BRAIN DRAIN

@ the Airport

My dad had a guest flying into Manila for a meeting, and I was asked to be the one to pick him up at the airport. It took a fair amount of effort to set up the meeting, which we learned would push through a mere day before. As such, it was on a Thursday evening that I found myself committed to carrying out this Friday morning errand.

So there I was well before the flight was due to arrive having found a good vantage point from which to look out for our guest. Thirty minutes passed. Then fifteen more. And then another quarter of an hour. Several flights had arrived and their passengers disembarked; yet no sign of our guest.

Worried I might have missed him, I called into the office; What time was his flight supposed to arrive?

Promptly, I received the exact information I already had on hand.

But as I took up my position again and began scanning the remaining faces in the crowd to look for our guest, I got another call from the office and learned, to my chagrin, that while I had our guest’s flight number and ETA correct, the flight wasn’t for Friday but rather Monday.

Whoops.

@ the Mall

I happened to duck into a Mall for dinner one evening, and was surprised to find a number of fashionably dressed people walking about. Ordinarily, I’d chalk it up to the generally uppity crowd that tends to frequent the place, but even then it’s rare to find such people as there were under one roof at any one time. As I had my dinner I caught wind of the fact that there was some function or other happening nearby, thus explaining the high maintenance crowd.

Since I had time to kill I decided to do some window shopping, where I learned that the Zara branch located in the mall happened to be on sale. Lo and behold, many of the same women I’d noticed around the mall found out about it, too, and flocked to the place. And boy did they lose it! It was almost as if they’d decided to prioritize bargain-hunting over poise, proving the point that good breeding does not expensive clothing make.

@ a Hotel

During a particularly lengthy conference session, I excused myself and repaired to the little boys room. Because the venue was a hotel — and a good one at that — the facilities were well maintained; in fact, there was an attendant stationed there to look after things.

As I finished taking care of my business, I noticed that the attendant began preparing the faucet and sink for my use. And while I washed my hands, I could see his reflection in the mirror getting some paper towels ready for me.

Now, I’ve encountered this type of “service” numerous times in many places, but this is the first time I’ve realized: oh, what pressure! Notwithstanding my fastidiousness with respect to hygeine, I couldn’t help but feel under the gun to wash my hands cleaner, and to dry them extra well. I mean, what would that attendant think of me if I didn’t?

Then, another thought: Would having attendants in place at more public restrooms encourage more people to wash their hands? I can’t help but wonder.

@ the Gym

Part of my routine when I get some exercise in at the gym is to run five kilometers. The treadmills over there have a setting for just that purpose, so they’re great that way. Lately, however, several of the treadmills have been breaking down, making it harder to chance upon an available one when I’m there.

One morning, I found one such treadmill free and thus set about my “run”. After plugging in my usual settings, I was off. Almost from the get go something was wrong. My run felt different, and I was getting tired fairly quickly. So barely ten minutes into it, I stopped, and if only because I suspected something was wrong decided to try another treadmill. I may just have been right: the first one, it seemed to me, was running slightly faster for any given speed setting.

Of course, I could be wrong. For all I know, it’s the other treadmills I’ve been using all this time that have been running slow (which would explain why the exercise hasn’t done me much good). Either way it reminds me of that brain teaser that asks, which is the better clock: the one that’s stopped or the one that’s forever running a minute late? The answer, technically speaking, is the clock that’s stopped, because at least it’s exactly right twice a day. That aside aside (ha!) I dare say that a treadmill that runs marginally fast as equally in need of repair as one that doesn’t run at all.

Partying hard can lead to a hangover. Quite similarly, vacationing hard can lead to fatigue — if not the overwhelming feeling that it’ll take another vacation just to get over the one that’s just finished.

Which is all for the best, really. In broad strokes, it’s a telling sign that the time off (and away) has served its purpose, affording the opportunity to recharge one’s batteries just enough so as to be raring to get back in the swing of things. And boy am I ever! Easily, the past month the family spent together was the longest we’ve stayed in one place for quite some time, as well as the most “normal” in the sense that it was more “change of pace” versus the more touristy jaunts we’ve been on more recently. Good times, for sure, but it feels just as good to be back.

With that, we now return to regularly scheduled programming…as soon as I get my wits together to write something (anything!) worth reading.

A number of circumstances conspired to get me fixated upon getting a new pair of eyeglasses. In large part, seeing the wear and tear on my existing pair did the most to convince me that I needed new ones, as did their more recent tendency to slip off if my head were inclined just so. That the optical shops in my neighborhood began their markdowns for Spring also began egging me on, to the point that I just couldn’t resist. Besides, after walking into one such store to have a look around I managed to find just the one that caught my fancy. So now I find myself obsessed — albeit mildly — on a particular pair of Oakley prescription frames.

I’ve owned a similar pair before, so knowing they can be a bit much I set out to find the best deal I could before taking the plunge. Hence, on the day I was bitten by the bug I spent a good amount of time online “window shopping”, scanning through frames of different styles and colors and comparing their prices. Unfortunately, the few that were to my liking weren’t available to order online, nor did the optical shop around the corner have them on hand, though they did offer to order it for me if I wanted. But I wanted to see what they were like for myself, so I decided to make the trip to the Oakley store in SoHo to try my luck (and have a look around, naturally).

Anyone obsessed with Oakleys would have felt like a kid in a candy store at their retail outlet. Not only were there wall to wall displays of all manner of eyewear, but they also offered an “assemble your own” option for people to customize their own lenses, not just in terms of shape of the frame or shade (and polarity) of the lenses but up to and including engraving on the lenses (if that’s your sort of thing). Unfortunately, against such a backdrop their display of prescription frames was nothing short of underwhelming, relegated to a solitary corner of the store amounting to a narrow single-column set of shelves.

They did have the frame I’d settled on, though not in the color I would have wanted, at the standard retail price of $200 even.

I decided to sleep on it first to give me some time to think it over.

On the way back to my apartment, I popped into the optical store that was willing to order it for me to see if they could offer a better deal. Their clerk asked me for the details and promptly picked up the phone and placed a call to Oakley. I could only make out half of the conversation he was having with the sales representative on the other end (”Do you have them available? Uh-huh. Okay. That long?”), from which I figured out that the pair I wanted was backordered. “And how much would it cost?” he asked. Then, “How much should it retail?” Following that exchange, the clerk thanked his counterpart, put down the phone and relayed the information to me.

“So?” I asked.

“Well, the frames are out of stock right now, but they’re expecting a delivery in the next two weeks.

“Oh, and it’ll cost $240.”

At that point I told him I’d think about it, thanked him for the trouble, and headed home.

The entire episode made me think about how shopping is really a matter of asymmetric information. No doubt that the glasses themselves must cost much less than $200 for Oakley to sell them and still make a profit; but consumers don’t know that. Naturally, the optical shop also needs to make some margin from the resale of the frames (albeit with lenses), so they tack on a value-added premium for just that reason. Yet consumers don’t necessarily know that either — unless of course they happen to have asked around at the source and done the math for themselves.

In a perfect world, informed consumers should be able to make use of this information to their advantage by browbeating (i.e., bargaining with) retailers to get what they want at the price they desire. But the world is hardly perfect, and in the end neither the Oakley outlet nor the optical shop made a sale — because I was aware of how much the frames should cost, and they didn’t know that. Score another one for consumer empowerment.

Then again, this also means that I don’t have that stylish new pair of frames I’m still obsessing over. But a hollow victory is a victory nonetheless.

…but nobody’s home.

It’s that time of the year again for the usual family vacation, so I’ll be away for most of May. Actually, I’ve already taken off a few days ago, and the fact this post and the one that came before it were published at all is only because the site can do such things automatically. Ain’t technology great?

Speaking of which, since there’s no telling whether I’ll have readily available internet access while I’m away, I’ve taken the liberty of frontloading some posts. I’d already written them (which is usually the case, in case nobody knew), and it’d be a shame not to put them up. They should appear magically every three to four days, so my usual audience — the few of you — can get your fix as usual. I’ll respond to any and all comments when I get back.

So here’s me signing off. Or not. Whatever.

Will be back in June.

First of Three Parts: Impressions

This past April 18-20, 2008, the Jacob Javits Center hosted the 2008 New York Comic Con, one of the largest comic book conventions in the United States. For once, I found myself without any excuse not to go, so I jumped at the chance to check it out. It certainly lived up to my expectations — then exceeded them.

Upon arriving at the convention center I already knew it was going to be quite the spectacle. Comic book enthusiasts were there in droves, some literally dressed for the occasion as their favorite character, most bubbling with excitement at what “schwag” and freebies lay ahead of them. This was just at the entrance, with long lines of eager attendees waiting patiently and politely to pick up their tickets. Fortunately, I decided to purchase my ticket (good for all of Saturday) beforehand at Midtown Comics, and thus made my way through to the exhibition floor without a care in the world.

It goes without saying that the sight before me was everything a comic book aficionado could hope for, whether casual collector or die-hard fan. Rows upon rows upon columns upon aisles of booths, all of which showcased something — anything! — related to comics. Marvel and DC were there, side by side with independent and smaller publishers. Retailers in attendance displayed signs prominently advertising huge discounts on their wares. There were “boutique stalls” selling rare comics from the Golden and Silver Ages that nostalgic completists may be willing to die for, not to mention merchandisers peddling figurines, t-shirts and all manner of paraphernalia so fans could go home awash in nifty souvenirs. And yes, there were a couple of video game studios and collectible card game companies in attendance, too, showcasing their latest offerings and giving passersby free reign to try them out.

There was no shortage of things to do either, and I’m not talking about the requisite shopping involved or the organized group photo opportunity for all Jedi in attendance (for real). Throughout each day there were any number of film showings, panel discussions or promotional appearances going on, certainly enough to whet any fan’s appetite. More importantly, there were chances aplenty to meet the legends and rising stars of the industry. In the three-odd hours I was there I couldn’t believe the personalities I espied in attendance. Mark Buckingham. Darwin Cooke. Geoff Johns. John Romita (both father and son). Jim Steranko. Gail Simone. Steve Epting. The list goes on and on.

I think what I will always remember from this experience is how it made me feel like I did when I discovered comic books for the first time. Sure, I’ve never gone out on a limb to attend a convention before (the opportunity hardly ever presenting itself back home), but something really was in the air that captured the excitement I remember from when I started getting interested in comics, losing myself in the colored panels and letting my imagination take off. In this I was just another face in the crowd, but one in which I felt quite at home, lightsabers, capes and cowls notwithstanding. In retrospect this is perhaps what such conventions are truly about: giving people a chance to celebrate their shared interest — if only for a day or two — and experience the joy of discovering those colored panels for the very first time, again and again.

(Next: Random Pictures)

By now I’ve become convinced that everything in New York even remotely worth talking about happens while I’m not around.

Truly, in the nearly three-plus years of my ongoing adventure, interesting things happen in the city whenever I fly home on holiday. To wit:

Maybe now that I’m on the way for what should be my last lengthy layover in the capital of the world, something noteworthy will happen. Just saying is all.

…is perhaps an unusual way to keep tabs with how long I’ve been at this. Sure, another year has passed marking this blog’s inception, but it’s not as if each and every moment was spent blogging. In fact, I think upon greater scrutiny it will become painfully obvious that I’ve actually blogged not more, but less.

Besides, wasn’t 2008 a leap year? So even that screws around with the math somewhat.

But hey! A “blogoversary” is still cause for celebration, methinks. So here’s to another year spent trying to make a dent in cyberspace. I thank all of you for coming along for the ride. It ain’t over yet.

Following a bout of temporary insanity on my part, my girlfriend has officially become my ex-girlfriend.

Because she is now my fiancée.

And I am the happiest man on earth.

Amazing how these things work out, isn’t it?

I.

A little after New Year’s I had the misfortune of dropping my celphone.

I’m usually more careful when it comes to these things, and when it happened I already knew it was going to be bad. Indeed, despite the fact that the unit was otherwise intact — it was, previously, a very serviceable Nokia 7610 — it quite stubbornly refused to turn on. There were no new scratches on the casing nor cracks on the screen, yet all that remained was a lifeless husk.

These things happen, of course, so while waiting to have the damage assessed I began mulling over the prospect of buying a new one. Quite a few have caught my eye and it’s really about time I got a better model (I’ve even toyed with the idea of jailbreaking an iPhone), so I thought that if there were an upside to this unfortunate occurence this would be it. In the end, however, I decided to just roll with the punches and put off buying another one, opting instead to swap out the Cingular sim card in my US “utility phone” — a weathered clamshell Nokia 6101 — with my Manila-based Globe sim, in the hope of maybe holding out for a celphone I would really want.

Recently, however, I became the victim of yet another spate of celphone-related misfortune: as I was navigating through some furniture, a table edge caught my pocket and damaged the outer screen of the utility unit. As with the first instance, I knew the phone was irrevocably damaged as I felt more than heard the scrunch of the screen. In truth, beyond the all-too-visible crack and an area of damaged pixels the phone still works just as well (or badly) as it did previously; yet seeing the damage each time I look at the phone reminds me of how uncharacteristically careless I’ve been in the span of a month, and in that regard I’ve been inconsolable.

So I find myself in an unusual situation: armed with one-and-a-half damaged phones. Yet I still can’t find it in myself to invest in a new one, even a bargain unit, despite the fact I definitely need one now more than when I broke the first one. With the sheer bad luck I’ve been having with celphones lately, who’s to say what’ll happen if I do decide to take the plunge?

II.

Alas, celphone misfortune seems to run in the family: my brother, who’s had his phone longer than I can remember, has either misplaced his phone or was the victim of a pickpocket.

Misery truly loves company.

III.

A few months ago, I had to replace my Powerbook’s AC Adapter becaue some cable fraying ultimately resulted in sparks flying each time I’d plug it in. In theory, this could have been remedied by simply using some electrical tape to secure the damaged area, which was really very small. Yet I didn’t want to risk it, so I ended up making my first purchase at the New York Apple Store on Fifth Avenue.

Fast forward to this past weekend. For no apparent reason, the AC Adapter for my brother’s laptop, a.k.a. our dad’s older Powerbook, decided to call it quits on him, too. Since he had a bunch of papers due for his class, we discussed the matter and decided that he should just bring my adapter with him until I could drop by the local Power Mac Center to get a replacement. I did so the very next day and was absolutely scandalized by the price I had to pay.

In New York, the adapter cost $79, plus tax.

In Manila, the same adapter cost Php6,500. Depending on the exchange rate one uses, that’s equivalent to anywhere between $130 to $180.

It boggles the mind how anyone can get away with such a markup. Given that these things are manufactured in China, which is just a stone’s throw away from the Philippines, shouldn’t they actually be cheaper here than in the West? I am fairly certain that Philippine commercial tariffs have something to do with this, and that there’s a sad commentary just waiting to be written in this regard. At the same time, the scholar in me can’t help but point out that there’s a valuable lesson to be learned here about market segmentation and price discrimination. I just wish the lesson didn’t have to cost so much.

Because I apparently live in an alternate dimension far removed from mortal men:

Channel Surfing

When I woke up this morning, I turned on the TV and tuned in to CNN. There, the running ticker informed the world that Fabio Capello led England to victory in their football friendly against Switzerland. “That’s nice,” I thought, then proceeded to channel surf. A few clicks of the remote later, I found a repeat telecast of the same game already in progress on Star Sports.

For a minute or two I toyed with the idea of watching the game through to its conclusion, but decided to continue channel surfing instead since I already knew the outcome. However, nothing in particular really caught my fancy for the better part of the hour, and I ended up passing through Star Sports several times, eyeing snippets of the game in the process.

Later, it hit me: those “snippets” from the game I managed to see happened to be each of the three goals that would make up the final score.

What are the chances of that happening?

Ambient Music

While on an errand at the mall, I was in need of a midday pick-me-up and got myself a cup of joe. The barista who took my order was friendly and chatted me up, though we were both rendered speechless when the music over the store’s sound system started playing a song that was…untimely:

“Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…”

As the song played out, it was clear that the three-man crew present were just as dumbfounded as I was about this. They made a few jokes to make light of the situation, making it all too clear that they thought this was just a fluke.

Then the next song started to play:

“Have yourself…a Merry Little Christmas…”

By this time there was stifled laughter all around, and as the barista went on a mad scramble to fiddle with their CD changer the look on everyone’s faces was priceless.

At the Video Game Store

I was browsing the shelves at a video game store in the area when some guy made a beeline for the Wii games. He picked up a copy of Resident Evil: Umbrella Chronicles then headed straight towards the register. Talking to a clerk, he pointed at something on the cover and inquired whether the store had any in stock.

He was asking about the Wii Zapper.

Excited to make a sale, the clerk enthusiastically said they had just the thing and proceeded to get one for the customer. Knowing that the Zapper isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be (it’s an unnecessary peripheral, in my opinion) and curious as to why this guy would want one for the game, I couldn’t help but politely remark in his direction, “You know, you don’t really need it.”

In my experience, comments like this usually open the floodgates for fairly interesting conversation. For novices who don’t know any better, it usually invites the right sort of questions to make an informed decision about the purchase. In those instances where the person is in fact a tried and true gamer, it sets the stage for impassioned discussion about why they’re so interested in what they intend to buy.

But this guy was different: He gave me the evil eye, looked in my direction with an affronted look, and angrily replied “My son is three years old. It’s hard for him to play. This will make it easier.”

As I listened to this, two things were going through my head.

First: His son is three years old, and he’s buying Resident Evil?!

Second: Why was he so…confrontational?

Not wanting to come across as some know-it-all, I just nodded my understanding (or really, my lack thereof) and left it at that. When the clerk showed up with the Zapper in question, he proceeded to return the copy of Resident Evil, which fortunately he wasn’t buying for his child, and hied off to the register to make his purchase.

Before handing over his credit card, he began reading through the details on the box and saw there was a bundled game. Concerned, he asked the clerk whether the Zapper only worked with that game. Ever helpful, the clerk replied that the Zapper could actually be used with a host of games, “like Resident Evil, Medal of Honor, and Super Mario Galaxy.”

Super Mario Galaxy? Played with a tommy gun? Hearing this made my poor gamer’s heart bleed just a little bit. Obviously, the clerk didn’t have a clue, nor did this well-meaning father. I just hope he understood that all he really bought was an overpriced piece of plastic that comes with half a game.

Still at the Video Game Store

Something I noticed while browsing through the shelves for Nintendo DS games: at this store, Diner Dash, the Flash version of which is actually free to play online, was more expensive than Pheonix Wright: Ace Attorney — Trials and Tribulations, one of the best games on the platform.

That’s just not right.

In My Room

Today I realized that too many things in my room have a remote control.

I’d walked in and absentmindedly picked up a white remote to put on the airconditioner. After clicking on it several times to no effect, I was beginning to get annoyed that it wasn’t working.

Until I realized I was trying to put on the airconditioner with a Wiimote.