Heavenly spirit.

I had pain last night so to take my mind off it, I tuned it to HBO and saw "Adventures of Tin Tin," and thoroughly enjoyed it. Then I switched to the Children's channel and watched a cartoon.

I like children's movies. I've seen the last Toy Story movie several times already. And of course Back to the Future is my all time favorite which I've watched a hundred times, and counting.

I got invited to a Church ceremony in which I was asked to share. Right off I shared a story of a childhood event.

People who are old enough to be members in some organizations  I've joined but still young to be my age peers sometimes joke about older people; in the West this age discrimination is not acceptable.

Young at heart is not a cliche; there is no age limit to limitless smile, warm handshake, energetic mind.

A wondrous thing.

We hear people say " I can't carry a tune," when pressed to sing. Or sometimes, people tease others who can't carry a tune to just recite the song like a poem.

A song is like a poem;  some poems have been made into songs.

A lot of times, people who want to express their feelings of love, admiration, gratitude, atonement and other sentiment but who cannot create poetry turn to popular songs to capture and convey their emotion.

One of the many islands of the Caramoan Peninsula

Here's a timeless piece.

Our love affair is a wondrous thing
That we'll rejoice in remembering
Our love was born with our first embrace
And a page was torn out of time and space

Our love affair, may it always be
A flame to burn through eternity
So take my hand with a fervent prayer
That we may live and we may share
A love affair to remember

So take my hand with a fervent prayer
That we may live and we may share
A love affair to remember

Rusted crown.

by Gener 

Strings of dissent chained and bound
Held in place, yet translucent like pearls
fresh out from the salty sea
Smiles taken from memories of idyllic stars
Reminders of civil days in a strange country,
Fluid words spew forth yet pallid faces around
mirror old people's empty stares,
Gone are the fire and solid minds of old civilization.

Now hidden down their souls like worms in thick bushes
are dark musings of deceit,
Un-rolled like colorful lollipops thrown at child's lap,
Mutterings of selves veiled in Messianic prose
Schemes like architect's blue prints,
Buried deep in the foundation's ground.

Beware the Ides of March beware
Fortune seers see beyond,
Trappings in gold
Liqeurs in hand
Songs from the mouth
Like Ceasar's crown could rise and fall.

Happy Sad.

Do you sometimes get the feeling of being happy and sad at the same time? You can't explain it.  It's the feeling you get during Christmas Season.

You're happy buying gifts, you're joyous decorating the tree, you're giggling as you go through old pictures of Christmas past. Yet as you hear Christmas carols, you feel a tinge in the heart as you remember spouses, children, parents or siblings who've departed the earthly life, or as you reminisce about soured relationships or friendships.

It's bitter sweet.

It's like cracking open a green mango with your bare teeth, and tasting its sourness yet you love its crunchiness.

It's like reaching the end of a marathon and feeling your legs no more but ecstatic at seeing your finish time.

For mothers, it's like that last painful push in the delivery room and hearing the baby's first cry.

Ask a one- year old how s/he feels and s/he'd give you a blank stare; but carry him/her in your arms and s/he'd smile or hug you back.

Actors are portrayed as having two faces, half sad, and half smiling. It connotes versatility in acting, being able to switch to and from different roles.

Happy people give easy smiles to everyone, and encourage friendships and openness. Those who present a dour disposition sink deeper into their holes of despair and give a flashing sign to others that they should be avoided.

The Magic is Off.

A lot of the things that gave us the "oohs and the aahs" when we were kids are gone today.

The "perya," or the local fairway as we know it in the Philippines has long been gone.  No more "karera ng daga," - that little white mouse - that went in and out of numbered cubes and made you win.

No more swimming at the Manila Bay in Paranaque, no more "karetela" (horse drawn carriage) rides, no more twenty-centavo fare to U.P. Diliman, no more peso and twenty cent-cinemas.

The childhood is gone and so is the magic.

As adults we anticipate excitement at every turn.  We look forward to surprises from our spouses and children.  We cling to our seats as the plane taxies in the runway of an international airport for our holiday.  We salivate over high tech accessories and fast cars.

But the magic of adulthood can be gone, too, in an instant. 

That prized golf clubs will be put away when arthritis sets in.  The vacation may become too exhausting as emphysema takes hold, or the fancy restaurants may no longer appeal as hypertension and diabetes conquer the body.

But magic can stay forever if we continue to re-create it in our lives. Cliche but true.

We can always put a smile into our hearts and faces as we awake each day.  We can feel the magic of His creation as we look into the sky and the moon at night. 

We can experience magic as we give love to our beloved ones.

To some people, there's magic as they write.  To some, the magic is in singing praises to the Lord.  To others, magic happens when the children grow up as decent human beings.  And still to others, magic can be in the form of wonderful relationships and friendships.

Hocus pocus is no magic. It's a trick. it's like false friendships, or scams, or dubious businesses, dirty politics or self-righteous people.

Basu-basura.

Binuksan ang drawer, kay daming balat ng kendi,
May chewing gum na putol,
May butil ng mani,
May tsokolateng tunaw,
May tulo ng ballpen,
At may singaw ng luma.

Kay raming basura, kung ano ano lang naman,
Dapat itapon lahat ora-orada,
Ngunit next week lang din sangkaterba na naman,
Kahit bulsa ng pantalong nakasabit
Dumpster din ang dating.


Kay raming kahon, at mga plastic bin,
Punong puno ng kable, extension cord at USB,
Sa bodega sa dulo may mga maleta naman
Punong puno ng polo shirt, kurbata at mga mittens.

Basura itapon na bakit iniipon pa?
Ang marami dito alaala lang ng kahapon,
Dinadala at binobodega
Pinipilit isalba,
Daan kasi ng lumipas nagdala sa ngayon na.

Oo, mahilig mag ipon ng mga lumang memorya
Pero di ba ito ang basehan ng ating ligaya?
Kahit talo o panalo dala nito ang sentro,
Ang maraming taon, ang mga nilamon ng panahon.

Kahit ang MMDA nag aanunsyo ng recycling
Iligtas daw ang kalikasan at kapaligiran,
Magandang patnubay sa damdamin at buhay
I-recycle ang nuon at matuto sa ngayon.

Basu-basura lang
Wala daw silbi,
Ugat pa ng away at matinding kalungkutan,
Pero sa tingin ko basura ng buhay nabulok man at umamoy
Naging sanga ng buhay,
Naging pamantayan.

The Ber's are Back.

I was shocked to see Christmas Trees on the set of a local morning news show yesterday. Then I remembered it was September 1st, and then I remembered I was in P.I., the country with the longest Christmas celebration.

If I were in North America, the start of Ber... September, would remind me of the demise of Summer, and the re-birth of cool days of Autumn and Winter.

Here in Manila, my sweaters and jackets are packed inside two suitcases. If I were in North America, these items would be hung in the hallway and walk in closet, uncreased and ready to be worn anytime.

Here in Manila, my stuff are constantly re-arranged and sometimes, I've got no clue where my personal items are; if I were in North America, my things would be where they were as I left them.

Being tidy is called being neat freak here in Manila; in North America, it is a must, almost a law. How could you not keep nook and crannies spotless when you are bombarded by North American TV docus showing mites hiding in mattresses and bedding and bacteria in whatever you touch, and TV commercials hawking cleaning and hygienic products.

I hate dirt and smelly clothes, Kay Brosas the comic, shouts in one local TV detergent spot. I could commiserate with her.

In the washroom, I hate seeing grime and want to smell Lysol. In the sink, I hate seeing black spots and want to smell Lysol. Under the cabinet, I hate seeing ants or roaches crawling and want to smell Lysol. In the living room or bedroom, I hate seeing mosquitoes and want to smell fresh cologne.

I'm a tidy person, not a neat freak. I hate the sound of freak, it freaks me out.

New kits on the block.

I hate stray cats; I used to love 'em when I was a kid. Our house was full of thirteen, maybe more cats, at one time. There was once a stray cat we named "Wooly Bully," who made my feet his sleeping quarters.

About a month ago, we asked our laundry woman to get us a cat because I saw a rat romping at the backyard; she brought a white nice female feline. But the dog at the backyard, Yabi, barked at her, so she scampered away, climbed the tall fence, into the neighbour's backyard. We didn't see her again.

Now we have two new fellows in the house.

At my age, I am no longer amenable to adjusting my ways to accommodate other people. Twenty years of living independently in a country and culture where "the self" comes first and foremost, and neighbourliness is saying "hello" and "hi" even to strangers in the elevator and shopping malls, has made me civil and not really cozy towards others.

I don't see anything wrong with it and I don't feel offended if others treat me the same way. In offices where I worked in the last twenty years, being frank, forthright and aggressive were considered assets and musts. If you weren't, you'd be swallowed by the rest.

Saying what's in one's mind is the best way to cope with the workplace and in other relationships, business or personal.

But I'm finding it difficult to be the same person I had been here in P.I. Words like "you have to adjust, don't say that it would hurt the other person's feelings," have been hurled at me. Certain individuals have a habit of making others feel guilty for standing their ground and it is simply and utterly ignorant and selfish of them. Quoting bible verses, and pointing accusations for someone's religiousity, is becoming the Devil, instead of being the Right One.

Lately, taking in fellows into the house meant charity, even if it equates to the owner's being uncomfortable, and unhappy.

If this scenario happened in Canada, I needn't even have to worry in the first place; I only take "those in need" temporarily until they can stand on their own two feet. That's real charity.

The home is the one place where people are supposed to be happiest. I pray you see that.

Homecoming.

When I was new in the U.S, I never quite understood the frenzy about homecomings. In a small town in Ohio where I lived in 1985, there were just a few hotels and so during these homecoming days, a lot of returning alumni and alumnae couldn't find accommodation. Later on, inns and hotels would rise around the University area.

"Homecoming is the tradition of welcoming back former residents and alumni of an institution. It most commonly refers to a tradition in many universities, colleges and high schools in North America. It usually includes activities for students and alumni, such as sports and culture events and a parade through the streets of the city or town."

Here in the Philippines, it is commonly referred to as "class or school reunion."

I'd never attended a class or school reunion; elementary, high school nor a college reunion. Once, after a year of graduation from high school, I went to an afternoon gathering where boys and girls of our graduating class talked about the new life in the university. The next time my high school class had a reunion, I was on a weekend discussion group for my MBA marketing presentation.

In the U.S and Canada, homecomings are big events. There'd be homecoming queens and kings, there'd be memorable dances and parades. These are usually held in September or October, after the long summer break.

I remember watching over HBO this movie about a high school class homecoming, which starred Mira Sorvino and Lisa Kudrow. Titled "Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion," it was about the looming tenth high school reunion of two dim witted high school pals, Romy and Michelle. Romy works in a car rental while Michelle is unemployed. With the reunion fast approaching, the two friends realized that their lives are not impressive enough to cow the popular crowd that tormented them in their teen years. So Romy borrows a Jaguar, and the duo concocts a story about how they became top corporate executives by creating Post-It Notes. Once they are at the reunion, however, Romy and Michelle's scheme unravels.

This movie parodies the sometimes cruel and demanding task of attending a homecoming; one is expected to either show off or shut up. In any sort of reunion , class or clan, each member is somehow unwittingly told to have a story to tell: a life story, or an episode of it.

What happened after grade twelve, grade ten or after that four-year baccalaureate course? Position in the office, salary level, family status? Kids? Kids' status?

Now, we understand why social networking sites such as facebook and tweeter have become so much addicting. There is always a need to find out what has happened to our former friends, colleagues, relationships.

Our high school holds a yearly homecoming every December. In it, all graduating classes are invited to attend, but this is not in the epic proportion of a U.S or a Canadian homecomings. Mostly, it is a dance event. Then, individual classes hold their own reunions, locally or sometimes abroad.

It's graduation month this April, and years from now, the Class of 2011 will be attending homecomings and reunions.

There'd be success stories and sob stories.

Keep Going, Lucky.

The other day I was looking for fresh batteries to put into the portable radio; there was a brown out, you see. I rummaged through a drawer full of batteries and "katol," and matches, and candles. There were batteries used and unused there.

Finally, I loaded four batteries into the old radio, but there was no signal. I replaced the batteries with a new set, but again nothing happened.

That's when I took out from the "bodega," the portable emergency light cum radio-electric fan and mosquito swatter. Voila, radio!

Later, I lined up the used batteries by the kitchen window in order to re-charge them.

This is what I noticed. Batteries here in P.I. are the type that die young. I've changed clock batteries constantly.

And yesterday at the parking lot, when I switched the car ignition, there was just a click. I pumped the gas, and turned on the key... there it was again. Silence.

I opened the hood and checked the battery cables. That battery is practically new - 16 months' old. In Canada, I rarely buy a car battery; I keep going back to the same tire-garage for car maintenance and accessories, and the store honors the warranty on my battery, so practically, I don't buy new ones.

The security guard at the parking lot was already calling for service when I tried to start the car again. Vroom...the car growled at me.

I don't know what happened out there. Just like I don't know what's happening to my body (having flu-like days, and then gone next day), nor to my tomorrows.

It's like touch and go, one song declares. One can never tell the future, even if one bases the assumption or forecasts from previous happenings. There's no intelligent guesses, anymore, especially in matters of the heart.

It's Valentines Day, that's why I decided to blog today.

The last time I blogged was January 20th. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

It ain't butter.

People suffering from high cholesterol knows that butter is a no no. So, they use margarine, oleo, and other substitutes.

But it ain't butter!

I use butter on my toast. I also put grape jelly on my peanut butter sandwich, although the Doc told me to say no to these stuff. I also drink coffee (another No from Doc), and occasionally sip wine or a cocktail.

It's good family physicians don't go into more private parts of lives, like personal. If they do, my internist would admonish me not to write any short stories, scripts, etc. because they could be hazardous to other lives.

"It's pure shit," others say.

The Second Coming.

It's two days before the first anniversary of Typhoon Ondoy, which struck suddenly last year, and devastated a big part of the country.

Personally, it brought both tragedy and bliss into my life. Today, it looks like a repeat of Ondoy. Dark clouds, no moon.

And the story ends in the garbage, or burned in the urn.

Saving It.

There's a soon-to-be-released movie titled "You Again," which stars among others, Sigourney Weaver, Jamie Lee Curtis, Kristen Bell and yes, Betty White.

I saw the trailer yesterday and from the looks of it, it would be a blast to watch. The reason I'd see it: Jamie Lee. 

There's a line that Betty White delivers when a guy asks Kristen Bell's character her phone number, 

" it's 555.... I also have a facebook account and I'm on Twitter."

The signs of the times.  Today, you see ancient people just like me,  texting, shouting out, and tweeting all over the place.

Five years ago who would have imagined that parents and grandparents would also be all over the place googling, chatting, and posting like the young people and those still actively in the workplace. 

My bro-in-law, a retired gynecologist, spends time in his computer when he wakes up at odd hours in the morning.  A sister who's out of the country "facebooks" to tell about her new "apo's" growing up antics. Colleagues and friends comment at none and sundry I sometimes post in my own fb account.

Social Network.  There's another movie of the same title showing soon.

Certain times I've posted my comment to some friends/relatives' shout out, especially if they sounded "troubled."  

But are there any rules or etiquette for shouting out or commenting in these social networks? 

Recently, I advised a niece to refrain from posting negatives about a former employer; I don't know how she took the pubic counsel, but she thanked me anyway. 

I guess these public social networks are much like eavesdropping on a party line conversation, except you can butt in anytime. 

But how do you tell friends or friends of friends to wake up and smell the coffee when it comes to their personal relationships as aired over these public venues? Or do you even tell them? Is MYOB the safest route? Some don't just get it; simply clueless. 

Social networkers, bloggers and blog readers are new species of the digital age; they share their lives and thoughts with everyone and encroach upon territories upon territories. Like the dinosaurs of millions years ago, these species' creations, opus and stratagems are ways to enlarge the boundaries of existence, to seek ways to multiply and save their kind.

Unceremonious.

Ceremony. Rite.  The Catholic Mass is a rite for the faithful.  It is a beautiful ceremony that glorifies God.  I read of a Protestant minister who converted to Catholicism because he found the Catholic rites so much beautiful, sacred and a true tribute to Jesus.

Aside from the mass itself, other beautiful Catholic rites include baptism, confirmation, and wedding.

My father was a Catholic while my mother was an Aglipay.  So we, children except for two, were all first baptized as Aglipays, then were converted to Catholicism. 

Unceremonious.  Without the due formalities, abrupt. Some relationships, engagements, and friendships are ended without any formal notices.

The parties involved could choose closure; others simply coast along, some get hitched, for the right or wrong reasons; still others wander from one relationship to another.

This One's For You.

AND I LOVE YOU SO

Sung by Perry Como

And I love you so
The people ask me how
How I've lived 'til now
I tell them I don't know

I guess they understand
How lonely life has been
But life began again
The day you took my hand

And yes I know, how lonely life can be
The shadows follow me 
And the night won't set me free
But I don't let the evening get me down
Now that you're around me

And you love me too
Your thoughts are just for me
You set my spirit free
I'm happy that you do

The book of life is brief
And once a page is read
All but life is dead
That is my belief

And yes I know, how lonely life can be
The shadows follow me 
And the night won't set me free
But I don't let the evening get me down
Now that you're around me

My oldest sister and brother in law are in town for a series of medical missions to different parts of the country. They're with several groups of Fil-Am doctors from Chicago and Seatlle.

And when siblings get together, a natural topic of conversation are those days long gone and years of growing up.  Sis was hilarious when she related to us about young crushes and suitors; how one guy used to send her "song hits" with pages marked to indicate specific songs dedicated to her.

For those not in the know, "song hits" were small booklets, the size of today's TV Guide,  containing lyrics of popular songs.  These were sold in magazine stands, and were popular with teens.  Filipinos even in ancient times already loved to sing; a Filipino invented "karaoke," remember?

I remember some radio shows back then with "dedication portions."  Listeners would call in and ask the DJ to play a particular song and dedicate it to his/her boy/girlfriend or spouse. 

This strategy of dedicating a love song to a love interest to gain her/his attention dates back to the Pinoy old custom of "harana."  In a harana, a boy summons his courage, his own voice or friends to declare his love for a girl through songs.

So on one not so late evening, the lover would don his best attire (barong tagalog or kamiset' chino) and pluck his guitar and sing "Maalala Mo Kaya or Bakya Mo Neneng" in front of the girl's house.  I suppose the boy would choose a particular night when the "moon"  would be full and shining brightly, especially if he lived in a town with no electricity yet. 

The only harana I witnessed personally (most were seen in old Tagalog movies), was the one performed by my now uncle in law Tio Rocky when he was courting my Tia Sol.  Tio Rocky actually commissioned another uncle in law, Tio Peping, to sing for him. It was a scene straight out of a Rogelio De La Rosa-Carmen Rosales movie. And this one, I guess, was back in the early 60's and took place in Manila. 

Nowadays, lovers exchange and share play lists.  

Songs are powerful tools to express one's feelings and emotions.  But poetry is the precursor of songs. Lovers proclaim their deep seated love and passion through emotion-filled lines, octaves,haiku.

For the non-poets, it would be through popular songs.  "This one's for you," a man or a woman would say.

Where're My Favorite Things?

I love the Twisted.
I miss my dog Shadow and I miss my quiet moments working early mornings at my computer in my house.

I miss my budgie Tommy.

I miss driving my car, and feeling free that at anytime I can get out of the house, come back, drive out of town without any cares in the world.

I miss my "wakeful dreams" in which I gather my thoughts - of past and the future.

I miss preparing my favorite breakfast of pancakes and brewing my own coffee.

I miss writing corny, lavatorial poems only I can appreciate.

I miss Toronto and its boring nights.

I miss the new moon and how it excites my nights and how it lights my dreams.

I miss the time you were thinking of me.

I miss the moments when I think of the way I think of you.

I miss you so much and how we can be together.

You are my favorite thing.

I wish I can tell you that over and over, because life is short and life is worth living.

I miss Old Manila and I miss its promise of a lifetime.

What distance can do.

In Toronto, the sky was clearer and the moon, although missing for most nights, can be glimpsed once in a while in the horizon.

In Manila, where the sky should be clearer, it became darker. Perhaps it was because of the intermittent rains since I arrived here, or maybe due to the carbon monoxide exhaust of the cars, buses, jeepneys and tricycles.

But I have not really seen the moon ever since I got here. The absence of it is so saddening, the lack of communion with this celestial body weakens the spirit of someone seeking solace and oneness with the Age of Aquarius.

How could Manila be so cold when it was meant to be warm? Is it the rain, or the advent of gadgets that make the Pinoys more coolly western than exotically eastern? Is it fear of the unknown of its future ?

In Toronto, the signals were more distinct; in Manila, they became weaker.

Seven thousand plus miles is the distance from Toronto to Manila. Eleven days is the total number of days already spent in the capital. The gap was closed; the chasm still exists.

" When the Moon is on the seventh house and Jupiter aligns with Mars." I would like to listen to the new Manila sound, if ever there is one, to dispel the dryness of the weather here. Music always creates an artificial scenario wherein one can immerse its soul.

I talk to myself. Let's go. Let's be. Let's listen to that music and unite with it.

" Fill my heart with song and let me sing forever more...In other words.."

Funeral for Love Letters.

You always hear the words, "man of few words." Now in this politically correct times, it should be "person of few words."

What does it mean? S/He is a man/woman of few words, but s/he usually makes a lot of sense. That's the meaning.

Couple of weeks ago, I was watching a newscast while my back was turned away from the television set, and I heard President Obama speaking. I thought it was one of those old clips from his campaign last year. He sounded like he was delivering a major speech...to a graduating class.

A graduating class? Yes. Obama saw the importance of motivating these young folks so he delivered a long one, full of words.

But unlike Obama, more and more people are keeping their words to themselves. Sometimes, even those people who live by their words - the writers.

Really in today's wired world, words are hard to come by. Take texting, email and instant chat, three commonly used forms of communication. People no longer use complete sentences; acronyms have been invented. Oftentimes, when I read text messages sent to me, I have a hard time deciphering because of the numerous short cuts used.

By their very name, instant messaging, texting and email denote speed and succinctness; so expect the loss of words in their bodies.

I suspect that love letters have also taken a beating. Or simply, people don't write them anymore. And when lovers do write, there's the romantic tongue tied-ness - a literal loss (for) of words.

Why so? I think the scramble for saving time (the impetus for lightning-speed communication technology) has crawled into the very fibers of our beings, that it is no longer in the consciousness to speak out or write about feelings for one's beloved. A few key strokes here and there, a smiley icon, or a good line , press send, and presto, an instant love note.

I cry for those days when it was easier to understand, though long, those letters - love letters or otherwise.

Funeral for love letters. Tsk tsk. Sad.

Do A Forrest Gump.

Did Forrest Gump's new found son grow up to be like him? Will we ever know?

In the last scene of Forrest Gump, the 1994 movie which starred Tom Hanks as Forrest Gump and adapted from the 1986 novel by Winston Groom, the son boarded the school bus and Forrest waved at him.

But there was a hint that the boy was bright. The mother told Forrest when he asked "Is he like me?' And Jenny said, "oh, he's very bright."

I got to thinking about Forrest Gump because I could not avoid seeing its countless re-runs at the Turner Classics' cable channel. And besides, I like its 60's setting and Forrest's childhood sweetheart Jenny and his army-buddy, but not Forrest himself and his square-jaw talking.

Forrest was stupid as stupid can be.

But normal people sometimes do stupid things before they could even think about it. Impulse. Or some would say things that other people interpret as the exact opposite. Mis-communication.

When I get caught in a similar situation, I want to do a Forrest Gump - run as fast as him because running releases frustration. Or wish that I can sail even the raggedy-ann boat that Forrest Gump first sailed into the open sea, because sailing takes one's breath away.

Although in one scene, Forrest and his army buddy got stormed while they were looking for shrimp. Hey, stormy.

The big trophy that Forrest gave to Jenny was marriage but it was a tad late for Jenny, for she died soon after. The stupid Forrest is a wise man after all.

The movie was directed by Robert Zemeckis who also directed Back to the Future.

Are You a Conflicting Codec?

When I was setting up my Tridef player to watch 3d movies, I got so frustrated with conflicting codecs- audio and video - in both software and hardware.

By definition, a codec is a device or computer program capable of encoding and/or decoding a digital data, stream or signal. So, if you have various software installed in your computer, it means that there are several audio and/or video codecs in there.

Conflicting codecs. It's like the way spouses, lovers, parents and children communicate with each other these days. There are conflicting codes, conflicting language, and conflicting gestures.

Ever talked to your daughter about her boyfriend? Or to your mate about domestic cleanliness? Or to your girlfriend/boyfriend about old flames or future plan(s)?

I bet, most of the time, both of you are in conflicting codecs - simply don't understand what the other is talking about.

The daughter rolls her eyes; the husband plugs ears with ear phones instead of getting out his tool; the wife bangs close the toilet lid while he's still mid-stream; the boyfriend thinks trash and the girlfriend talks about tennis. The mate talks about frozen goodies, the other thinks about frozen babies.

Better to get the act straightened out. Talking in riddles were funny when we were young.
Codes were useful during the 1940's war. Shortened text or instant messaging are at best, both a boon or a bust. Even poetry can be archaic.

One of the best selling resource speakers is Anthony Robbins. He gets away with being big in words and concepts because he peddles a step-by-step book and audio tapes. Clear for those who want to believe in his wares.

Verdict: I am guilty on certain counts.