in lala landia

trilogy

2011-11-16T10:52:00.001+08:00

he said, she said, in pictures

2011-10-07T15:18:00.000+08:00

This blog is a delight to read. And ogle.

It is a photo dialogue between two artists, two intellects, two of my favorite people.

http://aphotodialogue.blogspot.com/

mrs. b

2011-08-31T23:00:00.003+08:00

Yesterday was the International Day of the Disappeared. I watched Mrs. B in UP with Yuan and Avie.

Mrs. B is a play, a one-act monologue starring Bibeth Orteza as Edith Burgos, mother of missing Jonas Burgos and chair of Desaparecidos.

Yuan blogged about the play here.

Avie sent the link to Yuan's blog to the real Mrs. B and her daughter Peachy. She wrote: "Mrs. B in the eyes of a ten-year old." Or something like that.

Peachy Burgos replied: "Maraming salamat, Avie. I was deeply touched. May I share this in our Mrs. B page?"

Mrs. B sent this message: "This is a pure source of joy! Bless the hearts of children who see things as they truly are."

I'm a proud mama.

While we were watching the play, Yuan leaned over and whispered to me: "Did this happen during Marcos?"

The world in the eyes of a ten-year old.

kite

2011-08-30T22:41:00.003+08:00

I got a text message from my friend Cheng today. She said she went to Luneta and flew a kite. She was alone and it was her first time to fly a kite and it taught her a lot of things about relationships. I asked, in what way? And she replied:

"Hold on to the strings but not too tight and certainly not too loose, the more willing you are to let go of the string, the farther it will fly, you need to adjust, adjust and learn to feel the wind, and when you let go of the frigging thing, you should decide to run after it like a mad woman."

bandanna

2011-08-28T01:03:00.004+08:00

I found these two old pictures of mine.

belt, belter, beltest: repost

2011-08-10T00:03:00.002+08:00

I am reposting something I wrote about Manny Pacquiao six years ago. No reason.

Belt, Belter, Beltest or Why Manny Pacquiao Lost The Belt Through His Belting.

flood

2011-08-04T11:05:00.009+08:00

Let me tell you a tale of two floods.

The first one happened in Malinao, Albay caused by Typhoon Juaning. The town was inundated, but out of the images of devastation, one extraordinary emblem of bravery and courage stood out: a picture caught by a news camera of a 12-year old girl trudging in knee-deep floodwaters, braving the rain, holding a pole with the Philippine flag, carrying the flag to safety.

Her name is Janela Arcos Lelis.

Photo courtesy of GMA News

The image is as powerful as the symbolisms it represents. It tugs at something deep and buried, even to the most jaded of us. Within hours, a Facebook Page was created to honor Janela, the "heroine" from Malinao, Albay. As of this writing, 4,894 people liked the page.

The second flood happened in Metro Manila. Nothing new there. As news go, this one isn't even news anymore. But a news camera caught a hapless motorist driving his car into the flood. The motorist was obviously distressed when he got out of the car, and that was when the reporter asked him the obvious question: "Why?"

The driver's name is Christopher Lao, and while his response was less than amiable, it was raw and honest. Lao blamed the government (as we all do, and understandably so) for not putting up flood markers, and the people around who, he said, did not inform him that the water level was high enough to drown his car.

Like Janela, a Facebook Page was created for Christopher Lao -- not to honor, but to lampoon him for his "stupidity." The page description says it all: Christopher Lao: ang bobong sinugod ang kotse sa baha (the imbecile who drove his car into the flood). As of this writing, 32,476 people liked it. Last night, Christopher Lao was trending on Twitter worldwide, and as of this morning, he was still the number one trending topic in the Philippines, eclipsing even a national issue: that of a Philippine Senator resigning on that same day, grudgingly admitting that his seat was the product of massive electoral fraud.

It gives one pause.

Why couldn't we channel the amount of vitriol that was unleashed against Lao for supposedly being gago (fool), against the nanggago, the ones who made fools out of us in the 2007 Elections?

Who's the bigger fool now?

Floods are murky, dirty, they make our trash and garbage float back to us to haunt us. But it could also be an occasion for us to rise above our own pettiness, even to show greatness, as Janela did. It is not without a sense of the divine that Janela came from Malinao -- Filipino word for clear. It's a metaphor for us to look at our reflection on that flood, and hope that amidst the murk and mud, we could examine ourselves clearly and, like Janela, carry this country to safety.

imperfect

2011-08-01T21:32:00.004+08:00

Today is a good friend's birthday. In her honor, I would like to share another good friend's blog post about her.

I wanted to write something about you, Celeste. But I could never find the right words, up to now. Maybe I never will.

For now, I will let Sol do the talking. She's always been much better at it than the three of us Huks.

I never said I love you to any of you, because I never wanted you to barf. Or worse, say I love you back. But you know.

Rest in peace, my friend. Say hi to Jesus for me. I am trying.

"Celeste Yap. We were roommates at Molave Residence Hall, my second year at UP. I moved in one afternoon, and met Cel. She was a batch older. She told me that she grew up and studied in Koronadal, in South Cotabato. She would tell us later on that her dad had died when she was younger, her mom had since re-married, and the family was close and happy. She had a boyfriend, Kee, and they were both majoring in Chem as a pre-med."

Continue reading here.

dear abs-cbn

2011-07-22T19:04:00.002+08:00

In the spirit of balanced and responsible journalism, and the universal law of fair play, please tell Kabayan Noli de Castro to go on leave while the 2004 Elections are back on the headlines. His job is to deliver the news, not to editorialize with smirks, grimaces, chuckles, or one-liners when the news touches on the supposed cheating that he allegedly benefited from.

Otherwise, to be fair, let us give the same air time to Loren Legarda and put her back in TV Patrol as an anchor, too. Then, they could smirk off each other for as long as they want. After all, they are both Kapamilya. Thank you.

mammal

2011-07-08T10:47:00.002+08:00

This is what my bio in Twitter says:

"Mammal. With serious mammary glands."

I told Yuan and he's been laughing his butt off about it. So I gave myself three stars for being witty. A few days ago, he suddenly burst out laughing and when I asked him why, he said he remembered my bio in Twitter. I gave myself another pat on the back.

Then he said: "You're so funny! Mammoth! How apt!"

WTF?

best day ever

2011-07-06T09:41:00.002+08:00

I have been feeling under the weather lately and Yuan was, I think, a little worried. So this morning while he was getting ready for school, he gave me his iPod and told me to listen to this song.

"It might make you feel better," he said.

How's that for irony?

dear photograph

2011-06-28T22:52:00.004+08:00

I found this link on my FB feed and I fell in love with it:

http://dearphotograph.com/

It made me want to revisit all the notable places I've been to as a child and look at them with adult eyes.

Another one for my bucket list, then.

35

2011-05-01T23:15:00.003+08:00

On my way to dinner on my 35th birthday, I saw two fat cats, one hamster, and a bird feasting on a worm.

Portents?

dear dean pangalanan

2011-04-15T22:57:00.013+08:00

First, let me say, let us take CBCP out of the picture and just scrutinize the McDonald's ad. I found the ad objectionable the first time I saw it on tv. Unlike you, I didn't find it "innocuous."

I am all for "taking risks" and "not playing safe" and being daring and creative, but extra care should be taken when we are using children as marketing tools to sell our products, especially when the storyline that was written for these kids to act out insults sensibilities.

My main objection to the ad is this: the young girl basically prostituted herself for a packet of fries. I know that is very strong language for something that others see as a cute ad on puppy love. But therein lies the danger. We think it's cute, where's the harm in that?

Our language best captures what the young girl did in the ad: nagpabili. The quid pro quo was what made it objectionable. And it's tricky because the kids were just so darn adorable that we kind of sweep the harm under the rug. That, to me, is chilling. Because we are using very young kids to send a message that girls could and should take advantage of their power over boys who are attracted to them for material gain. And on the flipside, boys could just buy a girl's affection.

In the ad, the packet of fries was not a gift, it was not a unilateral act on the part of the boy to give; the girl asked for it, in a cute, sheepish way, yes. But the first line in the ad was: "Girlfriend mo na ba ako?" This presupposes that the girl knows she has something to offer in exchange for what she wants. And what she is offering is the crux of the problem.

Yes, I am guilty of overanalyzing the ad. I do so because I could not, in good conscience, accept the argument that the ad is harmless.

And now to CBCP. It seems to me that there are a lot of people who are now rooting for the McDonald's ad just because it was the CBCP's clout that made the pullout happen. There are even some who are asking that the ad be put back on air. I am against any form of censorship, but neither am I complaining that the ad is no longer being shown on tv. But may I just note that CBCP, for all its well-intentioned meddling, did the issue more harm than good. Because of the pullout, what was objectionable about the ad is now glossed over. The ad now enjoys an elevated status of being a rallying point for those who are against the CBCP in principle.

I don't know the context of "sana on their own" statement the CBCP made. But I have a "sana on their own" statement to McDonald's and the ad agency that made said ad: Sana on their own, because they are a multinational corporation using children to sell their products, with millions of dollars at their disposal to employ the best advertising agencies on the planet, be a little more circumspect. The true test of your creativity is when you can create something electrifying but not appalling, interesting but not demeaning, thought-provoking but not offensive.

Thank you for reading my letter.

n.b.

This is in response to this:

McDonald's Chickens Out on CBCP.

dear mcdonald's

2011-04-11T23:15:00.007+08:00

Dear McDonald's Philippines,

I like your tv commercials, especially the one with Karen and her lolo. I'm a Sharonian and I sometimes lss "Love ko `to!" and I do it like Sharon: "Lahav koh toh!" But the one that's running on local tv networks right now makes me uncomfortable.

I don't need to tell you, but for the benefit of the other readers, I am posting here a transcript of the commercial. I could have posted the video from YouTube but I don't want to be a party to the dissemination of that video.

A young boy and a young girl talking in a playground:

Young Girl: Girlfriend mo na ba ako?

Young Boy: Ayoko nga, di pa ako ready e.

Young Girl: Ha?

Young Boy: Demanding ang mga girlfriends. Gusto ganito, gusto ganyan. Ewan!

Young Girl: Gusto ko lang naman ng...McDo fries e.

Then the young boy reaches into his pockets and jingles some loose change.

Young Boy: Talaga?

A voice over says: McDonald's Everyday McSavers: P25 lang.

Then the last shot shows the little boy and the little girl walking hand in hand, the boy looking pleased with himself, while the girl is holding a packet of McDonald's fries on her other hand.

I'm sorry, but you have painted women -- and in this case, a very young girl -- in a very bad light in said tv ad. It's the kids' version of that Bilmoko commercial years ago, when we were still in the Dark Ages. I see it on tv and I think sexual favors in favor of a few loose change, like the towel girls in Quiapo, or mail-order brides, or girls whose only goal in life is to look for a rich patron to pander to.

As I understand, you have modified the Indian version presumably to cater to Filipino sensibilities. But I'm sorry, McDo Philippines, you're way off the mark here. One would think that in your 26 years in the country, you would be more attuned to the Motherland's sensitivities and you would be more respectful of her daughters, especially the young ones.

That's all. Thank you for reading my letter.

macondo

2011-04-05T16:50:00.014+08:00

I live in a country where fact is stranger than fiction, where the characters are more surreal than the people who inhabit Macondo, where everyday is a work of fiction, a page torn from the funnies pasted on a book on magic realism.

Almost 100% of the population believe in a supreme being, and I have a theory why. No author is creative enough to think up the characters and stories that is the Philippines: there must be a God. And He has a hell of a sense of humor.

A side note. Years ago, the World Youth day was held in Manila. Thousands came from all over the world. The Pope came. On the airport, visitors were greeted by this sign: "Welcome to the Philippines, the only Catholic country in Asia."

Below it, read: "Beware of pickpockets."

So let's enumerate some of the things that happened these past few days.

Manny Pacquiao deleted his Twitter account. And for the first time in the country's history, an Ombudsman was impeached by the Lower House. And believe it or not, the two events are closely related.

Manny Pacquiao is a world-class athlete. I am writing that for the benefit of those who have been living under a rock for the last decade. Believe me, there are many of them out there. He ran for Congress and won on his second try. But since he has a fight against Sugar Shane Mosley this May, Pacquiao had been training in Baguio for the past couple of weeks, hence he hadn't been attending Congress sessions for the same period. Too bad for his constituents, because there was one important event he missed: the voting for the impeachment case against an Ombudsman.

Now, I have mentioned in this blog about Pacquiao and Twitter and their complicated dynamics. Maybe there are some things in life that really are not meant to be. On the day of the voting, Pacquiao went on Twitter and declared that he was voting "NO" to the impeachment. Of course that didn't mean shit because there is no such thing as voting through Twitter. But Congressman Pacquiao needed to be heard, hence the declaration.

And here's where it gets interesting. Some people -- I told you there are many of them out there -- asked him in Twitter why he was absent. And my guess is, when Pacquiao read those tweets, he was incredulous. Maybe he couldn't believe that he had kababayans who had no idea that he had been working his ass off in Baguio to bring "honor and glory" to his country. So, what could the poor guy do? He replied. Of course.

Screen capture grabbed from someone else's site.

I would tell you to use Google Translate for that, except that I did and kudos to Google for consistency because the translation was "E not complain to the grandfather bald." Even though that sounded like something the Pacman would post, the correct translation is: "Why don't you complain to your bald grandfather?" which is another way of saying "Bugger off!" "Piss off!" or "Mind your own business."

A classic foot-in-mouth disease. In a country where everyone is a frustrated radio commentator and newspaper editorialist, the champion boxer was bombarded with tweets that within hours he had no choice but to throw in the towel, KO'd by public opinion, something that he had not trained for.

Then there was Willie Revillame.

Notice the abrupt change from hero to zero.

Willie is a game show host, a former bodyguard who was given an opportunity to host a game show that gives away prize money to the studio audience. Revillame has enriched himself doing this; in 2010 he was among the top taxpayers in the country, paying a whopping P57.25 million to the Bureau of Internal Revenue.

That's all well and good, except that the show capitalizes on the poor's desperation to earn a quick buck by baring their telenovela lives for the whole world to feel sorry for. Then after they have bared their soul and bled our tear ducts dry, they are made to dance, or sing. Then they are given wads of cash. By Willie. As payment. For our entertainment.

Willie thinks we owe him: the audience for watching and for being entertained, and the contestants for being lucky enough to be the recipient of his dole outs. In Willie's universe, he is treated as The Godfather, people come to him for help, kiss him, inflate his ego, and walk away P5,000 to P10,000 richer.

He is uncouth and not politically correct. We know that he is doing something wrong, and that we should be doing something about it, but like a fly that we are too busy to swat, we ignore him. Until a boy named Janjan jolted us out of our indifference.

Janjan is a six-year old boy who joined as a contestant in Willie's game show. His talent was dancing. Nothing wrong with that, except that his kind of dancing was gyrating like a macho dancer, and he was doing it while crying, and while the whole studio audience, prodded by the show's master-and-commander Willie, egged him on. Over and over again.

There was an outcry. Various sectors made their disapproval known, suddenly everyone wanted to protect Janjan from abuse, except his parents.

The parents were bewildered. They saw nothing wrong with what happened, in fact they were very proud of Janjan for being so famous. And they were very thankful to Willie for the P10,000 cash the child received. In a letter they wrote to Secretary Dinky Soliman of the Department of Social Welfare and Development (DSWD) who, in an earlier press statement called the incident "a violation of Republic Act 7610 or the Special Protection of Children Against Abuse, Exploitation and Discrimination Act, and a blatant manifestation of child abuse," they said that they only wanted the child to develop his talents.

Now the whole family is in counseling, as ordered by the DSWD, presumably to correct the parents' values and to protect the child from long-term trauma.

These are just two personalities in a country of 94.01 million. All of them main characters in their own narrative, written by a Master Storyteller with a hell of a sense of humor.

lost in translation too

2011-04-03T23:09:00.006+08:00

So apparently this is not an urban legend.

"I love you so much baby" translates to "I love you kaya marami sanggol."

The world according to Google.

Rofl.

tgif?

2011-03-26T22:53:00.008+08:00

Bear with me for a second here. I don't get why Rebecca Black's Friday has so many haters. It's mob mentality at its worst. It feels to me like these people hate the song because it's cool to do so.

Hate is such a powerful sentiment that we should reserve it for things that matter. Sure, Friday is not one of the best songs ever written -- despite Lady Gaga's pronouncement that Black is a genius, a term that we should also use sparingly lest it loses its meaning -- but it doesn't merit the kind of wrath it's getting either.

What is so hateful about it? That her parents love their daughter enough they were willing to shell out $2,000 to support her passion? Sure, we could argue that the parents were misguided and the money could have been put to better use, but it's their money, which is more than we can say for some people we know.

Would we have felt differently about the song if Black's parents were superstars slash Hollywood power couple?

I don't know about you, but to me, there's a very thin line that separates these lyrics:

Yesterday was Thursday, Thursday

Today i-is Friday, Friday (Partyin')

We-we-we so excited

We so excited

We gonna have a ball today

Tomorrow is Saturday

And Sunday comes after ... wards

I don't want this weekend to end

from these:

I whip my hair back and forth

I whip my hair back and forth (just whip it)

I whip my hair back and forth

I whip my hair back and forth (whip it real good)

I whip my hair back and forth

I whip my hair back and forth (just whip it)

I whip my hair back and forth

I whip my hair back and forth (whip it real good)

I whip my hair back and forth

The first was written by a 13-year old girl, and the second by seasoned musicians in the biz. Black's music video cost $2000. Smith's? The combined net worth and influence of megabucks parents.

It's a free world. We can hate what we want without giving any explanation for our preferences. I'm all for that. I just hope people feel strongly against the song because they do, and not because everyone else does.

food for thought

2011-03-25T14:08:00.003+08:00

Yuan is 10, and over the years, the moment he learned how to talk, he's been asking me questions that give me pause.

Like this one.

We were driving through a tunnel and he read the sign.

He said: "Dangerous? Why?"

"Because it's a dark tunnel with a sharp curve, so if you're going very fast, the other cars might bump you or if you make a sharp turn, the car could turn turtle," I said.

"Turn turtle?"

"Yes, that's an idiomatic expression, you know. It means the car could topple over. So when someone says 'turn turtle', it doesn't mean you'll turn into a tortoise."

"Yeah, I know. Is 'surfing the web' an idiomatic expression?"

Me, thinking. "You know what, I'm not sure. Because there didn't use to be a web to surf. Back when there was no internet, when we say web we only meant spiderweb, or web of lies. So I don't think it's an idiom. Because that could very well be its literal meaning. Because you surf. The web. How else would you say it?"

By this time, the steering wheel was drenched in blood. From my nosebleed, 'ya know.

taglish

2011-03-21T23:58:00.006+08:00

Isusulat ko ang blog na ito sa Tagalog. Madaming dahilan. Iisaisahin ko.

Kaso, ito ang problema. Sa simula pa lang, hindi ko na alam kung tama bang sabihin ang aking pambungad na pangungusap. Tama bang sabihing Tagalog o Filipino? O Pilipino? Alam kong maraming mga pag-aaral at debate tungkol dito, sa totoo lang hindi ko iyon masyadong pinagtuunan ng pansin. Bahala na. Basta magsusulat ako sa Tagalog, ang unang wikang kinamulatan ko.

Ganito kasi iyon: nakatanggap ako ng text kanina mula sa aking pamangkin sa pinsan. Nagpapatulong siyang magpahanap ng mga sanaysay na isinulat sa Filipino na nakalathala sa web. Ginalugad na daw niya ang internet pero wala daw siyang nahanap. Nakahanap naman ako, pero hindi naging madali, at kakaunti lamang sila. At naisip ko, bakit ganoon? Hindi naman Inggles ang unang wika nating mga Pilipino pero bakit ito ang ginagamit ng karamihan sa atin sa pagba-blog? Dahil ba mas gusto nating maging mas pandaigdigan ang ating mga isinulat? Usapin ba ito ng mas maraming makakaintindi? O sadyang mas naipapahayag natin ang ating mga sarili sa wikang banyaga?

Bago ako magpatuloy, nais kong ipagbigay alam sa inyo na mahirap palang magsulat sa Tagalog. O Filipino. O Pilipino. Nagkalat na ang kulay pula sa aking keyboard. Duguan na ang ilong ko.

Ang isa pang dahilan: Nabasa ko kanina ang isang balita tungkol kay Manny Pacquiao. Nag-tweet umano siya laban sa mga bumabatikos sa kanyang balarila sa wikang Inggles. Hindi naman siguro lingid sa kaalaman nating lahat na hindi naman kagalingan magsalita sa wikang Inggles si Pacquiao. Sumasablay paminsanminsan. Ang totoo nyan, dumating sa puntong itinanggi niyang sa kanya ang sariling Twitter account dahil napahiya umano si Manny sa dami ng mga taong ginawa syang katawatawa dahil sa mga mensaheng nilalahad niya dito.

Ito ang sagot ni Manny na siya mismo ang nagsulat: "Its doesn't matter of the grammar as long they understand the message thanks."

Na dinagdagan pa niya ng: "Tyong lhat pinoy ang slita ntin ay tgalog we should use our language we're nt american, jpan,chna,atbp. They're using there own language."

At ito pa: "We should proud in our language that's the real pinoy yan ang tama thank you God Bless everyone."

Para sa akin, ayos lang. Si Manny ay isang alamat, at hindi naman kailangan sa kanyang napiling propesyon ang kagalingan sa wikang Inggles. At ano ba naman ang pagsabit paminsanminsan? O kahit madalas. Malayo na ang narating ni Pacquiao, at hindi naging instrumento (daan o hadlang man) ang talino sa wikang hindi naman kanya.

Oo nga't hindi lang naman ito tungkol sa kanyang Inggles. Dahil hindi lang naman iyon ang problema, kundi maging ang konstruksyon ng mga pangungusap at ang paglalagay ng tuldok, kuwit, at iba pang bantas at pananda sa kanyang Tagalog. Pero hindi naman gramaryan si Pacquiao.

Chillax.

Iyon lang. Mahirap magsulat sa Tagalog. At pinilit kong magsulat sa pormal na paraan, hindi sa pang-arawaraw na Taglish. Ito ang problema, dahil ang payo sa mga manunulat: Magsulat ka sa sarili mong wika. Ito pa ba ang sarili kong wika?

crossing over

2011-03-17T23:39:00.004+08:00

Today is Yuan's Crossing Over Ceremony. It means he has finished Primary School and is moving on to Middle School. The ceremony earlier was poignant. I don't know about the other parents there, but I was teary eyed the whole time, and I'm not usually sentimental.

Congratulations, Yuan. At such a young age, you have consistently beaten the odds. I am honored and humbled to be taking this journey with you. I am far from perfect and there is much to be desired, but I do my best. When you grow up and you think that I did you more harm than good, I ask for forgiveness. Always remember, everything I did and do, I do out of love.

Today, we will cross over. And we will move forward.

pi hole blackhole

2011-03-14T23:51:00.016+08:00

I am one digit away from being innumerate. And because I am, I don't even know if that statement makes sense.

Growing up, this was how I saw Math:

As a lethal sleeping pill. Swear, my whole system goes to automatic shut down whenever it was time for Math. You know those times when you channel surf and there are stations that have just played the National Anthem and they show those color bars (which are called SMPTE Color Bars, by the way, which stands for Society of Motion Picture and Television Engineers) and play that continuous tone (which, for our further enlightenment is a 1000 Hz audio tone) that could make your teeth rattle if you listen to it for more than five seconds? That's where my mind hies off to whenever it was time for Math, and gets back to normal programming as soon as the Math teacher walks out the door.

As a necessary evil. Like toothache, the flu, getting vaccinated, menstruation.

Like shit. It happens, you just have to endure it. Then you move on. Of course moving on meant from Algebra to Trigonometry. From Trigonometry to Geometry. From Geometry to Calculus. Or whatever. I am innumerate, I could not distinguish one from the other. In my mind, they are lumped together as the Incomprehensibles.

If you're like me, maybe you've tried to look down on Math and told yourself: WTF, knowing how to solve for the value of x won't help me squat when I'm out in the real world playing to a stadium of 20,000 screaming fans.

But really. As soon as I got away from counting distance of Math, computed as the area of my college diploma, I never looked back. And swore I never would.

But of course, the earth is round, or if you want to be more technical about it, oblate spheroid (it just means that much like you and me, it bulges around the middle). And we all must come to a point in our life when we must face our demons. And so here I am.

I have to teach this kid, you see. And since he is in danger of being so much more smarter than I am (and in Math, that does not take a lot of effort on his part), I have to study. Yes, study: something that has been alien to me for more than a decade now. I swear, the first time I did it to help him in his homework (Adding Fractions With Like Denominators), I could hear the cogs and chains in my head creaking, screeching man, do I need to lubricate. And that is not what you think I meant.

So I hit the books, the figure of speech, please. Although I was this close to doing that literally. His books, and wonder of wonders, I could understand them. It was as if a light bulb went off in my head.

It's a miracle.

It's Singapore Math.

And I realized, it wasn't me. It was the system. Haha! I wasn't born with an inherent mathematical disability, it was the way it was introduced to me. There is a better way to look at Math, after all: the way that adds up.

What is Singapore Math? Here's a brief history, and, like most of modern history, by way of the Western World:

http://www.singaporemath.com/Singapore_Math_Story_s/10.htm

So now, we're studying area and perimeter, and for the first time in my life, I could understand what those words mean, and could even solve basic problems. And, I'm actually enjoying it. For this, I could kiss Lee Kuan Yew's ass.

This means that my numerical ability is that of a third grader, but hey, it's progress, baby!

I plan to keep at it (well, I don't really have much choice) until I could understand what the guy in this article is saying (How to Stuff your Pi Hole) and be fascinated enough to celebrate a mathematical holiday in honor of a number that is both "transcendental and irrational."

Plus, when the time comes, I want to be able to compute, and declare with certainty, that based on the surface area and the unit per square inch, my stadium really was filled with 20,000 screaming fans, and not just, say, 19,999. After all, Math is an exact religion.

coming home

2011-03-10T23:20:00.012+08:00

I've always loved books. Reading has always been an important part of my life. If you were to ask me what my happiest childhood memories were, it would almost always involve a book. That didn't do much for my social skills, and to others that might sound pathetic, but getting lost in the pages of a book was a joy I learned early in life.

I grew up in the province. We didn't have electricity until I was in high school. The armspan fluorescent light in our sala was nothing but a fixture that didn't do anything but just be there, like props. Twilight meant a Coleman gas lamp good for an hour, mostly to help us move around for dinner. We slept early. It was not a household rule; the whole town was asleep before 8.

I lived near the sea. At night, I could hear the waves pull back and forth, lapping the shore. Gently, when the sea was calm, and violently, when the sea was angry. I never noticed that the sea was singing me to sleep every night until I moved to the city for college and I missed it. It was not an absence that made itself known abruptly, more like a song that faded gradually on the background until I realized that it was no longer there.

I used a candle to read at night. I had to read faster than the candle burning out. It was a practice that was frowned upon by my parents because we were still using a mosquito net back then. No electricity meant no electric fan. And no tv. A child had to discover her own distractions, and since our sala was lined with shelves full of books, I found my first love.

Books were expensive, and there were no bookstores in town. Or in the next. My books came from Manila as pasalubong, mostly from my father, or as bilin meticulously written on a piece of paper and slipped on my mother's purse, and they were precious, in more ways than one.

When I moved to the city in college, malling meant making tambay in a bookstore ogling the titles, and if I was lucky, finding an unsealed book I could read, until it was time to go. My allowance in college was spent mostly on food and books. I never learned how to shop for clothes, shoes, bags, and other girly stuff -- mostly I just got what I needed -- and never really enjoyed doing that anyway.

Reading has always been a comfort I could turn to at all times: whether I was happy, sad, blissful, angry, alone, in a crowd, busy, idle, frantic, relaxed. I was always at my happiest curled up with a good book. And so it came as a shock to me when I could no longer read.

Like the fading song of the sea, it came gradually. I was finding it more and more difficult to understand what I was reading. I didn't realize what was happening at first. When before I could finish a book in one sitting, it took me longer and longer to finish one. I didn't realize it then but I had to reread entire paragraphs just to grasp the idea. My focus was dwindling, until one day it came as a complete and utter shock when I realized that I was done with whole chapters without understanding or retaining a word I've read.

I could read the words. I know what the words meant individually. It was stringing them together and grasping what they were trying to convey that was difficult. I'd read and I'd see myself reading but my mind was somewhere else thinking other thoughts. And when I had to reread entire paragraphs or entire chapters, it would be like reading the words for the first time.

It scared the shit out of me. It felt like, pardon the cliche, a part of me had died. A huge part. I was the girl whose tombstone would read: Lala, the girl who read. And there was I, a cosmic joke who couldn't understand entire chapters of what she had bored her eyes into. I looked, not read. I saw, not comprehended.

It was scary as hell. And sad. And I knew I couldn't live like that.

Because I had always looked at myself as someone who loved reading, and I had pinned my identity to being a reader, the question that kept on bugging me was: If I couldn't read, who am I? Am I still me?

And so I devised a plan to make my way back. The journey was long and arduous, and again, pardon the cliche. I started changing my reading preferences. I had no choice, I had to retrace my steps. I started reading children's books.

I loved children's books, and I especially loved the fact that since Harry Potter burst into the scene, the market for children's literature had exploded in ways that transcended comprehension. I've almost envied the kids today who were the beneficiaries of this publishing phenomenon. Almost, because although they were the intended market for that, there was no rule saying that I could not enjoy the same for myself.

I started small: I decided to tackle The Chronicles of Narnia. Of course now I could laugh at the presumptuousness of that, C.S. Lewis was not exactly an easy man to read. But it helped that I deluded myself into thinking that it was nothing but a simple children's book.

I would not bore you with my journey, suffice it to say that I have found my way back. And when I did, I was like a man dying of thirst who finally found an oasis, taking in everything available for me to slake my thirst.

It is good to be home, to know that I am still who I am. My tombstone would still read with conviction: Lala, the girl who read.

And maybe, in time, I could add: And wrote.

up!

2011-03-09T20:13:00.003+08:00

I've always wondered if this was possible. Apparently, it is.

Amazing!

toughest place to be. period.

2011-03-08T23:56:00.000+08:00

Yes, I live in a city where spending a night in could make a grown man cry.

Pasinaya

2010-02-09T16:38:00.011+08:00

It seems that I need to do a corrigendum.

That's another word for erratum.

In any case, they both mean I made a mistake.

Yes, me.

Imagine that.

Haha.

Apparently, Jose Rizal is not our national hero.

Well, technically, that is.

According to the National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA) website:

No law, executive order or proclamation has been enacted or issued officially proclaiming any Filipino historical figure as a national hero. However, because of their significant roles in the process of nation building and contributions to history, there were laws enacted and proclamations issued honoring these heroes.

Even Jose Rizal, considered as the greatest among the Filipino heroes, was not explicitly proclaimed as a national hero. The position he now holds in Philippine history is a tribute to the continued veneration or acclamation of the people in recognition of his contribution to the significant social transformations that took place in our country.

It was only in 1993, the year I started college, that an executive order was issued (EO 75, by then President Fidel V. Ramos) "creating the National Heroes Committee Under the Office of the President.”

This Committee was tasked to "study, evaluate and recommend Filipino national personages/heroes in due recognition of their sterling character and remarkable achievements for the country."

No action has been taken on the Committee's report.

That is why, on the NCCA website, no national hero is listed in the national symbols of the Philippines.

There is only the flag, and the five national symbols:

National Anthem : Lupang Hinirang
National Tree : Nara (Pterocarpus indicus)
National Flower : Sampaguita (Jasminum sambac)
National Bird : Philippine Eagle (Pithecophaga jefferyi)
National Gem : Philippine Pearl

I learned all these because I wanted to know if Tinikling is our National Dance.

Because others say that it is Cariñosa.

Both of them are not, apparently.

Because we don't have a National Dance.

Which means that title is still up for grabs.

Which means the Papaya Dance has as good a chance as any.

Scary.

I vote for Tinikling.

Because I am blogging about it now.

I'm profound like that.

Tinikling, according to the Philippine Information Agency website, is "a folk dance in imitation of the bird, snipe (tikling). It has two components: a) two seated performers holding opposite ends of a pair of bamboo poles, clapping these together and down rhythmitically to music; and b) a male and a female dancer who step in between and out of the clapping bamboo poles."

These are the bamboos.

They symbolize the Filipino's tenacity.

They bend without breaking.

No matter how strong the wind.

They bend.

Nay, they dance with the wind.

Last Sunday, more than a thousand Tinikling dancers from 32 different dance groups gathered at the Cultural Center of the Philippines (CCP) to stage Bonggang Bonggang Bamboo.

They danced to the music provided by this Rondalla.

A collaboration of artists from different singing groups.

It was 12 noon.

And the dancers went barefoot.

It was a spectacle.

Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

I've always been a little wary of dancing Tinikling.

Methinks it's dangerous.

One could sprain his ankle.

Or one could land facedown.

The trick, I guess, is to be in rhythm.

And to trust the bamboo clappers.

Rhythm and trust.

I'm not big on those two.

These guys did it with a smile on their face.

While braving the heat.

Watch them perform:

It was the CCP Open House Festival.

Pasinaya 2010.

CCP says it's "the biggest one-day performing arts festival."

The event was see-all-you-can, pay-what-you-can.

The suggested entrance fee was P20.

Some didn't even shell out a single centavo.

I gave P100.

And I saw world-class performances.

It was culture overload.

So many things to do.

So little time.

I'm glad I was able to catch some.

The tail end of Franco Raymundo Maigue's guitar performance.

And Lorenzo B. Medel's piano performance.

They're both first pize winners in their respective fields in the 2009 National Music Competitions for Young Artists (NAMCYA).

The first performance I saw was this dance medley:

I just took in the sights.

The weather was perfect.

Sunny as these smiles.

The last performance I saw were excerpts from Carmina Burana, Swan Lake, and Le Corsaire performed by the Philippine Ballet Theater.

All these for P100.

I lucked out.

I even caught a glimpse of a rainbow.

Rainbow in the murk.

All those arts are starting to rub off on me.

Sinigang

2010-02-01T19:09:00.006+08:00

When I was in high school, we read a short story about a girl who cooked Bouillabaisse.

I don't remember the title of the story.

I don't remember what happened in the story.

I only remember what she cooked: Bouillabaisse.

My mind is selective like that.

I remember it for two reasons:

One, I didn't know how it should be pronounced.

And two, neither did my teacher.

When someone asked what it was, she said, "It's like Sinigang."

Then we went on with our lives.

And I learned that it is pronounced boo-ya-base.

Like it's Halloween and you're trying to scare a boy named Base.

Or you're playing baseball and you're booing your opponent's base.

Something like that.

Boo-ya-base.

I also learned that it's not like Sinigang at all.

Well, maybe a bit.

Bouillabaisse is fish stew flavored with herbs and spices like garlic, orange peel, basil, bay leaf, fennel, and saffron.

Sinigang is a stew, but it is not just fish stew.

It could also be pork stew, chicken stew, shrimp stew, beef stew.

And no fancy ingredients like saffron.

Do you know that saffron is the most expensive spice in the world?

So we're definitely not using that.

What makes Sinigang sinigang is the soup. It is sour.

Traditionally it is stewed in tamarind.

But tamarind is hard to find.

So we're using my ingredients instead.

Tomatoes.

We need at least five small ones.

Cut them in half. Like this.

Remember what I said about onion and garlic and how they're supposedly inseparable?

Well, they had an LQ.

(Lovers' Quarrel. Really, I had to spell that out?)

They're not together in this dish.

Maybe because our onion looked like this.

If you can find a less sorry looking onion, good for you.

Or less sorry looking vegetables for that matter.

Don't blame me.

I live in a third world.

And we got this from the talipapa near our house.

Slice the onion like this.

There, that's better.

Siling haba.

That's green pepper.

Green finger pepper. Not to be confused with red and green chili pepper.

This one's longer. And bigger.

Like your fingers.

What were you thinking?

If you're feeling particularly feisty, make a small slit like this.

Otherwise, leave it alone.

But if I were you, I'd make that slit.

That simple act will add another layer of flavor to your Sinigang.

Trust me.

It will bring tears to your eyes.

And droplets of sweat to your brow.

Sitaw. String beans. Long beans.

Cut them like this.

Kangkong.

Wikipedia says that Kangkong is Water Spinach, Water Morning Glory, Chinese spinach, or swamp cabbage in English.

It is also known as Water Convolvulus.

Why, oh why, does that sound so wrong?

We're using three heads of fish today.

I don't know what kind of fish they are.

All I know is that they came from Dipolog.

Courtesy of my mother-in-law.

:)

Season with salt.

Be ready with these three ingredients.

Bring water to a boil in a large pot.

This is the pot. I filled half of it with water.

I am not good with measurements.

When you see bubbles like this, it means "rolling boil".

That's when you squish the tomatoes.

With your hands, please.

And put them in the pot, with the pepper and onion.

Wait five minutes and your kitchen will smell divine.

And you will remember your childhood.

The tomatoes will shed its juice.

See that?

That's your queue to put the fish in.

Cover the pot.

Wait for it to boil a little.

This is when I put the spices.

Patis, ground pepper, and Sinigang Mix.

Don't tell my mother-in-law.

If you're health conscious, ditch the mix.

Your choice.

Put the string beans a little later.

Cover.

When everything's cooked, put the kangkong on top.

Press it down gently with the ladle.

Just because.

Let it boil for five minutes.

Soup.

It's good for your soul.

This is what we're having for dinner tonight.

Batang Rizal

2010-01-29T22:52:00.006+08:00

I saw a play today.

Batang Rizal.

The Young Rizal.

It is about Jose Rizal.

The First Filipino.

Our National Hero.

He was a physician, novelist, poet, and artist.

He wrote two of the most important novels in the Philippines: Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo.

These novels changed the course of the country's history.

Noli Me Tangere was published when Rizal was 26.

What were you doing when you were 26?

I know what I wasn't doing when I was 26.

I wasn't triggering a national revolution.

But Rizal was, albeit unintentionally.

Noli awakened the early stirrings of a desire to shape a Filipino national identity.

We didn't have a common identity then.

We were islands and regions scattered all over the archipelago.

Noli, and its sequel Fili, fanned the flame of dissent against colonial Spain.

But it was Rizal's death by a firing squad in 1896 that sparked the fire.

I like Rizal.

Despite his flaws.

Like not believing in people power, for one.

He renounced the mass movement being led by Bonifacio against the colonizers, because "...reforms, to be beneficial, must come from above, and those which comes from below are irregularly gained and uncertain."

I got that quote from "Veneration Without Understanding".

That's an essay by Renato Constantino.

A required reading when I was in college.

It's one of my favorite essays.

It showed me what a well-written essay could do:

Incite strong emotions on the reader.

Whether you agree with the proposition or not.

You should read it, too.

Here.

Incidentally, when you go to UP, you would be hard-pressed to find a Rizal monument.

I, for one, don't remember seeing one.

The hero of choice in UP is Andres Bonifacio.

Because he was of the people.

A militant.

The poster boy for armed struggle.

His statue is prominently displayed in front of the Vinzons Hall.

Let's go back to the play.

It was written by Christine Bellen.

A production by the Ateneo Children's Theatre.

As its title implies, it was about the young Rizal -- or Pepe -- as how he was called then.

His life was shown to us through a series of time travels by a boy named Pepito, an honor student from Rizal Elementary School.

Think Hiro Nakamura, but instead of closing his eyes and looking like he was about to let out a big poop, Pepito flips through the pages of a magical book about -- who else -- Rizal.

It all started when he accidentally broke a Rizal monument donated by the town Mayor to the Rizal Elementary School.

The monument allegedly cost Mayor Rapku P200,000.

Naturally he was livid.

And so was Pepito's Filipino teacher, Mrs. Tangolang.

The monument was to be unveiled on the school's Linggo ng Wika (Language Week) Program.

So Mrs. Tangolang sent Pepito on an impossible mission: bring the monument back.

And in one piece.

This was when Pepito found the book.

When he opened the book, he found himself in the 1800s.

In Calamba, Laguna.

In front of Rizal's house.

He asked Pepe to help him sculpt a new monument.

And to help him review for his examinations on the life of Rizal.

Rizal's life is required syllabus in the Philippine educational system.

If you went to school here, you probably memorized the names of his siblings, in chronological order.

I didn't.

I have a problem with required anything.

So I cannot name Rizal's siblings for you.

Anyway.

What better mode of learning than to show him around? And soak the life of Rizal for himself.

Meeting the characters in Rizal's young life.

Like his mother who taught him how to read and write.

And his brother's friends, the priests Gomez, Burgos, and Zamora.

And their execution.

Through it all we catch a glimpse of Philippine culture then.

Through dance.

And songs.

And stories Rizal heard when he was a boy.

Like the story of Ang Pagong at ang Matsing (The Turtle and The Monkey).

And the story of The Moth and The Fire.

But Rizal was curious, too.

He wanted to go see the future.

The future, he learned, when he was a household name.

And where they make monuments of him.

And study his life.

It was a very good production.

Especially considering the fact that it was a school play.

Yuan enjoyed it a lot.

And he was particularly tickled that Jose Rizal had an Ateneo education.

Like him.

The play made Rizal relatable to children.

Therein lies its greatest achievement.

No longer will Rizal be just a monument -- or the head on the One Peso coin -- to the children in the audience.

He was Pepe. Playful, just like them.

Prone to insecurities, just like them.

A kid.

The kids deserved the thunderous applause at the curtain call.

They worked hard. And it showed.

A homage to Rizal. In their own little way.

iWant

2010-01-28T12:29:00.006+08:00

I stayed up late last night.

Stayed up til morning, in fact.

I waited for 2 a.m., Philippine time.

That was the magic hour.

You see, I am part of this cult.

Which is part of this larger cult.

Two a.m., January 28, was marked in our calendar.

With much anticipation, we anxiously waited.

(Ignore the cheesy grammar.)

For the messiah to deliver forth the good news.

We hoped.

The buzz had been deafening.

Speculations had been ringing.

About this tablet.

Whether it was good enough to swallow.

"Last time there was this much excitement about a tablet, it had some commandments written on it."

That came from Martin Peers of The Wall Street Journal.

He's a member of the cult, too, I presume.

The event started seven minutes late.

But there he was, the cult leader, in his trademark black turtle neck and blue jeans.

He started talking.

And the whole world listened.

At least the world that mattered.

:)

We hanged on to his every word.

Even though his words came to me through live tweets and live blogs.

With excitement mounting, we held our breaths.

And there he was, like a magician with something up his sleeve.

Behold:

The iPad.

I could almost feel the collective gasp. All over the world.

Isn't she a beauty?

I know lust is a deadly sin.

But I am but human.

And I want this.

Badly.

Let's just drool over it, shall we?

After all, it's not a sin to dream.

It's long and lean and light.

Who wouldn't want that?

You could surf the web on it.

Listen to music.

Run apps. Please don't ask me to explain that.

Watch movies.

Play games.

Store your photos.

And the best part of all.

You can read books on it.

It has a built-in library.

That's thousands of books right at the flick of your thumb.

Your very own mobile library.

And it means you could read with the lights off.

Ah, life's simple pleasures.

Starting at $499.

That's US Dollars.

I love that it could look like a leather-bound book.

With a few extra dollars.

Or it could transform to a 9.7 inches entertainment center.

Or a very sleek computer.

There's just one catch.

It cannot keep you warm on a cold, dark night.

One device cannot do everything, you know.

*Photos grabbed from the Apple website.

Farmer's Market

2010-01-26T21:24:00.012+08:00

My mother and I went to a farmer's market a few years ago.

We were in Toronto then.

I forgot where we went.

But I remember that it was a Sunday. And it was summer.

By farmer's market I mean a place where the farmers themselves sell their produce.

As I understood it, that particular market was seasonal.

They only put it up during the summers.

And only on Sundays.

I remember we got broccoli and some other vegetables for the Sinigang we were about to cook.

Because we got ulo ng salmon (salmon's head) for a song.

You see, they throw away the heads there.

My cousin Kiko's theory why they do that: They feel it's inhumane.

They don't want to look their meal on the face.

That's why Lechon will never be a hit there.

Their loss.

Here in Manila we have a farmer's market.

Which is not really a farmer's market in the real sense of the word.

They just call it that.

It's actually Farmers Market.

I've never been there.

Ever.

But I've always been curious.

Because I heard that they sell high quality fresh produce for less.

And that the place is clean.

Compared to other wet markets around the metro.

And if you go you might catch Miriam choosing her dinner.

But not her breakfast.

That's a senator here.

She has said she eats death threats for breakfast.

I'm pretty sure they don't have those at the Farmers Market.

So today I went.

When I got there, this is the first thing I noticed.

The guy in blue is Mar Roxas.

That's another senator here.

His family owns the entire complex where the Farmers Market sits.

On his website you'll learn that he got elected senator by almost 20 million Filipinos.

That's almost a quarter of the population then.

That's "the highest mandate ever received by a national candidate in the country to date," he says.

And he owes that honor partly to this market.

And to his dancing skills.

If you could call it that.

You see, he calls himself Mr. Palengke.

Translation: Mr. Market.

His campaign jingle showed him strutting his stuff with vendors in this very same market.

In this very same market where I saw his eggs.

And his nuts.

Hehe.

Not really.

The market was airy.

And huge.

And yes, cleaner than most.

If you love to cook, you'll love it here.

The meat section is the most well stocked in the country.

I think.

These are pig hooves and tails.

We eat them.

These are innards.

We eat them, too.

We eat all the parts of the swine.

I do not exaggerate.

We are not wimps.

We can look our meal straight in the eye.

Although with a bit of sadness.

These are longganisa.

They're like frankfurters.

Only better.

These are chevon.

That's a fancy schmancy term for goat meat.

According to our Wikipedia reference for the day:

Goat meat, often called chevon when from adults and cabrito or just kid when from young animals, is the meat of the domestic goat (Capra aegagrus hircus). While "goat" is usually the name for the meat found in common parlance, producers and marketers may prefer to use the French-derived word chevon (from chèvre), since market research in the United States suggests that "chevon eater" is more palatable to consumers than "goat eater". Cabrito is a word of Spanish origin for goat kid, and refers specifically to young, milk-fed goat. In the English-speaking islands of the Caribbean, and in some parts of Asia, particularly Bangladesh, Nepal, Pakistan and India, the word “mutton” is often used to describe both goat and lamb meat, despite technically only referring to sheep meat.

This must be cabrito.

Fish!

The last time I saw this many fish was in the Pagadian public market.

But Pen said, that's because I haven't been to GenSan.

There's big fish. Bigger fish.

Small fish. Smaller fish.

Dried fish.

Smoked fish.

I learned something today.

We Filipinos have two contrasting attitudes toward the camera.

Abject fear.

Or instant strike-a-pose.

Like these guys.

This guy lent me a hand.

Quite literally.

Fresh from the sea.

Up there is the fruit and vegetable section.

They also have native crafts.

A stall that sells second hand books.

Sleeping quarters, anyone?

I was on my way out when a guard approached me.

"Ma'am, bawal pong kumuha ng litrato. Kailangan po ninyong kumuha ng permit sa admin."

(Ma'am, taking pictures is prohibited. You need to ask permission from the administration office.)

I gave him my most brilliant smile.

And said: "Okay."

I packed my camera away.

That made him feel good about himself.

It's a win-win situation.

Goodbye, Mar.

It was good while it lasted.

Tinola

2010-01-25T16:10:00.007+08:00

I learned to cook out of necessity.

Like most skills I learned, I am largely self taught in the art of cooking.

I love to eat.

I love to eat out.

When you're single, that's usually the best way to go.

But then I got married. And "had" a kid.

Suddenly, eating out is not the first option anymore.

Except when I'm lazy.

Which Pen would say, most of the time.

Haha!

He loves my cooking.

If he had his way -- which he usually doesn't -- we would eat home-cooked meals all the time.

Except when he has a craving for A Veneto's Putannesca.

Which I couldn't do. Yet.

Today when he comes home from work, he will be a happy man.

Because today I cooked.

Tinola.

This is how I did it.

This is not your mother's recipe.

This is mine.

But it tastes just as good.

Or maybe even better.

Let's cook.

First you will need onion and garlic.

They're like love and marriage.

They go together like a horse and carriage.

According to Frank Sinatra.

But not when you're my friend Mira. :)

Frank Sinatra is full of bull.

Chop the onion.

Like so.

And the garlic.

Like so.

And like a good telenovela -- or soap opera -- this one has a love triangle.

Her name is ginger.

She is the third party.

When I first made Tinola, she wasn't in the picture. But everyone was just glad that the Tinola was edible. So they didn't complain.

They couldn't really. Don't ask me why.

So we went on eating Tinola without the ginger.

It really was my lola's fault.

That's my paternal grandmother.

God bless her soul.

She hated ginger.

Absolutely hated the thing.

Which was not a big deal until one night...

When all was quiet, except for the lapping of the waves which you could hear from the house I grew up in, and we were about to sleep. She told me: "Aswangs hate ginger."

You don't know what an aswang is? Go google it up.

On second thought, I did it for you:

An Aswang (or Asuwang) is a mythical creature in Filipino folklore. The aswang is an inherently evil vampire-like creature and is the subject of a wide variety of myths and stories, the details of which often vary greatly. Aswangs are often described as a combination of vampire and witch almost always female. They are sometimes used as a generic term applied to all types of witches, manananggals, shapeshifters, lycanthropes, and monsters.

Traditionally, it is said that they hate garlic.

But my lola said no, it was ginger they loathe.

And she said it with such conviction.

Like she had it in good authority.

Let's go back to our Tinola.

Peel the ginger.

That's easier said than done.

Unless you have this.

Chop the ginger.

Like so.

Be the ginger.

Not.

You will also need dahon ng sili. I don't know if that's the same as chili leaves. In any case, I don't have it in my pantry now. So I'm using dahon ng malunggay instead.

That's malunggay leaves.

Which we harvested in our front yard.

Remove the leaves from the stalk.

Like so.

This is sayote. This is a cheaper alternative to green papaya.

When I googled it up, I found out that in English it's chayote, choyote, choko, or christophine.

We learned something today.

Slice it like this.

Rinse your chicken.

This is half of a whole chicken.

Only four of us will eat in the house, so this will do.

Season it with salt and pepper.

They go together, too. Like horse and carriage.

Now we get to the cooking.

You will need a large pot.

And of course, don't forget to start the fire.

This is one of the few instances that it's okay to do that.

Put a tablespoon or two of oil in the pot.

Put the onion when the oil is hot.

Then the garlic when the onion is translucent.

I burned the onion. You should not do that.

Then again, you wouldn't take pictures while cooking, would you?

Put the ginger in.

By this time your kitchen should smell like a true kitchen. The smell your children will remember for the rest of their lives.

It doesn't matter if you don't have children.

They will remember this smell.

Trust me.

In go the chicken pieces.

You should hear a sizzle.

Sizzle is good.

Mix it around.

Then cover the pot.

Let the chicken shed all of its juices.

Until it looks like this.

Put the sayote in.

Mix, mix, mix.

Cover.

Until the sayote becomes soft.

Here's the secret.

Don't tell your doctor.

Patis.

That's fish sauce.

Bathe your ingredients with a tablespoon. Or two. Or three.

Pour in water. You should hear a louder sizzle.

The whole thing will look like this.

Not so appetizing now.

But just you wait.

Cover the pot. Wait for the whole thing to boil.

Bubbles are good.

And steam.

Put the malunggay. It's good for you.

Taste it. Don't swoon.

Ignore your rumbling tummy.

Adjust salt and pepper to taste.

But this is perfect.

Serve hot.

UP

2010-01-24T22:07:00.005+08:00

This is where I went to college.

It's the only national university in the country.

On its official website, it says that its "graduates have become the country’s leaders in politics and governance, law, the sciences, and the arts."

It has produced the most number of Philippine presidents.

Which is not necessarily something one could be proud of.

But "more than 25 National Scientists in fields as diverse as history, engineering, physics, agriculture, biophysical chemistry, psychology, medicine, plant physiology, genetics, and cytogenetics" came from UP.

Which is something one could be proud of.

And "30 out of 50 National Artists named thus far are UP alumni, coming from literature, the visual arts, music, dance, theater, film, and architecture."

That is something to be prouder of still.

I love UP. It's so vibrant. On a Sunday afternoon such as this, it is both relaxed and alive.

There is a soccer game in the Sunken Garden.

While lovers watch from a bench.

And friends and families sit on the grass.

Or just hang out.

Walk around and you'll find all sorts of people.

From bikers.

To street peddlers.

This kid sells chicharon, or pork crackling.

These kids walk their dog.

We wanted to eat isaw (barbecued chicken or pork innards) but our suki was closed. I'll just blog on UP food next time. Like fishballs, Rodics' tapsilog, Beach House's barbecue, Chocolate Kiss, etc.

We passed by my old residence hall. It's a dormitory exclusively for girls.

Some call it The Nunnery.

This manong sells manggang hilaw (green mango).

Another game at the Academic Oval.

Another pair of lovers.

The place bursts with energy.

And explodes in different shades.

If you're lucky, you'll bump into someone you know.

That's Atty. Gilbert. We go to the same church.

He's doing some stretching before his walk.

It wasn't his intention to pose like Pareng Oble, or the Oblation, the UP's symbol of selfless dedication and service to the nation.

Otherwise, he would have been butt naked doing that.

The Oblation was made by National Artist Guillermo E. Tolentino, and according to him:

"The completely nude figure of a young man with outstretched arms and open hands, with tilted head, closed eyes and parted lips murmuring a prayer, with breast forward in the act of offering himself, is my interpretation of that sublime stanza. It symbolizes all the unknown heroes who fell during the night."

The stanza in question is the second verse of National Hero Jose Rizal's Mi Ultimo Adios:

In fields of battle, deliriously fighting,
Others give you their lives, without doubt, without regret;
Where there’s cypress, laurel or lily,
On a plank or open field, in combat or cruel martyrdom,
If the home or country asks, it's all the same--it matters not.

I love Wikipedia.

Trivia: Did you know that the model for the Oblation was a guy named Ferdinand Glenn Gagarin, and not director-actor Fernando Poe, Sr.?

But if you're even luckier, you'll catch a glimpse of a naked torso on your way home.

Yes, he is a septuagenarian. But a hunk, nonetheless.

I love UP.

Kanin Club

2010-01-23T23:55:00.006+08:00

"Kanin" is the Filipino term for rice.

Of course you already know that. But he doesn't. Nor does she.

I am gunning for an international and more diversified audience here.

We love rice. We consume huge quantities of it. Every day. Every meal.

That's why we have bloated stomachs.

That's why 2.5 million Filipinos have diabetes.

But we still love rice.

Kanin Club is a chain of restaurants that serve rice with a twist. But mostly we like their ulam, or main dish. Around here, rice is a side dish that we could not live without. Just ask my cousin Kiko who had to carry five kilos of rice and walk in the London cold just to get his fix.

We went to Kanin Club today. In UP Ayala Technohub.

The place is always jam-packed. So we called in our reservations.

We ordered Tinapa Rice.

Fried rice with smoked fish flakes.

Yuan liked Crispy Dinuguan.

Do you really want to know what Dinuguan means? Okay. Don't say I didn't warn you.

"Dugo" means blood.

That's not chocolate sauce.

It's pork cooked in its own blood.

It's delicious. You should try it once. So you could say you're Anthony Bourdain.

Pen liked Crispy Pork Binagoongan.

Bagoong is either fermented fish or fermented shrimp. They are salt cured. You should try it, too. Then you could say you upped Anthony Bourdain.

It was a feast.

The first time we had dinner there, we loved the Binagoongan. It tasted better the first time. Like other things in life.

But it didn't get better with time. Unlike other things in life.

The place had other attractions beside the food.

Like the Filipino interior.

And the artworks on display.

Not this one. This is Yuan's doodle on the recycled paper placemat.

The artworks are for sale.

After paying the bill, Pen and I made a pact:

We're not coming back.

We could not really afford it. And we could always cook at home.

My cooking does get better with age.

Then again, my cooking has nowhere to go but up.

Lottery

2010-01-22T23:33:00.002+08:00

My husband thinks I am sitting on a winning lottery ticket.

He is frustrated. He says "You could count ad infinitum but you only count to five."

In truth, he said "You could count to a thousand but you only count to five." But the first one makes him -- and me -- sound better. It's the writer in me. The writer he has been trying to prod awake.

He thinks I'm sleeping on my genius.

I love my husband.

He thinks my thoughts should not be confined to the four walls of our household. My thoughts should be broadcast. And if he had his way, my thoughts should be telecast.

I am not telegenic.

I used to blog. A lot. Then he came along and I had a captive audience. I got lazy.

But it's 2010. And I am 33. It feels like living a science fiction, being in 2010, I mean.

On second thought, and so is being 33.

So I'm blogging again.

I'm cashing in my lottery ticket.

God help you.

bilog ang mundo

2007-11-08T23:43:00.000+08:00

I'm an avid fan of 9-ball. I watch the sport like you would a basketball game: with lots of shrieks, screams, howls, and expletives. I think it's the most exciting thing on tv. It's a mental game just like chess, the player needs to be a brilliant tactician to be able to play well. Unlike chess however, a move in pool requires excellent motor skills, deadly accuracy, and fluid execution. Plus, it's the only sport (except of course, chess) where the athletes do not necessarily have to be physically fit; look at Bata and that beer belly.

I've been a fan since 1998, when I would wake up at 3 in the morning just to watch the game live on ESPN. Final exams didn't even merit that kind of dedication from me. I love the game so much that in my list of Things To Do Before I Die, watching the pool legends play live is up there in the Top 5.

It was on my list even back when the World Pool was still in Cardiff, but I'm not one to worry about all the little details. I vowed I will watch it live in this lifetime, and I will watch it in this lifetime, period.

And this is how the Universe works: I cannot go to the World Pool Championship in Cardiff, then the World Pool Championship will come to me.

My day started out on a wrong note; Pen woke me up with the news that both Bata and Alcano were eliminated. It was not so much the news that hurt, it was the rather nonchalant way he delivered the two blows, by way of "by the way..."

When he realized the gravity of what he had done, he set out to make it right: even though funds were running low, he brought me to Araneta Coliseum for some world class pool, baby!

If somebody had told me ten years ago that I'd be watching the World Pool Championship live and with a husband in tow, I'd tell that person to go howl at the moon. But that's how the Universe works.

And you won't hear me complain.

boo!

2007-11-06T20:26:00.000+08:00

Yuan did some trick-or-treating. He won best costume.

And no, he didn't come as Pringles.

lupang hinirang

2007-09-20T23:26:00.000+08:00

Lupang Hinirang is on the news again, after Christian Bautista did a shortcut and missed two lines of the song. Come to think of it, that's two Bautistas bungling our National Anthem.

I've bitched about the same here and here.

hukbalakup

2007-08-18T23:24:00.000+08:00

I am glad that Sol is textually active.

And for that matter, Cheng.

Cel is much too busy curing ungrateful patients in NYC.

Me, I'm just growing butts.

Who said anything about changing the world?

Learn more about the Huks here.

why did the chicken cross the street?

2007-07-06T23:22:00.000+08:00

To get away from the rapist.

Finally,
at today's editorial meeting,
one of the greatest mysteries of our time,

answered.

macbook

2007-06-27T23:19:00.000+08:00

By the way, I got a Macbook for my birthday.

Yeehah!

what paper?

2007-06-26T20:35:00.000+08:00

In a forum
aptly
about water,

the sign said:
"Help save a tree
Use just enough tissue."

As if they left me with a choice.

postscript to summer

2007-06-14T22:45:00.000+08:00

A month ago we were in Talipanan, Puerto Galera.

It was Mindoro, but not quite home.

duck tales

2007-05-10T17:25:00.000+08:00

We were watching Disney Channel and Huey, Dewey and Louie were on. I asked Yuan if he knew their names. He said: "Hindi ko alam e, pero twins sila."

"Of course not! Di sila twins, three sila e. Pag three anong tawag?" I said.

Then he blurted out: "Piglets!"

Oink oink.

31, have just begun

2007-04-28T22:08:00.000+08:00

It's my birthday today!

I officially write 30 to 30.

At 16, I thought 30 was ancient. Now I'm 31, and Universe, you ain't seen nothing yet!

"I have not yet begun to fight." --John Paul Jones

seeing purple

2007-04-14T17:04:00.000+08:00

I saw Barney today. In the flesh. Er, you know what I mean.

We have the complete Barney vcds, the perfect babysitter. Pop a vcd in the player, put unruly child in front of the tv, and you got yourself an hour of uninterrupted peace. Of course now that Yuan is six, that doesn't work anymore. Which is actually a good thing. I mean, sooner than later, he had to outgrow a purple dinosaur.

Earlier in the day, I saw something a lot more colorful. We stopped on a red light along East Avenue and a groovy lola in a scooter drove right in front of us. She had on a multicolored sun dress--more colorful than Joseph's, I would presume--an oversized shoulder bag, a pair of sunglasses, and black stiletto heels!

She was such a sight that every pair of eyes followed her bright little dress and her stiletto heels all the way to the LTO gate, as if she was the little green ball in a championship match between Maria Sharapova and Venus Williams.

I had a colorful day. I'd go for productive, but alas, even I couldn't have it all.

envy

2007-04-11T20:59:00.000+08:00

Meeting yesterday--
Vaio, Macbook, Blog Award--
I took a picture.

black saturday

2007-04-07T23:24:00.000+08:00

Today, because we promised Yuan a trip to the pool, we drove to San Mateo. The place, in characteristic Pinoy gaya-gaya fashion, wanted to prove that they are one notch better than a particular resort in Bulacan.

Guess what they call the San Mateo resort.

When we got there, the place was swimming with people, pardon the pun. Because all of us agreed that a swimming pool was not the best place to rub elbows (literally) with complete strangers--I don't exaggerate when I say that sardines have more space inside the can--we decided to go to Antipolo instead.

But today was the day when all of Metro Manila decided to go for a swim. Our resort of choice was so packed they were no longer letting people in. Our last resort--again, pardon the pun--was a fairly new resort that didn't even have cold soft drinks in their menu.

While there I couldn't help but think of home: the white sands of Pandan, the crystal-clear waters of Apo Reef, the windswept smell of the sea, and the endless stretch of sand and sea that blends seamlessly with the blindingly blue sky. And I thought, what in goose's name are we doing here?

We are not politicians, we make good on our promises whatever it takes.

There's nothing more to say. This was the resort's best feature:

fishing

2007-04-05T23:20:00.000+08:00

Because tradition dictates that we are not to indulge the cravings of the flesh during the most holy of weeks, we bought fish. We rarely eat fish. Pen and I come from coastal provinces--he from Zamboanga and me from Mindoro--where you can get world class marine produce for a song.

Make that three songs now because of higher cost of living.

We got a kilo of red-eyed tulingan for P90. Back home in Sablayan, you can get it for P20. And the fish would still be jerking, in rigor mortis.

My Lola Pia had the best tulingan recipe that we--her children and apos--inherited: Rub the fish generously with salt, wrap each fish in banana leaves, put dried kamias at the bottom of the palayok, put pork fat on top of the kamias, put the fish on top of the fat, put a little water and cook over low heat.

Eat this with malunggay soup and newly-cooked rice. Write your name on your palm before eating, so you won't forget.

Wouldn't it be cool if Edgar Mortiz named his son Rigor?

take that!

2007-04-04T23:15:00.000+08:00

On her way out my boss said: "La, good luck tomorrow ha!" I thought: "I have a press conference tomorrow, what is she wishing me luck for?" Seeing the puzzled look on my face, she said, "The results."

That was two days ago.

Yesterday, this came out. And I was not on the list.

I'm fine by it. Could be finer, but...

I believe in justice, in getting what I deserve. This, I didn't. To say that it was a half-hearted effort would be wrong. No effort was more like it. Had I passed, it would be like spitting on the hard work of those who didn't.

My only regret is, taking the bar was one of the compromises I had to make for reasons I don't care to elaborate on.

I love my life, but I love it better when I call the shots.

foot soldier

2007-04-02T23:00:00.000+08:00

Napigtal ang tsinelas ko.

I don't know how many of you understand that, or how many of you phrase it that way. But in Sablayan that's how we say it. There's no English translation that can capture that phrase.

I just started working. I won't talk about my work. After this.

Suffice it to say that at 30, instead of writing 30, I just started writing, period.

To say that I was "out of the frying pan and into the fire" would be a gross understatement. More like "fresh from the ocean and into the fire." No pan in between. But that's my life, one extreme to the next.

I love my life.

Anyway.

One moment I was talking to Etta Rosales, the next moment I was walking barefoot along Philcoa. Good thing manong sapatero was there. That's my sandals right there. A week old and it got seven stitches. God, I need to lose weight.

As I trudged on the hot asphalt, I thought: "I need to blog." About me. Again.

My husband told me that being the new girl, I'm the office's foot soldier. I didn't realize his words were prophetic. Or literal.

double whammy

2006-11-20T20:55:00.000+08:00

El terrible has taken on an all new different meaning.

Kudos, Manny.

I should be overjoyed but I don't enjoy watching heroes fall that hard.

Much like watching Ralf Souquet cry.

This is why I don't watch telenovelas.

little hands

2006-08-17T19:49:00.000+08:00

And He said: "I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven."

"I love Jesus. Happy forever."

Yuan composed and wrote this by himself. He's 5.

better late...than pregnant

2006-01-29T22:36:00.000+08:00

We are happy. We are.

Manny won. He did.

What did I say, huh? You believe me now, don't you?

This time, Team Pacquiao left nothing to chance. Every sports analyst from here to Timbuktu has extolled the training and preparation that Manny had to undergo to secure that delicious 10th round victory. They forgot to mention one little detail, Manny's secret weapon. No, it's not the Cleto Reyes' gloves and if you're a faithful reader of this blog, you'd know what I'm talking about.

It's Jennifer Bautista.

We as a nation should thank her for singing the National Anthem--which was originally intended by Julian Felipe as a march (its original title being Marcha Filipina Magdalo)--rubato and adagio. We should forgive her for giving the impression that she was the best Filipino singer we could offer, an insult to every karaoke-loving and microphone-hogging pinoy. We should even forgive that nice little piyok at the end of the song. The important thing is, thanks in no small part to her, Manny didn't exert too much effort singing along. God really is in the details. Or maybe, someone from Team Pacquiao reads this blog.

Since we're clamoring for a rematch with Marco Antonio Barrera and it will be a title fight, I say that it's time to bring in the big gun:

Inday Garutay, please stand up.

there and back again

2006-01-26T22:33:00.000+08:00

I'm home.

I'm happy.

Details later.

Images from the way home.

snowstorm

2005-12-21T22:25:00.000+08:00

A Christmas carol blares gleefully on the radio. "Expect 15 centimeters of snow overnight, and another 15 tomorrow," the deejay sounds amused, even cheerful. Maybe she's as warm and cozy inside her booth as I am on the backseat of my car pool. We're the lucky ones, I think to myself as I look out the window and see people on the street, waiting for the bus on their way home, shivering in the cold, braving the strong winds. I cannot make out their faces, the incessant downpour, the way the wind disturbs the snow and swirls it around, and the bleak, overcast, gray sky make it difficult to see beyond the tinted windows.

The car moves slowly, paying respect to the weather. I can see the long traffic ahead of us, and the lights of oncoming cars like pairs of strangers' eyes, watching as they pass by.

A pall has descended stealthily over the city, covering the streets with its gloom, oddly, unlike rain, not making a sound. The howling of the winds is muted by the soulful voice on the radio wishing us to "make the Yuletide gay." My first snowstorm, the thought comes unbidden, and I think of another city, with its perpetually blue skies, occasional rains, and the 29 years of memories it evokes. He doesn't love you anymore.

The car moves inch by painful inch along the long road ahead.

upper

2005-12-14T14:21:00.000+08:00

I'm homesick.

And I'm dreading Christmas.

But for now this should suffice.

laugh out loud

2005-12-12T14:15:00.000+08:00

What do you know, I'm in high spirits today! The Universe is aligned. Then again, it could be all the sugar I've been ingesting since yesterday. Which is bad, because it means I'm headed for a big crash.

Or maybe it's because I told He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named that he's free to go, as in goodbye, good riddance, and, if I may quote Donald Trump, "You're fired!"

Credit should also go to Dred for the very entertaining YM chat we had. It was a laugh-my-head-off-pee-in-my-pjs kind of funny. You're so right, Dred: nothing, I mean absolutely nothing, beats law school humor. Never again will I doubt the wisdom of the quote "Someday we'll look back on this and laugh."

Or maybe it really is "Someday, we'll look back on this, laugh nervously and change the subject."

Hahahaha!

I wish I could share parts of our conversation here. But that would be too self-incriminating. Let's put it this way: if you're acquainted with both Dred and I, and/or went to law school, chances are we talked about you.

On second thoughts...

dred: law school is high school
dred: sobra
lala: hahahaha!
dred: kaya stunted emotional growths natin eh
dred: puro tayo autistic don
dred: mga special children na nagsama-sama
lala: may crush yon sa yo
lala: hahahahaha
dred: hahahahahaha
lala: grad na ba yon?
lala: di ko na nakita
dred: i dont know, eh.
dred: ive only talked to him maybe once or twice.
lala: nasa kanya pa yong "tuesdays with morrie" ko
dred: hahahaha
dred: naku.
dred: hinalik-halikan na nya yon..
lala: hahahahaha!
dred: sa powerbooks the other day, may naghanap.. miss, meron kayong tuesdays with morris?
lala: baka pinang-wipe na niya ng ass niya
dred: hahahaha.
dred: hahahaha
lala: hahahahahaha!
dred: inubos bawat page
lala: dred, i'm peeing in my pjs
lala: pramis
dred: hahahahaha
dred: so funny.
lala: hahahahahahahahaha
dred: can you imagine *** doing that?
lala: yeah

And about this other guy...

lala: uy, may funny kwento ako about him
dred: i wrote that when i was in the states pa ah
dred: sino? ******?
lala: oo
dred: what about?
lala: classmate ko siya
lala: sa labor
dred: and
lala: sa recitation
dred: and
lala: may tanong ano yong mga work na pwedeng foreign nationals ang kunin
dred: and?
lala: give an example daw dito sa philippines
dred: ano sabi nya?
lala: sabi niya "astronaut"
lala: hahahahaha!
dred: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
dred: obviously the guy didnt read his lessons
lala: nahimatay si alcantara
dred: but he is soooooooooooo FUNNY!!!!
lala: as in namula kakatawa
dred: hahaah
dred: im laughing here
lala: ako, din, sobrang tawa
dred: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH
lala: hindi ako makahinga
dred: hahahahahahah
dred: funny
dred: GRABE
dred: oh my GAHD!!!
lala: oo!
lala: tapos meron pa!
dred: nothing beats law humor.
dred: ****** ulit?
lala: oo
lala: same recitation
dred: HAHAHAHA
lala: hindi nag-aral
dred: di nag aral yon hahahahahahahaha
dred: what happened?
dred: im loving this. nakakatawa.
lala: yong ano na nga ba yon, anong difference ng disabled
lala: at ano na nga yong isa?
dred: ah, yeah..
dred: permanent disability?
lala: give an example daw
dred: mga ganon ba?
lala: parang ganun
lala: sabi halimbawa daw
dred: may temporary permanent disability
dred: hahahaha
lala: mute na radio announcer
lala: hahahahahaha
dred: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
dred: HAHAHAHAHAH
lala: as in, lasing yata yon
lala: hahahaha
dred: so funny
dred: you know, i bumped into him sa mall.
lala: grabe, buong period yata akong tawa ng tawa

******, if you're reading this, we don't mean you any harm, we find you funny, and we don't think you're stupid, in fact we hold you in high esteem. You're a lawyer now, after all. We thank you for the good laugh and we wish you all the best that life has to offer. And if you're asar, just remember the above-mentioned quote.

And ***, if you're reading this, kindly return my book. Pronto!

snow, white (or just call me jologita)

2005-11-27T17:12:00.000+08:00

When I was a freshman in UP, my history professor said something that permeated my subconscious and might have slightly influenced how I view things around me. "When you're from UP, you're beyond impression." So characteristically peyups, so characteristically yabang. But it rings true, doesn't it? We iskos wear cynicism like a badge.

However, I'm a stranger in a strange land (pardon the clichés and redundancies). Everything is new to me. I'm Alice in Wonderland, and this is my rabbit hole.

Panahon na para magpaka-jologs!

The first real snow of winter has come. It was heralded (yes, there's a need for this verb) by a telephone call from my mother one very early, chilly morning. "Uy, nag-ii-snow na. Napiktyuran mo na?" Mothers! Don't they know how to embarrass us! Me, take a picture? Ano ako, jologs?

I'm not jologs. Call me jologita. (Insert evil laugh here.)

To my credit, I didn't rush out to capture that Kodak moment. Not me, I held out for a day.

And from this point onwards I'll wax metaphoric. Bear with me.

At around 6:45 a.m. the next morning, I opened the door to a world so white, so different, so beautiful and so breathtaking that my I'm-beyond-impression cover was blown to smithereens. I was so dumbfounded, had that professor seen my reaction, she'd have cringed. It was a twilight zone moment. Everything was surreal. I felt like Lucy when she looked into the wardrobe. Suddenly, the world changed while I was sleeping.

And then I got scared. Have you had that feeling when you've come face to face with something so beautiful it scared you? It's like the first moment I realised I was in love, it was so beautiful and so wonderful I wanted to run away from it.

Yeah, you must be going "Aw, c'mon, it's just snow!" And after the initial shock died off that's exactly what I told myself, otherwise I'd have gone back and locked myself in.

Then I drank everything in, the feel of walking on the snow, the impression my boots leave behind, the soft bite of frost on my face, the kiss of flurries on my hair, the picture perfect houses with their roofs covered in white, the pine trees clothed with powdery crystals.

As I looked at the soft blanket of white all around me, a feeling I haven't had in a long while swept over me. Everything was pristine, and I was happy.

hail, hail!

2005-11-17T23:09:00.000+08:00

I had my first flurries today! I planned to go out for a little walk when I opened the door and voila! soft, tiny droplets of snow, like small strips of cotton candy falling from the sky. I went back in and changed into house clothes. Then the sun shone! Unpredictable weather here, beats my mood swings. I should probably try a little harder to get used to the idea that one never knows what to expect when one opens the door here. I'm used to near-perfect weather all the time. Yes, Manila, now that you're far away I can appreciate your, aherm, finer qualities.

I changed again and went out anyway. But my ass was freezing in minus3degC and 24km/hr wind. So I just walked a couple of blocks and hurried back home. Lugging a huge, freezing ass didn't appeal to me.

My next-door neighbor--a Sushmita Sen look-alike, straight A Biochem major of Indian descent from Tanzania--invited me over for a movie. We watched Salaam Namaste, it's a funny, sweet, Bollywood love story set in Australia. I love watching movies over at her place. They have a movie projector and the screen covers the entire wall, so with the lights out it feels like watching in a movie theater. Plus she provides free popcorns. Hehe. She's very nice.

I had a long talk with Mitzi earlier today. Thank God for VOIP. I miss Mitzi. I miss coming over at their place in Project 8, eating bagnet with bagoong and kamatis with all the seeds taken out. When I arrived here she was in New York, and she told me jokingly that we should go to Niagara, me from my side and she, from her side, and just wave at each other. I miss our out-of-town trips, from Pagudpud to Apo Reef. I miss the good old days when we'd just pack our bags and go, to Baguio, to Subic, with no other money but fare and some extra for food, armed with nothing but wit and yes, of course, charm.

There was a time long ago when we could just shrug off boys with it's-his-loss-not-mine and mean it. Maybe we still can. But I don't want to do it now, because even though I miss the good old days, I wouldn't trade it for what we've become.

royal

2005-11-07T23:03:00.000+08:00

I was named after a queen. And her name literally means "fighter." And I'd been doing my name a great disservice by moping around lately. By moping around most of my life.

Today I choose to be happy. And I asked for guidance and strength.

I am waging war against the negative forces in my life. Okay, that sounds overly sentimental and melodramatic, but I am. I know that it's a long road ahead, and I have my work cut out for me, but I know I was made for greater things.

I choose to follow my dreams. And to go where my heart takes me. It may be broken now, but it will know great joy in time. I don't know when or how, but I believe in the power of faith. I have asked and I believed in my heart that I already received what I asked for. Now it's time to get down to work.

It will take a lot of hard work, and it will take time. But I'll get there. I'll search for the light at the end of the tunnel, even if sometimes, that light, as Cheng said, is a train.

the sound of one heart breaking

2005-11-05T22:00:00.000+08:00

We all start out hopeful. Then we wake up to what we've become.

A friend once told me that I think too much, and because I do I won't have the capacity to know real joy. Another friend said that I'm a free spirit, always searching for something, always on the look-out for that elusive place, that fleeting time. He said that people like me scare him. I'm too independent, too proud, too unstable, and that it would take someone much bigger than myself to hold me down.

I used to believe in a lot of things.

I used to believe in me. In who I thought I was.

I never asked for you. I was doing well on my own, naively thinking I was lugging a broken heart around. But I won't know a broken heart until years later, when all that's left is a shadow of the girl I once was. I look in the mirror and I see someone familiar, someone I used to know, always just there, trying to get out.

I was a fool. I was too preoccupied searching, I didn't realise that the one thing I wanted most was already mine. I left to find myself. I found someone who looked just like me, but she was alone, and needy, and scared. She didn't want to be alone anymore. And in that moment of illumination, everything became clear.

But it was too late.

Now it is eerily quiet. And still. A heart breaking doesn't make a sound. It has the same intensity as a killer quake, same ferocity as a hurricane, same destructiveness as a tsunami, but it doesn't make a sound.

The heart breaks, silently.

Silently.

whine, glasses

2005-11-03T17:56:00.000+08:00

My friend Sol called from Singapore. We haven't been in touch for two years, and I realize that we still talked about the same thing. Remarkably, my issues remained the same.

"Do what you do best," she said.

"Whine?"

"That, too. But put it on paper."

She said she felt that she didn't know me anymore. Seems that I changed, even when my problems didn't.

pride

2005-11-01T11:54:00.000+08:00

i have none
left.

flushed it down
the first toilet
i cleaned.

now it floats
with the broken
promises, empty
declarations, meaningless
pledge,

where dreams are
buried

deep.

ah, real food!

2005-10-27T19:46:00.000+08:00

Mike & the Mechanics
Fixx Cars.

That's another one of the ads I was talking about. Nice, eh?

It's 2degC. Just for the heck of it, I checked out Inq7.net's weather page and it's 24.2degC in Quezon City. And in our little province in Mindoro it's 22degC. And now I'm talking about the weather. I really must have too much time in my hands, like I told Dred earlier.

But don't you just notice that cold weather makes us eat more (yeah, like I really need an excuse for this)? What's better feeling than champorado with daing while it rains outside? Or chicken sotanghon or arroz caldo and puto?

On my first few weeks here I was a very unhappy fella. One of the reasons is the food. People here eat healthy. It means they eliminate my three basic food groups from their diet: salt, fat, and sugar. These people don't know what they're missing, like, you know, taste! They take out all the good and all the beautiful in their food. I may have a shorter life span than most Canadians (who would want to live to a hundred, anyway?) but I sure enjoyed my food while I still can. I hate to break it to them but in their lifetime, there will come a time when the doctor will tell them that they can't have these holy trinity of food, so they really don't have to do it voluntarily, you know? Why do it sooner than later? "I would rather have three minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special." That's Julia Roberts in Steel Magnolias.

I mean, lechong kawali is not quite the same without all the taba. And headless tuyo? What's up with that? It was the saddest thing I've ever seen (well, maybe not quite, but close): a plateful of tuyo lying there with their heads severed.

So after enduring a long period of bland, my mother and I decided to kick it up a notch (sorry, Emeril). We'd been having really good meals recently. Like Sinigang na Ulo ng Salmon, and they really know how to grow these babies here, I tell ya. The salmon just melts in your mouth and with Knorr Sinigang Flavor Mix, just explodes in an impossibly delicious tingling sensation that makes your taste buds and tummy happy for hours. Thank God for the neighborhood Chinese store, otherwise we won't be able to find ulo. I don't know what's the deal with that but they throw out all the heads here, so even ulo ng lechon is thrown out. But Chinese merchants, bless them, they sell them to Pinoys or anyone interested for $3.

They also throw out all the balat ng baboy. Our previous landlord has a brother who works at a meat packing company, and he takes all the balat home. That's a lot of chicharon, even for me.

We also had shrimp with baby corns. And may I just say that while I wasn't looking, my mother turned out to be a really good cook.

Gosh, all that talk made me hungry.

coffee

2005-10-25T07:01:00.000+08:00

It's 6:29 a.m. and I couldn't sleep. I'm thinking about coffee.

I'm not a coffee drinker. I get my caffeine fix from soda. Coffee makes me break into a cold sweat. Back in college, coffee was the ultimate perk-me-up, for my friends at least. They load up on coffee come cramming time. Or Red Bull. Or Lipovitan.

I'm 29 years old, went to UP and law school and I don't know how these bottled adrenaline taste like. I love sleep too much, and there's nothing like an exam or a deadline to make me crave my Zzzs even more.

There was a time I loved coffee. Back home in Sablayan, grade school, and it was a staple at breakfast. I didn't drink it, I made my rice swim in it. If you can't imagine doing that now, that makes two of us.

So I've never been to Starbucks. Not just because I'm not a coffee drinker, but because I can't imagine paying a hundred bucks for a cup. In Baguio I can sort of understand why people would want to have a cup or two a day. Or why people would line up at Tim Hortons here. But Manila? Just how many Starbucks, Seattle's Best and Coffee Bean have sprouted all around Metro Manila while I wasn't looking? It's your new neighborhood shawarma. Or car wash.

Now it's cool to drink coffee? Sorry to disappoint, but I've never been good at being a target market for what's supposedly "cool."

the good news

2005-10-24T21:47:00.000+08:00

There's an oxymoron: good news. Kinda like police intelligence.

Anyway, here's some: you know I've been busting my ass since I got here trying to figure out how to get a Filipino channel--any Filipino channel--but no matter how I phrase my search in Google and every search engine I could find, it seems like TFC and GMA are only available in US freaking A. Funny, cos back home I hardly ever watch the local channels, except for the news. And when I do, it's GMA Network most of the time. But here I suddenly found a craving for S Files and The Buzz.

Sure they carry Mabuhay Channel on Rogers Cable here, but hey, I'm not that desperate. It's a collaboration of channels I never watched back home when they came for free. Why would I want to spend 15 bucks for Teledyaryo sa Hapon?

But I know that it can be done, cos I just went to a birthday party a few weeks ago and they were watching Balitang K! There's Filipino ingenuity for you.

So anyway, the good news: our next-door neighbor just offered to split their cable with us, and they have digital cable. That means we'll have more channels at half the cost. And, for only $2/mo for every digital terminal, we can have the old tv inside our bedroom hooked up, too. Cos right now we only have basic cable, which really means lots of local stuff and lots of news and weather.

It's what surprises me about this place. The services, for geeks at least, are not good. Like they call this cable internet high speed, and it downloads like dial-up back home. Plus, there's a bandwidth limit per month. So their unlimited internet really means use-all-you-want-sucker-we'll-get-you-for-extra-bandwidth. Which of course you'll only find out if you read the thick user guide they give you (which no one does) or when you get your bill (which by then is just too late). You have to read the fine print around here or they'll squeeze you dry. The major players here, Bell and Rogers, don't even have dsl. Bayantel has dsl, for crying out loud! DirectTV is not legally allowed to transmit in Canada! I can see New York from here, for crying out sakes! Forget about Tivo, you have to smuggle a box across the border if you want one. And if you want National Geographic or Discovery Channel, or even just one HBO Channel, you have to pay extra. Hello?

Of course all these pretty little houses have their 12" satellite dish facing towards the northern sky. But what about basement dwellers like us?

See? I told you it was an oxymoron.

a clean, well-lighted place

2005-10-21T19:45:00.000+08:00

Today's a lovely day!

That's so English to say, but it is! I went out earlier to return the dvds I rented yesterday and the whole neighborhood just looked...all lit up! A little cold, around 12degC I think, but the sun's up and about, which is a rare occurrence around here lately.

The video rentals is just a few blocks away, and I'm really glad that I went out for a walk. Not a cloud in the sky, baby! Just endless horizon of happy blue. Plus, I had tuyo and rice for breakfast!

It's been bleak and rainy lately, my mother's gone for a week, so I've just been holed up in our apartment. We just moved in, it's a basement and I've been busy fixing the place. Yesterday I vacuumed the whole place, and this morning I cleaned the bathroom. Now I know where all my hair goes.

I like our apartment. It has lots of space, and since we only have the barest essentials for furniture, it's not all cluttered. And everything's white, from the floor, the ceiling, the walls, the doors.

So yeah, it's a lovely day. Didn't you notice all my exclamation points?

alpha

2005-10-20T22:38:00.000+08:00

Scorpions
Sting
Barenaked Ladies.

That's an ad for a radio station here and I've been seeing it everywhere: on buses, billboards, subway,etc. They actually have more. I'll write them down next time so I won't forget. I'm getting forgetful. I am forgetful. Did I say I'm forgetful? I suffer from short-term memory loss. Did I mention I suffer from short-term memory loss?

Oh, shoot! That's Dory. Dory who? If you don't know, it's a little hard to explain.

So we finally got a tv. We actually had a tv. But it died on me. So we had to get another one. Good thing the other one died, too cos it's an old, 14-inch mono. Now we have a 29-inch Wega. Beautiful, and on credit. "I just want something beautiful." That's a quote from Beautiful Girls. Or is it? Did I mention I suffer from short-term memory loss?

Beautiful doesn't come cheap. There's a lot of wisdom in that sentence. And you can quote me on that.

Sometimes I say brilliant things that even I, am surprised. And I toot my own horn, too. Like Donald Trump.

So of course I had to get a player. I'm a movie lover. No really, can you tell?

I just saw The Interpreter and I really liked it. Now being an interpreter in the United Nations is included in my dream jobs. Up there with cartoonist and rock star. What about writer? It's not a job, it's a passion.

I could go on. The night is young, and so are we. But only God can make a tree.

(This is Episode 1 of My Toronto Diaries: Sub Zero Basement Stories)

toronto diaries

2005-10-19T23:29:00.000+08:00

Hello.

I've created another blog and it's called Toronto Diaries. I've been wanting to blog since I got here, but for reasons I couldn't explain, I couldn't write it here. I felt I needed to separate what I have here, on this blog, from what I am now. It's about respecting each other's space. Which is crazy (Multiple Personality Disorder specifically), because it's all about me, and I'm one and the same person, but...

In any case, this is my home. And I'll be coming home to it someday. But right now I'm on a different address.

Come for a visit.

My Toronto Diaries
Sub Zero Basement Stories

bite me

2005-09-18T19:27:00.000+08:00

Recipe for a Manny Pacquiao knockout:

Me, million miles away with no TFC, no internet access, no effing clue.

Things happen big time when I'm not around.

hp6

2005-07-22T23:21:00.000+08:00

I have finished reading Harry Potter and the Half-blood Prince.

Gloat.

belt, belter, beltest

2005-05-08T22:50:00.001+08:00

I have a theory why Manny lost to Erik Morales.

Remember the fight between Manny and 3k Battery? Manny won convincingly, knocking the opponent out in just four rounds. But the next day, sports analysts would say that Manny was out of shape, that he was out of breath after just four easy rounds, proof of which was that he was breathing--gasping--through his mouth after the short fight. If it were any other fighter, Quinito would not have been so hysterical about it (although this is highly debatable because we all know that Quinito is always consumed by hysteria). But hey, this is Manny we're talking about!

And of course we all saw the tragedy that was the Pacquiao-Morales fight.

I'm no sports analyst, but I'm very observant and I have a very vivid imagination. And my theory is this: it was the National Anthem that did it.

Yes, you heard me right. Manny was knocked down by Lupang Hinirang even before the first round. And we all know why.

Who sang the National Anthem in Taguig? Regine Velasquez. And who sang in MGM Grand? Lani Misalucha. And what do these two individuals have in common that Manny doesn't? Powerful diaphragms. In both instances, Regine and Lani exhibited vocal histrionics that could make mere mortals like us asphyxiate to death. Singing the National Anthem with them was an exercise in futility, they jazzed it up so much that, were it not for the lyrics, the song was virtually unrecognizable. But we all saw Manny, with his right hand planted firmly on his left chest, heroically singing along! I saw him on tv, and I honestly prayed that the song be done already. Manny was turning red in the face, and the veins in his neck looked like they were about ready to burst.

So, Manny, if you want to reclaim your rightful place in the boxing world, my advice is: get someone like Inday Garutay to sing Lupang Hinirang on your next fight.

Focus your energies on that belt, not on being a belter.

rebirth

2005-04-28T23:43:00.000+08:00

Today is my birthday.

29 years ago, I was born.

I had been dying slowly since then.

Not anymore.

My birthday present came a little early: salvation.

I have decided to be a follower of Jesus.

I’m taking baby steps.

That’s all I can say for now.

rain

2005-04-19T23:37:00.000+08:00

It is raining as I write. The first drizzle of summer, and after the grueling heat, a welcome respite. I can hear the outpour outside my window, as it makes contact with the bed of grass, creating puddles big and small.

Odd that it rains in the middle of summer. Maybe the heavens are weeping with me.

birthday blues

2005-04-16T21:27:00.000+08:00

A man said to the universe:
"Sir I exist!"
"However," replied the universe,
"The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation."
-- Stephen Crane

Now we come to the subject of birthdays.

I'm not a big fan of celebrating my birthday. My journal is rife with pre-birthday angst. It usually starts with the advent of Holy Week--which in turn is preceded by the unbearable heat of summer--hypothetically a time to reflect and examine one's life to hypothetically change for the better. I don't know about you but every time I do this, I get depressed.

Something happens to me weeks before my birthday. I am reminded that I am the guinea pig on the treadmill, running in place, with nowhere to go. I am reminded of the Parable of the Talents, and how I've sunk into mediocrity. I am reminded of the years that sift like grains through my hands, with nothing to show for them but the excess baggage I lug around.

Birthdays to me mean things-to-do that remain uncrossed, places unvisited, dreams unrealized. And ageing. Yes, that too.

Somewhere along the way I lost the skill to grow up. Now I only grow old.

=====
Since we are on the subject, the most unforgettable birthday I had happened when I turned 25. Part of the reason why I think birthdays are so depressing is because I expect something special to happen. It's not called "special day" for nothing, right? And don't give me that crap about the fact of being born as the special event that I'm supposed to be celebrating. Write it down and send it to Hallmark.

On my 25th birthday, I had been around long enough to expect that something would happen. I've been disappointed enough to know that it's just any other day--people die and wars rage, only this time I'm a year older. But sometimes the Universe takes the wind out of our sails, and when it does we can only gape in awe.

The day started inconspicuously enough. By noon, I resigned myself to the fact that no, it was not the day someone would knock at my door and announce that I won a luxury cruise to Europe. So, because I needed to find ways to amuse myself, I went to the video rental store. While there I got a call from my sister Rain to come home ASAP. Something about a caller who didn't want to leave a very important message. A trip to Europe? Nah!

I took my time choosing movies to rent. On my way home I bumped into my sister. She was picking me up! The caller was insistent, she said. She was such a bad liar.

But I didn't pick up.

When I got home, my friends were there. With food. Lots of food! And drinks and balloons and party hats and gifts and confetti and party poppers and good old-fashioned torotot.

And I had a cake, courtesy of André and Mitzi. It said: "Lala rules!"

It was a day, more than any other, when it rang true.

torture

2005-04-11T11:11:00.000+08:00

I was silent for a week. And I mean that literally. I lost my voice in the worst case of sore throat I’ve had.

I knew something was bound to happen after a week of epicurean pleasure in Mindanao. The Universe giveth, and the Universe taketh away. Predictable, thy name is Universe.

It was watching me the whole time I was enjoying my stay in Pagadian. Even before that, during the Super Ferry ride to Cebu when Yuan, who could not contain his joy over our accommodations, was jumping up and down the bed. I felt it with every bite of alimango, hipon, sea shell, mango, marang, banana, and avocado I took. And when on our last night in this beautiful island we had Dakak all to ourselves, I braced for the yin to my yang even before getting off the plane.

I tried to guess what it could be. Maybe it would be something tragic like the digicam’s memory stick reformatting itself, thereby erasing all our pictures. Or finding out later that the videocam wasn’t on record mode all along. But the pictures were perfect, and the video was fine.

I even had a one-day reprieve. I even got to meet up with Cheng in Gateway, eat at Taco Bell and Gonuts Donuts, and watch Be Cool and Miss Congeniality 2.

The next day, I woke up with a flu. I felt like I was moving underwater and when just going to the bathroom felt like running 2 miles, I asked a friend to bring me home. (I'm a dormer.)

I realized I’ve been missing the comforts of home, with its real meals, shower, telephone, cable tv, big bed, and bathroom just five steps away from my bed. And let’s not forget, household help. On my first night there, my sisters and I had dinner at midnight. Just because we felt like it.

I think they enjoyed my stay, too. Why wouldn’t they? I couldn’t talk. Every time I tried to, it came out sounding like the caller in The Ring. I had to text them what I wanted to say. All I could manage was “Psst!”, which irritated the hell out of them, especially Yuan. It was that bad that I seriously contemplated my sister Bads’ suggestion that I use a whistle. For about 5 seconds.

If you know me well enough, you would know that this is tragic. This is the worst that can happen. Not only could I not talk, I couldn’t eat! Swallowing felt like trying to force a golf ball down my throat. Nothing could be worse torture than being served your favorite food and not being able to eat them. No wonder Galileo renounced Copernicanism.

Me, silent and unfed. Never again!

requiem for a dream

2005-03-21T23:53:00.000+08:00

Manny lost.

This blog is officially in mourning.

god is a up undergrad

2005-03-18T18:36:00.000+08:00

Today, because I have bazillion things to do, I organized my files. So I’m a procrastinator, sue me.

I found some of my old writings. This one came out in my column The Pundit sometime 1996 in Ang Umalahokan, Ang Opisyal na Pahayagan ng Pangasiwaang Pangmadla. Umalahokan the term means the town crier, the one whose job it was to spread the news and announce birth, and who acted as the all-around messenger in pre-colonial Philippines. Umalahokan the paper owed its existence to its editor by the name of Omna Cadavida, a good friend who single-handedly raised funds so the paper would survive, playing patintero in Public Ad’s lobby, coercing people to pay: “P10.00 for a Free Press!” I remember asking her: “If it’s a free press, why do I have to shell out P10.00?” Not only was she good in patintero, she also had to play verbal volleyball with disgruntled Iskos and Iskas. Omna has to be given credit for chutzpa, she was so incessant and so goddamn effective the people from the college called the paper Omnalohokan.

God is a Public Ad Undergrad
(and some twisted logic)

I have a friend who thinks that she’s God. She actually thinks that I am also God. She has this theory which she hopes to polish when she gets the time. According to her, she’s been thinking about it for a long time and the more she does, the more credible it sounds. She confided it to me one night at the dorm when I sneaked into her room for our nightly tête-à-tête. We talked in hushed tones, not only because it was past curfew but the “theory” was highly confidential, you see. Sol was afraid somebody else would get wind of it and this revolutionary theory would not be credited to her. The conversation went like this:

“Lala, do you believe in God?” I almost blurted my customary haven’t-you-heard-God-is-dead answer. Instead I said: “I used to believe in God but now I’m okay.” It was a plagiarized answer. Earlier we were reading Kulè, more popularly known as The Philippine Collegian, UP’s self-proclaimed student paper and all-time favorite pambalot ng napkin. Several persons were asked whether they believe in God or not, and it was one of the wittier replies. Believe me, it was not the worst (or the best, depending on your sense of humor). One was: “Yeah, he’s Bob Dylan.”

Anyway, where was I?

After giving her my answer, I shot back: “How about you?”

“Of course I do. How could I not believe in God? I see her everyday.”

The conversation was getting weirder. “Oh yeah, why didn’t you introduce her to me?”

“You’re talking to her, dummy!”

Uh-oh. See what I had to put up with?

She continued, warming up to the subject: “Who is God, anyway?” (He’s Bob Dylan, he-he.) “God is an omnipotent, omnipresent and omniscient being. I am God!”

I knew what omnipresent meant, as for the other two, I had no idea. But I didn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing that I’m a dummy in vocabulary. “Explain it to me like I’m a two-year old,” I said, mentally thanking Denzel Washington for that oh-so useful line from the movie Philadelphia.

“God is omnipotent, meaning God has unlimited authority and power. God is omnipresent, meaning God is present everywhere at the same time. Lastly, God is omniscient, meaning God has complete knowledge, awareness and understanding of everything. I am omnipotent because I’m the Prime Mover in my life. I am omnipresent, I’m always present in my own universe. The only universe is the one perceived by my five senses. How do I know that anybody else is living outside my universe? And I am omniscient, I know everything. It’s impossible for me to know that I do not know what I do not know, therefore, I know everything. I am God and God is within me!”

Why am I telling you all these? Why am I writing about her and her “theory”? Is there a point to all these, you ask? Honestly, I don’t know. I wanted to start my column and I didn’t know how to begin. Sure, I could have started with telling you about myself, how this column materialized and how I got the by-line. But I wanted to write something that will grab your attention so you’ll read me again next time. Besides, there’s plenty of time to write about myself, after all this column is about me because it’s the only topic I don’t get tired talking about. As for the by-line, it’s an entirely different story. Incidentally, the idea for the by-line came from the same friend who thinks that she’s God and from a Chinese palm reader. Pretty weird, huh.

I met Carl through a friend when I was a sophomore. He is not-so-tall, slightly-dark, and almost good-looking. He is also the world’s number one flirt. After we were introduced, he went: “Lala. Is that your real name?”

“No,” I said, “Ma. Gisela.”

“Now why would you want to shorten such a beautiful name?” None of your business, buddy. Anyway, I learned that he is a palm reader. Curious, I asked how he learned to do that and if he could read mine. He told me it was a combination of Chinese and Indian beliefs. The Chinese are quite skilled in this sort of thing and an Indian friend taught him how to develop this “talent” and yes, he would do the pleasure of reading my palm. Halfway through this palm reading exercise, I stopped him because (1) I felt he was taking advantage of me, he was holding my hand! (2) Some passers-by were getting curious about what we were doing and I had reason to believe that they had a different idea in mind, (3) I was becoming afraid of what he would uncover, everything he told me was true and correct, and (4) He was getting nauseous. It happens every time he reads palm, he said. He told me that I have this talent to read other people’s minds and if I hone this talent, I’m going to be a master of human nature someday. I didn’t understand it, really. But my friends and I would joke about me being the Master of Human Nature every time we’d get the opportunity.

When I invited myself to be a columnist for this paper, the hardest part was choosing the by-line. My friend who thinks that she’s God suggested “Master of Human Nature” among other things. It has a ring of metaphysics in it, the readers would think that I’m a psychologist or something. It was discarded along with “The Authority”, “The Expert”, “The Major Bullshitter”, and a zillion others. I thought of “Simply Me” but it was corny, it sounded like a complimentary ending of a sappy love letter, and I’m definitely not simple. We also thought of something with the word “young” or “teen” in it, but we decided against it because it was too conventional, not to mention, well, juvenile.

And then the hands of fate took over and gave me “The Pundit.” It was actually Random House Dictionary but it happened in such a way that I believe fate handed me the word. Now let me make it clear that I don’t particularly read the dictionary to while away the time. I was alone in my room one lazy night minding my own business when the dictionary dropped from the shelf and into my head (see, this by-line literally came down from heaven!). I was so pissed off I threw it away. Then I remembered that it wasn’t mine, it belonged to my roommate and she saved precious money to buy the damned thing. Like Saint Augustine drawn to the Bible in his prison cell, I picked it up and opened it. It read:

pundit (pun’dit), n. a learned person; an expert or authority.

Voila! A by-line! I’ve always believed that I’m an authority. An authority on what, I have no idea. And pundit sounds good. It sounds exotic.

With a title in mind and a whole lot to tell, I started this piece.

imac therefore i am

2005-03-17T18:08:00.000+08:00

Let me be melodramatic about this and say that an era has ended.

I have separated from my Keylime iBook, the repository of my thoughts for the last four years and the precursor for my blog universe.

It was where I learned html, watched my very first dvd, and listened to Joni Mitchell. It was my antidote to insomnia, my co-conspirator, my wailing wall. Now that I have parted with it, I feel as the prodigal son: like I have squandered my inheritance.

There is a reason why Mac users swear cult-like devotion to their Macs. The Apple logo is res ipsa loquitor, like the proverbial bite, once you sink your teeth into it, there is no turning back.

I do Mac sightings on tv and in the movies. My favorite is in Legally Blonde. Elle Woods’ defining moment came when, in a bunny suit, she went to a computer store and bought herself an iBook. Back in law school, in a room of black and/or titanium Windows-based laptops, her tangerine iBook stood out as a statement: both fashion and symbol of superiority. From then on she totally redeemed herself in my book. Suddenly she wasn’t so blonde after all.

And of course there’s Carrie.

So Universe, if you’re listening, ponder this: I write better in an iBook.

And I am currently salivating over this:

lost in translation

2005-03-07T17:50:00.000+08:00

The road to gas is paved with good intentions.

My good friend André, one of the very (and I mean very) few people who had the privilege of seeing me bawl like a (BIG) baby, just recently visited this site. André grew up in New York, and has a hard time understanding Tagalog (Sorry, pare, for telling on you.)

Anyway, for his benefit, I wanted to translate the Alpine song I mentioned in my previous blog. I was feeling lazy and I figured a translator could do the job better. So I googled for a Tagalog-English Translator and eventually ended up in InterTran. The site boasted that it could "translate between 1,600 language pairs." Good, I needed just one.

I copy-pasted the chunk of words that needed translation and hit “Translate!” And so,

Sa gubat ay may dalawang bundok
Sa bundok ay may dalawang holen
Sa holen ay may lumalabas.
Ano yon?
Gatas!
Anong tatak?
Instant Alpine Full Cream Powdered Milk
Dalawang Suso!
became

Toward jungle are have two mountain
Toward mountain are have two holen
Toward holen are have lumalabas.
What yon?
milk
Anong impression?
Instant Alpine Full Cream Powdered Milk
Two Snail!
I am not making this up.

cinco cosas

2005-03-04T17:56:00.000+08:00

Five Things You May Not Know About My Time in (Elementary) School:

I got this from Pazette. Here we go:

1. In elementary, I was the class bully. I was the tallest one in class, and since I was the smartest, too, whoever became the object of my wrath for the day was sure to scamper home in tears. I outwitted, outpunched, and outscreamed everyone, so their humiliation was complete. Our house stood right next to the public school I went to. Every morning, all I had to do was go ober da bakod. Since I could go home anytime I want, my parents didn't give me baon. Back then you could buy a cup of sopas for 50 cents and a stick of sulbot for another 50. So if you had P1, you were considered mayaman. I had a classmate who had P2 baon everyday. I don't know where she got it but everyday at recess, she would show us her crisp P2 bill, flattened inside a transparent plastic card like the one that housed IDs. We would smell it for hours before she would spend it, and, this was the part I liked best, she would give me P1. No kidding! Maybe that was her way of sucking up to me, me being the class bully and all.

2. Since I lived so near the school, I never had to get up early. Only a fence separated the school and the room where I used to sleep with my grandmother. I would only start to get moving once I hear the bell signaling the call for the Flag Ceremony. One day, as I lied down in bed waiting for the familiar bell to toll, I heard a group of schoolboys singing behind the fence. Remember the Alpine commercial they used to show on tv when we were kids, the one with the cartoons? The commercial jingle, I think, was taken from Sound of Music's Lonely Goatherd (Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hee hoo). The melody was Alpine's but the lyrics went this way:

Sa gubat ay may dalawang bundok
Sa bundok ay may dalawang holen
Sa holen ay may lumalabas.
Ano yon?
Gatas!
Anong tatak?
Instant Alpine Full Cream Powdered Milk
Dalawang Suso!
3. Before I became the class bully, I was a salingpusa. All my cousins, the ones I played tumba lata and Pepsi Seven Up! with were already in school, and I was jealous. My aunt, who was the Grade 1 teacher, let me join her class. Since I was the youngest, nobody took me seriously even though I was far more intelligent than most of them (pramis!). You know how it was with kids, nagpapayabangan, i.e. "Yong tita ko, galing sa Maynila, may pasalubong sa aking manika!" Since I was just a salingkit, hence a non-entity, it was very hard to be on the limelight. When my turn came, it was so unexpected and so original that not even I, in all my days of planning and scheming how to train that spotlight on me, could have thought of it. But one day, there it was, bathing me in all its glory. The reason? Mumps. I woke up one morning with a bloated cheek looking like I had stuck two pieces of monay inside my mouth, think Judy Ann Santos in Ula ang Batang Gubat. Why, even the Grade VI pupils went to see me during recess!

4. My cousins were great dancers so they were always featured in school programs. One time, Ate Day, Ate Nining, and Ate Ava were supposed to do a Hawaiian dance, complete with the grass skirt and the skimpy top. This happened during my salingpusa days. Naturally, I wanted to join. They made me think that I was in. I attended all the practice. My Lola's brother, Lolo Mising, even made a grass skirt especially for me. But when the time for the school program came, I watched, me in my short pants and dirty feet, helpless and confused, while the three of them gyrated in their grass skirts on stage. It was my first taste of injustice. It was so bad I used to have nightmares about it.

5. Finally, when I was in Grade VI, I joined the Interschool Quiz Bee. There were 3 subjects--Science, Math and Araling Panlipunan--and I was a contestant in all three. Now, I knew nothing about Math, I hated it. I used to fall asleep during Math. But the school made me join, so I did. There were three categories that we had to hurdle--easy, average, and difficult--and whoever was left standing would be declared champion. There were only two of us remaining during the difficult round, and the first question was about fractions. When the Quizmaster said "Go!", my opponent began writing furiously on her scratch paper, solving the problem like it would show us the cure for AIDS. I got nervous watching her. As I didn't even understand the problem in the first place, I just watched her compute away, and, as elaborate as I could, so as not to let everyone know that I wasn't even attempting to write the problem down, I wrote 1/2 on my answer sheet. I don't know where it came from, but now that I think of it, maybe it was the only fraction I knew. By the time the Quizmaster said "Hands up!", I had already thought of a hundred alibis to tell my teacher why I didn't compute. My opponent, so engrossed in her computation in her monk-like concentration, lost track of time. She didn't finish, she wasn't able to write the correct answer down, which was--tantaran!--1/2. That day, I became the Quiz Bee champion in all three subjects.

black

2005-02-22T22:51:00.000+08:00

All the love gone bad
turned my world to black
tattooed all I see,
all that I am,
all that I'll be.
--"Black"
Pearl Jam

But a living organism needs air. To breathe. And space. To rage.

And freedom. To soar.

Deny that and the spirit is broken. Slowly. Painfully.

Like Esther Greenwood, "I was supposed to be having the time of my life." Instead, I feel like a butterfly trapped inside a plastic bag, pathetically gasping for air, desperately seeking a way out.

"A bad dream.

"To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream."

A moth embraces light even though it kills her because she knows that life is too short to live in darkness.

She seeks light as a final, beautiful release.

topsy-turvy

2005-02-12T23:45:00.000+08:00

I have always maintained that truth is stranger than fiction. And that the Universe has a great sense of humor. If you need an illustration, look no further than this editorial cartoon by Jeff Stahler. It made me laugh my butt off. Pen and I were just talking earlier that had it happened in the movies--Princess Di as the wife and Camilla Parker-Bowles as the mistress who ruined the marriage--we'd be complaining that it would be stretching the imagination too far. Whoever writes the script in this wonderful play called Life never ceases to amaze.

channel surfing

2005-02-11T14:01:00.000+08:00

Angela’s being chased
by lions and snakes.

Ally seeks felicity
and sex in the city.

Oprah weeps
in Dawson’s creek.

No law in L.A.
No hope in Chicago.

War on CNN
Yabadabadoo!

just for kicks

2004-11-08T22:42:00.000+08:00

I have a confession to make: I’m terrified of horses. And carabaos, and cows, and basically any large animal that has four legs. Hell, if there’s a camel around here, I’d be scared of it, too. Terrified as in frightened, pee-in-my-pants, don’t-want-to-be-anywhere-near, scared shitless. I mean, put me anywhere near these animals and I’d sign anything, confess to anything, just to get as far away as possible. They’re my idea of irresistible force and/or uncontrollable fear.

Silly, yes. Especially considering the fact that I grew up in the province where, even today, carabaos are considered a mode of transport and cows still cross the streets. I don’t know the reason why, or when, it began. But for as long as I can remember, I’ve always been scared of them.

It is most inconvenient, the fear. And many a time it has been a cause of near-fatal accidents and violent fights with whoever I was with who didn’t take my fear seriously.

A few days ago, Pen and I were in a jeep on our way to Quiapo. A horse with kalesa, the kind they still use along España to transport passengers and goods from Divisoria, was right behind us. Seeing that I wanted to bolt, Pen looked at me and uttered these words of wisdom that just might change my life: “The only time you should be scared of a horse is when you’re standing behind it.” He went on to explain that a horse can only use its hindlegs to kick. And knowing that I have no intention of riding a horse in this lifetime, he had narrowed the possibilities of me getting injured by a horse to: one, if it raises its forelegs and steps on me, which could only happen if I’m standing right in front of it; and two, if I’m right behind it and it kicks.

I had to ask it, and when I did, Pen let out a loud guffaw:

A horse can’t kick sideways? Really?!?

epiphany

2004-11-03T23:03:00.000+08:00

while brushing my teeth
in front of the bathroom mirror,

my toothpaste says Aim^TM
my mug says Sky^TM

I gargle.
the water swirls

c
e l
s o
i c
w k

d
o
w
n
w
a
r
d
.

I say cheese.

eat my shirt!

2004-08-12T13:37:00.000+08:00

My mother sent me a shirt. It says: "Please God, if you can't make me thin, please make all my friends fat." I love my shirt and I miss my mother. I remember one incident not too long ago, we were both getting dressed for this awarding ceremonies for women legislators--she was one of the awardees--and, with both of us in different stage of undress, she looked at me and said: "Your breasts are so beautiful, I hope mine were as perky!" I'm translating, her exact words in Tagalog, like everything else about my mother, were much more colorful. I told her hers were just succumbing to the law of gravity: everything must come down. She cracked that trademark laugh of hers.

And of course I don't wish that for my friends. They have bigger problems, like the fact that they're friends with me.

=====

I know how my mother looked like when she was my age. She was gorgeous. She was fair, she had smooth skin, nice legs, and a body to die for. Which is why, it puzzles me and my sisters no end why she hooked up with our father. Well, stranger things have happened.

Cheng, after watching Imelda, sent me a text message saying: "Kamukha ni Tita Tetchie si Imelda nung bata siya." I replied, "Ang ganda naman...ni Imelda!"

I love my mother. And I miss her. She's out of the country, I'd love to be out of the country with her. In the meantime, I'm just out of my mind.

=====

Speaking of shirts, one of my favorites was a birthday gift from Sol back in college. It was a plain red shirt with a painting of a nude woman at the back. Sol painted it herself. It said: "When God created man, She said: I can do better." My mother once asked why "She". And so I explained to her that there's a group of feminists challenging the male-centered concept of deity. I mean, are we sure that God was male?

Save your energy and keep your answer to yourself, please.

=====

But my ultimate favorite shirt of all, the one I want to have a different color for each day of the week, says: "I may be fat. But you're ugly and I can diet."

Hah!

gallimaufry

2004-07-11T23:35:00.000+08:00

Pronunciation: "ga-l&-'mo-frE
Function: noun
Inflected Form(s): plural -fries
Etymology: Middle French galimafree stew
: hodgepodge
: unorganized thoughts, written over time

=====

On the news today, a twenty-something Tsinoy jumped off a condo. He went up to the 39th floor, the topmost level of the building where he lived, and jumped to his death. On his pocket was an unfinished bio data. On the space provided for "Position" he wrote: "Anything available."

A few weeks ago in Taiwan, a young man threatened to end his life by jumping off a building. His reason? He was not issued a US Visa. I saw him on the news, the camera caught him plunging to the gigantic rescue balloon waiting below. He escaped with minor bruises.

Makes me wonder which one of them escaped.

=====

If I were a fairy tale princess, I'd be Fiona.

I love her. She kicks ass. And what's more, she has weight issues. The first time I saw her transmogrify (or if you want to be more technical about it, turn green), I laughed my head off I almost choked on my popcorn. It was art imitating life, or plagiarising it.

I was Princess Fiona before sundown when the movie first came out. Now I'm 80 lbs. heavier, and I have my very own Shrek. And, like Fiona, I can outburp him. One of the things that spice up the relationship is the burping contests we have inside the car. It is, as Donkey would put it, "Nasty!"

We watched Shrek 2 at Eastwood in Libis a few days ago. We brought three-year old Yuan with us. Yuan told me that I looked like Princess Fiona and Tito Pen looked like Shrek.

He is wise beyond his years. Genius runs in the family.

=====

One Sunday saw me attending a wedding to which I was not invited and Lucio Tan was one of the principal sponsors. I was in slippers and jogging pants, Lucio Tan was in Barong Tagalog. But between the two of us, he was the one who didn't follow the dress code. All the male in the entourage were either in tux or coat and tie. Lucio Tan was a polar bear in a roomful of penguins. And while I had the excuse of not being part of the wedding more than an spectator--not even an spectator of the wedding itself but of the wedding singer, who was a very good friend--his only excuse was that he was Lucio Tan.

To his credit, the man must be terribly busy and it must have thrilled the bride no end that the man found time in his hectic schedule not just to attend, but to sit through, the whole wedding. Then again, he must have thought that it was a good time to catch up on his Zzs, which was exactly what he did. One of the ninongs had to nudge him awake when the officiating priest asked the principal sponsors to join the bride and groom.

I wanted to cheer on the wedding singer but there was no excuse for bad behavior, no matter how big your name.

holy molly!

2004-04-07T19:29:00.000+08:00

I’m blogging with newly-manicured, french-tipped nails.

Four days ago, while packing for this week-long sabbatical, I debated whether or not to bring a paperback or two or just the Bible and the Purpose Driven Life. No, I have not been abducted by aliens, it is really me talking.

Let me elaborate.

I saw The Passion of The Christ last week. I had high expectations, having read one too many reviews and heard believers and nonbelievers alike pontificate about the movie. I was a little scared of watching, sinner that I am, postponing it for a day presumably to prepare for what I was about to see.

It was anticlimactic, which is not to trivialise Mel Gibson’s effort. It’s my fault, I broke my long-standing rule: never read a review before experiencing the movie/book for myself.

Call it arrogance, but I want to be able to say that I like a particular body of work because of its merits and how it speaks to me. I approach art as a personal experience, either it affects me or it doesn’t. And I refuse to be dictated upon, when it comes to my taste and preference, I am The Authority. And not even a Pulitzer Prize or Academy Award winner can hold a candle against me.

This predisposition translates to not reading the cover jacket especially of suspense thrillers. I want to be pleasantly surprised, which could cut both ways, as the Da Vinci Code and Angels and Demons, and Digital Fortress so eloquently demonstrate.

Anyway, so I debated. The Bible won, and I threw in the Purpose Driven Life for good measure.

The reasons, sorry to disappoint you, are intellectual more than spiritual. I hate not knowing. I want to know my Jesus. And what little legal training I have compels me to know Him through the closest to a primary source we have available: the Bible. The Bible, after all, is THE story of Jesus. All others, to me, are secondary sources, including Anne Catherine Emmerich’s The Dolorous Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ.

Having said that, the whole hullabaloo on whether or not The Passion is historically accurate, to me, totally misses the point. I would rather have a story of Jesus that is biblically accurate. History as the spoils of the victorious aside, more than a historical account, the Bible is the authority on Jesus. Although one may argue that a biblically-accurate Jesus would be impossible to do, not even the synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke) agree on each and every point, that is where artistic license comes in.

I have a long way to go, I have just finished reading the Gospel of Mark. I read it first because my Bible’s explanatory note states that “Mark was probably the first Gospel written, forming the basis for much of Matthew and Luke.” Here, Jesus bursts into the scene as a fully grown man, coming from Nazareth and being baptized by John in the River Jordan.

If you’re using an old Bible, chances are Mark ends in 16:8.

My Bible, a gift from Pen and his Mom, has a very intriguing note after Mark 16:8:

[The earliest manuscripts and some other ancient witnesses do not have Mark 16:9-20.]

The whole of Chapter 16 deals with the Resurrection, how the three women (Mary Magdalene, Mary referred to as the mother of James, and Salome) found that the stone covering Jesus’ tomb had been rolled away and how they saw a young man in a white robe sitting on the right side of the tomb.

The passage in question (16:9-20) starts with this: “When Jesus rose early on the first day of the week, he appeared first to Mary Magdalene, out of whom he had driven seven demons.”

The conspiracy theorist in me couldn’t let that one go. Jesus appeared to Mary Magdalene first? Was that a cover up? Has Dan Brown heard about this?

affirmation

2004-04-05T13:24:00.000+08:00

For the best is only bought at the cost of great pain.
-- The Thorn Birds
I am blogging from Batangas and for the first time in a long time, I am alone.

It was a decision begging to be made. I needed time to reflect, to re-examine my options and to confront old demons.

In the past year or so, I sought refuge from the clutter and the noise of my lethargic existence. I ignored the little voice inside telling me to wake up. I suspended reality, convinced that if I ignore it, it will go away. It worked, but only for a while.

I needed silence.

I didn't need a lot of convincing to go. I wanted to recharge, and my boyfriend and I felt that we needed time apart to be productive. Not apart, apart. Just apart. I needed to be alone.

Here I am.

Holy Week, days to go before my birthday, the bar just released a few days ago.

In my high school yearbook I put "to be a lawyer" on the space provided for ambition. It was clear to me then. After five years in college, I wanted to rest. But it was a luxury that was not given to me. Going into law school was the path of least resistance.

I was a coward. After two years in law school, I stopped. I went back after a year for the same reasons I went the first time.

I was the biggest coward.

In a parallel universe, I imagine myself doing what I want to do: travelling.

Friends ask me if law school is hard. Honestly, it's hard only in the sense that every fiber of my being screams to be free from the shackles of the classroom. It's hard only in the sense that I feel I'm wasting time living whenever I'm forced to hit the books and study.

I feel my youth wasted on the law. And for what?

The results of the Bar Exams were released just a few days ago. I would have been one of the heartbroken, or the victorious. For now, I'm still in denial that one day soon I'm going to take the Bar.

Some of my friends made it, others didn't. Having read what Dred and Romel have to say about taking the Bar, maybe there's hope for me yet.

correspondence

2004-03-27T23:22:00.000+08:00

I reread Huks’ (Hukbalakup: Hukbong Bayan Laban sa Kupal) letters to me today. I particularly liked these two, given to me long ago. In another life.

=====

Lala,

I think that’s it’s great that you’re deriving your self esteem from yourself. I’m really proud to know you. For those of us who watch our hearts walking around in other people’s hands, it just isn’t so anymore.

I used to pride myself in the fact that I was alone and not needy. Now, I’m not alone, and I can be needy at times. There are trade-offs, I guess. But I still will not trade for anything the simple pleasure of feeling his fingers laced with mine, or the weight of his body against my back when we sleep. It’ll be tough to sleep alone from now on, to eat alone, to dream alone. So maybe our future selves will look back on all we had been at different points in our lives and judge the wiser. All in all, we find happiness wherever we do. (That reminds me of some stupid fortune cookie fortune Gay got once: wherever you go, there you are.)

Love,
Sol

=====

Lala,

In research, they call the likes of Mitzi as the Intensity Samples--they are usually the samples that get everything--and in this case, pretty much of everything that’s to be expected from a well-balanced pretty young lass with a brain and a good choice of friends to boot plus of course all those freebies...tangina these samples are usually the ones that all researchers would just love to document.

And from this point onwards, hindi ko na alam i-rationalize why you have to have an Intensity Sample as a friend and your urgent need to get everywhere and anywhere but here...

To my mind, you’d be what one would call as a Critical Sample because (Critical Samples are those that may directly and indirectly affect the results of any experiment)--damn it!--you’re probably the only person I know who’d tipped the scales in your favor any way you can if you had to. And judging from what I’ve heard and seen--I was even carried away, you see--you’d probably be out of this goddam country before I could count all the miserable blind dates out there.

In your own words, 24 ka na you can decide for yourself na. And while the decision to go away is there--the wherewithal isn’t--not yet, anyway. So if I were you I’d start to walk the talk so I can get enough from all the unsuspecting people who think I’m so great and fly off somewhere (preferably with their valuables, please).

I’m not good at this, I figured I can’t even fix my life so I can’t give you a crazy enough advise that would make you see the light. In fact when we get down to the basics, I’ve pretty much been hanging on everybody else’s life--yours to be specific and in particular--The Great Cherry Burster’s one-peso question...

Hay naku, if you really wanna be somewhere else, ask your Mom to sell your Mercedes!

Cheng

compost

2004-03-25T23:18:00.000+08:00

Who would have thought that a year later I would degenerate to such an extreme low that not even an attempt at faith could save me?

I’m dysfunctional. I am decaying. My teeth are rotting away, my hair is falling off, my eyesight is failing. I don’t even clean my nails anymore.

My weight is ballooning at the speed directly proportional to my depression and inversely proportional to my mental growth. I am stagnating, a walking dead.

I have mind-splitting headaches. I am ill, physically. I’m scarred, emotionally. And I am beat, mentally.

I’m not losing control. I have lost control. I’m free-falling, sucked in a vortex with nothing to cling to, nothing to expect but the bone-crushing thud of impact.

I am in limbo. Unfeeling, yet in pain.

alibi

2004-03-19T13:15:00.000+08:00

In one of my trips to Baguio (I love the city!!!), this time with my mother, I decided to explore the city alone. My mother was attending a seminar of some sort for women legislators and I had been cooped up in our hotel room for two days with only Ayn Rand’s “Fountainhead” for company. I only read the book (all ten million pages of it. Okay, I exaggerate. A little.) because a friend once told me that I remind her of Howard Roarke, the main character. Of course I got curious. A little.

And yes, Howard Roarke is a he. But that’s another story.

I forced myself to stop after five million pages, went out, walked, and had a grand time exploring the city market. I bought a canister of chocolate-covered mallows (the big one) and, in a little bookstore selling second hand books, a paperback of “Luann” comic strip. On the cover it said “Is It Friday Yet?” and a drawing of Luann barely carrying her school stuff. Boy, was she ugly.

It was love at first sight.

And so, there I was, very happy with my purchases and totally reinvigorated. Of course the Universe had to keep its balance. When I got back to the hotel I found out I was locked out and they couldn’t find the spare key.

When my mother arrived (and with her, the key), Luann and a very chocolate-covered-mallows full I were already the best of friends.

I remember this now because of this line from Luann: “You know what’s wrong about keeping a diary? You only have time to put things in it when you don’t have anything to put in it.”

And that, friends, is my convenient excuse for my sporadic blogging. Bear with me.

sellout

2004-03-16T13:10:00.000+08:00

The Philippine Daily Inquirer ran two editorials (Sellout and Sold Out) about this year’s Medical Board topnotcher who’s soon going to leave for the US as a nurse. The Inquirer called him a “sellout.” Members of my Ilang e-group have spoken passionately about the topic. This is my two-cents worth.

I was so overwhelmed by the passion by which it was greeted. Which is a good thing, it meant people care.

Then again, when a holier-than-thou points an accusing finger at you and even though you believe in your heart that you have nothing to feel guilty about but still feel a pang anyway, it's bound to face some serious opposition.

The contrast presented by the editorial was, to me, just two sides of the same coin. It talks of one universal fact: this is the country we inherited. And we, the youth, are being made to pay for their sins.

This is what I think: it's easy to demonize those who leave when one is doing it at the comfort of one's editorial office and one is getting paid for it.

It is easy to say that money is not everything when you have some of it in your pocket, and loads of it in the bank. Yes, money is not the be-all and end-all. But to a drowning man, a life-saver is the most precious of all.

I think the editorial was wrong: it's not just about money. Money is just a tool. It's about self-preservation, the most basic of existence. It's about grabbing that life-saver so that others won't have to drown, and if in the process you also save yourself, that is not a sin.

Finally, to paraphrase a line from a book the title of which escapes me now: who's to blame, the one who lights a candle to see through the night, or the one who created the darkness?

We have a right to be angry. We have a duty to do something about it.

singaporridge: episode 1

2004-03-09T23:00:00.000+08:00

I'm trying to tell you something about my life
Maybe give me insight between black and white
The best thing you ever done for me
Is to help me take my life less seriously
It's only life after all.

--"Closer To Fine"
Indigo Girls
A couple of years ago, I went through a phase which a dormmate in Kalayaan aptly coined "Quarter Life Crisis". I felt I was at a standstill, that nothing ever happens to me. It was then that I had the most number of creative output. I would write my thoughts down on table napkins, bubble gum wrappers, margins of my law books and cases, even the shavings of dermatographs that I use to highlight my reading materials with. Then I would transfer them to my journal, and send them out to friends as email, printout or photocopy. This was before I learned to blog, a corollary of having my very own iBook.

It is only now that I realize that I was documenting my existence. I needed to reassert that I was alive. I needed to be heard.

It was also then that I decided with Don Quixotesque zeal that I wanted to travel. I had no passport, no money and no prospects. I was, to put it mildly, in a tight fix. But I was also a Taurus, and a cornered bull at that. So with horns blazing, I got down to work.

The first test was how to get a passport. How I got one, on my own, without bothering anybody for help was a story in itself. When finally I held it in my hands, these lines kept playing inside my head, like a mantra:

ritualized

I got a driver’s license
but I don’t drive.

I got a college diploma
but I don’t work.

I got a passport
but I don’t travel.

The one teensy weensy detail that I kept pushing at the back of my mind now stared me in the face: I had no money. But I was a firm believer of Basil King: “Be bold, and the mighty forces will come to your aid.”

So after much maneuvering and diplomatic positioning, I found myself on a PAL flight to Singapore.

Sol picked me up at the airport. On my first day, after checking in at the backpacker's hotel Sol found for me (where I roomed with the freaking United Nations and played Charades with a cute Japanese who didn't know a word of English: he wanted to know if the chair next to mine on the moondeck was free. Now that I think about it, I'm not sure if he was asking if it was free or if it was FOR free. Whatever.), our first stop was the community library. (I could borrow everything I want? For free? Kill me!). I got "The Virgin Suicides" and a book by Praemodya Ananta Toer. (Sol earlier gave me her copy of "Vagina Monologues," I wonder what my roommates thought of the reading materials I left on my bed: "Virgin Suicides," "Vagina Monologues," "The King, The Priest, and The Witch.")

I had fun exploring the City alone. Sol was busy with her thesis. On my second day, after riding the MRT from end to end, I ended up in Borders, found a really cool collection of poetry books (haiku and stuff) and endless stretch of carpeted floor to slump on (ah, heaven!). It was there that I met Mary Oliver through the pages of her poetry book relaying the Universe’s message to me:

The Journey
by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

-the end-
(of the beginning)

attack of the clowns: singaporridge episode 2

2004-02-26T21:58:00.000+08:00

"You always tell me
that it's impossible
to be respected
and be a girl."
--Jewel
"Oh, for crying out sakes!"
--Tigger
I really shouldn't be doing this. I have Finals tomorrow. But if there's one thing I'm good at, it's procrastinating.

No violent reactions were posted re: Episode 1. It's either one of these things:

a) it was received warmly (hurray!)
b) you haven't checked your mail (you know who you are)
c) you checked, but skipped it altogether (I know who you are)
d) you checked, didn't skip, couldn't care less (my man!)

Given this myriad of choices, Lala's Law dictates that the most obvious explanation is the one that would tilt most favorably in your favor. Hence, here's Episode 2. A word of warning, though: this could sound like a pointless ranting of a raving lunatic.

=====
The next day, I was about to cross the street when I noticed someone smiling at me. I smiled back (wonders never cease!). Then the guy proceeded to do sign language. More like whole body language. It hit me then: it was the Jap from the moon deck, and he wanted a rematch. This time he wanted to know where the post office was. He made me lose my turn to cross. Thrice! He'd leave and then he'd come back (story of my life), as I was about to cross.

=====
That I could handle. But things became curiouser and curiouser. When Sol and I went to Johor Bahru, there was one incident right after getting off the bus that made me want to do a Gabriela Silang, complete with the itak and the murderous expression. A truck, with three Indians, stopped in front of me while Sol was taking my picture. They were shouting and doing obscene signs with their hands. It was doubly irritating because I thought I was the most unlikely candidate for that. I was willing to believe that people were just friendly. But I'm not stupid. And I know friendly from bastos. Sol tried to console me by saying: "Dito lang naman yan no (we were in Malaysia), di ka naman nagaganyan sa Singapore?" Hmm... let's see. No, in Singapore you get proposed to, a stranger kisses your hair, and one time, Sol even told me "Alam mo yon, minanyak ka ni Julian!" Julian used to be Junior's (Sol's husband) boss.

=====
It was the day after we spent the night at NUS. Sol was supposed to work on her thesis, I offered to stay up with her. Stayed up we did, all right, eating and talking and chatting and surfing the internet on NUS’ Graduate School Office. So the next day we were tired, drained, and just plain spaced out. We hailed a cab. The driver was Chinese. Sol told him to drop her off at Jurong East, then bring me to Bugis. A long drive. The driver complained. Sol and I talked in Tagalog. The driver kept butting in. In Tagalog! He'd say "Kumusta ka?", "Anong pangalan mo?"

"Naiintindihan kaya tayo ng mamang to?" I asked Sol. Sol was pissed. She lectured the driver on the impropriety of saying stuff like "Pwede ba kitang ilabas" and "Manood tayo ng sine." I found it funny then. But when Sol got off, I was no longer laughing. The driver told me: "If you want to marry a Singaporean ha, you come back and look for me ha."

Fuck!

I thought it was a solitary incident. But when we were at the Yacht Club and I went to the small convenience store to buy a film, the owner came up to me, grabbed one of my braids, kissed it, and told the group gathered there: "She so cute! I cut one, you cry?"

So it wasn't unfounded paranoia which drove Sol and I to run for our lives when, in the immigration on our way back to Singapore, a drunk Japanese smiled at me. We looked silly and stupid but we ran like the Four Horses of the Apocalypse were after us. "Aacckk!!! Japanese Occupation!"

I've learned one important lesson though: it's axiomatic: mapa-Intsik, Hapon, Indian, Pinoy (especially Pinoy), no provocation is needed. I used to think that when a girl gets catcalls, she's partly to blame. Maybe it's because of the way she dresses, or something she did. Now, I've had a complete paradigm shift: you can stand as stiff as a board, walk around in blankets, they will still harass you. And it's not your fault. it's theirs.

sol invictus: singaporridge episode 3

2004-02-24T21:52:00.000+08:00

"You taught me language
and my profit on't
Is, I know how to curse."
-- The Tempest, Shakespeare
(sol invictus singaporridge: episode 3 is the third of a series entitled singaporridge which I wrote as a kwento to friends about my (mis)adventures in--where else--Singapore.)

I have a big ego.

I have an ego that refused to be deflated by a 36-inch waistline, two major heartbreaks (both assholes, actually clones of each other, I hope they turn out gay, and by that I don't mean happy), and a series of minor ones.

It survived not getting into UP Law, and eventually getting kicked out of some other law school I didn't even want to enroll in in the first place (the feeling is comparable to being rejected by someone you were not even interested in).

No, I'm not bitter. I thank the Universe with all my heart for dealing me those crap and for making me a stronger person (now I can twist the cap off a 1-liter bottle of coke without having to shout "Darna!)".

I thank the Universe for all the pain and the suffering which would build my character and make me a better person. Platitudes, platitudes. (Hell, if I keep at this, I can actually believe myself.)

Back to my ego. God, it was huge. When I was in high school, it was the meanest, largest ego for miles around. Nothing came close. Then I went on to college, and I met Sol.

I've been talking about her since Episode 1. For those of you who already know Sol, let's humor her. For those of you who don't, count your blessings.

There are two Sols: the pre-Junior sol and the Sol-Junior sol.

The pre-Junior Sol was the one who taught me how to curse in style in two languages. She was the one whose curriculum vitae read: "Religion: Non-practicing Catholic." This, despite the fact that her name is Sol (sun) Dorotea (gift of god) Iglesias (church). She was the one who made the comic strip in the Kalayaan Newsletter that led to the Student Disciplinary Tribunal's decision to suspend 3 students' dormitory privileges in UP. She was the one who, if you ever committed the mistake of admitting that a particular guy's smile makes your knees wobble, would barf and give you a look that could send you to eternal damnation.

"Love moves in mysterious ways," so says Julia Fordham (baduy!). But that’s exactly how it happened. She met Junior (she went to the National University of Singapore on an exchange student program) and she transmogrified. Email was alien to me then. She coerced me to open an e-mail account. I did. Had I known that she'd bombard me with mushy and cheesy stuff, well, I’d still open an email account. Example: "But I still will not trade for anything the simple pleasure of feeling his fingers laced with mine, or the weight of his body against my back when we sleep. It'll be tough to sleep alone from now on, to eat alone, to dream alone."

Ay, sweet. Hehe. Then she'd p.s., as an afterthought: "Btw, hymen's still intact."

Did i mention she was crazy?

That was four years ago.

I take my hats off to Sol, not only because she's a girl genius (she does caricatures, makes hamsters out of clay, paints, writes, does voicing a la "Everything But The Girl," plays the piano, and--tantaran!-- solves the Rubik's Cube in 5 minutes flat. All these while finding Mr. Right along the way and graduating Magna Cum Laude from UP. And oh, she knows how to pick friends who could lie through their teeth. Hehe. In college we called ourselves the "Major Bullshitters"). She’s a girl after my own heart, she knew what she wanted and she had the fucking courage to go after it. She was 22 when, after a year of lugging a broken heart around, she decided to go back to Singapore to confront her DENSITY, the very same one who broke her heart. Had Oprah heard of their love story, they’d be on the first plane to Chicago. It’s the kind that you'd be proud to tell your grandchildren about. And for me, an irrefutable proof that the four-letter-word still exists, contrary to all appearances notwithstanding.

They're based in Singapore. they dive every weekend (swimming in the ocean of love) and swing from the chandeliers every night (except when they fight, then they just hang). Sol is finishing her Masters at NUS, Junior's with Apple Computers. They're sweet (the kind that could give you a toothache). She calls him bear, he calls her bunny. One time, Junior picked me up from the train station wearing a funny-looking cap with bear ears. "See my cap? Sol made this."

They're probably the coolest couple I know (they have an iPod. Hahaha!!!). the kind of couple i want to be when I grow up (yes I know, I won't be a couple and I won't grow up).

That’s Sol. Invictus.

=====
"No, I'm not pretty. But I'm cute!" -- SOL

a day in the life of belisa crepusculario

2003-12-02T21:49:00.000+08:00

The air was thick with tension, and when her name was called, Belisa Crepusculario felt nausea rise up in her throat. All the others heaved a sigh of relief. To them, the sound of her name was a temporary reprieve, like a drowning man's gasp of air after being held down in the water for so long.

Belisa stood up, an offering to appease the gods.

"What is a complete instrument under Section 52?", the voice roared.

Belisa replied, "A complete instrument is an instrument which does not lack any material terms..."

The voice cut her off before she could finish. "What did you say!" the voice exploded, "does not lack?!?" The voice was livid. Belisa nodded an assent. This agitated the voice even more. "Is that a sentence?!?"

Belisa was bewildered. She felt disoriented, like a sailor who all of a sudden capsized when she had been floating smoothly on peaceful waters. The voice pointed a finger at Belisa, and it felt like looking through the barrel of a gun. Her first instinct was to duck, then she realized it was ludicrous. She held her ground. She repeated her sentence. The voice thundered, almost bursting an artery in the process. "You are about to graduate!" Suddenly, Belisa was consumed by a violent rage. She lost her patience. She felt violated at the injustice and the absurdity of the situation. She thought, how dare this creature lecture me on how to construct a sentence. I am Belisa Crepusculario, I earn my living selling words. She snapped, "It's a double negative." Her voice was defiant, daring him to challenge what she had just said. The voice seemed taken aback, momentarily. He stared uncomprehendingly at Belisa, then, with the same hubris that brought down gods and civilizations, he fired.

Belisa held her head up. And waited.

tall order

2003-04-24T22:47:00.000+08:00

My three-year old cousin Miggy showed me his favorite shirt. We were in the living room of their new home. His toys were strewn all over the floor, the sofa, the spare bedroom, even the kitchen.

I love my Doctor!, the shirt read.

"This is my favorite shirt."

I read it out loud.

"And who's your doctor, Miggy?"

"Mommy!"

"Right, because your Mommy's also your doctor. How about Daddy? Is he a doctor, too?"

"No, he's an engineer."

"Very good! How about you? What do you want to be when you grow up?"

This seemed to puzzle him, he pondered for a minute, then he said: "Very tall!"

Indeed!

piss be with you

2002-12-19T22:43:00.000+08:00

I am fucking pissed. I'm stuck here in Manila til Christmas because we have to rearrange the apartment (I'm moving to the smaller room alone), and Rochie's wedding is on the 28th. That means not seeing my pamangkin Yuan for Christmas and travelling to Vigan on the 26th alone, and suffering my gown (which would be too tight, I'm sure) for hours. Pen is in Zamboanga. I know it's unreasonable for me to require him to go with me.

What pisses me off is, when I was happily single, I knew I'd go alone. I had no problem with that. This whole boyfriend thing is shitty. I had just finished half a gallon of Super-Chocolate-and-Cookies-and Cream ice cream with Mitzi (Andre is in New York).

The only thing I'm looking forward to right now is Mommy's Noche Buena (I invited myself over at Cheng's for Christmas).

Shit. Shit. Shit. I need half a roll of chocolate cake.