Of Lattes & Lights 2008

Things I Would Like To Say To Motorcycle Drivers

09 December 2008 – Ah yes, the Motorcycle Morons. Husband Dear, who takes a scooter to work, is not included in this roster, even though I don’t know how he behaves on the road when he’s on his “ride.” Judging from the way he defends and rationalizes the movements of his so-called “brethren,” he’s probably as annoying as the next guy, but I am not in the mood to pick a fight.

I also don’t mind so much those who have the big bikes, the richie-rich types who, in fairness, actually follow road rules (it helps that their bikes are practically the size of cars, I guess).

I mean those with puny motorcycles just a notch above a bicycle, those who cruise the road no doubt feeling like Evil Knievil but look every bit like ants gallivanting on top of… well, much bigger ants.

Apart from the requisite curse words and insults, i.e. ****ngina mo, **yop ka, which I have on many occasions hurled at them while driving, if given the opportunity to sit down and talk to them, I would say:

1. You know those white lines on the road? Those are there to separate what are called lanes. Those are NOT motorcycle lanes. Stay between two, not ON one.

2. A red light means ‘STOP,’ not ‘Go ahead to the front of the line, no one’s moving anyway.’

3. If someone inside a car maintains movement within those white lines called lane separators, even as you attempt to move in front of him, you have NO RIGHT to get mad. You’re in the wrong, not him/her.

4. A car reverberating with the hiphop bass line looks cool for some folks. If you prefer really loud surround sound, GO GET A CAR.

5. Sidewalks are for pedestrians, NOT you.

6. Wear a helmet, a protective jacket, leg or knee pads and proper shoes. Tsinelas (slippers) make you look unsafe, idiotic, and poor.

7. Get an extra helmet for the wife/girlfriend/child/buddy riding with you. They’re extra moronic for getting on that thing with you, but stupidity does not deserve death. Yet.

8. You can write an S with a pen on paper, with a permanent marker or paint on a wall, with lipstick on a mirror. You can even write an S on wet cement using a stick. You CANNOT write an S with your wheels on the road.

9. You know those uniformed folks in the middle of the road making weird, crazy hand gestures? You should FOLLOW them.

10. A baby seat/basket for motorcycles is a dumb*** idea. Why? Because it’s TOO DANGEROUS TO LET THEM RIDE MOTORCYCLES IN THE FIRST PLACE.

No Tears

08 December 2008 – My paternal grandmother, Rafaela Cruz Vicente, passed away on December 1, 2008, after a few weeks of staying in the hospital for pneumonia. She was 96 years old.

No tears here, only relief. I saw her only once at the hospital, and what I saw I would not wish on the worst person in the world. She was still the feisty woman I knew, but she did little to conceal her suffering. I wouldn’t want to be 96 and bedridden after decades of long, hard, tedious work, looking after 5 boys plus a restaurant to match.

That day I saw for the last time, she was lying on her hospital bed, fighting to take in each breath. She asked me about my mother, and told me she wanted so badly to see her. I called Mama up right then and there, not really caring that it was the wee hours of the morning where she was. They talked for a few minutes.

That was how I said goodbye.

I sang at her funeral, and it wasn’t all that great. I shed a couple of tears, but only because she will no longer be around. The tears were selfish. Mostly, I was happy because she will no longer suffer, and she has finally joined her husband after more than 2 decades of separation.

Goodbye, Lola Peleng, and thank you. I will be sure to tell Tala about you.

The Folks at Starbucks 6750

20 November 2008 – This is a special show of appreciation for the collective crew over at Starbucks 6750. For the past year and couple of months, I have been holing up at the 6750 building, working on Chevron’s Project Olympic. Ever since I started, Starbucks 6750 has been the primary stop for me right after I park the car.

I’m a coffee junkie, yes. This blog is not called Of Lattes and Lights for nothing. I like to have my trusty Winston Lights packed in a silver case embossed with stars, and I like my iced venti nonfat 3-Equal latte, both within my short arm’s reach, particularly when I am in front of the computer writing or when I’m reading the day’s paper.

At Starbucks 6750, they have memorized my order, they make my coffee exactly the way I want it all the time, they know my name, they know where I work, and they are aware that I am coming out with a book. Hell, they even know my daughter’s name.

The people there are masters of customer service, from the baristas who never fail to ask me how my book is going to the security guard to whom I hand the newspaper after I’m done. Friendly, perennially smiling, and they never let you go without a ‘have a nice day.’ Considering that I am a non-morning person who wakes up at 5 everyday in order to avoid the godawful traffic between my house and my office, this kind of greeting is priceless.

There are other Starbucks branches all over the metro. God knows they pop up like mushrooms. But this one, the original one, is the one I like the best.

Schmucks on the Road

This shouldn’t come as a surprise, as the very definition of a Pinoy driver won’t be complete unless the word ‘reckless’ is included. Vehicle drivers all over the world are afraid of the Pinoy ‘draybe’ or ‘tsuper.’ Hell, even as I try my best to stay on my lane all the time and overtake properly and wear my seatbelt and not use my mobile (I did say TRY), I won’t dare say that I am a safe driver. Why? Because I’m Pinoy!

But for the past few days, I have had the ironic pleasure of encountering absolute schmucks on the road, magnifying the abovementioned reality to a whole new level. Sure, in more than ten years of driving I’ve alternated between annoyance and apathy when it comes to Metro Manila driving. But this week was extra… there’s no other word to describe it… BWISET!

Check these out:

16 November 2008 – Tala and I were driving down C5 on our way to a garage sale at Good Friend Suzi’s house in Paranaque when a white BMW with a Congressperson’s #8-plate in front (real plates PMF 780 at the back) came careening down the somewhat-packed highway, criss-crossing its way to its destination, not really giving a good ***damn that other vehicles also contained people who probably had someplace equally important to go to.

17 November 2008 – This wasn’t a driving issue. As I waited for the MAPSA guy to signal my lane’s turn to turn left into Makati Avenue, I saw the driver of a San Mig Light truck bend down and reach for something on the floor, slow down a bit as he crossed the MAPSA guy, and hand over something to him (I think it was a pack of cigarettes; at least I hope that was all it was). I wouldn’t want to make assumptions, but it was only 10am at this time and… well, aren’t trucks not allowed on the road before 11am? You figure it out.

18 November 2008 – So I turned right into Buendia Avenue from EDSA early in the morning, but not early enough for the lanes to be clear. Some guy in an ugly, rinkydink old dark gray Sentra with plate number PJB 837 kept insisting on making the three-lane road four-way, and since I was in the middle of those white lines signifying lane separation, I wouldn’t let him. This resulted in our side mirrors kissing each other, but I still got my way. Suddenly, the Schmuck Who Couldn’t Afford a Newer Car cut a passenger FX on his right and turned a sharp left to cut me off. I spotted a clear left-most lane, and – was turning in that direction anyway, so I moved there, placing my slightly-dirty-but-still-better-than-his vehicle beside him. I gave him the dirtiest glare I could muster at this time of the morning, which was most likely quite scary, as many have oft told me that they cower in fear when I glare.

Schmuck Who Had No Manners cut me off there, too (later he went straight instead of left) and stopped in front of me for a few seconds, despite the vehicles in front of him inching forward. I remember thinking, is he looking for a fight? He can’t handle me, I’m a mother!

He obviously left his balls at home with Mommy because he moved forward as I threatened to open my door (I was really going to get down and give him a piece of my mind). Cowardly fool. He’s my favorite of all the schmucks in this story (read: he’s the biggest ***hole this side of the planet).

19 November 2008 – Not one, but two rental cars (the kind you use from the airport or a hotel) – one yellow Sentra with plate numbers TYN 324 and one silver Sentra with plates TYC 751 – zigged and zagged through north-bound EDSA, as though their passengers were having heart attacks or aneurisms. If I had been their passenger I would probably have ended up in a hospital due to a nervous breakdown.

Dreaming of Jouel

08 September 2008 – I finally saw Good Friend Jouel in a dream. We were on the Rizal Mini Theater stage, and it looked like we were on the production set of Waiting for Godot. He was seated on a wooden box, smoking, with a thick, yellow spotlight over him. I was walking around the stage in darkness.

“Di nga ako nakarating e,” he said, taking a puff out of the cigarette that didn’t seem to burn away. I was walking from stage left to right and stopped right in front of him.

“Di ka nakapunta… Sa cremation mo?” I asked in that incredulous, are-you-screwing-with-me voice I often used on him.

“Oo e,” came the reply.

“Kung di ka ba naman gago,” I said.

“Sabi ko nga rin.”

And then the lights faded, and somehow in my sleep, I knew I was dreaming. I refused to wake up, willing a second scene, something that involved something more poignant and less vulgar, I guess, but it didn’t come.

That was it.

Call Me Chismosa

23 August 2008 – Overheard at the female bathroom at Pier One at The Fort. Two youngsters dressed in face towels were carefully touching up their faces, most likely to hide any trace of drunkenness.

Girl 1: “I hate posers!”
Girl 2: “Yuck!”
Girl 1: “Nung berrrday nya my Ghahd ang suot nya ang pangeeet!”
Girl 2: “Ano suot nya?”
Girl 1: “Di ba pag naka-boots ka dapat suot mo skeenee jheans? E yung suot nya BOOTLEG.”

Some questions:

1. Ouch. I was wearing bootleg jeans because I was wearing boots. Weren’t bootleg jeans created because of boots?
2. What did bootleg jeans worn with boots have to do with being a poser?
3. Why did Girl 2 react so negatively so immediately without knowing what exactly the subject was wearing?

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

07 June 2008 – It’s 9:05am on a Saturday morning and I’m at the waiting lounge of Clinica Manila in Megamall, waiting for the doctor who’s supposed to give me my pap smear.

I woke up early on a weekend to make it here early. All other tests, because they are administered by technicians and not doctors, are done. I’m not getting this for free. I am paying them to poke at my body through the Maxicare account for which I am billed 8 grand every quarter. I spend my hard-earned money, and that of my husband’s, to give them the privilege of touching me.

And they make me wait.

This is nothing new. I had a similar experience with the doctors at Medical City a few months back when Tala got sick. A simple blood test took us 4 hours.

Just now I overheard a conversation between a hungry patient (she wasn’t allowed to eat the night before) and hospital staff. The patient’s been waiting for a doctor to perform some test on her, and this doctor is the only one who can do this test.

Doctors really feel they’re God’s gift to mankind, don’t they? Okay, so they took years and tons of money to get to where they’re at, but again so did I and a million other people in the world. Our lives were not easy either. Besides, it’s not as if we’re asking for their favor. We are paying patients. We give them our money to perform medical services. They are hired too. So what makes their time more precious than mine? Do they actually think people enjoy sitting around their alcohol-smelling waiting areas doing nothing but stare at their phones or rant at the hours of their lives lost? Do they think people would prefer hanging out at their clinics instead of spending quality time with their children and families?

Perhaps when their day comes, their arrogance will come back to bite the ass. Perhaps one day an arrogant doctor would somehow find himself in need of a cop whom he’d kept waiting before. And perhaps that cop would finally get his revenge.

Believe in karma, docs. Karma sucks when you’re at the wrong end.

Not Interested

06 June 2008 – Sitting at Starbucks 6750 once again, waiting for Tati to finish his coverage of a rally in front of my office building, which has been closed and barricaded as a huge horde of 30 people and 2 trucks park at the side of the Glorietta 3 circle and shout cliches over a makeshift sound system.

“We’re tired of working!” they scream. Work? I didn’t know that standing on the street and shouting expletives and insults at a building can be called work. I guess if you are funded to cause commotion or disrupt normal activity then you can consider it work.

“Join us! We sympathize you!” Crap. If you truly sympathized with me you would go away and leave me in peace so I could do the work I’d been hired to do, which is to write. You know what? My kind of work requires quiet. Unlike some people, my kind of work requires thinking. And who could think amid all this noise?

“The price of gas is too high!” Then why travel all the way from provinces in trucks?! I’m seriously contemplating using the MRT again, splicing our home menu, stopping the use of our airconditioner, taking a second and third job, moving to another country for better income, all just to adjust to soaring prices. Personally, I think these concrete steps would help me a hell of a lot more than listening to your stupid, senseless noise.

“Lower prices!” Tell that to that dude, the one who invented the free market. If you lower prices do you think your lives would be better? Do you think it would raise your salaries? How naive can you get?

“Lower taxes!” I have the right to complain about taxes because I actually pay taxes. Do you? I doubt it.

“We want to live decent lives!” And shouting on the street makes you decent? Carrying flags and riding trucks make you decent? Standing in the sun and soaking up stinky sweat make you decent? Acting like idiots for all the tv-watching world to see is decent?

Have I turned mainstream? I don’t think so. I just believe that everything starts with the self. I can’t blame the government, capitalist structures, or even my parents all the time for all my woes. I have to take responsibility and own up at some point, right?

Want to change the world? Try doing it in private. Start at home. And for God’s sake, stop posing for the media cameras.

Go away. Go home. Fix your children, your families, your lives, your futures. Leave me be to fix mine.

For Jouel

27 April 2008
Subic, Zambales

Dear Tita Lulu, Tito Mike, Ate Luchi, and Papis,

I apologize for not being able to attend this memorial service for Jouel. He had passed on the first official day of my vacation, which was spent in Batangas with my husband and daughter. His service is being held on the last official day of my yearly break, which is also being spent now in Subic, again with my husband and daughter.

While I grieve for a very good, dear friend, I also know that he would have been the first to say, “Pamilya yan. Kung nasan ang mahal mo sa buhay, nandun ka dapat.”

We have known each other for the past 15 years of our lives, and the main thing I know of Jouel is that he has always placed a high premium on family. As an observer and a participant in his crazy life, I have seen him transform every single one of his relationships into that of what family should be:

• He considered us, his friends, his brothers and sisters.
• He would introduce his teachers and mentors as his second, third, fourth “Mommy” or “Daddy.”
• Older friends were always called Kuya or Ate.
• Members of his volleyball team, no matter how long ago they graduated from high school, were lovingly referred to as “anak.”

And because he valued family so much, everything he did and said reflected that. Just yesterday morning, I went head to head with my daughter Tala over the subject of breakfast. I know that her lolo, lola, and tita, not wanting her to miss the opportunity to enjoy the beach, must have wanted me to give in and allow her to go even without finishing her food.

I remained unfazed, remembering Jouel and his strict application of discipline. Who among his volleyball players would come up now and tell us that he did not give them hell on the court? I had thought: Jouel would have been the first to support me 100% on this issue. He would have told Tala, who is his inaanak, “Sino pa didisiplina sa yo kundi yung taong walang kundisyon ang pagmamahal sa yo?”

That was Jouel. When he decides to embrace you as his friend, he also decides to embrace you, unconditionally, as a member of his very big family. And with that comes anything and everything that a family shares:

• From hurtful words to loving embraces
• Scowls and frowns to smiles and grins
• From arguing over the purchase of two pairs of similar-looking pants (hindi pa rin ako natitinag, Jouel, hindi talaga magkapareho yung mga pantalon) to singing mushy love songs in the car (Concert Series forever! Fools till the end!)
• From Sweet Inspi in Katipunan, to Starbucks on Emerald Avenue, to Morong, Bataan
• Xavierville III, 12th Street in New Manila, Calderon in Project 4, Mira Nila Homes, to Atrium Street
• Randy Santiago, Mike Flores, Ina Raymundo and Sheryl Cruz
• SM Megamall to Robinsons Novaliches
• Norman’s visit after a ten-year disappearance
• Sudden grammar-checks by phone
• Chismis sessions, pregnancy, birth, baptism, family dinners… to mourning

As a friend, almost-bride (Tito Mike, hindi talaga kami talo ng anak niyo – hehehe!), and some-time chauffeur, I would certainly miss Jouel, whom I have come to consider in the past 15 years as my brother. Even as I cry now, writing this, I can almost see his face, turning from bungisngis to frowning in the blink of an eye, scolding me for shedding tears. This is then that I remember one of his favorite songs, which goes:

Think of Laura, but laugh, don’t cry. I know she’d want it that way.

Tito, Tita, Ate Luchi, Papis – thank you so very much for sharing Jouel with us, his friends, his extended family.

And to you, KUYA Jouel (you are older than me, after all), I say thank you for 15 years of laughter, tears, insanity, chika and treasured memories. Uel, Hanneh, I am deeply grateful that you embraced me as your friend. The last time I saw you was a few days before Tala’s birthday, and you were all happy and beaming then.

For once, and finally, I agree with you: that should be enough.

Fool Till the End

19 April 2008 – It was high noon, at 12:07, on the beachfront, when I found out that one of my closest friends in the whole wide world, Jouel, Tala’s “fairy godmother,” passed away the night before. There I was, in my swimsuit, clutching the phone, talking to his brother Papis, and bawling my eyes out and screaming right in front of my husband’s family. It was all Tatay could do to comfort me. Talaga tong si Jouel, hanggang sa kahuli-hulihan, nagawa pang pahiyain ako bilang pamamalaam.

We were introduced in our first year of college by common friends, but we became close during what Good Friend Arwee called my “Conniva days,” when I supposedly chose to hang out with people outside of my regular circle of friends. That was then that Jouel and I became inseparable, and eventually he became friends with Arwee and the gang. When we graduated from college, we went to the same place for our first jobs.

We got so terribly close that whenever I would go over to his house, he would simply tell me to go straight up to his room even if he had only taken a shower and was still in nothing but a towel. His father even told us we might as well just get married. He lived all the way in Novaliches, and I would take him home after a night of youthful shenanigans, and he would always remind me to send him a text message, or back when we had no cellphones, call him, when I got home just so he would know that I got home safe.

We had TGIF nights with Coffee Companions T9 and Sanya, a thing we did not only on Fridays but any night of the week for as long as we got together at Friday’s in El Pueblo. We were there so often that we even had our own favorite server, Alex (damn, I still remember his name). We hardly had any money but we had good times over a bottle of beer each and a shared order of fries.

In the car we would always sing (he was excellent at providing harmony), and it was always the same song, Fool Till the End by Gary V. It was one of his favorite songs, and the lyrics just made him cry all the time.

Show me, tell me, how do we put this love aside?
Put it away for another time, with no guarantee that you will be mine
A fool I am it seems, for I’ll be loving you in my dreams
Until I wake up, and I find out, that time ain’t our friend
You know I’ll just stay a fool till the end

There was this one time that we had a very big and serious fight over a silly thing: 2 pairs of pants that I bought at the same at Penshoppe. He got so very mad at me that he ended up saying “balang araw hihirap ka rin.” That was Jouel. He is the most caring person you will ever come across, but thou shalt not cross him, else suffer his wrath and acidic tongue. We made up several months after that, which only proved that our friendship was deep and strong enough to survive hurtful words. As a matter of fact, hurtful words had become a requirement.

Humirap na nga ako talaga, Uel. I am now much, much poorer a person because you are no longer in my life.

Over time, we kind of drifted apart, rendered busy by all the other things in life that make us ever so worried and concerned. I had a baby, and he was one of the first people I knew should be in the list of Tala’s godparents. We even shared that affectionate joke: Tala has ninongs, ninangs, and Jouel was her one and only “fairy godmother.”

I’ve been told that he had been in the hospital since April 1, and that he had given strict instructions not to tell anyone about it. He was placed in ICU last week. On the night that he passed, Tatay and I had talked about him very briefly. In hindsight, I think maybe he was saying goodbye then.

Sitting on the sand, my eyes swollen and almost numb from crying, my head throbbing, I just thought about how angry I was at him. I was so angry that I did not know he was in the hospital, so angry that I was not aware of him suffering so badly. But he was really the kind of person who did not want anyone to be bothered.

20 April 2008 – I cut my Batangas trip short, leaving my daughter behind with her grandparents, so Tatay and I could drive to Novaliches to say goodbye the proper way. Jouel was cremated yesterday, right after he was released from the hospital, so I never got to see him one last time. I supposed that was the way he wanted it. He’s always said “ayoko makita ng tao na pangit ako.” He did not want a wake, and he did not want to be viewed. Good Friend Sanya said even lying there, his head was turned a little to the side, as if refusing to be looked at.

This afternoon we got to his house, a place I could have driven to with my eyes closed in the past. I held his marble urn in my arms, giving him a big, long, final hug. All the anger I felt yesterday – the anger at the fact that I should have known, the anger at him not reaching out to me, and most of all, the anger that he deprived me of the opportunity to prove that I love him and that I am his friend – disappeared. I just wanted to hold him in my arms and let him know all the things I wanted him to know.

Uel, hanneh, no matter what you may have felt or thought in your life, you were LOVED. I loved you. I love you.

Discrimination

11 April 2008 – I’ve known and felt discrimination ever since I was 10 years old, even if I have never lived (as in studied or worked for a much-extended period of time) in a country apart from my own. As a child I grew up an almost-lone true-blooded Filipino in a school of mixed ethnicities. As a young adult I learned what difficulties being young and female can bring to a career. I’ve grown up fighting, and I’ve always sworn against discrimination. I’ve always told myself that I embrace people as individuals, regardless of race, age, gender, and whatever else.

But I’ve recently realized that I am, in some ways, a proponent of that which I hated most. I’m not only a victim.

Voluntarily or involuntarily I brace to protect myself physically or otherwise whenever in the company of strangers. I make judgments based on appearances and speech. Consciously or not I fall prey to first impressions. I prefer certain “categories” of people over others.

Worst of all, I do tend to think of myself as better than most.

So, despite the fact that I despise you to the very core of my being, that I hate your guts, that I think you are a self-important son of a female dog, that I think I’m much more intelligent than you will ever be, that I think I can beat you to a measly pulp even if you are 2 and a half rulers taller than I am… I thank you.

I thank you for this one bit of self-realization that I have achieved as a result of roughly 2 and a half months of your existence in my world.

Thank you. Now go back to your motherland and ruin someone else’s days.

Travelin’ Through

05 April 2008 – I know of this guy who, after years of work and constant travel around the world as management consultant, decided to finish off one of his projects on the road. Literally. Up until the last workdays of December last year, he was with us in the Manila offices of Chevron. When he rolled of the project, Robb and his wife Wendy flew to Singapore, met up with their huge and impressive motorcycle, and up to now have been on a country-to-country trek back to Hollywood, California, where they actually live.

It’s reminiscent of the retirement plan Tati and I have for ourselves, except maybe less glamorous and/or dangerous. Tatay and I want to travel together to places we have never been (much more difficult to figure out now than before, but I’m sure we’ll manage that), and write a book about the many different cultural experiences we would share. He would take the pictures and I would write the words. Sounds cool, huh?

Yup, that would indeed be so much fun, if we could somehow manage for it to come true. I say we’ve got a few more years, and hopefully when that time comes, when Tala is ready to take on the real world on her own (we could even take her if she wants), when there’s just the two of us again, we would have enough cahones to just up and do it. Like Robb and Wendy.

Ah, the dreams of a little, hardworking girl who is landlocked once again.

One Helluva Night

16 March 2008 – I had the most awesome night last night after God only knows how many years, and it’s thanks to this wonderful little watering hole over in Malate called The Oarhouse.

This place is frequented by Tatay’s friends and colleagues, most of whom were either friends of mine back when I was still a lifestyle writer for The Manila Times, or have become “friends-in-law” over time. The Oarhouse has a kind of Cheers-ish feel to it, albeit a bit less wholesome (and when I’m not with Tala I’m averse to wholesome, so this is a compliment).

When I open that door with an oar for a handle and step into the intimate, 5-table establishment, I get a sense of familiarity all around. There would inevitably be someone in there whom I know, most likely Good Friend Ben, who is as commonplace at The Oar as the bar that stretches from the door to the end, on which you would see him seated, nursing a cold bottle of San Miguel. Even the people I don’t know would have welcoming smiles on their faces, as opposed to those commercial establishments and popular haunts where it is discouraged to make eye contact unless you intend to bring some stranger home at the end of a drunken evening.

The Oar, while having its share of ups and downs in years past, stories to which I am barely privvy, also has a Cheers-ish story in its recent history, which I love to tell. The place actually had to close down in January, due to issues of sustainability. But it didn’t remain closed for more than a couple of weeks, as Oarhouse regular RegMan and his partners took it upon themselves to keep it alive. That’s how special The Oarhouse is.

So last night, 5 days after my actual 33rd birthday, I celebrated with a jam at The Oarhouse. Classmate Pacoy gallantly lent me his guitar-playing prowess and accompanied me onstage. RegMan, now Oarhouse owner/manager and a friend from eons of years ago, opened his doors and even arranged for a sound system for our big birthday jam. Friends from school, my former office, and my current colleagues came by to watch. Tati’s and sister-in-law Seiko’s friends also came for moral support.

I hadn’t done this in a long time, and I was pretty nervous. But in the past few weeks I had been thinking about how much I love singing, and how much I missed performing in front of people. Playing at The Oar was Tatay’s idea; he’d most likely gotten sick and tired of me making my wistful declarations.

One shot of brandy, one bottle of beer, and a couple of songs later, I began to loosen up, and it was just pure, unadulterated FUN. I had had gigs in recent past, but mostly in weddings and private functions where friends and familiar faces were rare. Bar gigs have their own attraction in that you can invite people you know, plus you can smoke, drink, and curse all through the set without some haughty organizer or mother of the bride getting insulted.

Another lovely thing about bar gigs is that you can sing songs you actually like singing. Pacoy and I bust out our favorites – Long Train Running, Mustang Sally, Come Together, Chain of Fools, to name a few – and despite no rehearsal, awkward endings, lost lyrics and even the occasional odd note, we managed to give the audience a good time while enjoying the whole two hours ourselves.

Now THAT’S what I would call COOL.

Thank you, Pacoy, for your generosity and talent. Thank you, RegMan, Reggie, Ben, Anabel, Andy, and Wilson, for opening the doors of The Oarhouse to new folk, and to us, to me. Greatly appreciate it. Sa uulitin.

Stream of consciousness over coffee at Starbucks 6750 at half past 6 in the morning

02 March 2008 – If St. Augustine is right, then I’ve only barely read the foreword of this great novel called The World. I long to travel, to see places I’ve never seen, experience cultures and traditions other than my own, and mingle with people whose lives are so much more different than mine.

It has never been a hassle for me to pack my things in preparation for a trip. If anything, I found it exciting, the first step in a series of unfamiliar ones. I would carefully lay down my things on the bed before strategically placing them inside my travel bag. I would even repeat the process a few times, imagining what my days would be like far from home. I’d ask myself all sorts of questions: what if it got cold, or what if it snowed, or does it snow there? Eventually I’d end up with the same contents as I’d originally come up with, but it’s always been about the process.

The last time I traveled out of the country on vacation was 5 years ago, to Bogor, Indonesia. It was a beautiful place, the resort we stayed at, the name of which I can’t recall now. I do remember that it was about 3 hours from Jakarta, and being away from the city was all I needed, considering that what I saw of Jakarta was nothing different from what I see everyday in Manila. I remember the place having lush gardens, and the rhythmic sounds of geckos, although horrifying, proved the authenticity of the plants around me. The room I stayed in was very luxurious, with a spacious bathroom and a balcony that looked out to even more lush gardens and mountains. I scheduled massages every night that I was there; that was perhaps my single grandest purchase in Indonesia.

It was perfect for reflective thought, something that my 28-year old self was, at the time, not in the mood for. I was busy relishing my diva-ness at this point in my life; no wonder God jolted me with the responsibility of a child not too long afterwards.

That wasn’t the last time I’ve ridden a plane, but it was the last time I rode a plane for more than an hour, and with a stopover at that. I look back at all the traveling I did before Tala came, and now I wish I could go back to that time but with her, so that she can share the experience with me. I love it when we go somewhere and afterwards, going home, she would tell me stories of what we had just done, reliving the fun she just had. And then, if Tatay had not been able to be with us, she would recount and relive everything again, word for word, to him in the evening.

If there’s one thing in the world that I would love to do now, it would be to travel with my daughter and experience things with her. How I wish I had the capability, not to show her the world as I have not seen enough of it to, but instead to share it with her, to experience what the world has to offer together.

Sadly, I have no such fortune to spend on this luxury.

A Pleasant Surprise

29 February 2008 – This morning, as I was checking my personal email, I came upon a really pleasant surprise. I received an email from one of my students from goFluent, an amicable fellow named Philippe. He was one of those who were very enjoyable to work with and speak with: he always did his work, took our lessons seriously, and was open about his personal life (we were often told to be careful about asking our students about their personal lives as most of them preferred to keep private things… well, private).

He began his email by saying that he assumes I don’t remember him. Well, of course I do! As I’ve said, he was very friendly and I liked working with him. And then he goes on to say that he goes to my website often and reads my stuff (check this out: he has Talacious Conversations on PDF and reads it, possibly on the train or on the plane). He even asked about the Multiply blog that died, and wanted to know if I had it up somewhere else. Isn’t that sweet? I emailed him back and gave him my Multiply address.

He also asked about my “novel,” which jolted me back to my reality and why I have not gone beyond the 20- or 30-plus pages I have written so far (see? I haven’t gone back to it in such a long time that I don’t even know how many pages I’ve consumed!). I said that the novel is still “a work in progress.” Translation: I haven’t written in ages and I am going through some weird writer’s block… or I’ve just been busy. Lazy, more like.

But the point is that he remembered, and I can now officially say that I have a reader somewhere in Europe, even if he’s probably the only one (which I doubt; I shamelessly advertised myself to my students back when I was still an English trainer. I can most likely say, though, that he’s the only one who reads me on a regular basis).

It’s only now that I get it, what teachers say about being a teacher. It’s not so much what you teach them; it’s more of what you share. Teaching is a give-and-take thing, and you learn just as much as (if not more than) they do. It is, indeed, heartwarming to know that there are people out there, outside of your own personal little world of family and friends and colleagues, whose lives you have touched, and whether you know it or not, who have touched your life as well.

People like Philippe, those who are open to friendship and willing to share, remind me that this truly is what life is all about. After all, when you are long gone, all that you will have left in this world are memories. And no super power or currency can beat that.

Merci beaucoup, Philippe, for making me smile today.

My Old Man and the Grease Man

24 February 2008 – You would think that the 6750 area in Makati would be devoid of street bums. After all, the place is filled with men and women in blue, as every single establishment in the area seems to have their own security guards. Not to mention the numerous policemen roaming the place on foot and in various types of vehicles.

At lunchtime last Friday, I decided to treat myself to a nice lunch. I crossed the street from my building to UCC Cafe on the rotonda, my taste buds longing for something less rich in taste yet more expensive than the regular P58 meal I have at the fourth floor cafeteria. I had tucked under my arm a book, determined to spend my whole hour thawing under the sun, as my insides were beginning to feel like ice cream, having been stuck in my winter-weather office all morning.

So there I was, lounging at my chosen table under a UCC umbrella, waiting for my chicken and mushroom risotto, reading My Old Man by Amy Sohn, focusing on not vomiting as the main character of the story, a 26 year old female rabbi wannabe turned bartender, recounted a sado-masochistic encounter with her 51 year old author lover in the boiler room of his apartment. I had recently gotten back to reading (obviously, given my renewed penchant for multisyllabic words, long- winded phrases, commas, and run-on sentences), and my old habits have come back, including shutting the world out and biting my fingernails as I voraciously devoured the words on the pages. I wouldn’t have noticed a fly on my food, let alone what happened afterwards.

Suddenly, a thin, greasy arm shot into my periphery, darting an equally dirty hand bull’s eye right onto my water. I look up, and there’s this street bum, eyes wide with only God knows what, as by the looks of this creature he couldn’t afford drugs, not even rugby. He was the typical Metro Manila Taong Grasa (Grease Man), the kind you would see hanging out on the sidewalk, talking to himself incessantly. There have been many stories about these types of people who roam the streets and sleep on pavements (I even remember driving on the Ayala flyover and almost running over one who was fast asleep on one lane; good thing I had stopped drinking long before that): how they were once millionaires who, for some reason or another (usually drugs or compulsive gambling or some horrendous tragedy), fell on ugly times, broke down, and lost their minds.

They generally mind their own business and are therefore harmless, save for those moments when they start screaming at themselves as you pass them by on the sidewalk, or when they reach out for stuff at your restaurant table.

He snorted all the contents of my water glass into his dry, disease-infested body, and all I could muster was a loud and suprised “uh.” Normally my hands would have already closed into a fist, but this dude didn’t look like he was interested in anything else but the water. Just then, the UCC security guard came out of the restaurant and started after him. The grease dude finished up the water, put the glass back down on my table, and disappeared. The security guard didn’t even get close enough to shout at him.

All the guard was able to do was take the water glass away and ask if Grease Man touched anything else, like my Coke Light. I told him no. Minutes later my food came and I ate as Rachel, the rabbi cum bartender, was confronting her father about philandering on her mother with her next door apartment neighbor. Interesting book. I finished it by the time my lunch hour was over.

I’ve been thinking about seriously doing some real writing. Again.

Renewal

12 February 2008 – Good Friend Sunny put it ever so succinctly and on-point when she said, “Isn’t it amazing what insight and creativity can do for efficiency?”

I got my renewed license in under an hour, thanks to the Driver’s License Renewal Center in Hypermart beside Tiendesitas. I hesitate in writing this entry because who knows how many people will get to read this? Look what happened to Boracay.

The only waiting time I suffered through was the half hour I spent before 1pm. When the doors opened after the staff had had their lunch break, it was one requirement after another: fill up forms, pay P350 to the cashier of the drug testing center (conveniently located right beside the licensing office), pee in a cup (in a clean comfort room that had toilet paper, not to mention a sink where you can wash your hands afterwards… with free handwash too), get weighed (the doctor was kind enough not to broadcast the horrendous figure to the world, thank goodness), read letters off a board with one eye covered, go to the licensing center, get my picture and electronic signature taken, pay the cashier P240+, claim my brand new license.

The end. I looked at my watch and it said 1:43pm. After that I had time to do grocery shopping for toiletries, eat a relaxed though late lunch, and have coffee quietly prior to my next appointment, which was at 5.

Some rules to live by, however, your own individual contribution for added efficiency:

• Drink water before going, as you would be forced to release bodily fluids at will. Pardon the intended pun.
• Make sure you shoot your pee in. You need to fill up an entire bottle, and what a waste of good pee it would be if you allow it to drip all over your hand. Men are lucky, aren’t they?
• Try to remember the complicated names of any medication you’ve taken in the past 30 days. They’ll make you list everything down, including birth control pills and paracetamol.
• If you do drugs, try not to do so for the 30 days immediately preceding your license renewal. If the drugs haven’t killed you or gotten you into trouble, the drug test will.
• If you’re an alcoholic, try not to take in your signature beverage the 24 hours immediately preceding license renewal. Reason should be as obvious as aforementioned bullet on drugs.
• If you have time, do go to a salon and have your hair fixed prior to renewing your license. I didn’t, so now I look like something the Lion King threw up, and will continue to look like such for the next 3 years. On my license, that is.

I have another insight into this whole experience. I noticed that if you take so-called public servants out of their natural habitat, i.e. ancient, ugly, decrepit office buildings located right smack in the middle of traffic-ridden Metro Manila, their demeanor changes. They continue to be the condescending shmucks who think they’re so much better than you, don’t get me wrong. But they seem much happier, as though they actually enjoy their jobs.

Hmmm…

Of Bastard and Bitches

01 February 2008 – A friend can be an asshole in his honesty, but I would have it no other way. I like that my friends are bastards and bitches, people who would tell me how things are and would only be too happy to smack on the side of the face if they thought, felt, knew that I did, were doing, or were about to do something maliciously evil or incredibly stupid. I like it this way, because not only do I get people who do watch my back like hawks, but I am also given the privilege of doing the same thing to them from time to time.

At work this morning, I was faced with a problem that dealt with technical stuff about videos. I am a Communications graduate, plus I did try to pursue that Master’s degree in film, so you would think that I am quite knowledgeable in the topic. No. When it comes to movies (and television and video… don’t be so picky about words), I would much rather focus on the story rather than the medium. Add to that the fact that when I was in school, graphics were something a professional film editor/director did. Students only really analyzed content.

So anyway, I needed someone with video capability and know-how, and I knew my friend’s girlfriend is an editor, so I gave him a call just to hook me up. I didn’t want to cross any line or whatever, since this relationship is apparently so secret and shrouded oh-so-heavily in mystery. But he, my good friend, my long-time friend, was not answering his damn phone, and I was near the edge of insanity trying to figure out what to do with my problem.

So I gave the girlfriend a call, and we had a pretty enlightening talk. After that I went through my morning a bit better, more relieved.

Just this afternoon (about 10 minutes ago), my friend sends me a message, apologizing for not having answered my call because he was in a meeting. An exchange via SMS ensues:

Friend: Sorry, I was in a meeting.
Me: It’s okay. I called *** directly. It was her I needed, not you.
Friend: What?!
Me: What? I needed someone with video knowledge this morning.

Before he could respond, I picked up the phone and dialed his number. When he answered, the first thing he told me was, “I’m a little bit suspicious of your motives.”

What the f***?! Here I was about to give his girlfriend a project and he’s suspicious of my motives? Good friend here actually thought I may be maliciously getting in the way of his relationship, a notion quite possibly discerned from the fact that I had a serious talk with him before just to let him know that I was a tad bit afraid of their situation (can’t talk about that here; if you’re interested in who this is and what’s going on, give me a call instead).

But to actually step in and put an end to the relationship? Oh please. First off, I like her, my doubts notwithstanding. Besides, I am his friend and I told him my doubts because he had a right to know, but I am not his mother, and cannot (WILL NOT) interfere with the path he’s chosen in life. Hell, as early as now I am preparing myself not to interfere with my own daughter’s life choices.

I know I sound like I’m ranting (I always sound like I don’t like something even when I do, or when I could care less), but I’m not. The point of this exercise is to demonstrate how honest my friends are, about what they think of me (obviously not a whole friggin’ lot), and about how they perceive me (a maligning, self-serving bitch – and I’m okay with that).

But see? If he hadn’t just come right out and say it, this would have festered in his head and he would have simply drawn away from our friendship, something which frequently happens to people, regardless of their relationship.

So yes, I find that I do prefer my friends being bastards and bitches, because at the end of the day, that is how I get to keep them.

Of Sickness, Raket, and Celebrity Chitchat

28 January 2008 – I can’t believe Tala and I were sick for one whole lousy week. I can’t even remember a time in my life when I was sick and drugged that long. Hell, I am still drugged as I write this. I’m on my last three antibiotic pills and I can’t wait for tomorrow so I can delete all the reminders and alarms from my phone.

We went to the hospital last Friday night. We were supposed to go to Tala’s pediatrician, Tatay’s aunt, but we knew that she wanted Tala to take all these tests so we decided to go straight to the E.R. so we could use Tala’s health card.

The doctor who saw us seemed to be on the final hour of his shift, and he was not afraid, embarrassed, shy, or good-mannered enough not to show it. He kept yawning right in front of us, and even told us that he hadn’t had dinner. He’s a doctor, for God’s sake, not some random takatak boy on the street! That hospital ought to enroll their interns in some workshop somewhere.

-00-00-00-

I am still attempting to set up a business I could call my own. SpeakWrite is still alive, I think, although barely breathing. Apart from that, Sister Dear and I have decided to hook up and work on Project Central, a group that will do different types of projects for people. Under the Project Central banner, we will also offer ZT Reads, the personalized picture storybook. Good God, I hope all this comes to fruition before my Chevron contract expires in September. Lord knows I am not really up to renegotiations.

So whoever needs project consultants, do give us a chance.

-00-00-00-

On to the juiciest story of the day. I was quietly minding my own business and surfing the Net early this afternoon when I heard a voice calling out to me from across the street. Contrary to what I initially thought, my new neighbors moved in during our sick week, and had their housewarming today. It happened at lunchtime, while I was at work, so I was not able to hang out on my balcony and pretend to be working when all I would have been doing was taking a look-see at all the celebrity guests.

Anyway, so this voice calls out. I respond. My new neighbors, Sheryl and husband Norman, invited us for dessert after dinner. I say yes. I spend the rest of the afternoon until after dinner looking around the house for something presentable to offer as a welcome-to-the-neighborhood present. I found a bottle of unopened Jack Daniels at the bar. I am hoping my husband does not get to read this as I think he was saving it for his own friends.

Tatay was still in Cavite covering the bomb blast, so Tala and I went by ourselves. We got a tour of the house. It was very nicely made; the architect made very good use of the space. For a less-than-200 square meter lot, they have three bedrooms upstairs, a guest room downstairs, and separate maids’ and drivers’ quarters. Each bedroom upstairs has its own bathroom.

We had dessert. Tala had a popsicle and cake. I am waiting for her to ask for her walls to be painted with the Disney princesses, now that she has seen Ashley’s (Sheryl’s only daughter) bedroom. God help me. She also enjoyed torturing the fish in the aquarium while Sheryl and I talked.

She was very nice, seems very family-oriented. Told me all about her aunt and uncle, and how fond she is of them. We have some things in common, like separated parents and a beloved childhood home given up. She found it so “cute” that Tatay is a photojournalist and I am a writer, and even cuter that we met at a newspaper we both worked for. She’s very excited about her projects… believe me, I was sorely tempted to just give her a sales talk but my tongue is still numb after all the biting that it endured.

After about an hour, we took our leave. And that’s about it.

I, sick

23 January 2008 – My skull is throbbing, I have an entire plastic bag of cotton in my already-humongous nose, and I’m coughing up green slime. My throat is so sore I can barely swallow my own saliva without gagging. I run a spiking fever. Worse, I’ve contaminated Tala.

Thanks to technology, however, I can stay at home and nurse my badass flu without having to skip work. I’m not sure if that’s good news or bad news. Instead of cuddling up in bed with my equally sick daughter and enjoying reality television reruns, I am in front of the computer churning out articles and editing website content.

Oh, and of course I am also surfing the Web for all sorts of chismis.

Heath Ledger is dead! Oh my God, that was a shock. He was supposedly found dead in his bedroom at a New York City apartment by his cleaning lady and a masseuse. CNN says the police have not ruled out drugs, as they found prescription pills in the bedroom, but that’s yet to be confirmed by an autopsy.

What a waste of a good actor. I liked him as Mel Gibson’s defiant son in The Patriot, and liked him even more as a gay cowboy in Brokeback Mountain. I wasn’t really planning on watching the new Batman movie (I am not a big fan), but I will now. The movie comes out in July, so hopefully, I’ll be all well by then.

American Idol tonight! I missed the first episode last week, but only because I wasn’t aware that it was premiering. I’m not really a fan of the audition episodes, anyway, as I find making fun of the weird ones too much of a mean overkill, although still entertaining. The websites have already begun featuring some of the good ones; I’ve even seen a video of a 17-year old guy who floored Kelly Clarkson with his rendition of “And I am Telling You” when he was 12.

I wonder if they’ll ever find another Fantasia. That season is my hands-down favorite of all time.

Oh, and Star World has been boasting that they broadcast the show to Asia “via satellite” at 6pm Manila time every Wednesday and Thursday. I’m not entirely sure what “via satellite” means, but if they want us to believe that it means “while the show is happening in the States,” then that’s false advertising. I get spoilers from rickey.org hours before AI airs here.

On January 28, I will have a new neighbor. Her house is newly-built, and she’s been coming by quite regularly to check on the interior adjustments being done prior to her move. She has a balcony right across mine, so I’m already prepping my graceful, with-thumb-pointer-and-pinky-fingers-up-in-the-air, circular-motion wave.

If you are successful at demonstrating the above-mentioned hand signal, and if you were already aware of the world and Pinoy pop culture back in the eighties, then you would know who I’m talking about.

Yes, Sheryl Cruz is going to live right across me.

Welcome 2008

03 January 2008 – Ah, another year has passed. In a couple of months, I expect to see yet another wrinkle on my brow, feel yet another kink in the body that grows ever so rusty by the millisecond, it seems. It’s about that time of year when my head involuntarily time-travels to years gone by, back when I was a spry young’un, back when I had no care, no worries in the world. Back in the day when I had nary a thought for what goes into the refrigerator, leaking faucets, dirty laundry, delinquent household help.

Still, I would not trade my present for my past. I am happy with memories, reliving them in times such as this. Fondness is an emotion more often than not bypassed for passion; it is simpler and less complicated than passion, however, and for that I appreciate it.

So what’s in store for 2008? I would like to say that my New Year’s resolution is to finally stop smoking, but even as I write these very words, I am simulating a chimney. My only hope with getting rid of this vice would be soon-to-be-married Coffee Companion T9, who has promised me an introductory supply of Champix, that quit-smoking drug. Apparently, I have lost all willpower and would need drugs to quit.

I would also like to say that my New Year’s resolution would be to finally get on with the business that I have been dreaming of having, so that I can escape the daily grind, but what that business would be I still have no idea, so scratch that, too. I would love to stay a consultant forever, but clients are so few and far between that I might have to go back to being a gray man in a couple of months. Hopefully, the ideas swimming in head and those being discussed with Sister Dear would come to fruition and become reality, but who knows? I don’t want to plan anymore. Planning takes too much energy and builds too much hope.

I would also like to say that my New Year’s resolution would be to get in shape. I have begun taking walks around our village and hope to graduate to jogging, but I am really not a fan of abusing my feet. The other me keeps saying that it’s bad enough I have to walk from the parking lot to the MRT station to the office everyday, and it really is a chore to change clothes and put on rubber shoes when I get home in the afternoons. Again, I don’t want to build expectation, as I am not confident I would live up to it, much less exceed it.

I am looking forward to some things in 2008, though. Tala starts school this year, so I am quite excited about that. She is getting smarter and smarter by the day. I think she is ready to receive and absorb more than what I or her father can give her now. Her questions are no longer easy to answer, and more often than not I am tempted to give her a dead-end, “because I said so” reply. For Christmas, she asked for a globe, and that tells me that her awareness for the world is expanding. Soon, she will be aching to experience things for herself, instead of listening to the limited stories her father and I can tell. She needs much more.

A couple of weddings are in store for the year as well. Coffee Companion and Very Good Friend T9 is walking down the aisle in a few days, joining me on this side of life. We have shared much of our mid-college and post-college lives together, and I am happy that our coffee sessions would now also be peppered with anecdotes and complaints on marriage. Perhaps by the end of the year, our conversations would also turn to motherhood.

Sister Dear is also getting married in May. As early as now, she is stressing out over invitations, church and reception arrangements, and worrying over how to politely steer Father’s Girlfriend from the picture-taking. She is extremely nervous about certain members of our family (me included) taking the microphone and embarrassing her with stories of her childhood, i.e. her two right feet that keep tripping on each other and how she needed to be dragged to the bathroom to brush her teeth, or plastering the walls of the reception hall with pictures of her taking a crap at a hotel bathroom in Hongkong. As I am singing at her reception, I really don’t see how she could avoid these things.

I am hoping to be able to take Tala to Bacolod for a vacation over Holy Week, budget permitting. She is turning four years old, and she has yet to ride a real airplane. I would love to take her to Iloilo, but apart from a few cousins and our dead relatives, there is no one close to me there anymore. In Bacolod, Tala would at least get to play with Diday, her cousin by my cousin Fots, who has already visited us once last summer and with whom Tala still remembers vividly playing.

Welcome, 2008. May you be more dramatic than years past, but, please, with less complications.