suffer with them. Stairs are your best friends here, because you can always, always expect that the lobby of Andrew Hall is crammed with people lined up for the elevator.

It’s been over a year since I had a class in Froshland, and the Freshmen are insufferable, I’m telling you.

My classmates and I—four other juniors, one senior—shared our deadliest Frosh Elevator Stories for the day.

Disclaimer:

Dear Frosh, I love you all. But seriously?

(1)    Compress!

I was in the elevator, and on the seventh floor, a group of six freshmen squeezed in, assembled in a trademark Frosh circle of friends.

Their class just ended and they were about to go home. But the elevator was going up—they were taking a round-trip so they wouldn’t have to wait for an empty elevator to go down. I let it go; I’ve scolded freshmen before about round-trips and I didn’t want to have to go through that mess again. When I got to my floor, the elevator doors opened.

“Excuse me,” I said.

And instead of going out of the elevator to give way, they squeezed in tighter together into a messy huddle.

It wasn’t until now that I found out that you have to be in the upper class to understand the social protocols of stepping aside in elevator traffic.

(2)    Overpopulation

Camy was on the elevator, and on one of the floors, when the elevator door opened, people—quite naturally—left through the door.

A frosh exclaimed, “Shocks, ang daming lumalabas!”

Which basically just means, “Shocks, a lot of people are leaving!”

I think the main purpose of an elevator is for you to leave the elevator once you reach your destination.

(3)    Line-Up

Jo was waiting in the lobby, in line for the elevator just like everyone else. It takes about ten to fifteen minutes for the elevator to travel up the twenty floors and go back down, but she waits calmly—this is normal.

Her moment of Zen gets broken when a Frosh cuts in line, goes in front of her. When the elevator doors open, but for a different line of students, he switches lanes and squeezes in with them.

I’m wondering how many seniors and fellow freshmen were holding their temper for this kid.

Ah, the sweet, rare, calm view. (Image via WikiMedia)

To the upper class who may be reading this, I’m certain you know the feeling. We’ve all been Freshmen too. In fact, I have a story from my Frosh days.

Nicole and her friends waited for an elevator to go down. Naturally, I took the stairs. I always did that when going down, and on most mornings, even going up to the eleventh floor. I didn’t really care if no one would go with me. One, I liked stairs. Two, I was used to being alone.

For Nicole & Co., since the elevator was taking too long, they rode one going up—round trip. A senior riding with them, clearly annoyed by the disregard of freshmen for the general sense of courtesy, and also the excessive chatter of grouped friends in an enclosed space, couldn’t help but express his annoyance.

“You’re not allowed to go on round trips,” he remarked, quite snarkily.

“Is that in the handbook?” Nicole said, her rhetorical sass-back sounded innocent and frosh-like. It was a ‘you’re not the boss of anyone’ remark that sounded like a stupid question from an unknowing, rule-following Frosh

“Go read it, then!” was all that the senior could answer in reply.

Telling these stories makes me feel like an oldie, with shaky fingers trying to grip onto an all-important walking cane, starting stories with, “back in my day!”, and ending them with, “you young whipper-snappers! Kids these days!”

So dear upper class, let us never forget those humbling days of our long forgotten youth.

And Frosh, please do us a favor and avoid triggering the fiery temperament of your seniors. If you’ve done any of these things, we forgive you.

Don’t do it again.

Young whipper-snappers.

Ugh, frosh these days.

Just Do It

“We are the people we have been waiting for.”

It says so on my shirt. It may not make sense at first, but give it a little thought, and trust me, it’s the biggest piece of common sense written in bold letters. We are the people we have been waiting for. I have been waiting for change, for progress, for improvement. But I’m not supposed to wait for it; I’m supposed to go out and get it for myself, and for others. I’m supposed to be starting the change. I shouldn’t be depending on other people to feed me the answers to life’s mysteries, and discover the cure to AIDS for me. I shouldn’t be relying on people to just build houses for the poor and give health services to the sick–I’m supposed to be out there, taking part in how to make things actually happen.

I had a friend once, who went by the name Steven online, but was actually a John IRL. He needed to check his grades on his school’s online system once, but couldn’t access it and asked me to check if I could. So I did. The name of his school’s website?

Do something real.

One of the best, most inspiring names I’ve ever seen online. It’s simple, but straight to the point. Do something real. Ideas should be realized. Principles should be applied. Mere concepts are intangible unless you work on them. Dreams stay as dreams unless you wake up, and make a move to fulfill them.

I return to WordPress after a couple days off, simply because I wanted the article regarding Yue-Yue, the kid who got run over and ignored in China, to stay posted on the front of the page, without having to reduce it to the sticky’s for a while.

Just a simple update on my life. Things have been truly hectic, and work has been piling like I cannot describe. I have to handle three projects, two of which are joined in one–a Christmas drive, plus a party for cancer patients who reside at Child Haus. The next one is called Tree Doctors, a reforestation project to be held about two weeks from now. Not only will we be planting trees, we’ll also be checking on the wellness and health of the trees that are already growing in the site.

It’s a little off from all the things I wanted to accomplish, but it’s better than having done nothing. I’m always hoping to be in constant service to others, and always looking out for opportunities to pioneer certain changes in systems that I want to achieve.

Not all people are given these opportunities. And I should know, because even though I have been in the most privileged university in this country, I still see so many limitations as to what I can do. So if you ever received an opportunity to make a stand, make a difference, then don’t you even dare turn it down.

Mmmerche!

Merche Tolentino is one of the most creative, open, patient, loving, and truly beatiful people out there.

She also kind of reminds me of a Lady Gaga-Anna Wentour hybrid. Combo bonus!

She is a history major, who is truly, truly talented in illustration and graphic arts. Her style is a mix of surrealism with the influence of idealistic beauty. She’s also really good with Anime/Manga styled drawings, among others. Tool of the trade? Wacom Bamboo Pen+Touch. She keeps her art stuff in a tumblr account under the name ‘mmmerche’.

She’s recently started on blogging, after this day (October 6, 2011) when I took note of her  outfit in one of our classes together. She had expressed an interest in writing about fashion, arts and history. Now, she has a WordPress under the same name as her tumblr. Thaaaat’s right. Click the link.

If this doesn’t define quirky, creative and adorable, I don’t know what would.

Her current header for her WordPress inspired me to create this in my free time:

It’s just a photograph. I’d have to scan this in sometime.

Don’t you just love meeting inspiring people?

Alarm Clock Immunity

I don’t know if being immune to the hellish daily disturbance we know as an alarm clock is a super power or a disorder. Or both. But whatever it is, I have it.

I awoke this morning, blinking through rays of dim light escaping from behind my sister’s drawer where the lamp had stood guard in our bedroom all night. I checked the alarm clock. Seven o’ clock. What?! I have class at eight, and university is an hour commute away.

I jumped out of bed, brushed my teeth, washed my face, combed my hair. I hopped into the first pair of jeans I could find and wore the first shirt off the rack. I grabbed my grey Toms and slipped them onto my feet.

I was running late. Again.

“Why didn’t anyone wake me up? Did you turn off the alarm? I remember setting it at five.” I asked my sister in frustration.

“I didn’t.” Her monotone voice was diluted with sniffs. She awoke with a bad cold that hindered her from going to work. “Maybe you just turned off the alarm clock.”

“I don’t even recall hearing it. It’s been like this for the past few days.” I set the alarm, and wake up an hour later. All the time. I don’t understand if there’s a sort of alarm clock fairy that turns off all alarm clocks just before they happen to ring. Not to mention, I did not only set the clock. I also set my phone. When I ignore that alarm, at least when I see it, it tells me that “5.00am alarm” was dismissed. But the familiar message that usually mocked me, telling me I overslept did not appear on the screen.

“Maybe you did, and you were just too sleepy to remember.”

Was I really that tired, that unmotivated to get up that it’s been installed in my subconscious to turn off the alarm and go back to bed?

Maybe I am.

I am constantly being plagued by this state of mind of unmotivated frivolities and uninspired, monotonous living. It seems like no cup of coffee can cure this social disease of constantly feeling tired. We lack a sense of urgency merely because we lack a sense of purpose. What am I doing this for, and why am I wasting my time on this? Everything just seems so pointless.

I’m usually the biggest pep talker of them all. I’ve talked people out of quitting on things, especially math majors and other university undergraduates who’ve lost sight of what their goal was because the journey’s been long, tedious, horrendously difficult, all too challenging and definitely disheartening. I’ve managed to encourage friends to soldier on with their daily turmoil with their peers, family, and their unreachable dreams.

I’ve basically been the big sister figure, always telling people that there is always, always, always a point, and that there is still beauty in things if we just look into them hard enough and with a hopefully greater, renewed sense of conviction. I’ve always been the one to remind people how strong they are, and how much stronger they can still be to hold on, to keep marching on, to fight the good fight.

But I’ve been having difficulty doing that for myself lately.

I feel like a failure, simply because I am. And when society tries to rub that in your face, the best way to survive it is to ignore the sneers and jeers and just go on. Ignoring works for the most part, but desensitizing yourself from insults and snide comments also deafens you from the wake-up call.

We’ve all had someone to slap us in the face or pour ice down our pants, figuratively, telling us that there’s something wrong in our lives that we have to change, to fix or to improve on. Whether it’s a bad attitude, an academic concern, bad grammar, social awkwardness, horrible work ethic, an overly extensive fit of post break-up bitterness, unhealthy grievance or mourning over a death, or a druggy-drinking, throwing-up-everywhere excessive partying kind of problem, someone’s been there to tell us that we have to set things right. But, like all life changing decisions, that’s always easier said than done.

Waking up with a sharp blast of ringing in the morning from a fairly peaceful sleep feels nothing short of shit. But being woken up from being a failure, being told that you fail in your pathetic excuse for a life and you have to suck it up, stop being a baby and do something about it, would make you want to give your life’s personal ‘wake-up call’ person a pat on the back. Very forcefully. With a wooden paddle.

But no matter how painful things may sound, by the end of the day, no opinions matter. Just facts. And if people’s views on you contain more grains of truth than bias or prejudice, then it’s time to consider their insults as very hard-hitting, truthful, unedited pieces of constructive criticism. No more changing topics. No more pretending. No more denial. It’s time to sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up. And listen.

The Wake-Up Call Apathy Syndrome, the Selective Hearing Disorder or the Alarm Clock Immunity Disease is an illness in a staggering majority of people, but it can be cured. It can be diagnosed with the manifestations of the following symptoms:

• Not wanting to listen to anyone’s advice.
• Not caring.
• Having little to no motivation to get up, or accomplish anything.
• A constant feeling of being a failure.
• A lingering sense of lack of self-worth or purpose.
• Being too afraid to change things.
• Taking the easy ways out.
• Pushing people away.
• Always wanting to find something to do.
• Always wanting to have nothing to do.
• That unshakeable feeling of being insatiably tired, sleepy or bored.

Treatment starts when the patient consciously submits himself, puts down his pride and admits that he has a problem, and is in need of help.

Hearing your alarm clock, getting up and getting a move on, no matter how groggy you feel, is the only way you’ll be able to start the day and continue living your life.

Step two, prepare the coffee.

Mommy, I Have a Boo-boo

This is the story of how I managed to burn my hand with hot water last night.

A little back story: two months ago, on a cold, rainy July morning, I had skipped breakfast to go to university earlier than the rest. Cue unnecessarily descriptive narrative:

It was campaign week for the Freshmen elections, and as an upperclassman helping with the campaign, I was tasked to “reserve the altar”, or grab the best seat in the lobby where we could set up our publicity material before the opposing party could.

I skipped breakfast, commuted to campus which was two cities away on a dark morning when the sky was still purple as the street lamps lit up the cracked and crooked streets of Manila. The fallen rain glimmered in reflection. The air smelled like freshly baked pandesal. This is going to be a good day for us, I said, as I looked out of the jeep, gently roaring in the empty road.

When I reached the floor I was supposed to reserve, though, I saw the opposing party’s representative already asleep on the ‘altar’ with a magazine covering his face. Ah, well. Nevermind then.

During campaign, as we ran from building to building throughout the campus, I fell down the stairs of Miguel Building. When I fell, my left leg hit one of the edges of the steps. My knees were weak and shaky, but I thought it must have been nothing but a little bump. So I just let it go.

Until, returning to time frame = last night. The bump which wasn’t even visible has now grown in size. So I tried to treat it with some ice. (Actually, with a frozen pack of beef tapa.) Then my sister advised me to use a hot compress instead, because the bump has been there for some time.

Unable to find the hot water bottle–that squishy, rubbery one–I turned to my mother who helped me search through the cupboards. Failing to find it, she took out a sports water bottle and filled it halfway with hot water. She checked it for leaks and cracks and found none. This would be fine.

I put my feet up and held  the bottle to my leg. In minutes, I noticed the bottom of the sports bottle sort of expanding, rounding out like a light bulb. Then, all of a sudden, the screw-on bottle cap popped right off and scorched my right hand with hot water.

I was in tears. Years back, I had burned my left arm in a small explosion from the oven when I had been baking cookies. Compared to that, this wasn’t much. But it still hurt. And I still couldn’t stop crying.

My mom came running towards the sound of my sobbing, carefully took the bottle and wiped my hand with a soft hand towel. She told me to keep the burns dry, then she tried to look for burn ointment.

“We don’t have any more burn ointment, I’m sorry.” She said when she came back. She looked at me. I was still crying. I felt pathetic. Then she gently took my hand by the wrist, and looked for an area that didn’t get burnt. “Let me kiss that for you.”

Mother and Child by CoffeeMonster via deviantART

I may be of legal age now. I may be in university. I could be WonderWoman for all I care. But whatever happens, we’re all still human, all still weak. And whatever may happen, our mothers will always be our mothers, here to pick us up when we’ve fallen.

There are days when I feel like I must be the most unfeeling and ungrateful daughter on earth. I dislike being babied, being taken care of. I shrug off excessive hugs, and reject offers when she asks “would you like to bring these muffins to school? How about this bottle of juice?” I join plenty of outside activities, and come home late all too often. And I’m honestly getting tired of her randomly singing “why is my baby girl so beautiful?” or asking me every five minutes if I love her. Or how she smothers me with ten minutes worth of goodbye kisses and breathtaking hugs when she knows I’m running late.

But there are just those days when you have to be a kid, for her. Because you still are her kid. And you always will be.

I am Batman

And Batman am I.

So are the random ramblings of my all too wonderful bestfriend Jovanni on a semi-sober state from half a bottle of Korean Soju.

I am the Big Paw. The Big Paw and I are one.

We’re kidding of course. Half a bottle of Soju to share isn’t enough to rattle our mental state, let alone disintegrate our sense of coherence to a mesh of nonsensical propositions. If it were, then I wouldn’t be able to write here, would I?

Cue the story of how I wasted away an otherwise productive day:

Got up fairly early, fussing about my corporate attire for that Personal Effectiveness class I had to attend to. But I had to edit and print my resume, get my picture taken–generally shit I should’ve dealt with beforehand, but I was just too out of it to do so. So I got there late, by around thirty minutes, and I had been rescheduled to the following week.

I came to university, wearing a blazer, slacks, killer stillets for nothing.

Then after chilling at the cybernook, I went home and here we are. Me and my best mate, fooling around as if I didn’t have a scratch etched on to my to-do list, when in fact, it’s as full as any usual work day. (When was I ever task-less?)

I’m feeling unproductive. That’s all I have to say. It’s always like this: I start out strong, responsible, handling everything and being superwoman. Then somewhere along the way, I find my personal slump–the loss of the sense of self-worth, most usually–and start to lose hold on everything else. I guess when I find things pointless, I just don’t do them. When I don’t want to study, I don’t. Why?

Because I don’t want to. Simple as that.

Life is too short to be wasted on the things you don’t want to do, to be caught up and tangled in unnecessary tasks and traditions you don’t want to follow.

The trick to success is always remembering why you want something. Honestly, if you’re just studying to get awards and please people–if that’s how you label ‘success’–you won’t get anywhere. That’s not what you want. It’s what they want. Want those medals in mathematics, because you love math. And want those squeaky clean 4.0′s in your GPA’s because you actually want to study.

Please no one but yourself.

Have no other reason to do things other than because they make you happy.

A critical exception of course would be if what you do will ultimately contribute to the happiness of others, like perhaps not wasting your parents hard-earned moolah on your foolishness and constant failures.

In my case, of course, it’s always the constant pressure of looking into the eyes of my nieces, seeing them grow up so beautifully with so much potential. But my heart crumbles to bits when I do, because I know they don’t have the means to harness those potentials and maximize what they have–because they have nothing. Education, for one. Justine is said to be stopping from her undergraduate studies, and we’re cutting off our financial support for Shaina within a couple of months.

I still remember Camille, when she was still three years old. She used to cry to me and beg me to buy her a new pair of slippers, because hers broke or she outgrew them already and her mother didn’t have enough to replace them. Slippers–something as simple as rubber slippers.

Justine, talented in fashion design, but too smart to not be in med school. Currently taking up MedTech in DLS-Dasma.

Shaina, the witty, talented, smart, beautiful one that everyone loves. She has a voice that can break a heart with its beauty, and the musical skills to accompany it. She’s beaten more experienced speakers beyond her years in speech and declamation competitions. Hell, I’d admit she’s better at me at Chess. And she is one of the truly rare species of people among the younger population–if not the only one–who can beat me at Scrabble.

Camille. Innocent Camille, whose smile used to complete my day, whose laughter was the soundtrack of my very afternoon. I never knew how she grew up. I never saw through it. They took her away, and whenever I’d see her at reunions, I have this horrible feeling that she’s gone through so much pain and abuse. I wouldn’t be the one to judge. But I think, especially on Christmas gatherings, where kids are given Aguinaldo or gift money (much like the Chinese ampao, however it should be spelled) I suspect that her mother uses her to receive the gift money, but surrender everything to her for her personal use. Of course, I’d like to believe that when the child surrenders the gift money, it is used for the benefit of the child herself. I’m hoping. Always.

Here is the part when I’d wish I was Batman. Not superman, because I wouldn’t be able to do much with flying and super strength, unless I put up a fee for a crime fighting service. No, I want to be Batman, just because he was rich from the start and could afford that horrible-looking but admittedly useful car, and everything else he needed.

If I were Batman, and I had that much money, I would save the lives of these beautiful little angels. I would provide them with everything under the sun, and raise them to the extent of the greatness with which they were gifted.

But I can’t.

After the alcohol wears off, after the idealism blows over, I’m just a math student in a university ranking 600th worldwide in a third-world country, with nowhere else to go. I’m not being pessimistic; I’m just acknowledging the weaknesses that I have to face.

I’ve always written about how I have to learn how to accept the fact that I’m not superwoman, how I can’t do a million things at once, and how I have to accept failure and deal with it. I’ve always written how I make mistakes, and not regret them because mistakes are what make us human. I’ve even written about how overworking and sleeplessness acts as an addiction, a sort of stick-it-to-the-man way of life, in a constant attempt to disprove human weakness and live through it. And I’ve always written how I have to learn to slow down and live a little.

The thing is, in a third world country like the Philippines, the moment you slow down, the moment you stop working is the moment you die of starvation.

And these three girls are going to die too, if no one’ll help them out.

But can I? I have my own life to live, and possibly one day, my own kids to raise. Even if I might get out of this University with a million-dollar career–because that was exactly the point of taking up this whole actuarial gig, other than the obsession for the connection between philosophical understanding and pure mathematics as a way of thinking (but that’s beside the point)–I’d have other priorities. I grew up in this world, working so hard and thinking of only one thing: to continue what my parents did for others, helping our family members get through their financial turmoils.

They’re getting old. My father’s suffering from various complications brought on by the decades of diabetes. My mother’s suffering from back pains with that slip disk; she’s overweight and she has hypertension. My step-siblings are still hounding them for money, as well as the rest of my family. No one’s ever done anything but use them like an endless waterfall of cash flow. They’re dying away before my very eyes. It’s getting them nowhere.

I don’t think this martyr mission is what my parents want for me after I graduate. I don’t think I want it upon myself either, anymore. I’m too young to play mother. And I don’t think my parents worked hard for me to waste my future on becoming the next loan center. I don’t want to be brought down by other people’s problems. I want to be able to take myself to places and accomplish many great things for society. I want to make my dreams a reality. And I want to be able to grow up freely, have a family of my own and raise my future kids to be able to do the same thing.

But I don’t want to be a self-centered, hedonistic corporate bitch. I don’t want to close off my eyes from the people who will end up needing me.

It’s just that, I’ve always given myself to help others.

But as my parents have accurately displayed–who will be there to help me, one day? Hm? No one. The usual.

I’m losing that sense of purpose I once had. I’m thinking that I don’t want this anymore.

Before all this, I was already lining up the names of the kids in my family I want to support through their education, the names of the kids I wanted to save from abuse. I’m scared that I actually think that way. What happens to my future then?

I’m too young to be a mother.

Term Break Narratives III: Lunar Tea and Intergalactic Panna Cotta

29th August 2011

After about two full days with my best friends, you’d think that I have had my fix. Not quite. Right on the next day, we had planned on visiting the North this time, Quezon City, for some bubble tea Xela’s been raving about.

And because I’m such a horrible narrative writer (boring, IMHO, possibly due to years of news writing and less of creative storytelling) we will now segue into a critique of the said tea place.

Moon Leaf Tea Shop is one of the best I’ve been to. As a self-proclaimed bubble tea enthusiast, of course I didn’t pass up the opportunity to sample a new brand. The moment Bubble Tea Tokyo Milk Tea Place opened up in Shaw, Bubble Tea has been a regular craving. In Taft Ave. alone, there’s Zen Tea, Cha Time and Simple Life, and a few less expensive ones like Tea Delight and Pao-Pao Xiao Chi, enough for a quick drink along with a light afternoon snack. I have yet to visit Serenitea and Happy Lemon, and that other, more serious tea place around Katipunan area, with an AZN-ish enough name for me to not remember. (I just searched for it; Cha Dao Tea Place–sounds legit.)

Now, the 411 on MoonLeaf Tea Shop, and my three happy adventurers, Addy, Xela and Jovanni.

By the time I arrived at the MRT Station at Boni Avenue, I was about thirty minutes late for the two o’clock call time we had promised ourselves. They were standing around there, waiting, leaning on the railings. I was waving at them, but I guess they didn’t notice–until I intentionally made noise and shook them by the shoulders.

We rode off to Quezon Ave., took a Jeep to Philcoa, and rode a tricycle to Maginhawa St. in UP Village. Nothing about Tricycles have changed. They’re still cramped, still dusty, and their engines are still noisier than a truck of swine. Attempting to have a conversation in one, we’d be broken off by the mechanical growls every turn of the corner. It got so bad, that when we’d talk, we’d intentionally break off the sentence and finish off with a “BRRRRRTTTTS,” ourselves. Just in case.

When we got off, the gate looked like any humble residential area, just as any other. But once we got in, people were packed in the patio–actually it was a garage, with tables and chairs and a truckload of customers. The inside, however, was warm and welcoming, but had that fun, youthful and almost energetic vibe to it. The tables and chairs were only wooden stools painted in white, but they were sufficient and complimentary to the entire area. There was a pigeon hole filled with origami. Notes, ads and doodles were tacked to the cork boards. It seemed like such a perfect hangout for the students of the State University. Wasn’t much of a wonder why the line stretched to the outside of the store.

Noting this down for future reference. Orders were as follows:

1. Vanilla Milk Tea, J.
2. Oolong Milk Tea, X.
3. Jasmine Milk Tea & Banoffee Pie, M.
4. I don’t know what you ordered & Banoffee Pie, A.

There was a proper amount of milk, and a certain kind of sweet creaminess about them–but you don’t lose the taste and feel of the tea. It isn’t too dense, and it doesn’t overpower the supposedly light nature of tea itself. The pearls weren’t in the consistency that I liked, but they were good enough. The oolong and jasmine were of such good quality that you can really still taste the difference in the tea.

The manager even chatted us up. He was handing out samples for their new product to be released the week after our visit (and though I promised to come back, I still haven’t! Ugh!) It was yogurt tea. And though it will be newly introduced to the selection for MoonLeaf, I have certainly seen this in the nearby bubble milk tea places. Difference, though, the consistency that the samples from Moon Leaf were definitely better. And I am definitely looking forward to having one the next time I come around.

Before we left, we had a second round of drinks and dessert.

1. Lychee Aloe Vera & Green and White Matcha Panna Cotta, M.
2. Wintermelon Tea, X.
3. Jasmine Milk Tea, J.
4. I can’t consume anymore liquids else I’ll explode, A.

The Matcha Panna Cotta was creamy, but firm in consistency, with just the right kind of sweetness. I barely taste the Matcha Green Tea, but it was an altogether good Panna Cotta.

We left, after tacking our notes and doodles to the board. We took a bus to Shaw Boulevard, and separated ways. Xela was supposed to meet up with her sister for a movie, but ended up going home. Addy rode a jeep home, while Jovanni and I went straight to PureGold to meet up with my mother who just finished grocery shopping and my sister who was driving us home. We took the groceries, stored them, had dinner–laing, Taro leaves in spicy coconut milk with sauteed shrimps, mmm–and then headed back to Shaw for a movie.

Little Sean just had phenomenal grades, so we thought of rewarding her with a night out. Cars 2. Eddie Izzard’s voice acting mixed in with a clean but deliciously twisted plot, perfect animation, witty script, insanely creative character design and a little bit of fairy dust made the movie nothing short of the consistently amazing, memorable and truly magical works of art Disney-Pixar has to offer.

Pixar, you’ve done it again.

Definitely not regretting watching Cars 2 over Final Destination 5.

http://www.spot.ph/eatdrink/48575/check-it-out-moonleaf-tea-shop-in-maginhawa-quezon-city

Term Break Narratives II: Hangover from Sobriety

28th August 2011

I woke up to the morning sun, finding myself stiff-necked and still seated on the same couch with my two best friends, crumpled together into sides sides, all cozy underneath the thick comforter, sheltering us from the stinging, cold air from the air conditioning. I left the room of requirement, my two pets still asleep. I heard my mother complain about her back, as she stopped at her attempts to prepare breakfast.

Not again, I thought. Not her slip-disk. Why does her back ache? She’s too young.

My mother was only a little over her forties, my father soon to turn exactly sixty this year. There’s always a pain in my chest, a crumbling in my stomach, a twisting in my guts whenever I think about either of them getting any older than they are. It’s the kind of pain that has caused me to cry countless of times through the years. Unfortunately, it is also a pain I have slowly learned to tolerate. I may come off as an ingrate, a child who no longer cares about my parents welfare–but trust me when I say that their pain is one of my greatest fears. Stuffed somewhere around the pile of titles and awards I have, there lies a small note, a post-it that lost its adhesive side, with folded corners and smudged ink. It reads, “scared child; prone to weakness.”

Enough of that.

I told my mother to get back to bed. I volunteered to do the cooking. The rice was already cooked, perhaps the maid has done that for her. I proceeded to frying up cuts of Hungarian sausages, and a batch of sunny-side-ups. I did the sunnies just how my mum wanted them–crispy edge on the whites, and a runny golden center. The way I prepared breakfast, I couldn’t seem to shake the thought of my mother from my mind. I hope she likes the sunnies.

I went back to the Room of Requirement. Lo and behold, my two pets have awoken. Xela was already on her laptop, playing Tales of the Abyss, while Jovanni was skipping through the Hollywood version of Shutter, ridiculing it and saying how much better the Thai version was. After breakfast and some hot morning Cafe Mocha, we all headed off to the swimming pool. Had a good dip–actually, a marinating, seeing as we swam for 6 hours. I kept on saying we should head back; Shaina kept on arguing that we should stay. We had our lunch around the pool grounds, and fed the stray kittens with small pieces of meet. We made waves in the kiddie pool, and tried to teach Xela how to swim in the olympic sized one. And being the show off that I am, backflips. Trying–and succeeding–to teach Jovanni how to do summersaults underwater.

After getting out, Jovanni and Shai were the first to take baths at home. Out in the garden, as we waited for our turn, Xela and I sat on the swing, still wet with pool water. We shared about our academic turmoils as Statistics majors. We talked about regret. We talked about success. We talked about life. We talked about our plans for the future. We talked. And that was all I needed.

I haven’t seen Xela in months. Same with Jovanni. And even though she had already gone home by the time this story was happening, Addy too. Something like this is truly rare to me.

Hitting fast forward on this, after going to Church, we had dinner at some authentic Korean place whose name I would never learn to read, write or pronounce. Had bulgogi, kimchi, bibimbap, and some other dishes with names I could never manage to recall. There was this seafood noodle soup, and this curry silken tofu soup, and this dish with the really, really spicy pork and vegetables. And there was also this Korean bacon that gets grilled in a hot plate in front of you. Xela barely survived, seeing how she utterly despises spicy food. And we couldn’t help but wish Addy was around–she’s on this eternal quest for good, spicy dishes.

It’s one of those things she and I shared. One of those things my best friends had about them. I like good quality food; I eat everything, but I criticize everything too. Jovanni eats anything edible and doesn’t mind. Her only descriptions for food are ‘tasty’ and ‘not so tasty’. Simple. Xela takes in anything sweet and creamy and holds a great disliking towards spicy foods. Addy, on the other hand, loves spicy and savory dishes, but could barely tolerate any sort of sweets. She has to gulp down a glass of water after eating a bite of chocolate cake. Opposites attract? We balance each other out. This is what I call equilibrium.

Now before heading back home to Central-East, we stopped over at California Berry, had some frozen yogurt. Xela and I rode in a separate car with my parents, as we dropped her off at her place. Jovanni and the rest rode in the car my sister drove, straight home. She stayed for another night, getting drunk with my sister over some bottles of Soju, a clear, Korean liquor which I never got to taste. My mom confiscated the last bottle and used it for a pork dish, trying to imitate the one we had down south. Jovanni was planning on leaving at 3AM. But when I woke up in the morning, she was still there. She was apparently too drunk to travel home.

Too bad I fell asleep, then. I missed out.

Term Break Narratives I: Party Like It’s Not Your Birthday

Where are the intoxicating perfumes of dead-and-gone flowers?

Never you mind these sad words. I just got them off of the book I read for this term break. Yes, term break. It’s almost over. For a trimestral system, the university takes only about a week in between its terms for the students to rest, and then we come back to school, unlike most other universities who have about two months worth of vacation.

Nonetheless, my term break was fantastic.

27th August 2011.

First day of the term break. I had just recovered from a fit of crying due to academics from the day before–on my birthday, no less (perhaps I’d write about that later). To pay for all the mishaps on my birthday, my eighteenth, my legality, my coming-of-age, it was finally time to celebrate.

If I had gone off to follow social expectation, I would’ve thrown a huge party with band performances and the best DJ’s up in the wilder district of Makati City where the drinks overflow and the scene never sleeps. Or perhaps, one of those “I present my daughter to the public” cotillon types, where all my father’s political and business connections would attend and applaud as I come down the grand staircase, as the older ladies, wives of said businessmen, would whisper in the background, “so she’s the heiress!”.

But we all know my parents are the simplistic and humble types who like to celebrate things only with the closest people.

And thus, we decided on watching nationally acclaimed musical artist, Ryan Cayabyab’s take on the classic novel Noli Me Tangere, in a musical at the Cultural Center of the Philippines. Guest list included, of course, my family (mother, father, two siblings, one niece) and my three best friends (Xela, Jovanni and Addy.)

But before that, we ate at Icebergs. I was expecting it was just going to be a light snack before the show. Chili Cheese Fries and whatnot. Then suddenly, people started ordering pasta. Jovanni ordered for a Lasagna. Shaina ordered rice. My brother had two tacos. And Xela had soup, a sandwich and fish and chips. I don’t exactly understand what was going on in their minds, so I just went with it. I ordered a plate of Palabok myself–a sort of Filipino rice noodles–and a huge platter of ice cream.

KingKong's Revenge

Noli Me Tangere was wonderful, might I say. Even the kids really enjoyed. I couldn’t take any pictures of the musical, of course. But I got to meet Ryan Cayabyab after, and shake hands with Tito Bodjie. I’d describe the musical further, but there’s just no better way of experiencing it other than actually seeing it. Xela was almost in tears with the beauty of the voices of the cast members. Jovanni just couldn’t get over how well the love story between Crisostomo and Maria Clara was portrayed. Every detail, from choreography and even down to the lighting direction was perfect. And of course, the music, a mix of classical, traditional Filipino sounds, and some bits of rock and roll.

Ryan Cayabyab, you’ve done it again.

After the play, we had a difficult time of deciding where to have dinner. Finally, we settled on eating at Aristocrat. Crispy Pata, Spicy Gambas, Kare-Kare, Pancit Canton, Silken Tofu–what else did we eat? I honestly couldn’t remember. There was so much food. Finished it all off with flan. “Mmina, it’s only with your family that I have experienced the true meaning of ‘bloated’.” So says Jovanni. If there’s anything my family knows, it’s how to eat.

We dropped off Addy at their place. Then we all headed off to the South, our rest house at Las Piñas. There is a wall, that if you push the wooden design a bit, it would open out into a new room–this hidden door lead us to calling that said room as ‘the room of requirement’. Well, it was just a hidden sound proof lounge, but it’ll do. We stayed in there for the entire night, watching movies like Love Actually, Zombieland and Pathology. Jovanni kept on complaining about Hollywood’s excessive use of “sexytime and monotonous bullshit”. (HAHA!)