THOSE FILTHY HABITS WE ALL HATE

CHATTERERS
There is a breed of person who delights in his own voice. Or is just so oblivious to the volume of his voicebox that he chatters on and on about everything under the sun. Never mind if it reveals secrets the general public would rather not know.

For example, one early morning on the way to work, a vociferous gay man was telling his comrade about the best place in town to find handsome, nubile sex slaves. According to him, they escort you back to the locker rooms where a number of abovementioned young men wear nothing but white towels around their waists, waiting for companions to shower with. It was somewhere in Pasay if I remember correctly. He was waxing poetic. Everyone could hear him. Some were snickering absent-mindedly at the lurid stories. It was irritating, yes. But at least his stories had entertainment value.

There are others, the palengkeras and the high school students (for example) whose stories have less redeemable value. They talk about textmates and celphones, jealous boyfriends and vegetable prices, household budgets and everyone's all-time favorite: politics. Agh! You can talk about it but please! Mind the volume. Or at the very least wait until you are in a private place before sharing that your boyfriend has fungus in-between his toes!

Which reminds me of this inceident at the Nov.4 EDSA Shrine rally, where, due to my involvement in certain organizations, I was situated right at the epicenter of the action, jostling elbows with congressmen and senators. Anyway, while 50,000 (or so) people were praying the Rosary, there were these two older, balding dudes talking about golf, votes, constituencies and money. I wanted to say, "Excuse me. If you have no intentions of praying for our country, then at least have the decency to be quiet." But hey, I was born a wuss. So I shut up and let them talk. Their blabbing started to fade out after a while. Good thing too. Or I would've fished out the hatchet I keep in my knapsack for dire emergencies.

HOLY OF HOLIES
And everyone loves the bastards who ride a jeep, take their place somewhere near the driver's back and downright REFUSE to help hand over someone's fare. They strike the pose of being above all this lowly handing about of money, preferring not to sully their hands with the grime of Philippine coins. You say "Bayad po. Pakisuyo lang." And the stone-cold bastards continue looking away from you, ignoring a clearly enunciated request for assistance. So you haul your ass up and duck-walk over to pay the driver, all the while shooting them looks that could cause 96 points of cold damage if this were Diablo II instead of real life.

And by the way, these are the same bastards (and bastardesses) who sit in a jeep diagonally, refusing to make space for new passengers. Totally disregarding any lessons on good citizenship that their grade school teachers may have hammered into their brains. Nope. They sit there and ignore your plea "Paki-urong lang po."

So the solution? You ram your ass all the way into their spaces, wiggle it around a bit just so they get the point, and do the same thing to them when they start giving YOU dagger looks. Ignore them. Move your fat butt, woman. I'm paying four pesos, same as you. This is insensitivity as performance art.

SMOKERS
I've discovered that if you ask nicely enough, they'll put it out. And surprisingly enough, there are people who smoke while commuting and actually seem ASHAMED they're doing it. Hey boy, if it embarrasses you, throw it away.

The stench though. Cigarette smoke coupled with the city's pollution makes a lethal comboination: a slow-acting potion that transforms your lungs into rot. Kill yourself, sure, but spare your co-passengers.

SLEEPERS
And then there are the living dead. The narcoleptic zombies who nod off, and end up leaning on your shoulder like an intimate-- like a lover. The same ones who clench the handlebars on the ceiling of the jeep and then lose hold once they go unconscious, limbs flailing whichever way momentum sees fit. They're dead to the world, literally. So they don't ever see your look of disgust when they start vectoring into the comfortable zone between your neck and shoulder. Flop. Their heads loll about on springy muscles. And on certain occasions, they snore.

Sometimes though, you can sense some sort embarrassment on their part. They might open their eyes every time their forehead starts bumping into you, and momentarily move away. But this is rarer than someone saying sorry when they step on your toes.

VAIN GALS
They flip their hair away from their faces... and directly into yours. They comb their hair, or apply lipstick, or even (gasp) spray the perfume which oftentimes reminds me of a grandmother's baul. Talk about irritants. What can you do? Talk them out of beautifying themselves? Ask them not to fill the air with their scents? I don't think so.

The weirdest moment I can recall is when one of these vain gals leans back against a naked lightbulb and her hair starts to burn. The bulb is so hot, it sears thru several clumps of hair. The jeep stinks. And so this woman, who just a few minutes ago was flipping black locks into my eyes, now sits holding miscellaneous strands in her hands. More surreal than a Salvador Dali painting.

*

So, hey. There are more habits I can talk about which irk me, but I'm starting to transform into a bitter, hateful human being by writing all this down. So I'll stop. And maybe you can tell me if you've noticed any bad habits in commuters that you loathe. As always, mail me at yoruba@email.ro. And that's it for this month.

Hopefully our country will survive this present, ugly drama, at least long enough for me to turn in the next column. Till then, keep commuting safely and remember, be kind to your co-commuters. They're people too. Unless of course you find yourself in a jeepney next to Erap. In which case, kick his balls for me.

+ + +