Old Things

Broken bicycles, old busted chains
With rusted handle bars, out in the rain
Somebody must have an orphanage for
All these things that nobody wants any more.

-Broken Bicycles, TOM WAITS

I’d been planning to clean my room but then I was dying to watch all the TV series I failed watch during the review and the bar exam. Now that I finished all the complete season three of Rome and Lost, season one of Heroes and Criminal Minds and season six of 24, I thought it was time.

My room is virtually a mouse hole: cramped and cluttered. Yes, I have a Ph. D. in Burara-ness. I am that type person who leaves the toothpaste uncapped, does not lift the toilet seat when I take a leak and leaves jeans I peeled off on the floor. Our maid long ago gave up cleaning after she declared unilaterally that my room was in perpetual state of calamity. In her words: Diyos ko po! Parang dinaanan ng bagyo!

So I have to live with the chaos I have created and pretend it’s an artist‘s room. I have learned to love the stench of the old and crisp pages of books I have hunted for in book sales piled in one corner, and reek of the stacks of photocopy reading materials littered in another corner. In a cluttered room like mine, looking for things is always a daunting task. So, I would wait for them to resurface.

You see I have unconsciously adapted my mother’s habit of storing things I no longer need thinking that I would need them someday: I save plastic bags, empty bottles, boxes, old notebooks even scratch papers and empty cases of ball pens. Like my mother who lived during difficult times, I am obsessed with the idea that I will need them one day. Imagine then all the junk I have in my room. It could be a haven for scavengers.

And so, armed with broom, vacuum cleaner I borrowed from a friend and garbage bin, I launched cleaning.

I never thought I would embark into an archaeological excavation. I have made some surprising discoveries.

I found keys, school ID’s, ball pens and highlighters, raffle tickets, receipts I had been looking. I found what appeared to be socks with some life form sprung from it! I unearthed a few coins no longer in legal tender. I found the book I have been looking for: Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness (I have been planning to read this book; it’s a shame that to this day I haven’t read it yet). I found my first issue of FHM, Flip magazine and my Tera Patrick video collection.

I half expected that I could find the Holy Grail or the lost tribe of Israel under my bed.

I uncovered my journal I kept more than ten years back. I took some time to read, but I cringe at the drivel I wrote in my desperate attempts to create pretentious prose.

Consider this blood-curdling line in one of my entries: Her trail kept on lingering in my deepest self. How I wish I could go to her shrine to cradle her flowers and worship her divine grace.

And this coma-inducing line in what supposed to be a poem: How I wish I could accost thou to echo you my shimmering maxims/ and together we’ll sing the melody of our dreams/

I know… I know… please stop laughing now. I was only sixteen and obviously under throes of first love. I was groping for words that may rhyme with dreams and the nearest word I could think of is maxims. And I thought the adjective shimmering is a beautiful word.

I digress. It took me forever to clean my room. I cleaned my closet, furnitures my shelf discarding all the things I no longer need.

The clutter translated into two large cardboard boxes filled with junk.

To throw or not to throw those junk. Now, this is my problem. The boxes have been lying there under my closet but I could not make self to dispose of them. I could not figure out what to do with them. You see, I am closet romantic person. True, I no longer need them. True, all the stuff in the box are junk. But the junk is ME.

I could not just throw all these things: The old and weathered leather boots given by my brother, faded and worn-out black shirt which my bro bought for me in a street in Prague,dilapidated and busted Swiss watch from my sister, letters from my father, cards from relatives, albums I bought: The Cure, Live, Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and Sarah McLachlan and Alanis Morrisette (in cassette tapes!), intricately decorated and customized mug from my girl friend, empty lighters and key chains from my good friends, even pebbles from Palawan and Sagada given to me, belt and already worn-out back pack given by my best friend back in college etc..

I don’t know… there is poetry in those old things… wrapped with profound meanings…I could not just throw it away.

Or maybe I have been watching too much movies these days.

Goodbye Berlin

A few days ago I learned that my neighbor and childhood buddy was killed. Just this morning, I read the story about him in the Inquirer, Regions Section:

Cop kills cop

TUGUEGARAO CITY--A policeman was shot and killed by another policeman after they quarreled inside a restaurant in Aparri, Cagayan, on Sept. 21.

Cagayan police director Senior Supt. Jude Santos said PO3 Norlindo Iringan, a member of the 201st police provincial mobile group based in Aparri, and SPO1 Gregorio Mangabat grappled for a .38 cal. gun after their argument. Santos said the gun, which was owned by Iringan, went off during the scuffle, sending a bullet into Iringan’s chest. Mangabat surrendered to the local police. Villamor Visaya Jr., Inquirer Northern Luzon

Another tragic, senseless death...

Goodbye buddy. Woe to your untimely demise. You'll be sorely missed.

...but fly on proud bird. you're free at last.

i am back

Hello world, I am back. I just woke up from a coma.

Well, I wish... I wish my body was spared from the mental and physical pain, oblivious of the month long torturous bar exam.

I am glad it is over.

Now, the torment of waiting for the results begins…again.

Time, The Endless Idiot Runs Screaming

It's my birthday today and I am turning... um ... past thirty.

I read somewhere that the age of immortality is thirty. Che Guevara died at thirty. Alexander The Great died at the age of thirty. So did our great hero Jose Rizal. Beyond thirty our idealism gradually fades. We start to compromise.

The beauty of youth is that we look at the world with burning fire in our eyes. We embrace life with burning passion. We are so consumed with our ideas. We had the luxury to read and think . Our unadulterated mind, free from contaminants from the real world, is receptive from ideas and alternative views.

Back then, I wanted to change the world.

Once, I was moved by an angry poet Philip Larkin. In his poem This Be The Verse, he lamented:

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can

don't have any kids yourself.

It struck a chord in me. A transcendent awareness came over me. yes, sort of like an epiphany. Probably because I lived a difficult life. I came from a very poor family and I was raised in a community where I could taste and smell the stink of misery.

I was young. I was inspired. So much intoxicated with ideas, I had illusions of grandeur. I took upon myself the mission to one day extricate my family and the community from the closed cycle of poverty. I wanted to start from the grass roots, and sow the seeds of of changes. I ran for kabataang barangay , became a member of every NGO empowering the community and I thought joining an underground subversive movement.

I wanted to do many things. I wanted to become part of of the Green Peace Movement. I wanted to slap a multi-million peso damage suit against multinational corporations for polluting the earth. I want to patch holes in our ozone layer, invent a serum that could make trees grow in minutes. I wanted to be a volunteer of the UN Peace Corps and help rebuild lives ravaged by obscure ideologies. I want to be part of Amnesty International and be fervent advocate of human rights. I wanted to start a movement that would crumble down institutions mainly established as a form of social control.

I wanted to wander and see the world. I wanted to live a nomadic existence, meet interesting people and experience different cultures. I wanted to travel to the Amazon rain forest and live with the Matis tribe. I want to experience the Tanzanian dawn, try the iboga of Babongo in Gabon , party at Ibiza, and feel the ambiance of Ipanema and Leblon in Brazil.

But, as we grow older we tend to see the word at a different perspective. We become more realistic and more practical. Yes, we compromise.

Whether we like it or not the number of digits in our bank account matters.

As we age, we feel that time is running, like the endless idiot who always runs screaming, it constantly reminds us how much time is left for us. So we tend to rush thing. We plea-bargain with ourselves.

I am beyond thirty and I still want to do those things.Well, probably in my own little way as a citizen of the world. On how I live my life.

I think it was E.M. Forster in The Room With a View, who said that at some point in our life we aspire to look for a spot that we could declare as our own territory and do whatever we want, whatever makes us happy. Literally, I want to look for some place where I could settle down and live a complete life. Yes, I dream of having a family with two kids in a posh village, with security guards and at least with two cars in my garage. I wanted to raise my kids, play with them, bring them to school attend and PTA meetings.

But then again, I still have to hurdle this important battle in my life. A few days from now I will be taking the bar exam. Wish me well.

Happy birthday to me!

8 Things

I have been tagged by my good friend mayette.

The Rules: “Each person links to the person who tagged them. Then each person posts the rules before their list. Then they list 8 things about themselves. At the end of the post, that person tags and links to 8 other people and then visits those people’s sites and comments and letting them know that they’ve been tagged, and to come read the post so they know what they have to do …”

So here are the 8 things, rather 8 twisted things about me.

1. I am a jolog. Yes, across-the- board jolog.

I was raised in the barrio in a third class municipality within a valley. I belong to a family of farmers so I spent practically most of my childhood in the farm. This explains my exotic dark tan. At a very young age I was exposed to hard work: I planted rice, sow corns and peanuts and tend our carabaos in the pasture. In retrospect I should have sued my parents for child labor.

When I came to manila for the first time for college, I cried copious tears (I was iskolar ng bayan). Not because I would miss my family but because my mother turned my baggage into a talipapa: I brought with me talong, kalabasa, sitaw, tinapa, a sack of rice and a manok in a bayong as a pasalubong for my aunt who offered free board and lodging. UP is a few kilometer away from my aunt's home so that I have to take three rides. It took me months to eventually learn to commute on my own. For some reason, I always could not find my way back home. One time I took a bus plying a different route and I ended up in Novaliches. My cousin had to pick me up in the middle of the night. Countless times, I have fallen prey to salisi gang, zesto gang, and boodoo-boodoo gang, pahingi-ng-pamasahe gang.

And I have a terrible fashion sense. Probably because I am used to hand-me-downs.

2. I once raised to life and dead sisiw (chick) by blowing air into it anus.

I confirmed my gift when I revived our dying new-born puppy by doing the same. When our turkey was ran over by a jeepney, I tried to revive it but did not respond. Perhaps my power is reserved only to the cute dead.

3. As a child, I was exposed to Komiks and German Moreno Spectacular Culture.

Did I say I had a damaged childhood? Our neighbor then had a steady supply of komiks and gossip magazines from his son who worked in a publishing company in Manila. No, not Marvel or the DC comics but those by Mars Ravelo, Carlo J Caparas and Nerissa Cabral. Even at a very young age I had developed a keen interest in reading. There was dearth of reading materials at home and I read all the milk, carton labels and newspaper used as pambalot ng tinapa, so I devoured it. I have followed with ardor Zuma, Captain Barbell, Darna, Agua Bendita Tuklaw and Mga Kuwento Ni Lola Basyang.

This was the era of black and white TV; the one with built-in cabinet. I remember there was only one TV in our entire neighborhood, so the whole barangay came to watch. We were not allowed to watch except on weekend so I was hypnotized by German Moreno’s colorful! spectacular! smorgasbord! production numbers in GMA Supershow and That’s Entertainment (yes, with kuya Germs everything should end in exclamation points).Yes, I still remember Michael Locsin, Ronnel Victor, Ana Margarita, Marilyn Villamayor.

4. I stole Gabriel Garcia-Marquez.

I learned about Gabriel Garcia Marquez and his magic realism during my first year in college. I searched for his One Hundred Years in Solitude in book sales. When I saw one, I stole it. Really. I was then intoxicated by the philosophy of Marx and I thought I deserved to read and own it even without paying it. Inspired by the success, I tried to do the same with Umberto Echo’s The Name of the Rose but I was almost caught when I tried to tuck the book under my waist.

5. I seriously thought of committing suicide.

Really. I was 18 then deeply troubled and confused teenager. My existential angst phase. Very in to my own alternative view of life, or as the French call it Weltanschauung. I thought there was no point in living. I thought it was romantic. Ok, please stop laughing now.

I was then intoxicated by the philosophy of Schopenhauer, Sartre, Nietzsche, and Camus. I devoured Russian existentialist books by Dostoevsky and Ivan Turgenev. From an extremely religious family who could recite the Litany flawlessly, I became an atheist, then became a humanist, then became a religious fundamentalist, became atheist again and then a believer eventually.

Add here the rebellious spirit of Grunge music by Nirvana and Pearl Jam. When Kurt Cobain scribbled “I don’t have the passion to live any more” and shot his head point blank, I said: “I thought of that first. That’s not original”

6. I read poetry aloud when I defecate.

I have hard-bound compilation of poems by TS Eliot, John Keats, Alfred Lord Tennyson and Milton. The pages were already yellowing and had been moist from constant leafing… while in the john. I call it inidoro poetry reading. I've been re-reading them countless times already

7. I have an irrational fear of numbers.

Make me add more than two digits numbers and I would tremble and pass out. I failed my Math I (basic!) in college. I got a 3 when I took it the second time only because I wrote a gripping and moving letter in my test booklet begging my teacher to pass me or I would lose my scholarship. He fell for it.

8. I regard my self as generally nice person.

Although I may not exude a pleasant personality, I am a nice person. People who do not know me would always think that I am obnoxious and snobbish. Probably because I have pouty upper lip. I wish it looked like the model-silicon-enhanced-look but mine is placed in such a way that I have a perpetual frown.

No, I am not in Friendster. I have few friends and I am perfectly happy with that. I don’t measure my happiness with the number of friends I could make. Although I was told there is an existing account under my name. That is not me. That’s an impostor.

So there.

____

Now, the problem. I have checked my friends in the blogosphere and found that they have been tagged. I have few friends in friendster, does that count?

I have a New Baby

I am a new father to a baby Golden Retriever. My bro gave it to me, short of saying, its time to make your self responsible for some one. Grow up. I assumed it was an advanced birthday gift.

I baptized him Wallace, my favorite Scottish name which is apt because I gathered that Golden Retrievers are of Scottish origin. The pup is three-months old. It has been with me for three days now.

I was ecstatic. I bought him food, leash and chew toys. Taking care of him is an utter bliss. He is very active and playful dog that I could not compete with his energy. He has soft and fluffy fur that I love to cuddle. When he barked loud for the first time, I was his proud daddy. He makes my day. I am looking forward to go home each day.

I imagine my self as Hugh Grant in the movie About a Boy, thinking that adopting a child would make him attractive and responsible at the same time to the opposite sex

This morning I came face to face with what the law regards as bonos pater familias. When I woke up I found my poor baby in the corner panting, sick, weak, and helpless. His vomit scattered around our living room. I panicked. I gave him milk and pellets but he just smelled it and then he threw up again. He continued to throw up and had loose bowels. I did no know what to do.

I have two pets in the province, a pusakal which I call Bin Laden and an askal which I call Dostoyevsky. I did not really take care of them because I believe that they can survive on their own. When they get sick I just give them sugar and they would be well in minutes.

How could you stand a cute thing suffer? I ran to the veterinarian to get him treated. The doctor said the new environment probably stressed him. He might have eaten something I did not notice. He also found parasite in his poop. I could only cringe when the doctor gave him four shots: antibiotic, liver tonic, vitamins and anti-emetic. I coughed up more than thousand bucks.

Now I am home nursing my baby. I just gave him an oral shot of anti diarrhea. I will feed him tonight at ten o’clock.

Besmirched Reputation, Social Humiliation, Moral Shock…

Review with me.

I am currently reading Civil Law on Torts and Damages. Here’s a novel and interesting case law… with my scholarly commentary.

Let’s peruse the facts:

The Spouses Madrigal are frequent flyers of Cathay Airways and are Gold Card members of its Marco Polo Club. On 24 September 1996, the spouses, together with their maid and two friends, went to Hongkong for pleasure and business.

As part of its marketing strategy, Cathay accords its frequent flyers membership in its Marco Polo Club. The members enjoy several privileges, such as priority for upgrading of booking without any extra charge whenever an opportunity arises. Thus, a frequent flyer booked in the Business Class has priority for upgrading to First Class if the Business Class Section is fully booked.

During the boarding time, the Madrigals were informed that their accommodations were upgraded to First Class. They refused the upgrade, reasoning that it would not look nice for them as hosts to travel in First Class and their guests, in the Business Class; and moreover, they were going to discuss business matters during the flight.

Taken aback by the refusal for upgrading, the stewardess consulted her supervisor, who told her to handle the situation and convince them to accept the upgrading. The stewardess then informed the latter that the Business Class was fully booked, and that since they were Marco Polo Club members they had the priority to be upgraded to the First Class. The Madrigals continued to refuse, so the stewardess told them that if they would not avail themselves of the privilege, they would not be allowed to take the flight. Eventually, the Madrigals gave in, then proceeded to the First Class Cabin.

Upon their return to Manila, the Madrigals in a letter addressed to Cathay's Country Manager, demanded that they be indemnified in the amount of P1million for the "humiliation and embarrassment" caused by its employees. They also demanded "a written apology from the management of Cathay within fifteen days from receipt of the letter.

There was no apology given. Hence, this complaint of breach of contract praying for moral damages in amount of 1 million pesos.

Can you beat that? I could only imagine the arguments that ensued: I will sue you for giving us first rate service in your first class cabin! For giving us the finest wine and food in silver platters, spoons and goblets! For letting us sit your most comfortable seat and walk in soft carpeted floor! And as if that is not enough, you gave us the most attractive and most efficient stewardess! You have caused us terrible embarrassment and humiliation.

For the Madrigals delikadeza is well prized virtue.

Let us empathize, let us try put ourselves in their Manolo Blahnik shoes even for one fleeting vicarious moment and experience all their privileges: “Ano nalang ang sasabihin ng aming amigas na kasama namin sa business class?! At tinasaan mo pa ako ng boses? Kilala mo ba kung sino kami? Idedemamda ko kayo ng breach of contract with moral damages (translate this in Spanish)

Under the law Moral damages predicated upon a breach of contract of carriage may only be recoverable in instances where the carrier is guilty of fraud or bad faith or where the mishap resulted in the death of a passenger.

Moral damages include physical suffering, mental anguish, fright, serious anxiety, besmirched reputation, wounded feelings, moral shock, social humiliation, and similar injury.

The seeming ejaculation of series of synonyms concerning moral damages is actually provided by the law. I did not just pick that up from the thesaurus. I have been trying to memorize this definition.

Hence the issue: Is an involuntary upgrading of an airline passenger's accommodation from one class to a more superior class at no extra cost a breach of contract of carriage that would entitle the passenger to an award of damages?

If you’re one of the Madrigals, the answer would be a resounding yes. Well, at least according to the trial court which awarded them 20 million damages.

To remind the judge of the lower court, (probably assuming that the judge is senile who might have forgotten that their family own all the mining and logging concessions in the country or one who never reads society pages), they averred in their complaint that they "belong to the uppermost and absolutely top elite of both Philippine Society and the Philippine financial community, [and that] they were among the wealthiest persons in the Philippine[s]."

It’s one of those scenes in soap opera where upon mention of your name, the groveling masa would throw themselves into your feet and worship you. I could imagine that the trial court literally vibrated with their powerful and imposing presence. Consider: They arrived in their BMW’s Mercedes, or Porsche or Jaguars clad in their Armani suits and Louis Vittons with a delegation or housemaids and bodyguards gleaming in white uniforms. Add the clicking cameras of photographers of lifestyle magazines.

True enough, the lower court- in Supreme Court words- as if it went on a rampage, with unbelievable alacrity, awarded them a whopping 20 million as damages.

In their complaint, the Madrigals asked for P1 million as moral damages but the lower court awarded P4 million; they asked for P500,000.00 as exemplary damages but the lower court cavalierly awarded a P10 million; they asked for P250,000.00 as attorney's fees but were awarded P2 million; they did not ask for nominal damages but were awarded P200,000.00.

Upon reading this, I nearly went rampage as well spewed "punyeta! Labatiba! and que barbaridad! Porque? habla espanol un poquo!" But I sounded like a possessed aliping sagigilir.

When the action reached the Supreme Court, it ruled:

“The breach of contract of carriage, which consisted in the involuntary upgrading of the spouses Madrigal' seat accommodation, was not attended by fraud or bad faith. The most that can be adjudged in favor of the Madrigals for Cathay's breach of contract is an award for nominal damages under Article 2221 of the Civil Code.

Nonetheless, considering that the breach was intended to give more benefit and advantage to the Madrigals by upgrading their Business Class accommodation to First Class because of their valued status as Marco Polo members, we reduce the award for nominal damages to P5,000.

The court ended by saying: “Passengers must not prey on international airlines for damage awards, like "trophies in a safari." After all neither the social standing nor prestige of the passenger should determine the extent to which he would suffer because of a wrong done, since the dignity affronted in the individual is a quality inherent in him and not conferred by these social indicators.”

Clap! Clap! Clap!

The Big C

When my tita was diagnosed with cancer, I undertook a campaign to bolster her spirit. She is 55, single, never married, never had a family of her own apart from us. We are only her support group.

Cancer of the endometrium, the doctors said. I was told the endometruim is apart of the uterus. I gathered that this kind of cancer attacks older women whose reproductive spare parts are never used: those unmarried or those who never got pregnant. This may serve as a warning to those women who took upon themselves a vow of lifetime chastity.

The cancer has reached stage four, meaning the cancer cells has spread out and affected other organs. In my aunts case, it affected her intestines. She had to undergo operation to remove the infected part.

She has to undergo radiation for six weeks. So we invited her to to stay in our apartment for that duration. My cousins who were working took turns to act as her part-time care giver, nurse, cook, and yaya. She was still frail after the operation, she needed to be escorted to the CR.

Since I moved out temporarily for my bar review, I took a day off for her: I cook her food and and I also acted as a motivational speaker. I encouraged her to engage in other activities like owning a pet, cross stitching, or engage in outdoor sports etc. which lay on deaf ears. Although she spent most of the time reading the bible or listening to a radio station hosted and owned my Brother Mike Velarde of El Shaddai, a catholic charismatic group, which is good sign.

Every Monday I accompany her to the hospital for her daily radiation.

The radiation area has a lobby were patients converge while waiting for their turn. On the left is a room called Pain Management Room, while the at the right is the radiation room where the patient is placed behind a machine that looked like a big vintage telephone with its hand set rotating, which i assume has beams to strike out the cancer cells.

The radiation proper only takes 10 minutes, but we had to wait for an hour or so because there is only one machine and there are many patients waiting in line: some were in wheel chairs, others were hairless concealed by bandanna, and majority were in their late sixties. For some reason, while in the lobby, I tried to look for the characters in Nicholas Sparks novels or Meryll Streep in the movie One True Thing : those characters who spontaneously spout profound life changing lines. I tried to look at their faces the way Meryll Streep conveyed her inner turmoil and exquisite torment just through her facial expression but these people are generally happy. None of them engaged in self-indulgent have-pity-on-me look or life-is-so-cruel look. I admire their fortitude.

One patient approached me and introduced himself:

"I have colon cancer, and recently I was diagnosed with brain cancer. The doctor said I have three months to live. What you've got?

Probably because I was sporting a medyo kalbo look, and was quite groggy after three hours sleep last night that he probably mistook me as cancer patient. I told him that I could not compete with his misery because I am in perfect health and then pointed my aunt and told him that my aunt has cancer of the endometrium.

Another patient butted in and said that she too has breast cancer.

"In fact my right breast was removed already" she said it so casually as if she just had a root canal.

Maybe they tried to lift my aunt's spirit being a newbie cancer patient: that she is not alone, that it can be cured, that she should move on despite the cancer. But it did not help her. Instead, she excused herself and threw up in the CR.

My tita through the years has demonstrated herself as a very strong person. With her disease, I could sense her bitterness and torment. I wish that she could fight the battle. I wish that this time she will not chicken out. That, indeed there is still dignity in living despite the cancer.

post father's day tribute to my father, sort of

Every time I fill up forms requiring my father’s personal data, I call up my sister. Even now, I feel guilty that I do not remember his age nor could recall his birth date.

I do not have childhood memory with my father. I tried to search for pictures of myself with my father, those old sepia pictures which conjures images of nostalgia, but there are none. I tried to psychoanalyze myself to salvage any remnant of special moments with my father that might have fossilized deep in my subconscious the way Shrinks do in the movies but all I have are bits of pieces of commercials and movies and memories of my friends with their fathers that I took as my own: father carrying his son on his shoulder, father and son feeding animals in the zoo, father teaching his son to tie his shoe laces, father and son eating dirty ice cream in the park, father and son playing baseball together..

It is understandable because my father left for the Middle East when I was about five to six years old. He worked there for three years to earn money for the college education of my elder sister.

I recall one time he sent us a battery-powered toy car. It did not say to whom it was so we assumed the seven of us are co-owners. To prevent us from killing each other, my mother declared that it was for our eyes only. She displayed the poor toy car in our cupboard. I never had chance to show it off to my playmates.

I have pictures of my father during his youth. He was handsome and lean. He looked like one of those leading men in Latin tele novelas: suave and charming. In all his pictures, he is perennially japorms , wearing tight polos with sleeves folded, unbuttoned to reveal his chest hairs . I figured that is their version of coolness during those times.

He is a farmer and a carpenter at the same. In between the seasonal tilling of the land he constructs house and buildings. Weathered by years of hard work which usually involved labor outdoors come rain or shine, and generous amount of nicotine- my father has become fragile, wrinkled and darkly tanned. His fingers are calloused, seasoned by years of pounding nails, polishing wood and metal, mixing graveland sand and laying boulders and bricks of buildings. His toe nails are permanently stained caused by constant soaking in the loamy farm.

I look at my father now and I see no more vestiges of his youthful good looks. Yet, there is still dignity and pride in his bearing. He may be old and wrinkled but he is still our unflagging family sentinel.

My father may not qualify for the best father award but he should be credited for all our successes. He has flaws. According to my mother, my father had vices: he smoked a lot, gambled, and had numerous extra-marital affairs. On several occasions, she caught him in fragrante with other married woman. In fact, she suspects that we have several siblings scattered around the barangay. When my elder sister and brother were growing up, he tried to change and strive hard to be responsible father.

Both of my parents came from a family of farmers. When they married, they had no capital, property nor degree from which they could begin with. I could not imagine how they managed without anything apart from their talent of making babies. My mother bore nine babies; looking back, I can say that they did a good job in raising the seven of us. No, they did not sell the other two; they did not survive, unfortunately, as a result of her weak pregnancy.

I don’t consider him a disciplinarian. He never imposed his rules on us. But he supported us all the way. I don’t recall any value he imposed on me. He neither believes in corporal punishment. He left the job to my mother who on the other hand imposed on us her strict rules, like Presidential Decrees.

My father was never demonstrative of his affection. The last time he hugged me was when he came home after three years in Saudi Arabia which I did not reciprocate. I thought he was a stranger then.

But I never doubted his love. When I was hospitalized after I was severely beaten in a hazing, he took care of me: he fed me, bathe me, carried me form bed to toilet for almost a month when I was incapable.

I never kissed my father. I never hugged him. But that does not mean I love him less. I don’t know why it is so hard for me to do that. I blame it on society for imposing on us men, to be tough and that showing emotions is sign of weakness.

I wish I could buy him a Lazy Boy, and a wide screen LCD TV set so he could watch all his favorite TV comfortably.

I wish he could read this post now: Happy father’s day pa . I love you.

Negative Pregnant

When my girl friend (emphasis on the friend) texted : “Call me. I have shocking news. I am upset” ; my general reaction was not of distress, but more like, mimicking her expression… duh! She has a penchant for exaggerating what is perfectly normal situation into something sublime and ridiculous. Despite her mature age she speaks with bloodcurdling colegiala accent only Kris Aquino can get away with. I reckon that colegiala language has corrupted the English word shocking. Shocking as an adjective should be reserved only for those most bizarre, outrageous and out of this world event. Instead, shocking or “shocks” as they usually say (and oftentimes replaced with omigosh!) is being used to describe things like: A zit that has erupted on her nose or her crush saw her in her pambahay look, or a girl wearing a mismatched top.

“OA ka. Go ahead tell me”, I texted back.

“FOR ONCE TAKE ME SERIOUSLY!!! I AM TERRIBLY UPSET!!! I AM DYING HERE!!!!”

Capital letters. Excessive use of exclamation points. I just rolled my eyes until it hurt and then I dialed her landline.

“I am pregnant. Ikaw pa lang nakakalam. Don’t tell any one. Shut up.

“I am not saying anything yet… Are you sure?”

Pause.

“Positive. I just came from my doctor.”

“I don’t recall having sex with you. Unless you drugged me.”

“You think this is funny? I have a baby here. A human being inside me.”

“Since when? Who’s the culprit?”

“Six months. I won’t tell who the guy is.”

“You are six months pregnant?! And you learned it just now?”

“I said I did not know. I did not notice it. It was so tiny, I thought it was just my bilbil”

Now that indeed is shocking. Why in the world did she not know that she was already pregnant? Or mistaking six-month pregnancy to bilibil? Every woman would at least suspect that they might me pregnant. That is one thing you learn just by being a woman. It does not involve intelligence. Well, a little inference maybe for there are signs and symptoms. Where there is a cause there is a corresponding effect. Unless, she was impregnated in an overcrowded MRT. Or an immaculate conception!

“So how did you know finally?”

“I noticed that my kilikili is getting darker. I freaked out kasi hindi ko siya napapaputi even with assiduous application of astringent. Pero alam mo I notice that my boobs are getting bigger and firmer. Only then I realized… omigosh …I read that one time in Cosmo…”

“So prior to the six months you did not suspect. You never had inkling. What about your period? You never felt any tiyanak moving inside you?”

“I thought it was just one of my irregular cycles. Yun pala nag-spotting na. You don’t understand, you’re a guy. Plus, I thought it was safe. Once lang… we did not really do it.”

“You didn’t really do… what?”

“You know… the withdrawal thing.”

"Goodness! You’re putting images on my mind. I want to see you now. I want to kill you."

“Ano gagawin ko?”

I am not good at this. I don’t pass for mature person. The last time I gave advice to a person was when I told my friend not leave the house yet while I am still eating unless he spins my plate or some bad thing would happen to him outside. My advice was unheeded; instead he raised his bushy uneven eyebrows and made an impression of Tito-Vic-and-Joey: ngeee! I admire those people who seem to know everything about life and their pieces of advice are regarded as wisdom. I can never be a Charo Santos or Joe d’ Mango or Tita Delia or Kuya Cesar.

In this situation, probably the best advice I could give is:“Sue the damn guy for damages!”

Pumping Iron

My muscles are torn and worn out. I could not lift my cup of coffee and my yosi with my aching joints. I felt like I was beaten to pulp in an initiation rite again. I have increased my dosage of Alaxan but I guess I am no Manny Pacquiao. I could almost feel my pummeled tissues crying: Back up! Back up! We are being attacked! Which is good sign because I wanted to in increase my muscle mass.

Taking the bar exam involves mental, spiritual, physical preparation, advised a bar reviewer. I took the latter seriously, so I enrolled myself in a gym.

The first time I stepped into the gym. I was intimidated. I felt really puny. I was surrounded with men pumping iron with their triceps, biceps, and calves bulging from their spandex. The gym reeked with sweats and testosterones. All I could hear were grunts and groans.

I searched for trainees like me: skinny and raw. Someone I could identify with but I was alone. In a garden of boulders and rock, I was the feather. Where are they? I searched. Where are the boys who are slim and flabby at the same time like me? Guys who really needed to pump those weights until they drop. Instead I was flanked with stevedores, cargadores and warriors training. I was tempted to shout and ask: Spartans, what is your profession to which they would reply, Ahoo! Ahoo!.

I paid my fee for the whole month of June so it was too late to back out. I asked for the Trainor in the toughest and most masculine voice I could muster. I was introduced to a buff man. He looked like he just stepped out from a Jockey catalog photo shoot. His body is lean and defined. He was like a walking statue.

He looked at me, as if to scrutinize my built whether there is potential. I half expect that he would say: The first rule of Fight club is, do not talk about Fight club. Instead he retorted:

Ang payat mo..

Even his voice is toned and muscular.

In I hindsight I should have said that I entered the wrong room, that actually I was heading to my ballet class, and then I would step out in pirouettes.

He told me to warm up and do stretching for 60 seconds on each body part. While stretching my skinny hand and legs and flat chest and back, I could almost see them flexing their biceps and rippling their washboard abs showing how frail I am while looking at me in malevolent glee.

My trainor devised a program suited for me. After two sets of what should have been 12 sets, my tongue could touch the floor in exhaustion. I felt dizzy, was gasping for air and I was dying for a smoke outside which I did and went straight home.

I read that physical exercise causes a release of endorphins into one's cerebral-spinal fluid, responsible for the emotion of happiness. It has been a week now but I did not feel the endorphin-euphoria effect. I stayed longer in bed than the usual and I could not put my self to study because of my sore body. I could not accomplish my daily reading quota, I feel cranky irritable and I flare up easily at the slightest provocation.

Hot! Hot! Hot!

I am not describing myself. Although I have to admit, that is one inconvenient truth I have to live by. For instance, my presence could distract people. Wherever I go, people look at me with lust and admiration. Sometimes they could not resist the urge to tell how steaming hot I am, but I just roll my eyes and tell them that I do not need to be reminded. One great disadvantage is that I could not ever achieve my dream of trekking the North Pole and climbing the Mount Everest. In fact I am forbidden because I could cause an avalanche and could melt the polar caps, thus causing sea level to rise dramatically.

Where am I? I am talking about the unusually sweltering heat. I am staying in a cramped apartment and I feel like I am being baked in an oven. I could not put myself to sleep because I am sweating profusely. I have taken shower three times already and still soaking wet in my sweat. Plus I suspect that perennial crankiness is due to the extremely high temperature.

Are we not alarmed at the intense heat the world is experiencing? Maybe its time we address seriously this problem on global warming. Our world is undoubtedly warming. We know catastrophic consequences of global warming: additional sea-level rise that will gradually inundate coastal areas, (it would potentially obliterate many islands of Las Islas Filipinas , low tide or high tide) changes in precipitation patterns, increased risk of droughts and floods, threats to biodiversity, and a number of potential challenges for public health.

This warming is largely the result of emissions of carbon dioxide and other greenhouse gases from human activities. Yes, citizens of the world we are primary responsible.

It’s time we address this problem seriously. Let’s start a movement. Let us conceive a new religion. The Earth is our God. Abuse it and we perish.

Ang Babae sa Bakonahe

After intense blamestorming and severe wallowing I enrolled myself in a review class. Convinced that I have a problem in form – handwriting and presentation, I enrolled in review center that offers coaching in these areas.

My friend invited me over to stay in his apartment somewhere in Las Pinas (the review center is a few kilometers away). The accommodation is free, so I said yes in a heartbeat. The place is perfect for our four month review: far from the madding crowd and bustling city highway. Despite the urban setting the place is still bucolic. There are trees! And a creek without a stench!

Just opposite the apartment is a huge house a few meters away. From our unit, at the veranda, we have a clear view of what’s happening in the room of the house.

For quite a long time, I had been confined in a claustrophobic apartment in Quezon City. I took advantage of the space and the view, so I spend most of the time reading in the veranda of the apartment. The veranda has adequate natural and fresh ventilation so that it became our study area, dining area, and smoking area.

With less distraction, indeed one could accomplish so much. My reading has been very productive. And I am enjoying it.

Until one night, while reading in the veranda, I saw this woman in white…tapis at the balcony of the house opposite us.

I ignored. In my mind, I was chanting (focus… focus…no distractions… no distractions…)

But every time we would stay at the balcony, the lady in white tapis would come out, taunting us, making goo-goo eyes… inviting us in her stare... She would seductively flip her back…comb it with her fingers to one side and then flip it back again. I was worried that she might break her neck.

Of course we were distracted but we focused on our books.

Last night, probably testing how long we could bear, she made a show. Fresh from shower, she put on the light as bright as daylight and opened the blinds. Then she removed her tapis and put on her lingerie before us in full view. With my glasses on I could see the details of her lingerie, details that could inspire Victoria Secret (ups, forget I said that ). As if that is not enough. The next thing we know, she was dancing… gyrating in the tune of… Xanadu!

Now there are good and bad distraction. This one is bad distraction. She has effectively distracted us. She killed at least an hour or our time supposedly used for reading and memorizing.

The view was unsightly. We are very much game with exhibition… only if she has face and body of say, Cindy Curleto. Imagine Madam Auring undressing in front of you. (shudder!).

We felt violated. We felt like young boys being molested.

Ok, that is OA.

“Pag hindi tumigil yan. Idemenda ko yan ng grave scandal” my friend fumed.

Under the law, penalties of arresto mayor (imprisonment of 1 month and 1 day to six months) and public censure shall be imposed upon any person who shall offend against decency or good customs by any highly scandalous conduct. It includes acts committed in a private house as long as it is within public view.

“That will take time” I said, “Summary abatement of nuisance is the better remedy”

It was only later that we were warned about the weird woman by our genial neighbors (I have a problem with the word genial. It sounds like genital). According to them, the woman is in her 40’s, a former Japayuki abandoned by her Japanese husband.

"The Soundtrack of My Life"

I got this from mayette. I thought it was fun, so I opened my iTunes music library.

Here’s how it works:

1. Open your library like iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod and so forth.
2. Put it on shuffle.
3. Press play.
4. For every question, type the song that’s playing.
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button.
6. Don’t lie and try to pretend you’re cool.

1. Opening Credits:
In My Place - Coldplay

2. Waking Up:
Could It Be Any Harder – The Calling

3. First Day at School:
With Arms Wide Open - Creed

4. Falling in Love:
I Dare You To Move - Switchfoot

5. Fight Song:
The Reason - Hoobastank

6. Breaking Up:
Unbelievable – Craig David

7. Prom:
The Blowers Daughter – Damien Rice

8. Life’s Ok:
Kumot at Unan - Boldstar

9. Mental Breakdown:
Too Bad - Nickelback

10. Driving:
One Last Breath – Creed

11. Flashback:
In The End – Linking Park

12. Getting Back Together:
Warm Beer, Cold Women – Tom Waits

13. Wedding:
Best I Ever Had – Vertical Horizon

14. Birth of a Child:
Dreams – The Cranberries

15. Death Scene:
Rape Me – Nirvana

16. Funeral Song:
How Do You Love - Collective Soul

17. End Credits:
Freedom - Jimi Hendrix

I love no. 17 and 8, so apt and so Cameron Crowe. No. 2 and 15 are hilarious! I am bothered though of no.1. I am still learning how to drive, shall I continue?

The Phallic Mushroom

(Parental advisory: mook content)

I felt I am a broken piece and I should be allowed to feel shattered.

So I went home during the holy week to lick my wounds and
wallow  in the mud.

When I was home, my annoying nephews spoiled my supposed
time for self indulgence. 

Every morning they would jump into my bed to wake me up. They
would pull the sheet and my blanket and push me into the floor.
They would clamp my eyelids open.

My vacation would be greeted with anticipation and great
excitement.They would always wait for my arrival by the street
and they would run to hug me and carry my things.

They are are sweet. They adore me.

But it comes with a price. It means I have to go biking with them
in the field to gather fruits and vegetable, or hunt birds with them
in the forest with a slingshot or we would climb the hills whenever
they feel like it. Or we would swim in the river. This activities
are forbidden. They are allowed only if I am around.

And I would tell them stories before they go to bed. 

I have told them all the stories I could recollect. So,I have to
invent and recreate stories from bits and pieces of my childhood
memories. One time, they asked for a story, I ran out of stories
so I related this naughty story told to me by our neighbor when I
was, I think, about five years old. The story brought them to
laughing fits and they literally rolled on the floor.

The story goes:

 (The backdrop of the story is our rustic barrio, circa 1970s.
You see in the barrio, girls are coy: The type who would cover
their mouth with their hanky when the smile; The type who
would just flatter their long eyelashes when accosted by
gentleman.)      

The rainy month of August is the season for gathering wild
mushrooms. According to old wisdom, during rainy season
mushrooms hiding beneath the ground would come out.
Apparently,the sudden streak of lightning and roar of thunder
would startle the mushroom hiding beneath the ground.
Panicked and astounded, these mushrooms would come out
and the ground would break open, the way a popcorns burst
from the pan when heated. 

Pedro, our "bida" in the story is in love with Maria. However,
he is afraid to show his interest or declare his love to Maria.
Maria’s father is strict and his preoccupation is sharpening
every bolo or knife in their home. 

One day, Pedro overheard Maria and his friends talking about
their plans of gathering mushroom in the field.Pedro thought it
was his last chance, so he devised a plan.

The following day, Pedro went to the field where there was
plenty of mushroom and buried himself lying from his back on
the ground… except his “mushroom”(…nakalitaw lang kabute
niya).

Soon after, Maria and her friends came. They grabbed very
mushroom they saw and filled their basket. As luck would have
it, it was Maria who saw Pedro’s “mushroom”. She grabbed the
mushroom but she could not pull it from the ground. She was
confused because the stronger she pulled, the mushroom was
getting sturdier and harder. Even bigger. Thinking that that
the mushroom was planted firmly on the ground she thought of
softening the soil around it.

Maria peed on the mushroom.

Ok I am a bad bad Uncle!

Drama King

…when the thunder storms start
increasing over the southeast
and south central portions
of my apartment, I get upset

and a line of thunderstorms was
developing in the early morning
ahead of a slow moving coldfront
cold blooded
with tornado watches issued shortly
before noon Sunday, for the areas
including, the western region
of my mental health

 and the northern portions of my ability to deal rationally
with my disconcerted precarious emotional situation,
it's cold out there colder than a ticket taker's smile at the
Ivar Theatre, on a Saturday nigh flash flood watches
covered the southern portion of my disposition...

Underscored by the above song Emotional Weather Report by
TomWaits, I was in the mood for drama.

The phone rang. I wiped a tear from myleft eye and answered in a
melancholic “hello”. 

 “So, how are you?” my friend Kate.

 I thought of a heart rending remark… that best capture my inner
turmoil:“Shattered. I want to escape this smoking wreckage called
my life.”

“For crying out loud, stop speaking in metaphors! I get confused.”

“Ok, I flunked the bar exam and this is the worst time of my life.
Satisfied? You?”

“I was diagnosed with this worst kind of diabetes; I have to be
 injectedwith insulin once in a while. Plus, I have a heart problem.
The doctor said it’s serious."

 “So you called to compete with my misery?”

 She sobbed.

 I cried.

 We both engaged in lachrymal exhaustion.

 “If this is a crying contest, I give up. You win.”

 “How about dinner tonight? Lets celebrate”.

 “Celebrate what?”

 “Darn, our misery!”

 “Buti pa nga”

 “Sisig. Crispy pata.” We chorused.

a damp of excrement on a tissue paper

I failed in the bar exam.

I feel bad. No, that’s an understatement. I feel like ten frat men hit me on the gut a hundred times.

In the movie Sideways, there is a scene where the lead actor, fraught with so many frustrations in life, bottled up violent emotions, finally vented, cried hysterically to his friend and uttered the words:

“I am just tiny damp of excrement on a tissue paper, desperately reaching out to the sea.”

I spout the same words. I shed copious tears. I am weak. I blame my mother for raising me weak. Right now I want to return to her bosom and cry like a baby and she would hug me, hush and assure me that everything is gonna be alright.

I don’t know what went wrong. I have assembled my arsenal for the battle. I failed. This is my greatest defeat and everything around me just crumbled.

I am ashamed of the people around me: those people who have been counting on me, relatives and friends who have been supporting me one way or another. I am ashamed of my brother who is working on the other side of the word to support me during and after the bar exam. I feel bad that victory and joy I should have given to my already old parents had eluded them. I hope it will not be too late.

“What does not kill you will make you stronger”. “Life isn’t over after that single exam” “Everything happens for a reason. Accept and move on.”

I wish those kind words could ease the pain and frustration I feel.

I am such total failure.

Tahooo!

I live in an apartment beside the street, so I am used to the deafeaning cacophony of discordant noises every morning : the coughing and honking of motor vehicles plying the route, and the annoying arias of vendors blaring, “putooo! bikooo! pichi-phichiii! binatooog!”

One morning I was disturbed by this vendor shouting for his tahooo. Actually he was not shouting. He was bawling.

Is it me (I have been perennially in distressing mood lately. Please don’t ask me why) or there is really something with the melancholic tone of his voice that evokes both pity and anguish? This morning I heard his voice again and he shouts tahooo in a gripping manner that you can feel his inner turmoil. Maybe he’s been through a lot of hardships that I can palpably feel an exquisitely tormented soul through his voice.

Maybe his wife is dying or one of his children. Maybe his little shanty he calls his home was mercilessly demolished. Maybe his family has not eaten for days. Maybe he is alone and lonely and needs to survive.

The last time I nearly cried as an adult was when I watched the movie Of Mice and Men. That morning upon hearing the voice of the magtataho I was on the verge of tears. Even our neighbor’s dog wailed and howled. Ok, that’s a bit OA.

It’s like this: Have you ever read verses from metaphysical poets? The kind that conjures images of visceral sadness and sorrow? The kind that chills your bone and makes you weep and wail but you don’t actually cry. Sort of like that.

I think it was Dostoyevsky who said that we are all connected and that we are responsible for each one. Maybe the feeling I felt was guilt…that somehow I was connected with this guy… that somehow I was responsible for his plight.

one twisted night, in the company of twisted friends

(Caution: may contain expletives; not for catholic schoolgirls)

Don’t go out, stay home. Tersely warned my horoscope.

I don’t give a rat’s ass really about my daily horoscope; I just pass through it for comic relief when I read the dailies. Oftentimes the predictions are hilarious. Plus I refuse to accept that my destiny is determined by the arrangement of the stars which may be dead by now, sucked in the blackhole in oblivion eons ago.

Maybe I should reckon sometimes.

Friday night. My high school friend Paris Hilltop, called for a night out. After assuring that I won’t spend a dime I said, I am in.

“Marami akong pera, daliii, gastusin natin! Kapapadala lang jowa ko”. She said as if she is on the watch list for money laundering that she’s anxious to spend all her money.

Her groveling American boyfriend whom he met loves to pamper her. He grants everything she wants, even her most whimsical, fanciful, arbitrary and capricious request (sorry for the thesaurus, I can’t help using the ‘whimsical’ word without mentioning the others. I don’t know, I think I am OC). Last time she asked for a video ipod and the next day it was delivered to her doorstep. I heard she is asking for and laptop and an air conditioner.

So I alerted every one. There are seven of us, but only 5 made it, Mario being in London probably wiping a Briton’s ass right now, and Marites is in Italy busy accumulating Euros assuming someone else’s identity. We’ve been friends since high school and he have developed a peculiar bond. Back then we call ourselves (gasp!) The Magnificent Seven. I remember after we sang our graduation song “If we hold on together” (double gasp!) we were so moved that we group hugged – yes, in the tradition of TGIS - and vowed to remain friends forever. We made it a point to go out together at least once a month.

Starbucks, Morato. I think I was the most excited because I was the earliest bird. Paris Hilltop came next together with Tom Cruz. You see, Tom Cruz is a balikbayan from Saudi and he loves to wear his thick gold blings so that I had to wear my shades or I get blinded with his shining shimmering splendid.

A few minutes passed, we heard a familiar loud tonsil bursting shriek: “Mareeee!” It was Rectum Padila, our happy and gay friend who just came out of his/her aparador after years of hiding his/her sexuality. He was a teacher turned call center agent. This guy has all the makings a Greek Adonis: nice body, tall, dark, handsome, square jaw, curly hair, but he/she prefer to blow air kisses while dangling his/her arms like useless gloves.

Tom who just knew that he/she is out coughed a mouthful of expresso he was swilling. He sprayed our table wet including the Dolce and Gabbana dress of a girl in the nearby table. We profusely apologized.

I was embarrassed, so I announced I was starving so we could get away from the girl’s homicidal look. However, we had wait for our two girls who are chronic late comers. Yes, they love attention. Lindsay Low Hands, our group fashionista came in shiny red lips as if she has just eaten escabeche but forgot to wipe her lips (the shade according to her is, get ready for this, titillating scarlet). She wore a tiny blouse that I wonder whether she could still breathe; she matched with those useless belts girls wear. But what I was worried about was her huge chandelier ear rings that might tear her earlobes.

Britney Sibat came later with her new accessory: her 21-year-old–Aruba-waiter-boylet. I moved her aside and asked where she left her virtue and morals or her sanity because the last time I checked she is married. She assured me that, her new boyfriend knew she’s married.

We zoomed to Gerry’s Grill. I was about to call the waiter for prime ribs, sisig and crispy pata when I was halted by Lindsay and gave me a look she reserved only to those wearing 80’s shoulder pads and boston high waisted acid washed jeans.

“Look I don’t care if by the mere sight of crispy pata, you will grow bilbil in your anorexic 22 waistline, but I am really starving here”. I sniggered

“Hello? It’s Friday today. Every faithful catholic is obliged to abstain”.

Although I have a problem with the word ‘obliged’, I knew it was pointless to argue. They ordered a plateful of what appears to be crustaceans instead – those expensive sea creatures the prize and the size its shell is inversely proportional to stuff that you can actually eat. We talked, exchanged updates of our lives and compared our checkbooks. When the girls started to argue about pedicures and shoes, I knew it was time to leave.

Comedy bar was our next stop. Paris is a good friend of KK, one of the performers in the bar and also happened to be an ABS CBN talent. They must be really good friends because we came in without paying an entrance fee and a table was already reserved for us.

I was worried because we occupied a front table and we might be dissed and maokray-ed with malevolently glee by the homosexual performers. My worry turned out to be unfounded because most of the performers were Paris’ friends. it was a riot.The homos were so good I laughed out so hard that my stomach hurt. It saved me from doing 100 crunches.

For some reason, while laughing, I was conscious about the manner I laughed. I was reminded of the Balitang K episode: Laughter according to a doctor can cure a number of diseases depending on the manner of laughing. For instance: a ha-ha laugh can cure heart disease and stress, Hi-hi laugh can cure stomach ache, ho-ho for head ache and hu-hu for constipation. While enjoying it, I took it as and opportunity to heal my self. So I shifted from one kind of laughter to another. My friend must have noticed it that she asked whether I was rehearsing for a Sisa audition.

After her performance, KK came to our table and Paris introduced her to us:

“Guys meet my friend KK, she is half human, half science”, referring to surgery she went through to enhance her breasts, butt, and nose.

She gamely laughed and played along: “Actually pinaulit ko nga dede ko kasi medyo tabingi. Hawakan mo maayos na”.

At that point, she held my hand and planted my palm on her breast. It came so fast that it was too late for me to protest (I swear this is true).

“Walang malisya, pare. Tomboy ako.”

It was almost creepy to touch a silicone breast… of a lesbian. I read somewhere that silicones do not burn. For some reason I kept on imagining her in the crematorium. I imagined, at the heap of her ashes are silicon lumps. I wonder how her family could fit those lumps in an urn or jar.

We left the comedy bar at 1am. We all felt groggy and bangenge including our designated driver. Tom suggested that we can still down some more bottles at Bay Walk.

“Tom, I know your feeling horny, pero bawal ang karne ngayon”. Britney slurred that it sounded sleazy.

We were traversing Roxas Boulevard when I heard a shouting match between Paris and Rectum. I did not how it started because I was seated beside Tom. The girls were on the back seat. They girls screamed when Paris and Rectum started to engage in a violent hair pulling. Tom screeched near manila Bay.

It must be the booze. The spirit of the beer must have opened the flood gate of Rectum’s subconscious that he/she unabashedly opened his/her id. He/she related all his sexual escapades with men as if it was his/her great achievement, including his trysts with Mario (our friend in London), who happened to be Paris’ ex boyfriend.

“Were you doing it with my boyfriend while we were still on?” Paris hissed.

“Minsan!” he/she raised his penciled eyebrow in the tradition confrontational scenes in Philippine movies. I half expect that they would slap each other until they were both exhausted.

“Where!” I saw smoke coming from her nostrils.

“Does it matter? You are no longer together. That was long time ago”

“Answer me you trump! I want to know!”

“In the apartment. One time when you were out. Are you satisfied now?”

These guys were really best friends and they shared apartments. Apparently they shared everything including their boyfriends (though unilaterally). So... Melrose Place.

I was worried that Paris would ask for all the details of the act a la Clive Owen and Julia Roberts in the movie Closer which involved the human anatomy and bodily fluids.

The shouting bouts went (reminiscent of a play I watched):

“Ahas ka!”

“Ikaw sawa!”

“Malandi ka!”

“Ikaw haliparot!”

“Pokpok!”

“Puta ka!”

“Mas puta ka!”

“Pinakaputaputahan!”

“Bakla!”

Enough said.

Pedro, 22 (1985-2007)

In the province, I live in a small community where we all knew each other. We are like big family and are closely knit because most of us are relatives. An outsider would suspect that we are a communist community because we share almost everything. We share our ulam and exchange gifts during occasions. Most of us are farmers and during good harvest, we share our produce. During bad times we tried to help each other and lift each others' spirit. We are involved in each others lives. We knew every birth, every wedding, and every death.

His name is Pedro and I knew him well. I remember him as a very shy boy who looks at you with his eyes on one side and then bows when he greets you. I particularly remember his thick eyebrows and his thick black hair that always parted in the middle. Every parent in the community was very fond of him because he was a very bright boy, always on top of his class. His proud mother would always pin his ribbons and put on his medals which he won on competitions. He is the bunso. I am very close to his siblings so I practically watched him grow. My mother and his nana are close friends too. The last time I saw him, the dark and emaciated boy had grown into handsome man with a buff body. I learned that he entered the Philippine Military Academy. Later however he left the military school because he could not stomach the pressure and the senseless extreme physical training. He transferred to another school and took up accountancy instead. They are poor like the rest of us; so he worked hard to be able to pay his tuition fee.

Last Sunday, March 11, he was killed (click here for the story).

A cop shot him twice in the chest with both of the bullets going out of his back. He did nothing wrong.

He is only 22, to graduate with honors this March. He is at the prime of his life. He had grand dreams for himself and his family.

Let's Get Physical

I think am the laziest person on earth. I can laze in perpetuam on the couch watching the entire season of Lost or 24 or CSI or lie in my bed all day even with the most disturbing existentialist book by any Russian author, enduring bedsores. Sure, I love to cook which I do not consider work, but no amount of nudging can convince me do a chore more strenuous than switching the television on and off without using a remote control.

Lately I did something radical, after dilly dallying, shilly-shallying, I went jogging. I figured its time I cultivate a healthy lifestyle (although smoking is entirely a different thing). So, I tagged along my cousin and engaged in cardio-vascular exercise. He complied thinking this is again one of those one- minute interests I venture in which would quickly die soon.

That night, I set the alarm clock to 6am.

I woke up 9am. The heat was starting to scorch outside but I pushed through nevertheless. To have a good and healthy start, I gulped a glass full of fresh milk although I am lactose intolerant. I still felt muzzy, so to jolt my sleeping nerves, I plugged my ipod into my eardrum a full volume hip-hop playlist and launch myself to trot.

So we jogged from V-Luna to the Quezon City circle through the Kalayaan Avenue. By the time we reached the Circle, I was dead beat already that my tongue could reach the ground like a worn-out dog. I was gasping for air and I could feel my lungs coming out from my mouth.

I struggled and dragged my carcass so I could at least cover one round. I tried to look around for inspiration, someone I could subtly chase and ogle while running, thinking that adrenalin rush is more potent and primal force that could push my limits. It did not help. It must be a senior citizens’ day because all I could see were flabby sagging and wrinkled bodies parading the oval. Everybody: eeewwe!

A few minute past, came an announcement. A priest at the Claret would administer a mass. I gathered that every Sunday a mass is being held here especially for joggers. Tired and worn-out already I decided to attend the mass instead. Indeed it was attended by joggers all sweating in their jogging attires: jogging pants, jogging shorts, jogging short shorts and jogging very short shorts. It was good the venue was in an open air or we would suffocate in our own stench.

My stomach started to grumble, probably rejecting the milk I swilled. Earlier I tried to get rid of it in the pay comfort room but it didn’t come out despite a stronger peristalsis. All through out the mass I was nursing a bad stomach that I had to repress a fart with great care and intensity or I could annihilate the people surrounding me with my biological weapon.

Probably thinking that these people are tired and would not care to listen, the priest delivered a bland, passionless and coma-inducing sermon. The priest is septuagenarian and speaks very slowly as if he was struggling to force out every word from his mouth that by the time he spoke the last word I have grown my nails to at least three inches already. The bright sun blurred my vision so that I could not guess his nationality. He speaks in a funny accent, a cross between French and Swahili. I guess he must have been assigned to different countries already before coming to the Philippines that he mixed up all their accents. For instance he said: “De horrry gorrrspel accorrrrding to rrruuke”. The “r” and “h” are pronounced harder as if it was an opportunity for him to scour a blob of phlegm that had been clogging his throat.

Maybe I was tired that I nearly fell asleep. I only got back to my senses when somebody nodded at me and spout at me the words: Piss be with you! To which I gladly answered back: PISS BE WITH YOU TOO!

Oh well, I think I need a cold shower.