The Pancho and Judy Show

We were bullshitting with Pancho. Bea asked him if still remembers me; the last time I saw him he was still a boy. Now at eleven, he’s built like a barrel and has no neck to speak of. His sentences are peppered with American slang. (The prizes are so lame! No, Ate Bea, YOU shut up!) It's the cartoons, Bea said. I told Pancho he should apply for a call center job; with his twang, he could be rich at age 13.

“Okay, what’s my first name?” I asked Pancho. He looked at me, head cocked on one side. After a beat, he said, “Judy.”

Darn it. And I thought I was a Mary. Hah. Oh, well. At least Belle and Sebastian and The Pipettes have written songs for girls named Judy.

Speaking of girls named Judy, I should call Judy from the Palace to see if she’s got any news and to tell her this story.

Joel, don’t hate me. This is for you.

Due to incessant public demand and Jeeu’s appeal, my blog is now up. Joel, the ex-co-worker and deskmate, would probably call me a traitor, so I’m asking for his forgiveness and I am dedicating this first entry to him. (Honestly, I don't know if I can sustain this; I have always been a pessimist.) Before I forget, let me make this clear. There are only two things in life that I was peer-pressured into doing: friendster, and now, this, blogging. So God help us all. XOXO, k