Of Love and Cancer

I watched Griffin and Phoenix last night at the UP Film Center.
It was supposed to be a post valentine date with my friend Kathy. She backed out the last minute. She was in the hospital visiting a relative who is dying of cancer. I sent her text message pointing out how insensitive she was with my feelings. I set the date years before just so she could clear all her appointments, only to be stood up on the very date itself. .

Our text exchanges went:

Kat: So sorry, I can’t make it. My uncle is dying. (smiling face)

Me: You chose your relative dying of cancer over your best friend?

Kat: The doctors said he has only a few days to live. We never thought his cancer cells spread faster than his doctors predicted (smiling face)

Me: The movie will run for just a day. Your uncle will still be alive tomorrow. Go run. You can still make it.

Kat: (smiling face)

Kat understands my irony. Although what bothered me was her constant use of smileys as if her spending time with his dying uncle was something normal or casual like say, playing billiards with him.

I already made a commitment. I promised my cousin to watch the movie sponsored by their organization for a fundraising. I bought two tickets, sayang din. I tried to invite my other cousin who is incidentally staying with us while waiting for his flight abroad (he will be working in Dubai as an Engineer) but he refused. He can’t stand romantic movies unless there are lots of nudity or he is with his girlfriend. I had to bribe him; I promised him lifetime supply of isaw and red horse. He agreed although I could sense later he regretted that decision.

Imagine two grown men watching a sentimental and extremely melodramatic love story of Griffin and Phoenix, surrounded by smooching couples in a theater.

Griffin And Phoenix is a love story about two people who face a seemingly insurmountable obstacle that may stand between them – their impending death. After being diagnosed with terminal cancer, Griffin decides to take his life by the reins and have some fun before he dies.

With time working against him, he meets and falls in love with Phoenix — but he soon discovers that she, too, is dying of cancer. They have a last chance at love so they decided to celebrate together life and luuuv. So they went out chasing speeding freight trains, sneaking into a theater from the backdoor, skydiving, splashing salt water with each other in a beach shore, climbing water reservoirs tower only to scribble their love with each other, and having sex on a clock tower. They also engaged in an unbridled passionate sex which lasted until morning with only 10 second coffee brakes.

Toward the end of the movie one of them is dying in a hospital. At this point be ready with those cheesy and bloodcurdling declarations of love. Or if you’re hopelessly romantic bring tranquilizers because you will be induced to intense lachrymal exhaustion. Although personally, I wished Phoenix would just turn herself into, well, Phoenix and burn Griffin into ashes so that we could all go home now.

So there.

Physical Examination

(Warning:may have explicit contents)

As a prerequisite for my employment, I have to go through the medical examination.

I badly needed a job. My financial support has been severed after the bar exam and I have squeezed all my resources to the last drop.

I passed all the tests required by the job. What if I fail this time?

The inner Marxist in me was suddenly awakened that I was tempted to shout: “Workers of the world unite!” These corporations knew how badly we need money to survive in this capitalist world they created. Healthy people equal great profits so they make sure that every worker is fit so that their abilities are maximized. I feel I’m a lowly proletariat seeking for a job and I am reduced to a machine – a mere instrument for profit.

Anyway, I filled up a form which asked for my medical history. Diseases and abnormalities known to man were listed where I had to check the Yes or No box depending on what is applicable to me. The diseases ranged from the simple (flu, colds, headache, etc.) to the morbid (cancer, insanity, HIV) and the utterly ridiculous such as extra-appendage in the body.

I was tempted to check the “yes box” under the extra appendage and let the doctor itch with curiosity to examine it. But I realized my appendage was not peculiar: All Homo Sapiens of the male species like myself have an appendage of varying sizes or forms (?).

So I tried to be as truthful as possible until the Physical Injuries part. Inspired by Dr. House’s motto that everybody lies, I checked the NO Box. If they would find something not normal in my system during their examination, then it’s their job to determine the cause and recommend the cure. A NO would invite interest. They would know that I was beaten into purple pulp in a hazing during my first year in law school, that my kidney was damaged, that I underwent a dialysis to clean out the toxins in my blood, and that I had to go through a medication to repair my kidneys. It’s not that I am sick and puny that I can’t perform stressful jobs. (The last time I had check up, my doctor assured me my kidneys where back to normal, and that they were functioning well again). I just do not want to give them doubt of by fitness to work. I said I badly need a job.

I was advised to undergo the examination in their company-accredited hospital. But before proceeding to the hospital I have to go through what they refer to as “vital signs test” in their clinic.

“A... what?” I chortled.

“The last time I checked, I had a pulse and I was breathing.”

“It’s the procedure sir. Everybody goes through it”

He said firmly and uncompromisingly as if I was a comatose patient who sneaked out from a hospital in order to apply in their company.

The following day I went to the hospital. The icky part of medical examination is the laboratory where I had to scoop my shit and put it in a container. Worst part was, that night before our kasambahay cooked buttered veggies (with sweet corn!), my favorite. And we all know what happens to the corns when it entered our digestive system. It also comes out whole unadulterated from our excretory orifice. Imagine I had to pick out the kernels in my poop with a chopstick before putting it my vial.

I kept my stool sample securely in the deepest chamber my bag since I had to take the MRT. If some nosey guard would insist to check on it, thinking that it is a substance for making bombs, I would gladly open it under his nose.

I do not have problem with the doctors cupping my balls while he lets me cough and him peering into my asshole, for as long as I am sure he is a He in the strictness sense of the word and for as long as he does not leave any instrument in there. The uncomfortable part was the drug test where I have to pee in full view a person. You see, I am not an exhibitionist, and I can’t take a leak in front of people checking out whether my urine sample really came out from my anatomy. I had to fill my bladder with tankers of water and iced tea just to break it loose.

I coughed up almost a thousand pesos for the entire tests. The results came out normal except the ECG. The doctor told me my heart beats faster that the normal 72 per minute in a lubb dub rhythm, whatever that means, although it’s nothing serious. He asked if I and chest pains or I was tired during the examination.

Is there something wrong with my heart? Or is it the hot nurse who took mg ECG that I suspect induced my palpitations?

how to get your NBI clearance without losing your sanity

Last month I applied in this government agency which was referred to me by a friend. Yesterday I was informed that they were considering me to fill a position in the legal department although what they need were lawyers.

Since I am still an under-bar (I am still waiting for the result to be realeased on the last week of March. Oh, GOd! Just the thought of it makes my heart beats faster. This waiting is killing me softly). I have to go through the usual process like any other applicant in the agency. I took a series of exams - IQ test, neurological exams, and the physical exam. They gave me a checklist of documents I have to submit: NBI clearance, Police clearance, MTC and RTC clearances, barangay clearance, TOR, etc.

So I rolled-up my sleeves and immediately proceeded to procure the papers. I never thought it would take me years and a fortune to obtain the requirements.

I went to the NBI office first. I lost my personal copy I obtained a year ago. Thanks to my prize-winning burara-ness, I have to secure again a new NBI clearance and go through a long torturous and tedious process. The renewal could have taken me a few minutes in Megamall.

I woke up early (meaning 10:00). Already at that time of the day, people who lined up to secure the NBI clearance stretched to infinity. Of course, I was at the furthest point that I needed a binocular to see what was going on in the front line. I knew it would take an eternity to reach the first window plus I had to endure the heat, hunger and the noise. I wanted to give up and come back the next day. But then I remembered my mother: Patience is a virtue.

You see in every challenging situation, I remember my mother vividly that I have to distract myself to get rid of the images in my mind- her big blabbering mouth, left hand on her waist and right hand raised with the forefinger pushing my forehead to instill her old age wisdom and virtue. Maybe that explains the permanent dent on my forehead.

Where am I? A huge billboard tells you what to do: Window 1, get the application form; Window 2, give the filled-up application form and get the order of payment; Window3, payment; Window 4 picture taking. Window 5, get the stub which tells you the day or time to claim the clearance; and Window 6 where to claim the NBI clearance (or something to that effect). With the rate we were going plus intense heat brought about by global warming and the noise, the windows translated to me as 6 circles of hell (Didn't Dante say it has 9?). Despite this, some moron will still come to you for instructions.


The office resembled a cluttered disorganized market. It discharged a cacophony of discordant noises- senseless conversations of women, takatak boys offering their yosi and candies and vendors shouting their goods depending on the time of the day and according to the needs of the people lining up. For instance, at 10:00, they sell breakfast and merienda like sandwiches, biko, pichi-pichi, chicharon. At 12:00, they offered lunch in plastics containing rice with dinuguan, bopis, kaldereta, pinakbet, fried tilapia... name it. At 1:00, they sell iced cold soft drinks, bottled mineral water or iced tap water in plastics and abanikos and other fancy fans. At 5:30, I half expected that they would offer papag, kulambo or kumot for those who failed to make it until the closing hours and wished to spend the night in time for the next working day.

I had grown nails and stubble when I reach the window I. Like a lazy overweight slug, the line slowly dragged itself. Thank goodness, I brought my ipod with me that I was able to break the boredom and drown the senseless chatter with my playlists. I must have been totally engrossed in Bob Marley and Sublime's Rasta Music that I didn’t notice I smoked my whole pack of Malboro lights.


It was already 3:00 when I reached the finger printing part. The old man must have been doing this for centuries that he mastered the skill. He does his job mechanically like a push-button robot.Using a paint brush, he painted black grease on the surface of what appeared to be glass on a table. Without even looking at me, he grabbed my hand darted each finger on the greased glass and stamped on the form. I just stood there like a moron who did not know what to do. Then he gave me wet tissue and asked for five pesos. I wasn’t even asked whether I wanted to buy; I was forced to buy it. Then and he called out the next in line.

The next stop in my long odyssey was the picture taking part. That means I was almost done but I had to wait for my turn again and there were over a hundred people before me. I noticed that the interval took days. I soon discovered the cause: one the there was only one camera, and two, the man in charged was doing something else, texting . Every 10 minutes his cellphone would beep and then he would leisurely reply. Every person had to wait before he realized that he was actually in an office and had job to perform. I was in UP-go-fight mood that I wanted to yell into his pockmarked face or as Miriam put it, fungus-faced but I composed myself lectured him in a more diplomatic tone.

I told the Moron: “Mister, we are paying for your services and we want it quick and efficient, so please keep your 3210 Nokia phone away. We have been here since crustaceous period. Most of us came from as far as Batanes and Sulu; we even skipped our lunch just so we could get what we needed today. And would you care to read what’s written on your dingy office wall? Oh, forget it I will read it you in case you don’t know how to read. It says, Mabilis na Serbisyo!"

The moron just rolled his eyes. I wished his eyes stuck in there in perpetuam.

During my turn, he just clicked the camera and captured my still angry and ngarag face. I was not even given the standard 1…2… 3… click so that I could have fixed my self and posed with my good angle which I have been practicing at home in the mirror. I was furious that I wanted to gouge his innards through his mouth and strangle him with his own intestines.

The following day I finally got my NBI Clearance. My image looked like somebody just shoved my face into the photocopy machine and ran it.

Now, I understand why most of the pictures in the NBI clearances are unflattering.

Mush Day

Poor me I do not have date today. Well, technically. Today I celebrated the mush day with someone... only vicariously. Call me whatever you want but I watch again my most romantic movies.

In the movie, “Bull Durnham” I am Kevin Costner. With a heart fraught with the throes of love I said the following dialogue to Susan Sarandon:

“I believe in the soul, the dawn, the evening, the small of a woman’s back, the sweet spot, soft-core pornography, opening your presents Christmas morning rather than Christmas Eve, and I believe in long slow soft wet kisses that last three days.”

I am Nicolas Cage in the movie "Moonstruck" when he said:

“Love doesn’t make things nice, it ruins everything. It breaks your heart, it makes things a mess! We aren’t here to make things perfect. The stars are perfect, not us. We are here to ruin ourselves and break our hearts and love the wrong people and die. Now, I want you to come upstairs with me and get in my bed.”

Finally, in the movie “The Fly” I am Jeff Goldblum when Geena Davis spouted:

“I just want to eat you up. That’s why old ladies pinch babies. It’s the flesh. It just makes you crazy.”

Happy Valentines day!

Make-over

I looked at myself at the mirror and my dejected reflection looked back at me. I noticed that my hairline has receded so that a plane could land on my forehead. Wrinkles started appearing on my forehead and crow’s feet has emerged beneathe my eyes. It dawned on me that I am getting older faster than I thought.

You see, I always have this delusion that I have this perpetually boyish charm. I remember when I was working as a personnel officer in a big company, nobody took me seriously because they thought I was too young. I was 25 then. They say I have boyish face and voice, and I do not exude credibility. I took that as a complement but I compensated it with my efficiency in my work. Maybe I dwelled in that delusion for quite a long time.

Or law school has a peculiar way of transforming a person physically.

“You know what? You need a make over.”

My friend Narcissus told me one time when we were planning to hunt for a job after the bar exam.

“You need a hair cut, a facial and shave.”

“What’s wrong with my look?” I asked.

I have always maintained a goatee. I wanted a scruffy-artsy look because law school reeked with the squeaky-clean formality. I loathe suits, wrinkle free lacks and sleek leather shoes.

“You look forty.”

I didn’t take it seriously until lately. Every girl I met or introduced to me called me kuya. Any romantic interest died instantly.

I never go to fancy parlors. Whenever I need a haircut I go to my ever reliable barber who only charges 50 bucks. I have only one hairstyle and he can cut my hair with his eyes closed. Neither do I use cosmetics and perfumes. I only use soaps, dash of powder to conceal the shine on my face, deodorants and cologne.

My friend on the other hand is a typical metrosexual. He regularly flexes his muscles in the gym, monitors his calories and protein intakes. He plans his ward robes, and use perfumes the name of which sounded like the sleazy tabloid (ah… yes I remember, Bulgari).He shops in Greenbelt or Glorietta and his shoes cost an entire month salary of an ordinary employee. He is not ashamed of applying a lip gloss publicly. No, he is not gay.


So I called him. I said I need a hair cut.

He took me to a parlor called Bench Fix in Greenhills and introduced me to his hair dresser Renee. I learned that hair cuts were on appointments. The parlor was surrounded by posters of Diether, Sam Milby and John Pratts in crazy hairstyles. The atmosphere was sharp and intimidating.

I was led to a chair. I was surrounded by Matronas in flaming orange hairs. When I took off my cap, Reneee touched my hair and assessed its condition. Then he alerted his assistants in a language that resembled the squeaks of dolphins and hiss of snakes. As if he is faced with a very challenging job and he needed backup.

My hair is wavy and thus naturally dry. It seemed to have a life of its own and it always appear in such a way that it always parted mid way like the Red Sea after Moses swung his staff. This, despite assiduous combing and application of hair gel.

The assistants came armed with different kinds of scissors as if i am a patient in the OR which badly needed an operation.

He asked me what kind of style I wanted. I told him I wanted a short, hip and one that could make me younger than my age.

In a heart beat he snipped and snapped my hair with great dexterity. For a moment, I'm was glued in my seat praying that my ears would not end up on the floor.

In a few minutes the assistant came with a blow dryer and powder. She dusted off the hairs on my face and shirt. Renee came back with something called petroleum wax. He dabbed a little sporadically on my hair, with his manicured fingers he raised the hairs at the back in such a way that they point upwards in one direction and he combed the front flat- style currently on the rounds which I abhor.Then he made some finishing touches.

"Look at you, you look 18!" He says it while cupping my face with his hands with great pizzazz that it looked fake.

I gave him a look I reserve only to those six legged creatures crawling in our bathroom before I squish them with my slippers.

I look like a gay boy under chemotherapy.

Now I am homicidal. I wanted to kill my friend. In the meantime I have to stay home, grow my hair back. When I go out, I have to wear a cap to hide the shame.