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.

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.

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.