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.

Lobotomy

A friend of a friend of a friend came to me for help: a sort of legal advice. The school where she’s teaching charged her of gross misconduct and she is in danger of being dismissed. She was required to answer for the charges within 48 hours.

You see, when our whole neighborhood came to know that I was in law school everyone would come to me for my legal my opinion. For instance, I was asked about chacha, impeachment, about a fake president, and even the James Yap-Hope affair. An octogenarian relative once asked me about annulment. Yes, he is seriously considering annulling his marriage. My drinking buddies was delighted when I finished law school: “Kahit mangrape o pumatay na ko… may lawyer na akong kaibigan.” As if I entered law school in order to start a career on freeing all criminals.

I digress. Anyway, I told her she does not need any legal advice for as long as she is not yet dismissed. What they're asking her is only an explanation. I told her to write the details of what transpired according to her recollection and that there is nothing to worry about if she thinks she is innocent of any misconduct.

The truth will set you free, I added. I was leaning towards the idea that she is falsely charged because she came to me in copious tears as if she was auditioning for soap opera. I was in foul mood and I was a bit annoyed that I had to restrain my self from turning into Gladys Reyes or I might slap her and do a confrontational scene and then we might engage in hair pulling.

“Uhm… what if saying the truth might bring me to jail me and actually fire me.”

According to her, she collected a contribution from her students amounting to 20 thou plus for a field trip that never happened. She failed to surrender it to the registrar. She spent it thinking it was her own money.

Apparently, she commingled the fund with her own money so that she was so confused which was which. When she went shopping the money was so stupid enough not to tell her that it wasn’t her money.

“What am I going to do?”

I wanted to give her a gun so that she would shoot herself. In that way she would do a big favor to humanity, of not polluting the gene pool. I pity her offspring.

“Please, help me. I can’t afford to lose my job”.

I was thinking of a possible defense she could plead. An extreme emergency for example, like, say her baby was dying, or she went to patch the hole in the ozone layer or went to Africa to clamor against the practice of clitoridectomy (although the most plausible excuse would be a lobotomy. The doctor had to perform a lobotomy to cure her terminal condition. At least there was something that could explain her price-winning idiocy). Using an ad misercordiam argument would help after all these administrators are human too. At least the dismissal penalty could be downgraded to mere suspension, if they feel mercy and compassion. She could still retain her job.

I secretly wished she would be fired. This people should at least take responsibility for their actions and learn from it.

“Be careful”, Dostoyevsky said in The Idiot, “the world is full of wolves”

Pirate 2

Yesterday, I felt really cranky. No amount of caffeine or nicotine could fix me so I decided to get out and engaged myself in an unbridled pirated DVD buying.

Thank god for piracy. I can buy all the movies and TV series I failed to watch. Tonight I will have an OSCAR movies marathon. For days I will be a couch camote; I will grow roots.

How dare I for patronizing piracy? Well I tell you why:I was able to buy the entire first season of Rome, Six Feet Under, The Sopranos, Angels in America for a measly 50 pesos each. And get ready for this: I have found treasures there like Akira Kurusawa’s Rashomon, Stray Dog, his adaptation of Dostoyevsky’s the Idiot, Hitchcock’s Vertigo, Monty Python’s The Holy Grail and Peter Greenaway’s The Pillow Book for only 25 pesos each. Do you think only well- off cineastes can afford such collection of oeuvres?

I think piracy is a great equalizer. The poor like me can afford to watch movies in the confines of their own home. If only greedy movie producers would stop being greedy and cut down the prices of the originals, then piracy would be minimized. Hey, I don’t buy Filipino pirated DVDs. So that means I only rob Hollywood…

So I went home happy, my bag was filled with stacks of pirated DVD’s. When the guard at the MRT station checked my bag, I didn’t realize that my bag was full of contrabands. I told him what they were and he just smiled at my sack of loot. I bet he is a fan as well.

Pirate

My friend Jack Sparrow called me up. Excitedly he told me that he finally found the oeuvre he had been searching, finally completing his porn collection.

I empathized with his bliss because I know how he’d scoured every shelve and bangketa in Quiapo, Greenhils, Divisoria or every place that sells pirated DVD's in search for that copy.

"Really? Where did you find it” I asked.

“In found it in Quiapo, I went there yesterday after the mass. Destiny led me to it. I found the lone copy in a shelf along with rated R movies. I nearly cried when my eyes laid on it”

Like in the movies, with camera swirling from above in swelling background music and slowly fading, I pictured him in slow motion toward the shelf, grabbing the copy and then intensely hugging himself for such wonderful feat.

"Wait, you went to buy porn after attending a Holy Eucharist?”

Pause.

After we took the bar exam, we have been saving up for good karma points. We vowed to attend mass every Sunday and Wednesday, had pilgrimage to every miraculous saints, and help people at every opportunity. Yeah, yeah, it may sound selfish, but we vowed to continue doing these even after the bar exam results.

“Is that a sin? I should have bought it first before going to the mass.” He said it penitently as if buying it before the mass would make any difference.

“Of course not! We men watch these kind of flicks because we appreciate the woman form: God’s beautiful creation. Sure you watched it in the interest of science and research, right? Devoid of any covetousness and any prurient motives.”

“Hey, it was not my intention to buy porn. I was looking for the second season of the Prison Break. I just saw it there, lying in the shelf and my first instinct was to grab it.”

“Oh, you weak in the spirit!” I rebuked him as if I was his spiritual adviser.

“What else did you do?” I summoned him to confess.

“Oh, you sinful evil, bad, wretched fellow, you watched already eh! I can sense from your wet and lusty voice. Surrender to me your copy and run to the nearest confession booth to atone for your sins.”

The movie is the filmed EBN awards, sort of like Oscars for porn stars where trophies were given to porn stars with the best moan, best orgasm, hardest dick, etc. and the recipient receives it while stripping. The awards night would end in an orgy.