the can-can such a pretty show

I know I can never match or beat my younger brother Victor when it comes to basketball, boxing, card games, driving, car care, spatial relations, general sociability, and any activity that requires Math skills. He is just simply better than me, no matter how hard I cheat. When we were kids, my dad always forced me to go shoot hoops with him to assert my superiority, at least in age. It was actually very funny because both of us could easily smell my dad’s dirty schemes just to give me some sort of advantage. For example, traveling was allowed only if I was the one doing it. Every time I had to make a free throw (which was often, because my dad usually penalized my brother for being more athletic than me) I could shoot from any spot I desired. And whenever I failed to earn the point, my dad would say, “That does not count, your older brother was just practicing his shot,” or, “I’m afraid your older brother has to make that shot again because I wasn’t looking.”

There were also weekdays when my dad would set boxing matches to toughen us. During those days we had a lot of relatives from Pangasinan living with us, and they never concealed their high approbation for my younger and definitely more talented brother. In lieu of a support group cheering for me I had my dad, who was the referee and my coach, holding my brother by the hands while giving me his instructions, “Punch him in the face!” or “No no no, kicking is not allowed in boxing!” I don’t remember my brother complaining about the injustice—he just responded to it by beating the crap out of me the right way.

My other younger brother, Leo, despite his reputation for being the delinquent one, had a lot of charm and was generally more loved by my mother. As it turned out, his dopy days were only just a stupid phase. We used to worry he might get one of his girls knocked up and become a teenage father, or go on the lam for drug possession or something, but now my dad’s become extremely excited about him seriously taking up Business in college.

Just the other day my dad, my two brothers and I went out to celebrate Leo’s 19th birthday. Over beers we discussed business and my father’s disco days. Apparently my dad was quite the ladies’ man—and he still is—and during the 70s he met a lot of city girls who found his provincial innocence attractive. “Do you still go to disco clubs?” my dad asked us. “No,” Victor said, “But my friends and I go to certain places to flirt with college girls.”

“You know what they say about certain spots in the Manila area?”

“Yes, the street kids who watch our cars are already familiar with us.”

“You know what they say about certain spots in the Manila area, especially during enrollment season?”

“It’s not only during enrollment season.”

“It’s pure good-natured fun.”

We laughed like madmen while in my head I was wondering how they’d react if I told them I had gone with my friends to a place called Red Banana, where fairly good-looking waiters with unnaturally huge cocks danced to that song that goes “I still believe in ever after with you.” They’d love to hear about that hilarious experience, but I felt embarrassed that I wasn’t able to seize the day, maximize the situation, since all I did at Red Banana was get nervous.

west

(Or, Who's Got Time for Movies?)

I went to my favorite video shop this afternoon to return several VHS tapes and DVDs I rented last week. The video store clerk, whose name I never got in my years of being a patron, greeted me as I walked into the store. I winked at her. “I came to return these. Also, I’ll be doing my usual panic renting.” Today she had a companion—a middle-age woman who is into Filipino movies. They were watching Gumapang Ka Sa Lusak on TV. I joined them briefly before I looked around.

“I saw Bona on Cinema One the other day. Do you already have a copy of that?” the other lady asked.

“Still in the works,” the store clerk replied. “My boss will be recording it the next time it’s shown on TV.”

"I wish you'd do that to the Petrang Kabayo series as well," I said, recalling that time last year when my friend Jeatherine of Aragon needed copies of Roderick Paulate flicks for a paper he was writing for an MA class.

Late last year they made some changes in the store. They left their two-storey location and moved into an area that is ten steps away. The new location is more spacious, so now they have more room for the film memorabilia displays: old movie posters, glass cases containing Star Wars collectibles, a glass case containing a newspaper from the 60s featuring then newly-crowned Ms. Universe Gloria Diaz in the headline, etc.

“Whose statue is that?” I asked, pointing to a small statue of a man in a hat and with a moustache. “Is that Charlie Chaplin or Jose Rizal?”

“I honestly don’t know. It’s actually confusing when you think about it.”

“I’d like to go to the other room. Last week I wasn’t able to look at everything that’s there.”

She picked up her keys to the new storage room and went there with me.

“There. Knock yourself out,” she said.

The new storage room has a certain Paraisong Parisukat feel to it. It is way smaller than the old one and, except for the tall shelves that cover the walls, contains nothing else but a slightly wobbly wooden chair which I can step on if I want to check out the old films in the top shelves. This place is a haven for some people, and an absolute headache for VRB agents.

After a full hour scanning through piles of videotapes I got hungry so I decided to grab a quick bite at Mushroom Burger. A group of high school girls in their PE uniforms sat on the next table and chatted about some mishap in one of their classes. I watched them eat, do their homework and laugh hysterically. It really was a relaxing sight. When my order arrived, “Open Your Heart to Me” by the soon-to-be (?) excommunicated Madonna was playing on the radio. I wolfed down my burger and then headed home.