Last Saturday went exactly how I wanted it. I brought presents for myself in the morning, had lunch with my dad in the afternoon and gathered my girlfriends Val, Jai and Camillo in the evening.
On our way to Cubao we listened to The Diary of Alicia Keys (thanks to Camillo) and laughed at this horrible dress shop in P. Tuazon Avenue called Emerciana. No heavy traffic, surprisingly, so we had a few minutes to check out a newly-opened art gallery-slash-novelty store beside the restaurant where we had a 7:30 dinner reservation.
I told them all I was looking forward to that day was a dignified dinner, so we wasted no time doing chismis about people we know. Over grilled eggplants, seafood pesto, fettucini alfredo and pizza margherita, we talked about what we have been up to lately and discovered that our Philomajor lives as we knew it were gone. Minus the cheesiness which plagued us in college—I swear, there was a time when it was almost obligatory to initiate discussions about Love or Hope or God (Please. Sometimes I think these words are like ampaw: the bigger they are, the hollower/more hollow they become.)
After the very satisfying meal we moved to Katipunan for coffee, dessert and more laughter. More stories about families and blockmates and teachers. Marriage, motherhood and Issues, resolved and unresolved. People to make fun of, especially the sissies who have inflicted themselves on us. Camillo, who was in his element, slightly ranted about “Sunshine”, an unquestionably gay guy we all knew who turned defensive whenever his kalandian was brought to his attention: “Ang sa akin lang, kung lalandi-landi ka, panghawakan mo ang kalandian mo.” In the coffeeshop Val bought me a yellow faggy bear candypop which I promised her I’d never eat.
After driving Jai and Camillo home, Val and I went to a bar for a couple of beers and for a conversation that lasted til 1:30am. I was so happy to see her I wanted to cry, but I was sure she’d hit me if I did. (And I was also sure I’d kick myself if I did.) Inside the car we listened to “Too Young” by Phoenix, which Val immediately recognized from Shallow Hal. “And, Lost in Translation,” I told her.
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
house pets
Bambi, the oldest among our four dogs, died this afternoon. I assume she died of old age because our helper Arlyn’s theory—that there’s some kind of a dog epidemic spreading in our street—wasn’t sounding very plausible.
I was never too crazy about our house pets but Bambi’s death brought back some memories of the past years. In college, whenever I got home very late at night because of ENTABLADO rehearsals, she endlessly barked at me because she’d always mistaken me for a gay akyat-bahay. Those days I thought she looked particularly fierce because, from afar, she looks like a wolf. (My sister, who always hated Bambi, said she looks like a big rat.)
Bambi probably thought we were puritannical masters because we rarely let her go outside the house. Whenever she did, she took her time to flirt with the neighborhood dogs, lots of which she ignored. The flirtations distressed our then helper Annalyn as it was difficult for her to get Bambi to go home (the chases usually lasted for hours.) She—Bambi, not Annalyn—got knocked up a couple of years ago by one of the neighborhood mutts, the owner of which took this as an opportunity to dissuade her house helpers from having boyfriends (“O ayan, magsilbing aral sana si Bambi sa inyo.” “Si ate naman!”) At least Annalyn was relieved that Bambi didn’t turn out to be a lesbian because at first she always ran away from the dogs who tried to hump her.
Bambi gave birth to Whitey, who’s also the father of her second son, Kulit. We’re not quite sure about the father of her youngest, Puppy, though. After Kulit’s birth, Whitey seemed to lose interest in sleeping with Bambi and started chasing male dogs. There’s this one morning when I heard someone from the garage: “Hoy, wag mo siyang anuhin! Lalaki ‘yan!”
(What original names our dogs have! Whitey—or as Arlyn calls him “Puti”—is the white one, Kulit is the makulit one, and Puppy is, well, the puppy. The closest thing to an imaginative name is Bambi, but we only named her Bambi because she’s the daughter of Bamboo and Bamba.)
Anyway, Arlyn found Bambi lying in the backyard where there used to be a small pond. Nobody was with her when she died. A bit sad, yes, but on the bright side she didn’t have noisy dogs bothering her peaceful end.
Sounds like a sick (and not so coherent) version of “Ako ay may alaga. Asong mataba….”
I was never too crazy about our house pets but Bambi’s death brought back some memories of the past years. In college, whenever I got home very late at night because of ENTABLADO rehearsals, she endlessly barked at me because she’d always mistaken me for a gay akyat-bahay. Those days I thought she looked particularly fierce because, from afar, she looks like a wolf. (My sister, who always hated Bambi, said she looks like a big rat.)
Bambi probably thought we were puritannical masters because we rarely let her go outside the house. Whenever she did, she took her time to flirt with the neighborhood dogs, lots of which she ignored. The flirtations distressed our then helper Annalyn as it was difficult for her to get Bambi to go home (the chases usually lasted for hours.) She—Bambi, not Annalyn—got knocked up a couple of years ago by one of the neighborhood mutts, the owner of which took this as an opportunity to dissuade her house helpers from having boyfriends (“O ayan, magsilbing aral sana si Bambi sa inyo.” “Si ate naman!”) At least Annalyn was relieved that Bambi didn’t turn out to be a lesbian because at first she always ran away from the dogs who tried to hump her.
Bambi gave birth to Whitey, who’s also the father of her second son, Kulit. We’re not quite sure about the father of her youngest, Puppy, though. After Kulit’s birth, Whitey seemed to lose interest in sleeping with Bambi and started chasing male dogs. There’s this one morning when I heard someone from the garage: “Hoy, wag mo siyang anuhin! Lalaki ‘yan!”
(What original names our dogs have! Whitey—or as Arlyn calls him “Puti”—is the white one, Kulit is the makulit one, and Puppy is, well, the puppy. The closest thing to an imaginative name is Bambi, but we only named her Bambi because she’s the daughter of Bamboo and Bamba.)
Anyway, Arlyn found Bambi lying in the backyard where there used to be a small pond. Nobody was with her when she died. A bit sad, yes, but on the bright side she didn’t have noisy dogs bothering her peaceful end.
Sounds like a sick (and not so coherent) version of “Ako ay may alaga. Asong mataba….”
Sunday, September 12, 2004
getting mugged in Session Road
I almost got mugged last weekend while walking near the Mido Inn in lower Session Road. Em and I took the overpass from the Baguio City Wet and Dry Market and on our way to Session Road I felt something behind me. A black-shirted guy was trying to obtain my hollowblock-of-a-cellular-phone from my backpack and my first impulse was to grab his hands. Turns out, he hasn’t gotten my phone yet so he reacted sort of stunned, as if he was innocent. In fake indignation he retorted, “O ano?!” If there were more people around, they’d probably think I was making chansing. But the guy couldn’t have been innocent as the pocket of my backpack was unzipped and wide open. A frustrated robbery, I told Em, which I attribute to my newfound exaggerated paranoia when it comes to my possessions. The pickpocket fled away with two collaborators. They were all wearing black—they could be some sort of a postmodern gang, I thought. Hahahahaha!
Over pizza and milkshakes I talked to Em about times when you desire all ill luck to befall on an individual. Times when you are absolutely sure that all you feel is hatred towards another human being. Buti na lang, Em is the perfect person to talk to about misanthropic tendencies (as LJ would likely put it: “Mga pariah!”) because he doesn’t Pollyanna out on me in situations like this.
That night, over dinner, Em’s tita was talking about how she almost got mugged in Session Road around the same time I almost got mugged. It turns out, she was talking about the same guy who tried to steal my phone.
I told Em, “Poor guy. With two consecutive failed robberies, bumaba siguro ang self-esteem nung magnanakaw.”
Over pizza and milkshakes I talked to Em about times when you desire all ill luck to befall on an individual. Times when you are absolutely sure that all you feel is hatred towards another human being. Buti na lang, Em is the perfect person to talk to about misanthropic tendencies (as LJ would likely put it: “Mga pariah!”) because he doesn’t Pollyanna out on me in situations like this.
That night, over dinner, Em’s tita was talking about how she almost got mugged in Session Road around the same time I almost got mugged. It turns out, she was talking about the same guy who tried to steal my phone.
I told Em, “Poor guy. With two consecutive failed robberies, bumaba siguro ang self-esteem nung magnanakaw.”
augustus
Only a few people know that my first crush was with a guy named Augustus. I have known him since I was seven, because he was my classmate for the entirety of grade school. But I only decided that I liked him in sixth grade, when he was already eyeing students from the all-girls school adjacent to our school.
He was the type who always looked effortlessly beautiful, the guy who's the fantasy of all the young girls and gays. He was an ideal crush: extremely handsome, a bit sporty, and very smart. Above all, he was one of those rare people who made me laugh because he didn’t have problems with making fun of himself. His father owned a factory of noodle-making machines. I knew where their office used to be, but today it isn’t there.
I used to play agawan-base with him, and in one occasion he saved me from the clutches of my abductors. This made some of the other gay kids jealous but I told them it was nothing. I never told my friends about my feelings for him because I was afraid of the teasing entailed. Instead, I had a ruse to kill my friends’ interest: some boring guy who looked like a bald pug dog.
He wasn’t very good at basketball but he became a member of the team anyway. It’s one of those cases when a basketball team just absolutely needs someone attractive to make up for the fact the rest of the team looks like a variation of genetically-enhanced squash. At any rate, I always watched their games for a couple of reasons: 1) because it was highly encouraged, 2) because everybody else did, and if I didn’t, people might suspect that something’s up, and 3) something’s really up.
Anyway, when I first met Augustus he looked very innocent. We were in our first grade and we both didn’t have friends. We were always together and there was this time when we were both waiting for our drivers to pick us up. It was getting dark, and all the other kids were gone. When my driver arrived, I said goodbye and then he kissed me.
Years after, he became my crush. But during this time, we had different sets of friends. He was friends with the school jocks and developed a cute butt while I was friends with the girlie “Sailormoon” gays and developed kalandian. Of course, I never told him about my feelings because somehow, even as a kid, I knew that I was a person who could never take such risks. Since graduation I never got news from him (or about him.)
A few months ago, I was pretty sure I saw him in Philcoa. He probably didn’t recognize me, because there have been major changes in my physique since grade school (i.e. the long curly hair and the eyebags). He became fat, and he was wearing a sad, tired expression that seemed to say: getting old is a bummer. I never approached him to say “hi” but seeing him again made me wonder about how things like crushes or infatuation or even what-we-thought-was-love eventually fades after some time. After all, baka tama talaga si Eddie Vedder and that female passer-by in Annie Hall.
Absence makes the heart grow colder.
He was the type who always looked effortlessly beautiful, the guy who's the fantasy of all the young girls and gays. He was an ideal crush: extremely handsome, a bit sporty, and very smart. Above all, he was one of those rare people who made me laugh because he didn’t have problems with making fun of himself. His father owned a factory of noodle-making machines. I knew where their office used to be, but today it isn’t there.
I used to play agawan-base with him, and in one occasion he saved me from the clutches of my abductors. This made some of the other gay kids jealous but I told them it was nothing. I never told my friends about my feelings for him because I was afraid of the teasing entailed. Instead, I had a ruse to kill my friends’ interest: some boring guy who looked like a bald pug dog.
He wasn’t very good at basketball but he became a member of the team anyway. It’s one of those cases when a basketball team just absolutely needs someone attractive to make up for the fact the rest of the team looks like a variation of genetically-enhanced squash. At any rate, I always watched their games for a couple of reasons: 1) because it was highly encouraged, 2) because everybody else did, and if I didn’t, people might suspect that something’s up, and 3) something’s really up.
Anyway, when I first met Augustus he looked very innocent. We were in our first grade and we both didn’t have friends. We were always together and there was this time when we were both waiting for our drivers to pick us up. It was getting dark, and all the other kids were gone. When my driver arrived, I said goodbye and then he kissed me.
Years after, he became my crush. But during this time, we had different sets of friends. He was friends with the school jocks and developed a cute butt while I was friends with the girlie “Sailormoon” gays and developed kalandian. Of course, I never told him about my feelings because somehow, even as a kid, I knew that I was a person who could never take such risks. Since graduation I never got news from him (or about him.)
A few months ago, I was pretty sure I saw him in Philcoa. He probably didn’t recognize me, because there have been major changes in my physique since grade school (i.e. the long curly hair and the eyebags). He became fat, and he was wearing a sad, tired expression that seemed to say: getting old is a bummer. I never approached him to say “hi” but seeing him again made me wonder about how things like crushes or infatuation or even what-we-thought-was-love eventually fades after some time. After all, baka tama talaga si Eddie Vedder and that female passer-by in Annie Hall.
Absence makes the heart grow colder.
Friday, September 03, 2004
police report
I just spent the entire afternoon in a police camp somewhere in the vicinity of Sikatuna Village. Earl, last night’s poor car accident victim, sent me a thoughtful morning greeting that said: “Hi, si Earl ito from last night. Pwede ba tayong pumunta sa police station para mag-file ng Police Report?”
So I met him inside Ateneo, 3pm sharp. He told me to follow his car, which I did, except that all these Monica Regala scenarios kept on swimming in my mind. I thought, for instance, about the possibility of him leading the way to a dark bodega in Sikatuna Village where he and his friends (hiding inside the compartment) can beat the hell out of me. And then I imagined them chopping my limbs off. Very Elsa Castillo Story.
Inside the police station I felt the kind of tension I usually feel inside government offices and inside the Philosophy Department. Kind of like being in a different realm—the Twilight Zone, if you will—where the people gave you piercing looks, spoke a different language and performed rituals you’ve never encountered before. To add to this, there’s the fact that I’ve never had good relationships with figures of authority. I’ve never been friends with my parents and teachers (buti na lang, because in my limited experience they can be more chismoso than the fearless Lolit Solis). I had nothing but contempt towards the ROTC officers from my days as a bading commandant, and most of the “wise” people who gave me Oprah-esque discussions (i.e. life as grace blah blah blah) made me nauseous.
Anyway, the chief policeman gave us these substandardly-photocopied forms for our testimonials. I had a wonderful time using deep Filipino jargon to spice up my account, primarily to mock the policemen who obviously wanted lagay to get things going. They made me pay P200 for the Notary Public (not in the bading sense), P50 for photocopying of all documents and P100 for the evidential photographs. Right.
At any rate, I was the one who brought myself into this regret-inducing situation. If I was not an idiot in reverse parking none of these inconveniences would happen. If only I was more careful, I would never have gone to a government office where cats gave birth beside the photocopying machine, where office secretaries ate greasy pancit cantonand monay while typing your official documents, and where fat policemen asked for lagay as if it was the most natural thing to do.
This is one of those depressing moments when I think about some of my Philosophy classes. Ethics is sweet but the PNP has an autonomous heirarchy of values.
So I met him inside Ateneo, 3pm sharp. He told me to follow his car, which I did, except that all these Monica Regala scenarios kept on swimming in my mind. I thought, for instance, about the possibility of him leading the way to a dark bodega in Sikatuna Village where he and his friends (hiding inside the compartment) can beat the hell out of me. And then I imagined them chopping my limbs off. Very Elsa Castillo Story.
Inside the police station I felt the kind of tension I usually feel inside government offices and inside the Philosophy Department. Kind of like being in a different realm—the Twilight Zone, if you will—where the people gave you piercing looks, spoke a different language and performed rituals you’ve never encountered before. To add to this, there’s the fact that I’ve never had good relationships with figures of authority. I’ve never been friends with my parents and teachers (buti na lang, because in my limited experience they can be more chismoso than the fearless Lolit Solis). I had nothing but contempt towards the ROTC officers from my days as a bading commandant, and most of the “wise” people who gave me Oprah-esque discussions (i.e. life as grace blah blah blah) made me nauseous.
Anyway, the chief policeman gave us these substandardly-photocopied forms for our testimonials. I had a wonderful time using deep Filipino jargon to spice up my account, primarily to mock the policemen who obviously wanted lagay to get things going. They made me pay P200 for the Notary Public (not in the bading sense), P50 for photocopying of all documents and P100 for the evidential photographs. Right.
At any rate, I was the one who brought myself into this regret-inducing situation. If I was not an idiot in reverse parking none of these inconveniences would happen. If only I was more careful, I would never have gone to a government office where cats gave birth beside the photocopying machine, where office secretaries ate greasy pancit cantonand monay while typing your official documents, and where fat policemen asked for lagay as if it was the most natural thing to do.
This is one of those depressing moments when I think about some of my Philosophy classes. Ethics is sweet but the PNP has an autonomous heirarchy of values.
Thursday, September 02, 2004
trip to the shoe museum
For lack of a better activity, I drove up to the Marikina Shoe Museum with my metaphysically-Norwegian friend LJ (only a few people find delight in things like this) last week. I told him that the Marikina local government’s efforts at maintaining such cultural facilities is admirable, and should be supported by the public. If only I can say the same about Malabon the Venice of the Philippines. (I heard the Malabon Zoo, which is less than five minutes away from my house, is sadly deterioriating. With the sickly animals and dead plants, baka may epidemic na dun.)
Entrance fee was a more than reasonable P20.00—good, since I was cash-poor those days. The museum curator gave us four P5.00-worth cash tickets each. The place was unexpectedly small but well-maintaned. From the entrance you can have a general view of the entire museum. Several glass cases containing some of Imelda Marcos’s shoes, and then shoes of celebrities, politicians, etc etc. At the center of the museum is a pillar of shoe lasts--I am still undecided, though, whether it's charming or distracting. While I was particularly more interested with the exotic shoes from other countries, it was a delight seeing some pairs from Mrs. Marcos's allegedly vast collection. On the second floor, a life-sized diaroma of the mythic Traditional Filipino Family doing some good, old-fashioned shoemaking. There’s a model of a bushy-haired little girl which I initially thought was the family dog.
I like looking at shoes—especially, for some reason, red leather ones—but I was never really into shoes-for-myself. Now I have exactly five pairs of shoes: 1 pair of black loafers, 1 pair of red bowling shoes, 1 pair of white running shoes, 1 pair of blue sneakers, 1 pair of brown rubber shoes. Most of my shoes are ratty but I like them because they’re comfortable. I don’t really enjoy buying shoes for myself, I don’t know why. But this is a good idea, penetrating the Marikina shoe network, because I can probably go to one of the shoe factories and have them make a new, more economical pair for me.
As I am gaining more familiarity with the Marikina topography, I might check out the Doll Museum, the shoe factories and the colonial houses soon. And explore Dutch Marikina (with LJ who can translate things for me).
Entrance fee was a more than reasonable P20.00—good, since I was cash-poor those days. The museum curator gave us four P5.00-worth cash tickets each. The place was unexpectedly small but well-maintaned. From the entrance you can have a general view of the entire museum. Several glass cases containing some of Imelda Marcos’s shoes, and then shoes of celebrities, politicians, etc etc. At the center of the museum is a pillar of shoe lasts--I am still undecided, though, whether it's charming or distracting. While I was particularly more interested with the exotic shoes from other countries, it was a delight seeing some pairs from Mrs. Marcos's allegedly vast collection. On the second floor, a life-sized diaroma of the mythic Traditional Filipino Family doing some good, old-fashioned shoemaking. There’s a model of a bushy-haired little girl which I initially thought was the family dog.
I like looking at shoes—especially, for some reason, red leather ones—but I was never really into shoes-for-myself. Now I have exactly five pairs of shoes: 1 pair of black loafers, 1 pair of red bowling shoes, 1 pair of white running shoes, 1 pair of blue sneakers, 1 pair of brown rubber shoes. Most of my shoes are ratty but I like them because they’re comfortable. I don’t really enjoy buying shoes for myself, I don’t know why. But this is a good idea, penetrating the Marikina shoe network, because I can probably go to one of the shoe factories and have them make a new, more economical pair for me.
As I am gaining more familiarity with the Marikina topography, I might check out the Doll Museum, the shoe factories and the colonial houses soon. And explore Dutch Marikina (with LJ who can translate things for me).
pain in the neck
I am currently afflicted with a terrible case of tonsilitis, which I’ve had since Thursday last week. This is the fourth day, which means that I have two to three more days of suffering. I should know, because I get a monthly dose of tonsilitis to remind me that I’ve become uncontrollable with sweets and cigarettes.
Whenever I get sick with tonsilitis, I know exactly what to expect and what to do. For the first 2 to 3 days, the pain in my throat increases, and there would usually be a lump growth somewhere in my neck. According to online sources, these should be glands that are swelling because of infection. For the first four days, I totally lose my will to eat because it’s too painful to swallow (sometimes swallowing is too painful, I squint) and I can’t taste the food. This is accompanied by acute fevers, splitting headaches and exponential secretion of green phlegm. After 3 three days, the fevers and headaches disappear while the pain in my throat reaches maximum level of discomfort. This is the time when I curse myself for not taking my vitamins regularly and for smoking like a tambucho.
With the aid of a flashlight, I like looking at my throat in the mirror to see gruesome pus coming out of my tonsils. This sounds sick but I guess I have this weird notion that I need a visual of the state-of-affairs down there.
I used to drink gallons of kalamansi juice in the belief that I have to absorb all the available vitamin C in the kitchen but I just recently discovered that drinking very acidic substances can aggravate the infection. Cups of green tea and drums of water should do the trick.
The worst part of having tonsilits though is that for a whole week I can’t eat spicy food and drink coffee. That’s some real pain in the neck.
Whenever I get sick with tonsilitis, I know exactly what to expect and what to do. For the first 2 to 3 days, the pain in my throat increases, and there would usually be a lump growth somewhere in my neck. According to online sources, these should be glands that are swelling because of infection. For the first four days, I totally lose my will to eat because it’s too painful to swallow (sometimes swallowing is too painful, I squint) and I can’t taste the food. This is accompanied by acute fevers, splitting headaches and exponential secretion of green phlegm. After 3 three days, the fevers and headaches disappear while the pain in my throat reaches maximum level of discomfort. This is the time when I curse myself for not taking my vitamins regularly and for smoking like a tambucho.
With the aid of a flashlight, I like looking at my throat in the mirror to see gruesome pus coming out of my tonsils. This sounds sick but I guess I have this weird notion that I need a visual of the state-of-affairs down there.
I used to drink gallons of kalamansi juice in the belief that I have to absorb all the available vitamin C in the kitchen but I just recently discovered that drinking very acidic substances can aggravate the infection. Cups of green tea and drums of water should do the trick.
The worst part of having tonsilits though is that for a whole week I can’t eat spicy food and drink coffee. That’s some real pain in the neck.
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