I like my room at a steady 21 degrees, and I like it even better when my ube-flavored taho chills in a 21-degree al fresco restaurant at what has become of Burnham Park, our place at a steady 21 degrees without air conditioning even at midday which ancient Inn Rocio is and should be, and the cheap wine transformed into a Chateau Giscours by the snippy 21-degree midnight air of sterile Crown Legacy Hotel which is as ruthless as my anxiety [reluctance] on being anointed as a DDGRP.
Baguio is as Baguio as it can be but where else to go that we have not been and what else to do that has not been done, like perhaps taking a photo with ET in the absurd Cordi habiliments offered by Tam-awan that have lost its soul, or maybe an encounter with the Lourdes Grotto after an eternity of chasing my mother's black-and-white photo of a devout Adventist posing with the most damning evidence of the Catholic church's wanton violation of Commandments 3 and 4, or running after the headless Dominican priest and screaming babies of the old and haunted Diplomat Hotel, and then of course an insane P399/person buffet at the Korean Barbecue Palace where we went Gangnam Style, all in a day where intermittent rains nailed the temperature at an even 21 degrees.
We went home smelling of Inn Rocio and a burp of Korean meats that baked in the Science City of Munoz's 41 degrees of hell, visitations and Amaranthine education kneaded with a Christmas party and a convention, vowing to get this year's work done in utmost simplicity and without the competition that transformed Honored Ladies into ruthless mercenaries of made-up reports and tarpaulined credit-grabbers, all for the sake of meaningless and hollow plaques, to which Inihaws made us chew on grilled pork, chicken, bangus and eggplants.
My room in Panay Avenue starts at 19 degrees and ends on 25 but the Five Star bus went on a steady 21 while the tricycle got lost between Sta. Arcadia and Villa Ofelia where painted ladies crooned to be taken on a Friday night, waking up to a Saturday morning caucus and going home late from a murderous raising, all before Sunday's liquor ban went to effect which we toasted with whiskey, brandy, wine and beer in a videoke room running at full 21 degrees...
Baguio is as Baguio as it can be but where else to go that we have not been and what else to do that has not been done, like perhaps taking a photo with ET in the absurd Cordi habiliments offered by Tam-awan that have lost its soul, or maybe an encounter with the Lourdes Grotto after an eternity of chasing my mother's black-and-white photo of a devout Adventist posing with the most damning evidence of the Catholic church's wanton violation of Commandments 3 and 4, or running after the headless Dominican priest and screaming babies of the old and haunted Diplomat Hotel, and then of course an insane P399/person buffet at the Korean Barbecue Palace where we went Gangnam Style, all in a day where intermittent rains nailed the temperature at an even 21 degrees.
We went home smelling of Inn Rocio and a burp of Korean meats that baked in the Science City of Munoz's 41 degrees of hell, visitations and Amaranthine education kneaded with a Christmas party and a convention, vowing to get this year's work done in utmost simplicity and without the competition that transformed Honored Ladies into ruthless mercenaries of made-up reports and tarpaulined credit-grabbers, all for the sake of meaningless and hollow plaques, to which Inihaws made us chew on grilled pork, chicken, bangus and eggplants.
My room in Panay Avenue starts at 19 degrees and ends on 25 but the Five Star bus went on a steady 21 while the tricycle got lost between Sta. Arcadia and Villa Ofelia where painted ladies crooned to be taken on a Friday night, waking up to a Saturday morning caucus and going home late from a murderous raising, all before Sunday's liquor ban went to effect which we toasted with whiskey, brandy, wine and beer in a videoke room running at full 21 degrees...
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