My stress levels, however, have gotten to a point where I strongly detest driving on account of me getting pissed off by other drivers a little too easily, and a lingering fear that the bouts of road rage I have would, someday, end up in homicides. Multiple, violent homicides.

So yeah, earlier this week I was invited to attend a press event over at hotel near where I work. Since the venue was only 3 blocks away from the office and I really want to avoid driving as much as I can, I decided to take a cab to get there.

So I flag down a cab, get in and–before I go on–a disclaimer:

A lot has been said in this blog about people from the provinces but, truth be told, I have nothing but respect for them.

I mean really, how can you not respect people who leave their quaint little home town and cross the seas to find a better life in Manila? These people do seventy-hour weeks in department stores or factories so they can buy Magic Sings so they’d have something to entertain their drunkard friends the next time they come over the small-ass apartment they’re renting.

All this while overachieving people like me get high paying jobs landing on their laps, spend their time magically turning a good chunk of their salary into alcohol and end up blowing almost PhP 5,000 pesos on various sexy girl webcam access sites because they’re stressed and miserable. And horny.

That said, it turns out that the guy who drives the cab I got into is from the province and speaks little Filipino, let alone, English. Now, I usually sit in the front passenger seat of cabs and talk to drivers a lot so, after getting in, I said “The EDSA Shangri-La” and asked him how his day has been so far.

He replied in what sounded like heavily-accented Filipino, most of which I couldn’t make any of. So I thought, no biggie, probably not a good idea to converse with somebody who doesn’t speak much Filipino. It’s all good though, as long as he takes me where I need to go.

The EDSA Shangri-La is around 10 minutes away from the office. Five minutes into the ride, I get a feeling that the guy doesn’t know where the fuck he’s going. “You can turn right on the street after San Miguel Avenue” I suggested, he looked at me with a face that couldn’t be more unenthused and nodded. I took it as a “Yes, fat chops, I’m a cab driver, I know where the fuck I’m going so why don’t you just shut the hell up and relax?” So, I leaned back on my seat and did.

As we neared the corner leading to the hotel, I said “That’s the building right there [pointing], you can drop me off where it’s safe” Again, he looked at me and nodded, and again, I leaned back and tried to relax. As we approached Shangri-La, I noticed that he wasn’t slowing down to pull over. Already missing our destination, I said “You can just drop me off right here” even if “right here” was already a hundred meters past where I was supposed to get off.

At this point, I remembered why exactly I sit in the passenger seat whenever I ride cabs–So that I can easily open a can of whoopass on the driver if he tries anything funny like say trying to Kidnap me to hold me for ransom–and really, that was what was running through my head at that point. The guy, after all, was zooming farther from where I intended to get off at 60KPH. I said, more firmly “That was my stop right there, turn the cab around..no, on second thought, I’ll just get off here. Stop the car!”

I forget what I said exactly but I finally got him to pull the cab over at the EDSA side of the far end of SM Megamall–a good block away from where I wanted to get off.

Before getting off, I explained to him, largely through an intricate sign language routine, that I was trying to get off there [pointing to the Shangri-La] and not here [pointing down] but he just looks like he doesn’t get it.

I seriously could’ve gotten further in the conversation with a stray dog and, moreso, with a chimpanzee who, I’ve been told, are slightly more intelligent.

Seriously, what the fuck was that? I respect the fact that Filipino or English probably wasn’t the guy’s first language and he’s really just trying to make a living. But come on, how much Filipino/English do you have to understand and know how to say as a Taxi driver? We’re talking just knowing what left, right, turn around, “there” and “stop” means here.

How would you like it if you came up to me and asked “Mikey, I need the revenue projection report for our Q4 Holiday campaign” and me, staring at you for a good 10 seconds before finally saying “Thank you Mario, but the princess is in another castle.”

Christ.

To date, PhilippineAid.com has managed to raise over $16,648 (PhP 776,795 using today’s conversion rates) in two collection drives.

PhilippineAid.com was such a resounding success that, to me, would be one of the best and brightest proofs of concept whenever discussions on how to harness the viral power of social media to drive similar charity campaigns pop up.

It is also a success tempered with hard lessons.

In the 6+ years I have spent developing my marketing career, I have always relied on my personal skills to achieve my goals. I have focused a lot on coming up with air-tight, business plans to raise money or spinning my wheels thinking of how I could exploit the latest technological developments to inch me, little by little towards my goal. With the entire Philippine Aid thing, I learned that being part of an aggressive, determined and supportive community of peers is just as valuable, if not more.

And really, all the credit should go to everyone who have, collectively, wagered their formidable social capital to support the cause—from the average Joe tweeting and blogging about the site to the celebrity who helped spread the word—you guys fucking rock.

But perhaps, the most important, albeit prosaic lesson I have learned in organizing Philippine Aid was that fundraisers, even if being ran with the noblest of intentions will inevitably be met with skepticism and distrust.

FAILPal

Unbeknown to most people, less than 48 hours after PhilippineAid.com went live, PayPal, restricted our account due to legal and regulatory constraints which required me to submit additional information about my charity / non-profit organization.

I really cannot blame PayPal for doing this and I am, in fact, glad that they have such a security measure in place. After all, there are a lot of opportunistic people out there who are just itching to exploit calamities such as the typhoons that hit the Philippines.

The fundamental flaw in PayPal’s Account Review process is that they assumed that I run a non-profit organization who is collecting donations on behalf of the Red Cross. I made no such claims. In fact, I explicitly said that Philippine Aid was collecting funds for the victims of tropical storm Ketsana–the proceeds of which will go to the Philippine National Red Cross whom, at the time the site was setup, didn’t have their own PayPal account.

Another impression I get that the restrictions were being placed arbitrarily. I mean, really, there’s this guy who publicized that he’s going to try and help a battered wife find a new home, raises over $16,000 in donations but for one reason or another, didn’t get the account review treatment?

It was also unfortunate that the time when PayPal restricted our account was the time when PhilippineAid.com reached its proverbial tipping point. A time when there was a deluge of people who just heard of the site (virally, through social networks) wanting to donate but couldn’t because our PayPal account was rejecting their transactions.

As a remedial fix, we directed our traffic to TXTPower’s PayPal drive. That, however, didn’t last long either after PayPal clamped down on their account as well. (TXTPower President Tonyo Cruz writes about his experience here)

Fortunately, the Philippine National Red Cross setup their own PayPal account about a day after (to which both Philippine Aid and TXTPower directed both our collection drives) but we could only guess how much donations were lost due to PayPal’s terrible indiscretion.

After numerous calls to PayPal’s customer service department and emailing back and forth with their compliance department, PayPal finally restored access to my account on October 7, 2010–a good 8 days after they froze my account.

No discount for charities based in Asia?

In my numerous calls (and subsequent escalations) to PayPal, I also tried to confirm whether or not an organization based out of the Philippines can apply for the discounted fees they offer Non-profit organizations based in the United States.

The answer was that, unless an organization can provide a 501(c)(3) certificate which proves that they are exempted from some Federal Taxes because they operate exclusively for religious, charitable, scientific, testing for public safety, literary, educational purposes, to foster national or international amateur sports competition, promote the arts, or for the prevention of cruelty to children or animals (link); they cannot avail of the discounted fees.

I am terribly disappointed in the way PayPal handled our dispute with a glaring lack of a sense of urgency and the disservice they are doing to charities and non-profit organizations outside the US. This disappointment is further exacerbated by the fact that we missed out on, based on the trends we were seeing, thousands of dollars worth of donations–donations which would’ve gone a long way in the ongoing relief operations for Ketsana and Parma victims.

Congratulations PayPal. You have lost a customer.

The Philippine National Red Cross Rizal Chapter Administrator, Mrs. Repollo was ecstatic to hear about the success of the campaign and profusely thanks everyone for their donations.

The mission to rebuild the nation is far from over though and as such, more than ever, we wish to encourage everyone to keep the donations coming and keep spreading the word. I have replaced the ChipIn widget we used prior with that of our friends’ over at Txtpower.org. Who has a similar initiative going; we are all working for the same cause.

We have begun the process of withdrawing what we have collected so far into our local bank account and, as stated, we will be depositing managers checks in batches into the Philippine National Red Cross’ bank account.

With the current conversion rates, less PayPal fees, you and PhilippineAid.com have generated PhP 307,362.25–money that will go a long way in helping in the ongoing relief and rebuilding operations.

Our friends over at Txtpower.org report collections of over PhP P1,217,188.96. These are very hard and trying times for the Philippines and the victims of Ondoy but, on the brighter side of things, the donations collected so far is a huge victory for the international community and Filipinos all over the world who have exhibited tremendous altruism with the help of the internet particularly Social Media.

The Philippine National Red Cross recognizes this as I hear word that they too have officially started using PayPal to collect donations. I am in the process of getting their account details so I could update the widgets on this site and so you could directly send your donations to them.

Also, Philippineaid.com has gotten a lot of praise lately; praises which we take reluctantly because the people who are truly worthy of praise are the donors and supporters of this site who have made everything possible. You are all heroes in your own right.

The Bad News

The bad news is that as the flood waters subside, we get a grim, more accurate picture of the devastation Ondoy has caused the Philippines. As of 3PM of September 29, 2009, the National Disaster Coordinating Council estimates PhP 4.6 Billion worth of damages in its damage assessment. (link)

The death toll has also reached 246 people and is rising. There are also over 101,000 families taking refuge in various evacuation centers nationwide.

Friends, the battle is far from over. Along with the relief operations there is some major rebuilding needed to be done. People lost lives and property and we, as a community, should NOT let up as our donations are needed now more than ever.

Send your donations using the widgets below:

Waters rose to as much as 5 meters high in some areas and the Philippines, seeing the worst flooding in over 30 years, was caught unaware. Metro Manila and 5 outlying provinces are now in a state of calamity.

Shanties were washed away and thousands of houses and vehicles were submerged and destroyed by the floods.

Even up to now, there are over 9,000 families taking refuge in evacuation sites and there are thousands of people stranded in the roofs of their houses waiting to be rescued.

The damage to lives and property will take months to rebuild but, immediately, we need food, clothing, and medical supplies to treat our refugees.

The Philippine government is doing its best to deal with the situation. However, the National Disaster Coordinating Council is severely under-budgeted and can only do so much. The nation and various Non-Government Organizations have come together to provide aid to those who were affected by the flooding but we fear that it isn’t enough.

That is why we are turning to the international community for support and help. If you wish to help rebuild a nation and provide help to those affected by this horrible calamity, use the widgets below (PayPal / Credit card). All proceeds will go to the Philippine National Red Cross.

You can also help by helping spread the word about this site! Paypal

Let’s move along.

What’s more unforgivable than the fact that I haven’t taken my team out to any form of team building activity in my three year tenure as a manager is the fact that I let one of my team members choose where we’re going to eat. An even more unforgivable mistake? I let this asshole choose.

Now, I’m not exactly a food connoisseur but I don’t have bad taste either. If I were to describe my palate, I would probably liken it to that of a college student’s. If a typical college frat boy loves it, then chances are I’d love it too. I like gallons of cooking oil on my food, I like slathers of mayonnaise on it, I love cheese and excessive amounts of condiments on it.

Also, when I go to restaurants, I have this habit of staking it out and take my time to carefully study its menu. I hate having to ask for waiter recommendations and prefer to  know what exactly what I am going to order as soon as I am seated.

For God knows what reason, this asshole chose to go to an Indian restaurant for our team lunch.

Now, before I proceed, I want to go on record that I am, in no way, racist. I love Indian culture and truth be told, one of my closest friends is Indian. (Sup, Sanjay. I haven’t forgotten about that hundred bucks I owe you. I’ll pay you soon. I know, 110 bucks it is.)

What bothered me the most about our lunch is the fact that I couldn’t pick my food in advance. This is not because of a momentary bout of indecision, but rather because of what the fuck was on their menu:

• Paneer Mumtaz
• Tawa Kheema Mutton
• Dal with Methi Leaves
• Jumbo Paper Dosa
• Chicken Bouli Handi
• Kulfe
• Kheer

My Initial thoughts on these menu items:

1. I consider myself considerably smart, well-read and cultured enough to have a working knowledge of Persian, American, Greek, Japanese and Thai cultures. But when you’re looking at a menu where the only words that ring a bell are “Chicken” and “Jumbo”, you know you’re in for one huge clusterfuck.
2. “Paneer Mumtaz” sounds like the roasted appendages of a 1980’s Indian child star and really, I don’t think I’m brave enough to try that shit out.
3. “Tawa Kheema Mutton” is absolutely balderdash. It’s like me opening a restaurant and saying that my specialty is “Beef Kukurikapu.” Utter nonsense. But of course, no one calls the restaurant out on it at the risk of being called uncultured.
4. I have a feeling that “Bouli Handi” isn’t food. It sounds more like slang for when a girl masturbates a guy and accidentally clasps his testicles tightly when he approaches orgasm. (i.e. “So Kate was down there giving me the most vicious Hand Job ever right? When I was about to come, I pulled on her hair and out of nowhere she was giving me a Bouli Handi. Next thing I know, she’s crying in the corner because I punched her in the face out of instinct.)
5. “Kheer”–Excuse me, but I think the politically correct vernacular would be “Homosexual.” Fag.

The meal was, surprisingly, delectable. I don’t know what the fuck we ended up ordering but it was this chicken stew with curry and Indian spices. It was so good I can only assume that it was made from good dreams and the laughter of innocent, orphan children.

Of course, the meal was not without food items that didn’t really do it for me. One thing, their rice had cashew nuts, raisins, peas and what tasted like motor oil. The only description I could muster after a few spoon-fulls was that it tasted like an old memory and is probably what an antique shop would taste like if it was edible. Of course, I acknowledge that this rice may be acclaimed by food critics world-wide and only I couldn’t appreciate it. I’m simply too uncultured, dumb and poor.

All in all it was a good meal. But to the owner of that restaurant: Seriously dude, turn the “authenticity” down a notch. We get it, you have a real Indian chef you flew from Hyderabad and your menu is in Indian. Just, really, tell us what the fuck’s in the food! Dammit!

For one, I am pretty much free to engage in what people who have actual religions would consider debauchery since I am not concerned with losing morality points nor, much less, eternal damnation.

And, because I consider myself a man who believes only in science, I am also not afraid of anything supernatural (i.e. ghosts, bad spirits). I, however, practice a couple of things that have something to do with some superstitious beliefs on women and how to make them enamored with you (i.e. stealing a girl’s panties and sleeping with it under your pillow until she’s convinced, magically, that she indeed wants to sleep with you. Or until she finds out you’ve stolen one of her underwear that time you took her home and asked her for a glass of water and the court slaps you with a restraining order). But then again, these doesn’t have anything to do with fear but more with desperation.

I guess what I’m saying is that I afraid of very few things. In fact, I think it’s a really short list:

1. Thunder
2. Cockroaches

Actually my fear of thunder is more of fright than anything else so I guess the only thing I’m genuinely afraid of are cockroaches; and really who isn’t? They are nasty and some of them even fly. Whoa.

My fear of cockroaches is so intense that I could be sitting in front of a really hot woman on a date and I see a cockroach crawling (or god forbid flying) towards me–I can tell you that, at that point, all bets are off. I’m fucking getting out of that place, pay for the bill missy and, if you’re interested in comforting me and telling me that everything’s going to be alright (and maybe give me a blowjob in the process), call me. I’ll be at home hunkered in my bed under a blanket.

Anyway, last Friday, I was driving to work in my dad’s car listening to Ted Failon on AM radio with the driver side window opened halfway because, of course, I was smoking. I was on a stretch of road called Mindanao avenue, which made me somewhere around 45 minutes away from where I work in the Pasig area, when I felt something sort of tickle me on the back of my neck. I assumed it to be just the label of my shirt or something so I reached back and tried to put it back in place.

As I touched what I thought to be my shirt’s label, I thought to myself “hey this feels a little thicker than what a cloth label should be”

So I decided to pick it off my shirt and take a look at it–and there it was, lying on the palm of my right hand, a little weak after I picked it off and pinched it a little but very much alive, was a fucking cockroach.

I let out a guttural yell–a yell akin to the sound one would probably make if they walk in on their girlfriend being fucked silly by Souljaboy–and threw, nay slammed the cockroach to the car’s floor and prepared to unleash vicious stomps from my powerful left foot to kill the damn thing before it kills me.

For a good twenty seconds, I was pretty much panicking and just stomping away blindly all the while focusing on not trying to hit any cars in front of me.

Now, while traffic up Mindanao avenue was crawling, it was moving. So, after wildly delivering lethal blows with my left foot, I could only look down to see if any of them connected for a split second since I still needed to pay attention to the traffic.

I reached a red light in the North Avenue intersection and took the time to come up with a better battle assessment. I hoped to see the cockroach’s guts all over the car’s floor mat but no, there was no sign of the cockroach’s anywhere. My initial assessment was that, in the fierce battle, I managed to drive the cockroach under the mat where it was crushed or it found its way out the open window unbeknown to me.

Somewhat relieved, I rolled my window up and prepared to continue driving– then I saw it: The cockroach was still very much alive and in fact, it seems to have recovered from being rocked earlier when I picked it off my shirt. The cockroach was crawling on the driver’s door panel directly over the power window controls and looks like it was poising to take fucking flight.

Well, that’s fucking it.

At this point, the fear and panic I felt earlier was completely replaced with violent hatred. With the traffic light still red, I pulled the hand brake, jerked my door open which sent the cockroach crashing down the asphalt. Smelling blood and with a speed and physical grace that surprised even myself, I got out of the car and delivered a volley of brutal stomps to the downed insect.

The episode lasted about 10 seconds where I was screaming, sweating and maybe crying (I don’t remember) and, in the middle of it all, the traffic light turned green and the cars behind me started honking their horns at the deranged fat kid thrashing wildly in the middle of a busy street beside his SUV with a Couples for Christ sticker.

It was glorious.

A little backgrounder on that night: The reason why we wanted to go out for drinks was we wanted to take Jon (lead developer for one of the projects we’re working on whom, we have taken to passionately call “The beast from upstairs”) out to sort of get a feel of what Manila’s night life is like (something which we probably failed miserably at. For one, the bars at the Ortigas Home Depot complex is hardly representative of Manila’s nightlife and neither is a party of eight all-male, sweaty, socially inept web types)

I have written enough about the pattern my drinking nights usually take (relative humdrumness -> Dancing and singing (and crying in some occasions) -> somberness -> picking up into a crescendo of pure mayhem and inappropriateness) so I’m going to spare you from the boredom of reading about how the night progressed this time.

The turning point of the night came when a San Miguel Promo girl offered to give us a free shirt if we ordered 18 more bottles of beer. At that point, we were already feeling good and loaded but stupid John offered to pay for all 18 bottles if I agree to wear a small San Miguel ladies’ shirt for an hour–an offer which, in my state of relative inebriation, is impossible to refuse.

So yeah, Jon paid for 18 bottles of beer and, even though it was a fucking struggle, I managed to fit into a size S San Miguel Beer ladies shirt. People got their beers and had big laughs watching a 200-lb guy try to fit into a small ladies’ shirt. Everyone’s happy.

The fact that I had to wear a fucking tiny shirt for an hour is, in itself, funny. But check this out: About 45 minutes into the entire thing, I felt the need to take a leak.

Now, this bar is notorious for the long lines of people waiting to use the restrooms. The place had two restrooms: one for men and another for women–which is kind of retarded considering the place packs around 200 people at any given time. The men’s restroom also only has one toilet which means only one person can use it at a time.

I found myself 6th in the line of guys waiting to use the men’s restroom. There was, surprisingly enough, no line to use the women’s restroom (This is something that baffles me to no end. Is there some sort of special sac somewhere inside a woman’s vagoo that enables them to hold in more urine than men? Because I swear, I take a leak an average of eight times in a four hour period when I’m drinking and, from what I observed, women do like two? How the fuck?).

Emboldened by a feeling of false awesomeness thanks to eight bottles of beer, I said “Fuck it, I’m going to use the women’s restroom. The fuck you looking at? You wanna start something? Dick.”

So yeah, I was in the women’s restroom swaying back and forth out of sheer drunkenness and whistling while I was doing my thing when all of a sudden, the door, which I apparently forgot to lock, swung open.

I was all like “What the fuck”, turned around to see who opened the door and why hello there, chinese-looking girl who looks like you’re 16!

And here’s a bonus tip for anyone who has any intentions of building restrooms in the near future: Do NOT, and I say again, DO NOT put huge ass mirrors in front of the restroom door and directly behind toilet seats because really, once in a while, a really drunk guy wearing a small ladies’ shirt will  decide to go in and use the ladies bathroom because there’s a long fucking line of people waiting to use the men’s bathroom; he will forget to lock the door and a young girl will walk in and immediately see the huge ass mirror where the penis of the aforementioned drunk guy is reflected in all its shriveled glory. So fuck you toilet creator at Bargos in the Ortigas Home Depot complex, fuck you and your friends!

There were a good 5 seconds of not knowing what to do between the girl and myself. On my part, do I pull up my pants midstream to cover up and end up with pee all over my pants or do I wink and say hi? On her part, does she look away and close the door or continue to look at the magnificent dwarven penis she accidentally walked in on?

The girl ended up closing the door and after I was done with my deal I walked out of the restroom and apologized to the girl (who was now in line with like 7 of her friends) saying that I badly needed to go and shit.

She didn’t respond on account of her laughing the fuck all over the place. But then again, I’d probably end up laughing too if I was a young girl and I walked in on a guy–wearing a small girl’s shirt– taking a piss with a small hairy thing that resembles Mufasa from the lion king.

Anyway, in one of my rest room sorties in between bottles, I found myself in a line which is about five people deep. At the end of the hallway where the restrooms were was an area where people who just finished their business in the rest rooms went straight to wash their hands.

So I waited.

And waited.

A couple of minutes later a really hot girl came out of the ladies’ restroom, went by me and proceeded to wash her hands. Now, this is where it gets interesting: The dude standing in line in front of me (who looked like a total douche–tattoos, piercings and all) went ahead and chewed the rag with the girl.

I didn’t really catch everything they were talking about as I was pretty buzzed myself but what I do remember is that after what only seemed like four sentences, the guy managed to elevate his deal from friendly banter to masterful flirting replete with him subtly brushing his hand against the girl’s arm and smoothly leaning in towards her; a move which, at one point, effectively put his face within millimeters of the girl’s.

Again, I couldn’t hear exactly what the were saying to each other but I did catch the guy saying “your hands are wet” at one point before grabbing a paper towel and going in for the kill with “Let me wipe them for you”

A few seconds later I was watching them gracefully duck into the men’s restroom emerging a few minutes later looking all disheveled and shit. Both of them made no conscious effort to conceal any of this on their way out aside from slightly bowing their heads and walking from the restroom straight back to their tables.

I’ve seen this sort of thing happen in the movies before and back then, I thought that if I ever witnessed it happen right in front of me, my reaction would probably go like “Look! Everyone! That dude is either boning that chick in the restroom! Or at least making out with her! But I really think they’re fucking and shit!” or “Man, I’d totally pay 2,000 bucks right now for some action. Maybe I should call my friend Ricky and see if he could spare me some cash so I could hit the strip club”

Instead, my reaction was more along the lines of revulsion and profound disapproval–so much that I wanted to walk over to the girl’s table and say something to the effect of “What you did back there was really mature, I bet your parents would be proud to know that you spent a week night giving a dude you probably don’t even know a handjob. By the way, I’m Mike and I just wanted to ask what you think about checks and promisory notes.”

Up to this day, I honestly don’t know why I felt disgusted. Maybe it’s because I had to wait an additional 5 minutes or so to take a leak? Or maybe it’s because I am saddened by where most young people’s moral compasses point?

Or maybe it’s simply because I’m getting old and, for some reason, I don’t find doing anything lascivious inside a public restroom “cool”.

But what it is, most likely, is that I’m extremely jealous. Yes, I believe that’s it. I mean, all over the metro, young people are having adventurous sex and that night, I ended up almost throwing my laptop over our balcony because it refused to play old, scratched porn VCDs I’ve had since high school.

tss. Rising Internet Star my ass.