Everybody (Apparently) Wants to Rule to the World

It’s the third frustrating day of the fruitless search for Tears For Fears tickets – the scarcity of tickets being compounded by my kuripot refusal to buy anything above five thousand pesos. I told Ron I am imposing a moratorium on large expenses – all funds intended for purchases above 5,000 being earmarked for charity, specifically the “Louis Vuitton Fund for Indigent Miscen Desiderios”, my philosophy being that “A bag is thing of beauty forever” and a Tears for Fears concert lasts only three hours (even shorter if Roland Orzibal keels over before the concert ends, given his advanced age).    

Needless to say, this philosophy did not gain wide acceptance in the Desiderio-Dime household.  Thus, I am still compelled to look for the darn tickets.

As I have been repeatedly reminded, I should have bought the tickets three weeks ago when they started selling them. However, how the heck was I supposed to know that this concert was going to be this popular?  I didn’t want to watch them when they were famous in the ‘80s!  Why would I want to watch them now that they’re well…a “retro” band?  I figured, nobody would be lining up for the tickets and that they'd probably mark them down after a week....

Ok, so I was wrong.  

Apparently, since baston pants, big hair and acid wash are back, ‘80s bands are popular again. Next thing you know, we’ll all be lining up for the Pepsi and Shirlie Reunion Concert and Aquanet share prices will hit the roof.   

Honestly, my happy memories of the friendships I formed in college notwithstanding, I don’t get the fascination with the whole ‘80s thing.  It’s probably cool for the younger kids – the same way I used to think James Dean and the whole Rebel Without a Cause was cool. In fact, to my friend’s consternation, her 15 year old (Yes, I have friends with 15 year old children, and yes, I know that makes me old) asked her for a “vintage” Member’s Only jacket for Christmas.  Really.  (And to think that I slept soundly for years, assured that the Fashion Police had eradicated last “Member” as early as 1990.)  

If I force myself to remember being 17 years old in the '80s (a big glass of vodka helps with this),  I recall the world’s most awkward teenager. And UP Diliman in the ‘80s was not a kind, nurturing place for awkward teenagers.

Examine defense Exhibit "A" :

When I think about the ‘80s, I remember my bad hair (all three feet of it - 2 feet being my bangs), my even worse clothes (baston-acid-wash-maong-pants-tucked-into-my-hightop-purple-converse – all at the same time, may I add), teenage angst compounded by teenage acne and braces. (You get a prize for correctly identifying yours truly.)

And let’s not forget that I was a total fashion victim and wore blue contact lenses for several years – prompting catcalls of  “X-men! X-men!” from my evil friends as I passed their tambayan.

There was also first love and other disasters, including all my (regularly replaced) “one true loves” who usually turned out to be frogs with utterly no princely attributes.  Good thing I was too picky (and deathly afraid of my dad’s wrath if discovered with a boyfriend) that I managed to avoid most emotional entanglements except for the one that got away and the one that established that all boys are jerks at the age of 18.  Thus, while my friends were mooning over Ely Buendia (who happened to be a dorm mate), I had a huge crush on the totally unattainable (and now that I think about it, not very attractive) Lou Diamond Phillips – and if you don’t know who that is, good for you.

And while on the subject, let’s not forget getting my heart broken (ok so maybe I exaggerate – but it sure felt like it at the time) for the first time – of all places - in Greenbelt Park by said jerk, while all my friends were inside Faces, probably dancing to Mike Francis (if one can actually dance to Mike Francis) while on the ledge.  

And then there were the perils of my chemistry class with its exploding beakers – or at least mine exploded, everyone else’s were fine; dissecting poor unsuspecting frogs while tying to breathe through my mouth for fear of losing my lunch and to my utter humiliation (and my parent’s dire threats of being grounded forever) – being forced to repeat Calculus because I got a 4.0 the first time I took the class.  In hindsight, this was a good thing.  It made me clearly see that I did not have the intelligence or inclination for medical school – thereby saving my parents hundreds of thousands of pesos in wasted tuition money.

It’s a wonder I survived and lived to the ripe old age I am now.  Especially if you consider that I was forced to subsist on fishballs and dorm food for four, long, formative years of  my early adulthood.

So you see why I’m not exactly crazy about reminiscing about the ‘80s. 

Still, to give credit where credit is due, life was simpler then.

Prospective blind dates had no option to google you and judge you by your profile picture on Facebook.  You kinda had to rely on good faith and  my friend Michelle’s  optimism that “Fate” would send you the perfect guy – every time you were brave enough to risk rejection (and getting reprimanded for breaking curfew) by going out on a blind date.  

There were no cell phones and no text.  Thus, it was easy to avoid unwanted “admirers” – you just needed to hide out in your dorm room and wait for the person paging you to translate the deathly silence to mean that you weren’t there.  Eventually, unless they were extremely determined (I know someone who camped out in the lobby waiting for me for 2 hours - I got caught leaving just as I thought it was safe to come out), they usually went away after this.  Or even better, you could pretend to be someone else and tell whoever it was that well – you weren’t there.   (This worked lots of times by the way.)

And if you promised someone you'd be somewhere at 8 o'clock, you were there at  8 o'clock (...ok, maybe 8:30) because back then, there was no way to communicate that due to sudden (right....) illness, you had to bail out at the last minute and your friends would probably kill you if you did a no-show.

Further, there was the thrill of  checking the revolving message rack in the lobby to see if your boy-du-jour had left you a note – people actually wrote notes then – instead of sending text messages that require a  Morse code expert to interpret (i.e. “w8 4 me, m runng l8” OR, my all time favorite text message “kumain n me, kumain n u? [smiley face] ). 

In those days, .75 centavos went far – or at least until as far as A.S.   The Ikot jeep cost all of .75 centavos, as did an unlimited telephone call on the red payphones.  With 75 centavos, you could actually drag a chair to the telephone and site there talking about inanities for hours and all you risked was being killed by the lynch mob forming in the line behind you of people waiting to use the phone.  

Televisions had only about five channels.  Thus, you were forced to think up alternative methods of entertaining yourself. This was especially true if you lived in Kalayaan dormitory which had a grand total of one television set (with a temperamental rabbit antenna - someone had to be conned into standing next to it holding the antenna at a certain angle) and about 200 kids wanting to watch it...all at the same time.    In my case, "entertainment" once took the form of sneaking out of the fire escape in the middle of the night just to hang out on the roof until the security guard caught us and hauled us to the Dorm Manager’s office to be read the riot act.(But that’s another story)

You actually had a choice of a non - air-conditioned cab (15 pesos from UP to SM North Edsa) as opposed to an air - conditioned one for 10 pesos more.  There were no MMDA officers to arrest overloaded taxicabs either, so taxis would agree to ferry you and as many friends as could possibly fit in one 16 valve Toyota Corolla Taxi to SM North EDSA.  There, you could watch a movie (I recall my favorite being “La Bamba”) for another 15 pesos on the balcony or 10 pesos in the orchestra if this happened to be close to Friday and your allowance was running low.

A blue book was 2.50 and so was a Panda ballpen.  And for 15 pesos, you could eat tapsilog at Rodics and be blissfully, gustatorily happy for a few hours. 

For 25 pesos, you could eat a Quarterpounder at Mcdonalds OR more importantly, buy a can of Aquanet to keep your bangs completely motionless and gravity defying for at least eight hours.

In fact, 25 pesos for a big can of Aquanet was well worth your money.  Note that we hardcore big hair girls went for the dark purple cans of "Extra  Super Hold".  None of that sissy "light hold" variety for us. No sir-eee.  (You do remember that Aquanet was color coded, right? The darker the color of the can, the more lethal it was -  to this day, I am in search for the legendary, mythical black can - Extreme Super Hold - I bet it would come in useful for heavy construction projects.)

Not only did it keep your hair looking like The Cure on a bad  (but good to us ) hair day, my roommates and I have used Aquanet as a substitute for glue, to prevent runs in our stockings, and once, as a blowtorch to kill a huge spider crawling on the wall – you must never, EVER, underestimate the power of Aquanet when combined with a Bic Lighter.

Oh and let’s not forget (as my best friend very recently pointed out) , how much damage it did to the Ozone layer.

Looking back, I realize that I don’t have a lot of memories of actually…(shudder)..studying. 

I did learn one thing though and this being that – my daughter is so NOT going to UP Diliman – unless they allow me to stay in her dorm room with her until she graduates.

And now, after that fruitless and utterly gratuitous trek down memory lane, I’m going back on-line to trawl for possible scalpers of Tears For Fears Tickets.  

Politically Incorrect

I was all set to vote for Mar Roxas until I turned on the radio this morning and heard

“Mar Roxas Mar Roxas”
“Mar Roxas Mar Roxas”

…to the tune of the very classy, utterly captivating tune “Mr. Suave” by Vhong Nhavarro (sorry – I may have put too many letter “H”s in there…I’m never quite sure where those go).

Miscen : I’m appalled that Mar Roxas allowed his campaign people
to use that ad.


Ron : What do you mean? I think it’s very catchy.


Miscen : But it’s soooo baduy.
(Shudders, in her best Kris Aquino-slash-Jamie
Panlilio-assumpsionista-impression)


Ron : Are you kidding me? Obviously, you’re not the target market for
that particular jingle.
(Looks at wife disgustedly, like she’s from an alien planet)


Miscen : Helloooo. I’m kidding (in normal voice).  
I was being facetious of course.

Ron : Exactly, I don’t think they intend to win votes from people that use
the word “facetious” in ordinary conversation with that jingle.

Miscen : Whatever. You just don't know what "facetious" means.
(Turns away to look out window in a piqued manner, a.k.a. ” pikon”)


So great. I’m definitely not voting for Mar Roxas now because:

1. He was cause of marital discord at 7:10 AM on what had theretofore been looking like it was going to be a nice day, and  
2. I have last song syndrome because of his jingle and have been hearing “Mar Roxas, Mar Roxas” to the aforementioned tune, in my head all day, causing me to make at least three (that I’ve noticed so far) grammatical errors in my pleading.

At least Jejomar Binay had the common sense not to even HAVE a jingle. (Although granted, it’s hard to rhyme “Binay” or worse, “Jejomar” with anything.) BF doesn’t have one either…and is Edu Manzano even REALLY running for Vice President?

Besides, any attempt to produce a memorable political jingle would just be blown out of the water by Manny Villar’s campaign ad. It is just so fabulous. Catchy. Lyrical….

Nakaligo ka na ba sa dagat ng basura?

Nag-Pasko ka na ba sa gitna ng kalsada?

Yan ang tanong namin, tunay ka bang isa sa amin?

Nalaman mo na bang mapapag-aral ka nya?

Tutulungan tayo para magka-trabaho?

At kanyang plano’y magka-bahay tayo?

Si Villar ang tunay na mahirap.

si Villar ang tunay na may malasakit.

Si Villar ang may kakayahan

At gumawa ng sariling pangalan.

Si Manny Villar ang magtatapos ng ating kahirapan.

…and I’m just truly, truly bowled over and amazed how they got all those kids to lie so convincingly.


Let’s face it. Does anyone here actually believe that Villar ever spent Christmas on the street, or (shudder, shudder) swam in a sea of trash? Really.


And to answer all the other rhetorical questions in that song:


1. No I don’t know na “mapapa-aral” nya ako. I doubt if he’s actually ever sent anyone to school (besides his own kids). Has anyone heard of a Villar educational fund anywhere? If so, how do I get a grant?


2. No I don’t see him helping any of us get a job. I’ve actually applied to Vista Land and let me tell you…they’re not very generous. Plus, he hasn’t exactly explained how he intends to do this – unless he intends to employ everyone himself? So that being said, I fail to see how he’ll end my “kahirapan”.


3. Yes. I am soooo SURE he intends for all of us to own a house. Preferably purchased from Camella Homes at ahem…a nice little profit for him.

Ok fine. I’m being facetious again. But really, it’s kind of insulting how much C R __ P these candidates think we’re all willing to swallow.

Look at my old classmate Mikey Arroyo for example, and his party list nomination to represent security guards, of all people. Someone really needs to tell him that walking around with a bunch of personal bodyguards does NOT qualify one to represent them in congress.

This whole party list system thing is just getting out of hand. The ones for the farmers, the women, the gay people, the handicapped…those I get. But take a look at this!! (Note: These are actual accredited party lists):

Alyansa ng Mamamayang Naghihirap (ALMANA) – Doesn’t that like, include everyone living in the Philippines ? (With the exception of all politicians and their families of course.) So who are they representing exactly?

Alyansa ng Media at Showbiz (AMS) – Great. More artistas in government. Just what we need. Yes. They are sooooo marginalized. They must have it soooo hard. Seven Figure salaries, beautiful clothes, fancy cars….especially poor Willie Revillame and his gazillions of pesos and Richard Gutierrez with his gajillion peso customized Porsche Panamera. (Ok, ok, I’m just envious of the Porsche).

The True Marcos Loyalist (For God, Country and People) Association of the Phils (BANTAY) – Fabulous. All seven of them (i.e. Imelda, Bongbong, Imee, Irene and their spouses) need their own party list. Ibalik ang Bagong Lipunan. Besides, what does this even mean? “True” Marcos Loyalist? What’s that? As opposed to a “fake” Marcos Loyalist?

Ako Babaing Astig Aasenso (1-ABAA) – and what, if I’m not an “astig” na babae, I don’t deserve to asenso?! What the heck? And how do I got about proving I’m “astig”…beat up a few politicians? Are they going to organize one for “wimpy” as opposed to “Astig” women as well?

Ang Mata’y Alagaan (AMA) – is this for oppressed ophthalmologists? Are there in fact, oppressed ophthalmologists? And are they sufficiently numerous as to require representation in congress?

and then there’s my personal favorite…

Abono – what is this one supposed to be? Marginalized employees who don’t get reimbursed for advances? (hmmmm…maybe I should sign up for this one.)


Lastly, which genius came up with the acronym-slash-mnemonic device “SALAMAT LORRD” ? Do they really think I will be convinced to vote for a bunch of people whose campaign device sounds like a sub-title massacre movie?!!! (i.e. “2010 Elections, The Movie – Salamat Lorrd” ; “The Philippine Democracy Massacre – Salamat Lorrd” )

At the end of the day…I guess we all deserve the government we have. I myself have personally neglected to vote in the last two elections ( Hello...I’m a lawyer…I do election stuff at or about that time…) so it’s not my place to complain about the people in power.

In conclusion. - fine, I’m voting for Noy Noy and Mar Roxas (notwithstanding his abysmal taste in campaign jingles). 

(But if Kris Aquino ends up as a Cabinet Official, I’m moving to Kenya.)

See http://www.scribd.com/doc/26721862/Party-List-for-May-2010-Elections for details.

Baby Talk

“What worries us the most are the possible immediate and long-term effects of this incident on Baby James. We are appealing to those people playing up this issue and have been spreading and ridiculing Baby James to please leave Baby James alone and respect his innocence and childhood,” Dr. Joy Alcantara of the Party List candidate “Akap Bata” was quoted in the Philippine Daily Inquirer yesterday.

With all due respect to the good doctor, I think they should be worrying more about the long term psychological effects of being forever referred to as “Baby James” than they should about the incident with Manny Villar.

Really.

Fast forward to thirty seven years from now, when he’ll be forty and eligible to run for president.  How could he possibly hope to run a country with a name like “Baby James”?  

I’ve done my research on this by the way and it seems that no one, and I mean no one with “Baby” as part of their given name has really amounted to much. 

A classic example is “Baby Huey”   (i.e. the huge, not so very intelligent duck from old school Disney cartoons).  You don’t remember him?  Obviously he didn’t really have a stellar acting career.

Of note is another popular, yet sad, sad figure from television. Let’s not forget the ubiquitous “Baby Bop” who is first of all, not a baby, not even a recognizable known specie of dinosaur that she pretends to be and who’ll never amount to much other than a sidekick of her boss Barney, the purple dinosaur (who incidentally, does not appear to be very bright either.)

And what about “Baby Ama”?  Remember Baby Ama?  On the upside, there were numerous movies made about his life.  On the downside however, none of the movies made about him ever ended well i.e.  “Bitayin si... Baby Ama! (1976)” ,Anak ni Baby Ama (1990), Hari ng Selda: Anak ng Baby Ama 2 (2006).  Clearly, Baby Ama did not have quite the stellar life his mother would have hoped for.  But then again, I truly believe it was her fault he turned out the way he did.  He probably turned had to a life of crime in a fit of machismo to live down all the teasing and to prove that despite having the name “Baby Ama”, that he was a rough, tough SOB. Of course, someone should have told him that turning to a life of crime is not really the best way to prove one’s manhood.  But again, like I said, as the name implies, he may not have been the sharpest knife in the proverbial drawer.

There’s also Baby Jane of “Tarsan and Baby Jane” fame er…ok, maybe not fame. You know? They were a father-daughter duet in the ‘70s with Sylvia La Torre….  (Ok, I’ll  stop now, my age is showing).   But really, do you think Baby Jane grew up and became a pillar of society?  I don’t think so.  She probably never lived down the double ignominy of (1) having a name like “Baby Jane” and (2) appearing on national television in a fake leopard print mini dress and a styrofoam bone cut-out in her hair.

True, there HAVE been some successful politicians nicknamed “Baby”  but the ones I know of didn’t seem to have come to a happy end either.  Case in point?  Jean-Claude ``Baby Doc'' Duvalier who was President of Haiti – up until they arrested him and tried him for murder in 1998.

Really, naming your child “Baby” Anything is JUST. PLAIN. LAZY.   What? Writing “Bob” or “Ana” or “Tom” wasn’t easy enough for you? There’s even less letters in there than “Baby”.  Besides, clearly since it is small, noisy, demanding, pink and has no powers of self-ambulation – we ALREADY know it’s a baby. No need to state the obvious.

In the Philippines, a given name like “Baby” or “Boy” toes the line of acceptability.  I’m sure we all have a Tita, Tito or grandparent (Hi Tita Baby! Love you!)  nicknamed “Baby” or “Boy” – but I think it was a generational thing.  Maybe in 40s, our grandparents were just so traumatized and exhausted by the war that naming their children properly was too much of a mental exercise and hence, excusable.   Hmmm…come to think of it, I don’t know of anyone named “Boy” younger that “Boy Abunda” of  The Buzz fame (and he’s not even really a boy….well maybe biologically.  Or was that wishful thinking on his mom’s part?)

So in sum, I would like to offer these words Akap Bata. 

Dear Dr. Alcantara,

I truly applaud your concern for Baby James Yap’s mental health and psychological well-being.  However, I think that a 30 second film clip of him shouting “Villar!” at a political rally poses very little threat to his psychological development when compared to the iniquity of being referred to as “Baby James” for the remainder of his life.

Perhaps you can file child abuse charges against his mom?

Very truly yours,

A concerned citizen

PS  Ignore this letter if you think I’m being too presumptuous.  

     After, since I named my own daughter after a natural calamity

    (i.e Tempest), who am I to talk?

The Scientific Basis for Weirdness

 

I had a best friend in college whom I love dearly to this day – this is the girl I was roommates with for four long years, the one who I lied to her parents for, got caught out of curfew and got into trouble with, climbed out of fire escapes with and more importantly, as a sign of my love, the one I shared my last four pesos worth of fishballs with (when all I had left to my name was the aforementioned four pesos). 

This momentous and may I add, psychologically scarring incident, happened  when we miscalculated the length of how far a weeks allowance of 300 pesos would go (mind you, this was 1989)  and ended up on a Friday night with no money, no dates in sight – or even parents to rescue us from imminent starvation or worse….dorm food.  But I’m getting off tangent.  (Yes, I know it happens to me a lot.  And yes, I know you’ve noticed.  So sue my ass.)

So anyway, this friend (hi sweetie – in case you’re reading this) – by way of reaction to my last blog entry, sends me a message.  My eyes lit up when I saw and inbox alert – you have to understand that since we’re both moms with careers, getting an email from her is pretty darn rare - so with bated breath, I open my email fully looking forward to and expecting that I would preening at her praise – when lo and behold, her one and only email in the last 18 months simply states – “Honey, you’re weird.” 

Not witty, or funny or even, “mildly entertaining”. She just said “weird”.   

And this I say unto her – Honey, you’ve only just figured this out twenty three years into our friendship?!! 

(And besides, this is rich coming from the girl who carefully arranges her slippers at the foot of the bed every night, making sure they’re perfectly aligned. This is the same girl who makes her bed and straightens up her sheets despite the fact that in 10 seconds, she will get into the same bed and mess it up.  The same girl who until the sixth grade, believed that could get pregnant if you held hands with a boy because you exchanged bodily fluids a.k.a. sweat, through your palms…)

Brief moment of silence for self-contemplation and examination of conscience.

Moment over.

Ok, she’s probably right and I guess I should just confess. (But just to check, can anyone reading this email me if they’d had any of the following life experiences? It would be nice to know I’m not the only weird one.)

First of all, I think that it’s very important to note that any so-called “weird-ness” coursing through my brains is a direct result of media.  I blame television, Del Monte and Warner Brothers for all of it.

When I was four I saw Bugs Bunny trick Yosemite Sam into sticking his finger into an electric socket and get fried.  For some reason, this seemed interesting to me - I wanted to know if your hair would really curl up like that - except  that since I was smarter than your average bear, I used a fork.  Luckily, I dropped said fork  when the first jolt of current hit (or else we wouldn't be having this conversation) – but not before I blew out all the fuses in the house.  Unfortunately, this was the ‘70s and circuit breakers hadn’t been invented yet. So to my parents dismay, we had no power for several hours until my dad could hunt down an electrician to replace the burnt out fuses.

My fascination with all things electrical didn’t end there.  Although I had learned my lesson with the fork incident and the resulting spanking, I discovered that electric current ALSO ran inside those small rectangular Eveready batteries.  And better - if you stuck the tip of your tongue at the end of the battery just so…viola! Mini electric shock with no consequential parental violent reactions.


Unfortunately, I foolishly demonstrated my new discovery to a younger cousin, who promptly ran off screaming. Proving me wrong about the protection of parental violent reactions and prompting my mother to confiscate my secret stash of batteries.   At any rate, this  solved the mystery of why Lola’s transistor radio batteries had been mysteriously going missing.

But inquiring young minds are difficult to deter!   For months I begged my mother to buy me a faucet.  Not install one mind you. Rather, BUY me one – so I could stick it in a pineapple and turn the tap to get juice.  You know, like in the Del Monte pineapple juice commercials.  I figured, if I had a faucet, I would be all set in the beverage department – I could walk into any palengke (or neighbor’s yard with a fruit tree) and voila! Juice.  Sadly, my mother believes that depriving your children of basic (at least to my mind) necessities prepares them for the harsh and cruel world.  Ok. Not really.  But nonetheless, the end result is the same. I still didn’t get my faucet.

I think I would have succeeded in convincing her too…if it weren’t for the damn tomatoes. Again, not my fault. Blame television and Del Monte Tomato Sauce commercials. 

They should never had shown that ad where the can slurps up the tomato placed on top of it – I mean really, that’s just asking for trouble. What kid could resist? Certainly not me, to my mother’s dismay and a kilo of wasted tomatoes later.


And of course, I couldn’t stop at just ONE tomato right? First of all, there was a whole bag just sitting there. And secondly, I thought maybe we (i.e. my cousin Jannette, then 5 years old) were doing it wrong which was why the can was NOT slurping up the tomato as shown on television.  Thus, we have to try different techniques resulting in unfortunate casualties (i.e. my mother’s tomatoes) in the name of scientific experimentation.  As an aside, I hasten to add that the tomatoes did not die at the altar of science in vain – Jannette grew up to be a microbiologist.  So again, no knowledge is ever wasted.

Not even my even then (ahem) already impressive skills at oral advocacy could save me.  It was difficult to find an acceptable (to my mom) explanation as to why the tomatoes intended for that night’s pochero dinner ended up crushed, pulpy and all over various walls in the kitchen area.

Since all these events took place before the advent of Bantay Bata, I assure you that I was severely punished for my offenses.  No sissy “time outs” or standing in the corner for me and my mom.   To this day, I have a severe love hate relationships with wooden rulers and abaca tsinelas. 

Worse, from my recollections it seems that while I had several cohorts in these misadventures (i.e. the “Lajom Girls” – all of whom are now upstanding members of society), I was always the only one getting the spanking.

Equal protection my ass.

This has scarred me for life and I believe it constitutes a justifying circumstance and defense vis-à-vis allegations of weirdness. To this day, as a result of childhood trauma, I only buy Dole pineapple juice and Hunts tomato products.  I’m still waiting to see if my boycott has affected Del Monte’s sales to an appreciable degree – but so far nothing yet  - despite the fact that when I pass the ketchup aisle in the supermarket, I push the Del Monte ketchup bottles to the back…. 

Moreover I blame my phobia of wooden rulers for my abysmal grades in 3^rd year geometry and my resulting ineptitude over all things “crafty” on my fear of the dreaded abaca slippers.

  

So anyway, Rutchie (oooops, did I just reveal your secret superhero identity?) by way of reaction to your reaction, yes. I am weird.

But please note that:

1.) I’m just weird, not dangerous ; 

2.) Any resulting weirdness is due to my unfortunate childhood and everyone knows that excuses everything – including capital offenses, provided you get a good lawyer and a glib shrink;

and most importantly..

3.)  you love me anyway right?