On the Shoes (La Sportiva) That Carried Alex Honnold Up Taipei 101

image from Alex's website

There is a tendency, when talking about extraordinary feats, to focus on the spectacle—the height, the danger, the person brave enough to attempt it. When Alex Honnold climbed Taipei 101, much of the conversation followed this familiar pattern. A skyscraper instead of a cliff. Urban geometry instead of granite. Gravity unchanged.

But what fascinated me most was not the building, nor even the climber. It was the shoes.

Specifically, the pair of climbing shoes that made contact with glass, metal seams, and architectural edges never meant to be touched by human hands—much less trusted with a human life.

Honnold wore climbing shoes designed not for spectacle, but for precision. Shoes built for friction. Sensitivity. Honesty. Models like the TC Pro—developed by La Sportiva—are not flashy. They are stiff enough to stand on nothing, yet sensitive enough to feel everything. They do not promise comfort. They promise truth.

During his recent free solo of the Taipei 101 skyscraper, Alex Honnold wore custom-made La Sportiva climbing shoes. The shoes were specifically designed for the ascent on glass and steel surfaces and featured a softer rubber than standard climbing shoes to provide better grip on the slippery building materials. 

Base Model: The custom shoes were based on either the TC Pro or possibly the Skwama model, but with significant modifications.

Customization: The primary modification was the use of a softer, yellow rubber compound, better suited for urban surfaces than typical rock climbing.

Appearance: They were all yellow in color, which also served as a psychological confidence booster during the climb. 

And that matters, because climbing shoes are not footwear in the conventional sense. They are instruments. They translate intent into contact. Every millimeter of rubber becomes a conversation between body and surface. On a mountain, that surface is rock. On Taipei 101, it was something far stranger—industrial, polished, indifferent.

What made this ascent remarkable was not just the location, but the mismatch. Skyscrapers are designed to repel touch. They are smooth, vertical assertions of control. Climbing them exposes their unintended vulnerabilities—edges where panels meet, seams where materials overlap. These are not flaws. They are consequences.

Honnold’s shoes had to find meaning in those consequences.

image from NPR

Unlike hiking boots, climbing shoes are intentionally uncomfortable. They compress the foot, curl the toes, and strip away padding. This is not cruelty; it is clarity. Pain sharpens awareness. It eliminates distraction. The shoe becomes less a barrier and more an extension of the nervous system.

In an ascent like Taipei 101, that sensitivity becomes crucial. The rubber must grip surfaces that were never tested for friction. The climber must trust that what feels secure is secure. There is no margin for optimism. Only feedback.

What’s striking is how little technology intervenes. No motors. No smart sensors. No automation. Just a human foot, a thin layer of rubber, and gravity doing what it has always done. In an age obsessed with innovation, the climb was almost stubbornly analog.

This is where Honnold’s philosophy reveals itself. He does not romanticize danger. He reduces it. Every piece of gear, including the shoes, exists to remove uncertainty—not to create drama. The goal is not thrill, but control. And that control is quiet.

The shoes don’t look heroic. They don’t announce the feat. If anything, they disappear into the act itself. But without them—without the years of design refinement, rubber chemistry, and structural discipline—the climb would not exist. There is something instructive about that.

We often attribute success to boldness, to courage, to personality. But beneath every extraordinary act is a foundation of mundane precision. Equipment chosen carefully. Systems tested repeatedly. Small decisions made correctly, over and over again.

image from NPR

The shoes remind us that greatness rarely stands on spectacle alone. It stands on preparation. On respect for physics. On an understanding that even the most daring acts are built from details.

In the end, Alex Honnold did not conquer Taipei 101. He negotiated with it. And the shoes—quiet, unforgiving, precise—were his most honest negotiators. They didn’t carry him upward.

They simply refused to let him lie to himself about where he stood.

--Othello | follow us on QuarantinedTipsters FB 

Pagsamba sa Loob ng INC

~  INC Pagsamba Convo with my sakop Jan24-2026 (Saturday) ~

Me: Kuys! How’s pagsamba kaninang 6am?

Kuys: super blessed po.

Me: How…?

Kuys: felt super grateful!

—

Insight:

Not the dramatic kind—the kind that announces itself with declarations or resolutions—but the quieter, less visible kind: waking up early, dressing in pressed clothes, walking into the same place, week after week, to do something that offers no immediate reward except presence, faithfulness, fulfilling what is expected of us, as servants of Him. 

Inside the Iglesia ni Cristo, this act has a name: Pagsamba. Worship.. Devotion - isang tungkulin. 

That was it - Just gratitude. Which is precisely the point.

The discipline of regular worship does not always produce revelation. Sometimes it produces something far more subtle: emotional recalibration. A re-centering of perspective. A reminder that the week is not solely defined by deadlines, pressures, or private anxieties.

In a culture obsessed with results, worship asks for presence instead of outcome - we call it, "ihandog ang sarili, bilang isang haing buhay at banal".

Most people arrive tired. Some arrive distracted. Others arrive carrying burdens they do not articulate. The act of showing up—physically, mentally, emotionally—becomes the real offering. Not eloquence. Not understanding. Just willingness... to feel the Holy Spirit.

Over time, something shifts.

The space becomes familiar. The rhythm becomes internal. The teachings begin to land not as information, but as orientation. The words no longer feel external; they start to feel like reference points for how to live, how to respond, how to endure.

Consistency builds meaning the way repetition builds muscle. Slowly. Invisibly. Reliably.

It is easy to underestimate this in modern life, where spirituality is often treated as emotional on-demand—something accessed when needed, ignored when inconvenient. The INC structure resists that impulse. It insists on return. On showing up whether the mood is present or not.

This is where gratitude emerges.

Not the loud kind. Not the celebratory kind. But the quiet kind—the kind that settles into the body..., and soul, that is indescribable, something profound and fulfilling. The kind that arrives after sitting still long enough to remember what matters. The kind that does not come from excitement, but from alignment of higher purpose, and the divine.

The question “How?” was logical. The answer “felt grateful” was not analytical. It was experiential.

And that’s what consistent worship really does. It doesn’t necessarily solve problems. It reframes them. It doesn’t remove hardship. It places it in context. It doesn’t change life’s conditions. It changes the internal weather.

In a world that trains people to chase intensity, worship trains something else: steadiness.

To keep coming back.

To keep listening.

To keep aligning your inner life with something larger than your immediate concerns.

Gratitude, then, becomes less a reaction and more a habit. A state cultivated through repetition. A quiet byproduct of presence and yearning for more... of the presence of the Almighty.

Not because every service feels extraordinary. But because consistency slowly teaches the soul how to notice what has always been there.

Sometimes, the most profound spiritual experiences do not arrive as revelations. They arrive as simple sentences, spoken without drama: “Felt super grateful.”

® billymacdeus.com | follow us on FB The Quarantined Tipsters

Signaling Early and The Dangers of Last Second Signal When Driving

 

We’re not traffic experts. We don’t have charts, citations, or sweeping proposals to fix the way people drive. We’re simply ordinary motorists—sometimes behind the wheel of a car, sometimes balancing on two wheels—trying to move through the day and make it home without incident. That modest goal alone has taught us something surprisingly important: signaling early matters far more than we admit.

Over time, we’ve come to believe that using a turn signal at least fifteen seconds before making a turn might be one of the most basic, and most neglected, forms of courtesy left on the road. Fifteen seconds sounds insignificant when measured against a full commute, but in traffic, it’s a meaningful window. It allows space for understanding. It creates order where there might otherwise be confusion.

When we signal early, driving begins to feel like a conversation instead of a confrontation. We’re quietly telling the people around us that a change is coming, that the flow of the road is about to shift. That simple notice gives others time to respond without panic. Cars behind us slow naturally. Motorcycles adjust their line. Everyone moves with a little less tension, a little more trust.

The contrast becomes obvious when we think about the last-second blinker—the signal that flashes only as the steering wheel is already turning. We’ve all been there, braking suddenly, swerving slightly, wondering why we weren’t given a moment’s notice. In those cases, the signal doesn’t prevent confusion; it merely explains it after the fact. It’s not communication so much as damage control.

On crowded roads, where lanes are tight and patience is thin, early signaling becomes a form of self-preservation. This is especially true for motorcycles, which exist on the edges of visibility. Riders depend on predictability more than anything else. A few seconds of advance notice can turn a risky situation into a manageable one. Without it, everything becomes reactive, and reaction is rarely graceful at speed.

Signaling early also carries an unspoken message about respect. It acknowledges that the road isn’t ours alone. It recognizes that our decisions ripple outward, affecting strangers who are simply trying to get where they’re going. In a small but meaningful way, it says that our convenience does not outweigh everyone else’s safety.

Some drivers hesitate to signal because they fear being cut off, believing that secrecy gives them leverage. But in practice, the opposite tends to be true. Most traffic conflicts don’t arise from competition; they arise from uncertainty. When intentions are unclear, frustration fills the gap. When intentions are obvious, the road becomes easier to navigate.

Driving, at its core, is a continuous negotiation among people who will never meet. Brake lights set the tone. Turn signals establish clarity. When that system works, traffic feels almost cooperative. When it doesn’t, every movement feels like a gamble.

There are days when we’re exhausted, distracted, eager to be done with the drive. On those days especially, signaling early becomes even more important. It reduces sudden braking. It lowers stress. It spares us the mental jolt of near-misses that linger long after the engine is turned off.

This isn’t about being a perfect driver, or about moving slowly for the sake of caution. It’s about being predictable. On the road, unpredictability is far more dangerous than decisiveness. People can adapt to almost anything—except surprise.

So the next time we’re about to turn into a side street, enter a U-turn slot, or ease toward a curb, we can make a small choice. We can signal before we act, rather than as we act. We can give others time to understand what we’re about to do.

It takes only fifteen seconds. But those seconds can smooth traffic, reduce risk, and make the shared experience of driving just a little more humane. And in a world where so many interactions feel rushed and careless, that small moment of clarity can make all the difference.

 ® billymacdeus | Facebook Page | Youtube

Traslación: An Irony Of Faith and Undisciplined Behavior

__

Opinion

Taon-taon, every January, the same images surface. A sea of humanity surging through Quiapo, bodies pressed together in devotion, hands raised, faith palpable. The Traslación—one of the largest religious gatherings in the world—once again gathers hundreds of thousands, perhaps close to a million, of the faithful. It is powerful. It is moving. It is unmistakably Filipino.

And then, when the crowd thins, another image appears.

Plastic bottles crushed underfoot. Food wrappers clinging to gutters. Piles of trash resting beside monuments at Luneta, our national park—spaces meant to honor history now burdened with leftovers of convenience. The reaction comes quickly, almost reflexively: “Ok lang ‘yan. Expected na ‘yan.”

That phrase—expected na ‘yan—may be the most revealing part of the entire event. Because expectation is where discipline quietly dies.

Discipline, after all, is not about punishment or authority. It is about agreement. A shared understanding that certain behaviors are non-negotiable—not because someone is watching, but because society functions better when people care even when no one enforces it.

In these rapid advancement of the times, 2026 - a New Year even, basic expectations should no longer be aspirational. Claygo. Mind your manners. Dispose properly. Respect shared spaces. These are not advanced civic virtues; they are entry-level requirements for living together. And yet, year after year, the same pattern repeats.

What makes this particularly unsettling is the contrast. Here is a crowd united by faith, sacrifice, and devotion—capable of coordination, endurance, and collective effort on a massive scale. People walk barefoot for hours. They brave heat, exhaustion, danger. They follow rituals passed down for generations.

And yet, they leave behind trash.

The irony is difficult to ignore. If discipline can be summoned for spiritual endurance, why does it vanish when it comes to environmental responsibility? If millions can move in one direction for faith, why can’t that same convergence extend to something as basic as cleaning up after ourselves?

The issue is not faith. Faith, in itself, is not the problem. The problem is compartmentalization—the belief that devotion exists separately from daily conduct. That spirituality can be sincere while behavior remains careless. That reverence can coexist with disregard.

But culture does not work that way. Values are only as real as their smallest expressions.

When a society excuses undisciplined behavior as inevitable, it lowers the ceiling for everything else. If we cannot agree on cleanliness, how do we expect cooperation on traffic, governance, public health, or long-term nation-building? If basic respect for shared spaces feels optional, how can larger collective goals ever feel achievable?

Discipline is not about perfection. It is about consistency. It is about refusing to normalize what should never have been acceptable in the first place.

The trash left behind after the Traslación is not just basura—it is a mirror. It reflects a cultural habit of lowering expectations instead of raising standards. Of romanticizing resilience while tolerating neglect. Of mistaking tolerance for kindness.

And perhaps the most troubling part is not the mess itself, but how quickly we move on from it.

A million people gathered. A million opportunities to model mindfulness. A million chances to prove that faith and discipline are not opposites, but extensions of each other.

Instead, what remains is the lingering question we rarely ask aloud:

If we cannot unite around basic, sane behavior—if we cannot clean up after ourselves—how do we expect to execute anything larger that truly improves Filipino culture?

This question is not rhetorical. It is diagnostic.

Consider the ordinary scenes that repeat themselves daily, far from religious gatherings and national events. 

- A commuter throws a cup out of a jeepney window because there is no trash bin nearby. 

- A driver blocks an intersection because konting singit lang naman. 

- A queue dissolves into disorder the moment enforcement steps away. 

- A public restroom is left unusable for the next person because responsibility feels anonymous. 

- A Pinoy driving a sedan o naka-SUV at ibinato nalang sa lansangan ang upos ng kaniyang yosi o wrapper ng candy.

These are not acts of malice. They are acts of indifference—small decisions made under the assumption that someone else will absorb the cost.

This is how culture erodes: not through grand failures, but through tolerated shortcuts.

We often frame discipline as something imposed—by rules, by police, by authority. But the most enduring discipline is self-administered. It is the discipline that persists when the traffic enforcer looks the other way, when the garbage collector hasn’t arrived yet, when no one is filming. It is the discipline that treats shared spaces as extensions of the self.

When this baseline is missing, larger ambitions become performative.

We speak of national development while normalizing traffic chaos. We talk about environmental protection while littering after picnics. We demand honest governance while practicing everyday dishonesty—cutting lines, dodging rules, passing inconvenience downstream. The contradiction is not abstract; it is lived daily.

And children notice... 

They notice when adults preach cleanliness but litter casually. When elders demand respect but disregard public order. When leaders speak of unity while modeling entitlement. Values are not transmitted through slogans; they are absorbed through repetition. What is tolerated becomes tradition.

Future leaders are not shaped first in classrooms or boardrooms. They are shaped in sidewalks, terminals, schools, homes, and public parks. They learn leadership not from speeches, but from how adults behave when no reward is attached. When they see rules followed only under threat, they learn compliance—not integrity. When they see responsibility outsourced, they learn avoidance—not ownership.

A nation’s leadership problem is often a citizenship problem in disguise.

Imagine a different set of ordinary behaviors: people stopping at red lights even when roads are empty; citizens cleaning their own tables because it is expected, not requested; crowds dispersing without leaving debris because respect is habitual. These acts do not trend. They do not inspire applause. But over time, they create a culture where cooperation feels natural and governance feels possible.

Discipline, in this sense, is not restrictive. It is liberating. It reduces friction. It builds trust. It allows systems to function without constant surveillance. It creates conditions where larger projects—transport reform, environmental protection, institutional integrity—have a fighting chance.

We often wait for leaders to save us, forgetting that leaders emerge from the culture we maintain. They do not arrive from elsewhere. They are raised by what we normalize.

... and the future of these leaders' children, will do the same, will inherit the same values, history repeats - unbroken. When do we change?

If we want future leaders who value accountability, we must practice it in parking lots and public restrooms. If we want leaders who respect systems, we must respect pedestrian lanes and waste segregation. If we want leaders who think long-term, we must stop behaving as though every space we occupy is temporary and disposable.

Nation-building does not begin with policy. It begins with posture.

And until we can agree on something as simple as cleaning up after ourselves—not because we are told to, but because it is right—we will continue to dream of progress while quietly undermining its foundations.

Discipline is not the enemy of freedom. It is the precondition for a society that works.

And so the question returns—not to scold, not to shame, but to invite...

Sa mga naglakad nang walang sapatos.

Sa mga nagtiis sa init, siksikan, at pagod.

Sa mga taimtim na nag-alay ng dasal at panata.

Alam na ninyo kung paano magtiyaga.

Alam na ninyo kung paano magpakatatag.

Alam na ninyo kung paano kumilos bilang iisa.

Kaya isipin natin ito: paano kung ang debosyon ay hindi nagtatapos sa prusisyon?

Paano kung ang pananampalataya ay hindi iniiwan sa Quiapo?

Paano kung ang kabanalan ay makikita rin sa mga simpleng gawain—

sa pagbitbit ng sariling basura,

sa paggalang sa lansangan,

sa pag-iwan ng lugar na mas maayos kaysa sa dinatnan?

Walang humihingi ng perpekto.

Ang hinihingi lang ay pagkamalay, mindfulness.

May malasakit.

Ang pagkilala na ang pananampalatayang walang disiplina ay kulang—hindi buo.

Hindi dumarating ang pagbabago sa sigaw o bandila. Dumarating ito nang tahimik—

sa pagpiling hindi magbulag-bulagan,

sa desisyong huwag sabihing “ok lang ‘yan” kung malinaw na hindi.

Hindi kailangan ng milyon para magsimula ng pagbabago.

Kailangan lang ng paninindigan.

Napatunayan na ninyo na kaya ninyong maglakad nang sabay-sabay.

Ngayon, mas simple—pero mas mahirap—ang tanong:

Handa ba kayong maglakad pasulong?

Handa ba kayong gawing debosyon ang disiplina?

Handa ba kayong ipakita ang pananampalataya hindi lang sa dasal, kundi sa asal?

Dahil ang susunod na prusisyon ay hindi na sa susunod na taon—

nagsimula na ito sa mismong pag-uwi ninyo.

Ang mga lansangan ay nakatingin.

Ang mga bata ay nakamasid.

Ang kinabukasan ay naghihintay.

Umiihip na ang hangin ng pagbabago (o baka hindi pa ninyo ramdam).

Sasabay ba kayo?

--Othello | follow us on QuarantinedTipsters FB 

images via GMANewsTV FB Reels

That Starbucks Cup and Other Paper Plastic Cups? - It’s Not What You Think (The Rise of Microplastics)

 

Why You Might Think Twice About the Starbucks Cup

There is something quietly reassuring about holding a Starbucks cup. It is warm in the morning, cool in the afternoon, and familiar in a way that requires no explanation. The logo signals routine, productivity, a brief pause between obligations. For many people, it is not just coffee—it is punctuation in the sentence of the day.

Which is precisely why questioning the cup itself feels almost impolite.

And yet, in recent years, scientists have begun asking questions that don’t sit comfortably with our rituals. Not about caffeine or calories, but about something far less visible: microplastics.

What the Cup Is Really Made Of

Despite appearing to be paper, most disposable coffee cups—including those from Starbucks—are not fully paper at all. They are lined with a thin layer of plastic, typically polyethylene, designed to prevent leaks and maintain structural integrity when hot liquid is poured in.

This lining is what makes the cup functional.

It is also what makes it problematic.

When hot beverages come into contact with plastic-lined surfaces, especially repeatedly or over extended periods, microscopic plastic particles can shed into the drink. These particles—measured in micrometers—are small enough to evade detection by taste or sight, yet large enough to enter the human body.

The issue isn’t dramatic. It’s cumulative.

What Science Is Beginning to Tell Us

Multiple peer-reviewed studies over the past decade have confirmed that microplastics are now present almost everywhere: in water, salt, seafood, air—and increasingly, in the human body. Researchers have detected them in blood, lungs, placental tissue, and even breast milk.

Hot liquids appear to accelerate plastic degradation. Laboratory simulations have shown that exposure to heat can increase the release of microplastics and nanoplastics from plastic-lined containers.

What remains uncertain—and this uncertainty matters—is the long-term health impact. Scientists are still studying how these particles interact with human cells, hormones, and immune systems. Early findings suggest possible links to inflammation, oxidative stress, and endocrine disruption, but definitive conclusions are still forming.

Which puts consumers in an unusual position:

the evidence is incomplete, but the exposure is ongoing.

Why This Isn’t About Panic

Avoiding plastic-lined cups is not about fear or moral superiority. It’s about recognizing how modern convenience quietly reshapes risk.

No single Starbucks cup will harm you.

No occasional latte is cause for alarm.

The concern lies in frequency.

For people who consume hot beverages daily—sometimes multiple times a day—small exposures become habitual ones. And habits, over time, shape health outcomes more reliably than rare indulgences.

This is not a story of danger.

It is a story of accumulation.

The Cultural Blind Spot of Convenience

Disposable cups sit at the intersection of speed and trust. We assume that if something is widely used, it must be safe. If it were harmful, surely someone would have stopped it by now.

But history suggests otherwise.

Lead paint. Asbestos. Trans fats. Each was once normal. Each was later reconsidered—not because people changed, but because knowledge did.

Microplastics occupy a similar space today: widely present, poorly understood, and deeply embedded in daily life.

What to Do Instead (Without Making It a Lifestyle Statement)

This isn’t an argument for perfection. It’s an invitation to slight adjustment.

• Use a reusable stainless steel or ceramic cup when possible.

• Choose cafés that allow personal tumblers—and many do, quietly.

• At home, favor glass, metal, or ceramic for hot drinks.

• If disposable is unavoidable, treat it as occasional, not default.

These are not radical acts. They do not require renouncing pleasure or convenience. They simply introduce friction—just enough to make awareness part of the ritual.

A Different Kind of Luxury

There was a time when convenience itself was the highest luxury. Today, perhaps, the luxury is intentionality. Knowing what touches your food. Understanding what enters your body. Choosing durability over disposability, even in small ways.

The Starbucks cup will likely remain part of modern life. It is efficient, familiar, and deeply ingrained. But understanding its limitations allows the ritual to evolve—quietly, without drama.

Not everything we reconsider needs to be abandoned.

Some things simply need to be handled with more care.

And sometimes, that care begins not with the coffee—but with the cup holding it.

--Othello | follow us on QuarantinedTipsters FB 

fact-checked via NPR podcast, Lifehacker, and ChatGPT