Nothing in this world fascinates me more than a woman does. I glance, oggle, glare, nothing more. It is something my wife understands. That I am normal. And harmless. A drifter always staring at the firmament, waiting for a falling star to undress itself, its sigh stretching into the night.

oh no

Why is it that when people screw up they have a terrible urge to have sex? But I'm still at the office. Squirming. This is terrible. I'd better blog my brains out.

I screwed up yesterday. This sounds bad. But I know it's not that bad. Which makes it even worse. I need a beer. But I can't have a beer. I'm at the office. And I'm disly... dysli... desly... dyslexic. There! At least I got that right. Now I can go grab me a beer. Cheers.

This is Amber's first day of summer classes (which actually started last week). She was so excited as we drove to the school. When we got there, she was ushered into the classroom. She waved goodbye. She didn't cry. Daddy's so proud of her. I'm sure mom will be, too :)

I've never been the type who keeps a journal. I used to try but found writing on notebooks cumbersome. Keeping files on word is as interesting as drinking tea. But blogging...

The problem with working for a publishing firm is that you eventually find yourself no longer writing for yourself. Whether you do it subconsciously or on purpose, you write to please an editor, an audience, an officemate, a client. Which is terrible for someone who loves the written word.

When I discovered blogging, it was like having sex for the first time. Wave after wave, blog after blog of unadulterated glee.

On the other hand, there's something delightfully perverse about blogging. You may or may not know when someone's looking. And if you wish, you can take a peek at someone else's blog, or two, or three or four of them at the same time.

A blogger can be the flasher who appears through one of the windows on the third floor of the dormitory at a particular time. Or he could be the peeping tom beside that window. Yet I don't mind if the blogging community is a confederacy of voyeurs and exhibitionists.

Blogging is keeping me sane, or at least makes me think I am. This is the longest I have been able to keep a journal. It's a personal feat of sorts. For that, I shall treat myself to a glass of beer. Cheers to me and to all the heaving, breathing, pulsating bloggers on the face of cyberspace (hik)!

What would you do when you can't fix the toilet? Watch TV.

So I went into the bedroom and did just that.

When there are no interesting sports programs, I usually click on the news channels. To my luck, there was a science program on BBC about a revolutionary biologist called Richard Dawkins. I haven't heard that name before, but what caught my ear was a line from the narrator about "the selfish gene" and Dawkins' book of the same title (published in 1976).

I was instantly glued. Dawkins says that instead of organisms using genes to propagate themselves, it's the genes that are actually building and maintaining us "in order to make more genes." "If this is the case, people," I thought, "down to the last gene are selfish." Not so long ago, I was thinking along the same lines, minus the genes and coherent string of thought.

In the summer of 1995 when I was out-of-school and had nothing better to do, I went to Manila for a vacation. I was planning to stay with two of my college dormmates Lope and Generoso, who, this time, were renting a room on the second floor of an apartment while they were taking up summer ROTC classes. They didn't mind that the place was run down. It was a lot better than the dorm, they said, and it had a great view of the landlady's fishpond. Besides there was extra space since one of their roommates was on vacation. So off I went.

Inside their room as I unpacked my bags, they apologized for forgetting to tell me about this famished german shepherd that would be let loose in the compound at certain times of the day. They warned me, though, about the landlady, who, they said, terrifies them more than the dog does. That's why I had to keep quiet, they said. Don't go out at these specific hours. Keep a low profile. Keep still.

At night, I had a hard time getting sleep. The thought about the landlady bothered me. What if she suddenly barged into the room, jumped on me and threw me into the fishpond for trespassing, then feed my remains to the dog? I'm sure she won't give me the chance to argue my case (that I'm merely filling the space left by Lope and Generoso's roommate). How selfish can she get, I thought.

But then again, if she would actually do that -- throw me into the fishpond and feed me to the dog -- I'd perfectly understand. In doing so, she would just be protecting her property, especially from out-of-school strangers like me. A landlady has to do what a landlady's got to do. I'm a stranger and she has no use for me (except, perhaps, to fatten the fish and the famished dog).

That vexing moment led me to conclude that time that people, by nature, are "selfish." More than anything else, a person is wired to preserve himself and those dear --and "useful"--to him, particularly by addressing his hierarchy of needs. He, along with everybody else, needs to preserve himself to assure the preservation and propagation of the species. And what seem like venerable acts of altruism -- or selflessness (the opposite of selfishness) -- actually stem from a deeper, more complex need to preserve the self and its ilk. Eureka! Now all those lessons in psychology and biology were starting to making sense.

As I was half asleep, all this realization came to me like moonshine on a cloudy evening:

At the conscious level, no person in his right mind will do something because it will cause him harm (only suicidal people do; besides suicide is one of nature's way of cleansing the gene pool.) Risk takers are motivated by gains, material or not. People will give to charity because it will make them feel good to share while sparing themselves of all the guilt if they do not. A man is compelled to do something because doing the contrary is unsound. The faithful go to church to steer clear of god's wrath and eternal damnation. You make friends because you must, and it feels secure. You sever friendships because you must, and having one less baggage will make life lighter. And you heal old wounds because having a lost friend is actually not as easy as you thought it would be (and you can't stand the pain and the dumbass had a sleek car). A couple raises a family because it's both necessary and a wonderful thing to do (and sex is a wonderful thing, too). A couple splits because their failing relationship is detrimental to their well-being (and the sex wasn't really that great either). A couple reunites for the sake of the child, yes, but also because they can't stand the thought of the child growing up without a mom or a dad (and because she misses the bastard and he misses the bitch, never mind if the sex was so-so).

I could have thought of more examples, but I got the point: it all boiled down to the self, the final arbiter, the last signature, the all important rubber stamp of approval. And I knew I wasn't being cynical. I just understood how selfishness defines the person.

That afternoon -- when Lope and Generoso arrived from the ROTC field -- I didn't mention anything about my anxiety over the landlady but I brought up my newfound thoughts about "selfishness," and that there were two ways to interpret the word. As I spoke, Generoso was just grinning, like a stray cat full after feeding on leftovers, but Lope, the more quiet of the two, seemed exasperated with my discourse. Then he snapped. "You mean to say Jesus Christ was selfish?"

Now at that time, I was convinced that nobody figured out yet how to reconcile Darwinism and Creationism, science and religion, philosophy and theology. As I was choking in a corner of the room (Generoso was tittering all the time), all my thoughts flew out the window (and straight into the fishpond where the insatiable tilapia had a great time feasting on an argument torn to shreds by a question that descended on me like a cleaver from hell). I knew I had an answer somewhere but I decided to put off the search and just play dumb, lest I risk getting thrown out of the room (and straight into the fishpond green with algae and teeming with piranha).

So I changed the topic.

"Look, the landlady!" I said, and jumped under the bed.

Sitting on my bed, I recalled that episode almost ten years ago. I wonder if Richard Dawkins had an answer to Hermann's question. So I jumped out of bed to take a bath so I can put on some clothes then go to the bookstore and look for The Selfish Gene, only to realize that the toilet was still broke.

I hate to admit this: sometimes, I can do without friends or relatives, but when the toilet is not working, I know I need a plumber.

While waiting for the doctor, Amber goes hungry (we're number 15 on his list; we're actually also having her checked with her pediatrician, and we're number 4 on her list). Mama Bretha says Amber and I should get some siomai at the cafeteria. So off we go three floors down. We take the stairs with her little, calculated steps.

Amber learned to love siomai yesterday. After the pediatrician failed to go to the clinic because of an emergency (she had to fly to Manila at noon), we headed straight for lunch at Emperor's Bowl of China on A.S. Fortuna St. Fantastic dimsum, seafood and other Chinese dishes. And very cheap. We had birds nest with crab meat soup, and crabstick and pork siomai. Beef spare ribs for Mama Bretha, curry squid for me, and soy chicken for Amber.

Amber loved the siomai. So did we. And the rest of the food too. Great place.

At the hospital cafeteria, Amber relished her siomai, sprinkled with kalamansi juice. I took a bite. Tastes like siomai. Amber didn't mind. For her, all siomai tastes good. Thanks to Emperor's Bowl.

After she's done, we went up back to her pedia's office, only to be told that Tita doc has another emergency, so we walk back to the first floor to the opthalmologists office. Amber was losing her patience, but somehow, the cafeteria siomai worked wonders to let her keep herself together.

Went to the hospital today to have Amber's left eye checked. The infection hasn't subsided for a month, and two weeks have passed since the opthalmologist prescribed an ointment.

So now we consulted another doctor (not for a second opinion really, but because he's covered by company insurance) and prescribed this antibiotic, a suspension, which we should administer on Amber's eyes for a week. If it doesn't work, Amber's eyelid must go under the knife, otherwise there'll be risk that the infection will rupture and leave her outer lid scarred. The doctor calls it an unsightly "dimple."

Amber is three year's old. If the antibiotic doesn't work, this would be the second time she'd undergo surgery. The membrane inside her lids, the first doctor said, is "rough," making it prone to infection.

Amber is a tough kid. She doesn't show it (she cries a lot, for no apparent reason), but she's tough, nevertheless.

Despite her condition, she's excited about attending her first day of summer classes tomorrow (she missed four days already, because of our messed up schedule with the hospital). Mama Bretha is teaching her to read and both of them are doing a great job.

The text message came like dull thud that rankled inside my head the whole night.

"'Da, ambr n i hd an odd emrgncy. d covr of hr alkansya fel into d toilet. its stuck"