Mind's Eye View

Claiming Daba-daba

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My connection to Daba-daba trods no further than the fact that it is my birthplace and the place where I was raised and where I grew up. Not having “Lumad” roots, while unfortunate, does not thwart nor defeat my claim as a true blooded Dabawnon, or Dabawenyo. After all, a bloodline whose roots can be traced to the land is never a fail-safe mark of dominion.

But I must admit that there have been times where I wished I had been a Davao native–to have that intimate, inseverable vinculum to this wonderful land of bounty and blooms, sand and sky, greens and golds. I could only imagine the honor and the pride of the Bagobo, Manobo, B’laan or of the Mansaka, Mandaya, Tagabawa, Tagakaolo, and all Lumad folk, who can claim with biological certitude that they have been borne out from the womb of this Land of Promise.

It must have been the waves of emigration and immigration sweeping the Philippines at the turn of the twentieth century that brought me into this southern enclave deep in the Davao Gulf. A thicket of family trees traces my roots to the lands of Cebu, Misamis Occidental, Siquijor and Bohol, and a family legend recounts how an officer of the Spanish regime, surnamed Bendijo, escaped persecution for embezzling tax collections due the Spanish government by fleeing Bohol then sailing to Northern Mindanao and changing his surname to that which I now bear.

Certain now that I am a product of a diaspora that created the melting pot population and culture in Davao, I am bent to concede that I am no pureblood.  But, however alien my roots may be to the land of my birth and rearing, I am not constrained to yield that I am without right to declare the latter my native land.

For Davao has always been my home.  And no amount of roots, branches, leaves and fruits on family trees,  or of purported lineage from certain conquistadors, can prevail over the feeling of belongingness, of security, of peace, and of the urge of returning, that home provides.  Indeed, home lies beyond the realm of bloodlines and family legends, which, at best, are just nice to know.

Handsome, Winsome Canibad

Snaking up the mountains and highlands of Samal Island on a rough and dusty dirt road seemed endless, and in the agony of a hurting butt, and the endless fear of a bursting tire, I told myself, "this better be good."  Indeed, the uphill route from Penaplata was long and bumpy, and ten people in a small multicab, plus the driver and one crew, can easily bring one city boy's mind to think up terrifying possibilities.  It was pitch dark where the headlights left off, and it was almost eleven in the evening.  "Man, this better be good," went my prayer-chant while the squeaking engine drowned the chatter and laughter of the passengers.

A sudden halt in the middle of a hill shot a thousand question marks on the dark and bleak space surrounding my head, while the smell of burning rubber penetrated the thick booger deposits made almost entirely of limestone dust.  "Where the f*ck is it?" I screamed silently while I looked around for some semblance of a hammock hanging between two palm trees on a sandy white beach, or a gleaming flute of pine-orange juice or four seasons cocktail on a dainty rattan table. Realizing something, three dozen more question marks shot up from my head while two tiny fireflies flickered in front of me.  I almost asked one firefly, "is the sea up here on Shenyang balls?"

Then things got worse, the driver turned off the engine, got off the multicab, and instructed all of us to unload our things. "This is perfect, you expect us to find a beach on a hill???" I almost asked. 

A companion of ours, whom we call "Sir Jun," perhaps sensing that we urban heads seemed at a loss where to find a beach on a limestone hill, told us very assuringly:  "the beach is nearby, we just have to trail down that cliff over there," pointing his fingers to a black space at one edge of the road.  I was almost in shambles,  "CLIFF!? I didn't go here for cliffhanging!  I haven't even filled out an insurance policy on my Havaianas!"

So we followed Sir Jun and a guide, while their flashlight beams showed limestone, tree roots, grass, and tree trunks, and then a sudden dive downward hinting that we have reached the edge of the cliff and that darned downhill trek will start anytime soon.  I tightened my backpack and almost made a sign of the cross when we started our descent.  The trek was, to say the least, perilously freaky, and I could hear the sound of complaint from my other companions which I had to ignore, lest I miss a step and cartwheel down to the beach ahead of everyone.  Sir Jun was quick to make things easier by telling us, in vernacular, "Go slowly, watch your steps carefully," which meant, of course, that we will be safe as long as we are careful! I grabbed on to tree roots and twigs to keep my thighs and knees from quivering wildly.  A few dozen steps down and I could see bonfires below us, and hear muffled sounds of laughter and loud talking, which got me a little excited. Then... WHOA!... I stepped on tiny pebbles on the track and slid down a few feet.  Luckily for me, Sir Jun, who was just behind me at that point, grabbed on to my backpack and saved me from possible doom.  Man, the adrenaline rush was quite euphoric, but was I scared stiff, my Havaianas could have snapped! 

The downhill trek took about fifteen minutes, and as soon as we reached sea level, I let out an audible sigh while my thighs and knees seemed ready to disintegrate.  Gasping, I told Sir Jun, in vernacular, "maybe they could put railings along that track" to which he retorted "that will take away the fun from the experience." I could have gone on to suggest a cable-car system or an escalator instead, but I desisted.  Sir Jun is a seasoned mountaineer, diver and discus thrower (okay, frisbee player) as opposed to a plain slob that is me.

Anyway, it was eleven PM and Sir Jun led us to a hut of bamboo and nipa walls and roof, which was the only sari-sari store in the area, serving anything from Fortune cigarettes to Beer na Beer, although there were other good stuff in store, like ice-cold Pepsi, thanks to an ice-box the store maintains, which made me feel a hell much better.  I could hear the waves nearby cracking against rocks and the shore, and it was a soothing sound. 

We pitched our tents a few steps from the hut and a stone's throw from the waves, singing and swinging to the mp3 tunes played on a cellphone.  The others readied the table for the "kamayan" potluck which we were to partake on our private spot on Canibad.

There was no electricity on Canibad, and the only light-giving contraption there was a gas lamp, with a little help from a myriad of fireflies that hover by the trees that line the beach. Visitors also pitched bonfires of dead branches and leaves and so did we. After scurrying through the piles of dead wood, fallen leaves, and huge driftwood blocks that would have cost a fortune when sold in furniture shops in the city, we created our own singe a safe distance from our tents, with a bit of Zippo fluid every now and then to keep it burning.

The sky was especially clear that night and when I gazed up I could see constellations which only Ernie Baron and the Greek Astronomers before him might be able to name.  Stars have always been a source of great marvel to me and that night I took the rare opportunity to view the evening sky without the usual interference of sodium streetlights in the city.

The people on Canibad seemed joyous that Saturday night, as they gathered around their bonfires, drinking, eating, cajoling, and doing other forms of merrymaking by the beach or in their tents. After all, in that paradise that has escaped
the usual crowd at the more accessible beaches on the south-eastern side of Samal, one couldn't help but feel free and far away, in a place that affords everyone more private space.

We feasted on Lechon Manok, Liempo and Pancit by midnight, and soon after we found ourselves sharing bottles of red and white wine, pepsi, and yes, Beer na Beer.  It wasn't too long before everyone became jocose, playing cards and wagering coins, the activity often disrupted by a bit of banter and mischief. I busied myself keeping the bonfire ablaze, sometimes sharing a laugh with my colleagues, or just gazing at the luminous expanse above the sea. Cigarettes, among other things, were liberally shared that night, that soon after we were all a tad more lightheaded than necessary, in a celebration that only the moon and the stars can tolerate.

I remembered my prayer-chant en-route to Canibad: "this better be good."  And, even without yet seeing the beach, only the silhouette of waves and the sometimes ghostly glow of the pale sand figuring before me whenever the blaze from our bonfire permitted, I knew that it has been answered.

Then it was daybreak and the ultramarine glow of the sky promised a good view of the beach and the mountains beyond.  I didn't permit myself to laze about in the tent, and so I emerged from my little nest to take a first hand view of the majesty of which I have only heard from the mouths of visitors who came to Canibad before me.  And the scene was picture perfect.

The beach is never more wonderful than just after sunrise, when rays of bronze and amber emerge from the horizon or mountain crests, and before you lies a pristine expanse of sand and waves, bidding you to bask in its calmness, where the entire seascape seems to have been hewn for you and you alone.

The sun, still ensconced by the sea and mountains beyond, afforded a truly marvellous sight :  Canibad's crescent bay lined by a coral beach, a majestic cliff silhouetted by the rays of sunrise, rock islands jutting from the sea, a view of the mountains of Davao Oriental beyond, limestone cliffs crowned by rain forests and coconut groves, hints of a coral reef not far away, and beautiful sea with intermarried hues of emerald, turquoise and navy blue.

For a moment I felt alone, like Tom Hanks stranded in that little island, except that I was not in any form of distress.  For a moment, Canibad was mine alone.  I took so much of it as I can, breathing in the fresh sea air while taking in the pulchritudinous panorama. I took my mobile phone and took as many pictures as I can, taking advantage of the beautiful sunrise vistas on the tranquil beach. 

Later, I found other Tom Hanks, taking over the island as I did ahead of them.  Throughout that day, I indulgently swam in its clean and crystal-clear waters for hours, mindless of the risks of sunburn and UV exposure.  I also had the chance to snorkel around Canibad's coral formations and see fantastic sea creatures, sharing the underwater spectacle with foreign and local scuba divers who have come to visit the reef.  In the afternoon, I shared an adventure with my colleagues as we walked the entire breadth of the beach outward to the cliffs and rocks beyond and saw a freshwater pond where we washed off some of the salt from our bodies.  Canibad was one exhilarating adventure to me, and I immensely enjoyed every second of my stay.

"This is good. This is so effing good!" I told myself.  Pictures can never quite capture the sheer beauty of Canibad.  Words from visitors who have been there will never quite measure up to the real score that must be experienced rather than recounted.  True, we stayed on until Four PM on Sunday, and, although the trek back up the cliff was doubly difficult from the descent, I left with a promise that I shall return to reclaim this handsome paradise.

Consummatum est. Or is it?

It is done.  I have for quite a while borne reservations about making it.  Immediately after I laid the last test notebook on the proctor's desk on September 24, 2006, I was actually relieved the month-long battle was finally over.  Or so I thought.  What I didn't realize back then was that immediately after I laid that final test notebook on the proctor's desk, a more cruicial period set in:  It was six months of sheer agony. 

I feared the catastrophe of having to re-endure reading legal literature month upon month, upon month, for it was too easy to get lost in the cacophony of legal doctrines and Latin maxims, and it was never remotely likely that the winds of suspicion may blow your sails towards a vexatious sea of uncertainty and doubt.  After all, a person's destiny is in grave danger when it is made contingent upon the upon the will and frailties of another. 

And so I waited.  And I waited with six thousand other warriors who took to the battle with me, and their friends, and their kins. And what pervaded amongst us are suspicion, fear, doubt.  Even while a few exhibited vainglory, the specter of a near-miss still was an unwelcome apparition.  It was too easy to submit to the phantoms of fate and prayers, and to kneel before effigies of hope and glory, which take the form of wooden, concrete or plaster human beings.  But I desisted from that temptation, until the last day of waiting finally came in.  Indeed, in those final hours, the temptation was too strong to resist, and I found myself submitting to fate, and prayers.  I even allowed myself to suffer the humiliation of genuflecting in front of lifeless figures, and scrawling unremembered snippets on paper, and hoping against hope that it will be drawn in the lottery of Holy favors.

Yes, the Big Day came, and at or around 7 in the evening, the most awaited news sprawled on periodicals, first virtually then in reality, to the tune of a million ringtones and message alerts.  My brother, Don, revealed the news to me way before the the others found their fate, and he said seemingly alien words like "attorney" and "lawyer" which needed a little patting from my friends Darry, Leo, Gen and Kikai before they finally sank in.

Thereafter, my mobile found itself flickering and shuddering from calls and sms-es of friends and kins who have gotten wind of the Good News.  My mother, father, my sisters Din and Lyn, have all confirmed the news that will have found itself on the Supreme Court website fifteen minutes later. It is done. I muttered to myself, "It is Done." 

Nay, I cannot be too prudish to claim that this Glory was of my doing alone.  Having gone through that tumultuous period has inevitably planted in me the virtues of respect and humility, and of a recognition that something Divine does make its presence felt in the lives of men and women. And I cannot discount the fact that my friends and family completed the mixture that ultimately led to the glory in which I find myself in at this moment.  To all of you, Mom, Dad, Don, Lyn, Din, Leo, Gen, Dar, Kai, Cez, and to those who may have slipped my unreliable memory, I am immensely grateful.

Maynh!!!!!

Maynh!!!  I swear I'm gonna have a hard time sleeping tonight!  Just when I have run out of sleeping pills!!!  People from all around have been bombarding me with reminders about tomorrow:  the "Big Day," they say.  Gimme them pills, Darn It!!!!

Checkout Cashouts

I thought the perfect way to start my "official blogging year," albeit one month delayed from the more popular "new year," was to take on something I've always enjoyed doing. Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to Kultic (www.kultic.com).

If you happened to click the above link, you might by now realize what it is that I love to do. Yep! Whether OL (online) or IRL (in real life), shopping is very close to my heart. There. Now if this ain't your thing, feel free to close this window. NOW!

More specifically, I love pants--denims, that is--quite a tad bit more than the usual. After giving the rest to charity during the holiday season, I still have close to 30 pairs of jeans in my closet. One more is coming my way in five to seven days when Order No. 887 arrives from Kultic's Florida base.

Oh, the joys of the internet! You can actually get 100% authentic True Religion jeans (I love the pockets on these!) for less than what they sell at Greenbelt, US$31 delivery fee notwithstanding. Sheer inaneness, you think? Well, cashing out on fake TRs at Greenhills or Market!Market! (I just love to say that aloud with feelings!!!!) might be a little more inane for me. TRs are supposed to be Made in the USA, and not in some sweatshop in Sino Land or Siam. Hence, the best way to get TRs, at least for me, is right in the online mall.

With its wide array of premium denims, tops and accessories, Kultic is a great place to look for trends in fashion. Another one would have been ASOS (www.asos.com) but since their London warehouse burned down in the middle of 2005, they haven't been able to restore their delivery services to most of Asia, the Philippines included. Locally, I think People are People has very good selections and I have made a sizable purchase from their shops all around the Metro, what with their fair pricing and great designs.

Oh, by the way, I prefer Kultic over other online premium fashion stores, because unlike YOOX (www.yoox.com), they deliver by express mail (5-7 days) and not by UPS or other special freight services which charge as much as 30% of the amount of purchase upon delivery (I remember I had to pay upwards of P5K to UPS for a parcel from Yoox!) So with Kultic, you wouldn't have to shell out anything when receiving their parcel, you just sit and wait till the parcel arrives. It's the same thing with ASOS; you wouldn't have to pay for anything upon receipt of the wares, but as I've mentioned earlier, they no longer deliver to old P.I. since mid-2005.

If you know of other online fashion stores out there that offer great deals, do inform me. I've been having a hard time looking for good deals on the net that match those of Kultic. You know, there's really no better alternative than the best!

It's Christmas our own way

Sigh, it's that time of year again when plastic trees find  their ways into homes, fagged up with lights, balls, and other shiny things.  In the Philippines, where real conifers are rare and far too precious to cut down, the people have struggled to keep up with a western tradition by storming malls and cashing out on, among others, artificial spruces.

In this warm country, artificial pine wreaths and holly garlands, real or synthetic poinsettia bracts, felt stockings, styrofoam snowballs and plastic snowflakes, besides the ubiquitous Christmas tree, embellish the usual Filipino home at Christmastime. Yes, it's winter wonderland on our sunny shores, and the only thing missing is a brick fireplace.  Spending fifty (50) Christmases in Hollywood has gotten things a little muddled for the brownman, who is perhaps blinded from the fact that it is suicidal for red-nosed reindeers to venture into tropical territory. Not to worry, we can always buy plastic Rudolphs in the mall or from street merchants everywhere. Oh yes, the wiggly-wobbly Santa Claus? It's on top of Christmas must-haves this Season.

Lest I be accused of playing The Grinch on the Holidays, let me just point out that I, too, am a victim of this wintertime enormity. My family is and so are others.  We have fallen victim to 50 years under that great Western Hegemony, and to tell you frankly, I'm loving every bit of it! 

You see, while history has a clever   way of moulding cultures and preserving age-old traditions, it, too, has a fantastic way of acculturating varied foreign traditions and weaving them together to form a singular, unique, cultural phenomenon. And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, explains Christmas the Filipino way. 

After all, not one culture is as unique as it claims.  We are all part of this great ball of thread we call "world" whence everyone gets strands and strips and weave them into a tapestry suited to one's own taste and preference.  Peoples of the world are so intertwined that even the sea gypsies (A.K.A., the Badjaos), whose language and nomadic culture are little-known, come ashore in their Nikes, Gaps, or Penshoppes to collect their yearly haul of Holiday goodies.

So, am I saying, "go ahead, deck your halls with boughs of holly, fa la la la la la la la la?"  Well, do as you please. As far as my family is concerned, the staircase at our home in Davao looks like it's ready to collapse anytime with two arrays of artificial pine and holly garlands, interspersed with plastic golden drops, ribbons and blinking fairy lights.  Our home in Mandaluyong is all festooned with pine and holly garlands on the inside and covered with yards upon yards of fairy lights on the outside.

Tsk. Tsk. The thought reminds me of  poor Senator Jose De Venecia's house, which decided to create a singe out of itself because nobody was watching its glorious light decors. Sad, it had to take young De Venecia's life, too.  Maybe she, too, wasn't watching.  Erratum:   De Venecia is NOT poor.

*Snifff* If there's one thing we could learn from De Venecia's fate, it is that if we turn on expensive light decors, especially indoors, someone should actually be watching them. Otherwise, turn them off. You know why? Because light decors can turn manic-deppressive when left alone and tend to become self-destructive and suicidal when nobody watches them.  As such, they are deluded to thinking they're some sort of witch that has to be set on fire or something.  This, ladies and gentlemen, is information you cannot find anywhere else. So, thank me.

Well, anyway...

Our Christmas might be described as suffering from an utter lack of originality. Yuletide, taking its roots from western influences, is clearly a foreign element, what with our obvious lack of snow, hollies or mistletoes.  But more than the evident, Yuletide in the Philippines is not confined to the physical manifestations of Christmas. Christmas, to us, is a time not only of giving, but, hell yeah, of receiving presents. Tons of them.  It is not merely a time for celebration, but also for showing off our finest china and laying out our most expensive menu. It doesn't matter if we wallow in penury for the rest of the year, at least for one time of the year, for at least one single time, we can take pride in what we have left. More than anything, it is a break from the monotony of widespread poverty and dirty politics during the rest of the year, and have an awful hell of a time.

Filipinos all around should know that History, for the most part, has not been kind to us.  But we should all realize that it's not a time to lay blame on anyone.  After all, whining about our problems and tribulations is less desirable than opening presents on Christmas eve!

Maligayang Pasko Sa Lahat! Maayong Pasko Kanatong Tanan! And, oh yes, Happy New Year, too.

The Alopecian Agony. Uh... What?

I don't even know how to start this.  I have been through all the stressful book-diving, the wit-chucking memory work, the repetitious megalo-boring recital of legal mantras, the endless sessions drinking vats (yes vats!) of brewed coffee and the occassional iced mocha, the gazillion-ashtrayfuls of burnt cigarette butts, and the rest of the completely un-cool things associated with law school, and here I am.  What?  Uhmm... before that, Let me retract:  The coffee and cigarette things? They ain't really THAT uncool. So, There.

<< Tough luck, stoopid!

Now what?

I mean, FINE, law school is over since March 2006.  Five years (yes, Five years in a span that should normally have been only Four) of hard-earned rejection and the "you-are-just-not-good-enough, idiot!" brand of teaching at Ateneo Law.  Whew. Finally over.  Uhmm,  before going on, let me thank Dean Risonar of CorJesu  for the privilege of experiencing some compassion when I was starting to think everything of or pertaining to law school should have been renamed "Shit."  People like you rule, Sir!

So, all that shit is over now. Ah-huh.  And, yes, the pre-bar review sessions? They were such a pain in the ass, literally. And what about the pre-weeks? Well, what about them!?

Oh, yes, the bar exams came and went like... my hair! What the...  F*ck... my hair! Damn, those Minoxidil vials and booster pills better work lest I start wreaking havoc over the metropolis with my... balls of hair! They're clogging the sink, damn it! Damn it.

Anyways, I dunno if you're starting to get it, but, yes, I do need a shrink. And soon please.  People say I should start keeping myself busy, like starting a multinational firm and becoming a serious threat to Ayala, or something, but, hell, nothing beats a full, spanking luxurious crown of hair!  Nope, I don't mean something like Pilita's gargantuan coifs! PILITA! That b*tch just can't stop sticking to her own  hellishly turkey-jerky brand of lameness. I pity Philippine Idol for such a gargantuanly sorry fate.  But at least she has the mane!

Oh. Where was I?  Oh yes, a full mane is a lot of reason to be busy.  And the shrink, you ask?

Okay.  It's not like i'm saying a shrink can do the stunts of Fanny Serrano or Ricky Reyes, who, by the way is my favorite fag, and bring me to full-hair salvation.  For Chrisssssakes, they can NEVER bring back my healthy hair follicle count. No, it's not like that at all!  I mean, a shrink could at least convince me to stop worrying about my hair and start up a multinational firm and become a serious threat to Ayala.  Or MAYBE, he could convince me to channel all the negative energy "about my hair" and help me start to cook up ways to wage vengeance against Ateneo Law!  Or MAYBE, he could hypnotize me to thinking i'm some sort of "Lawbivore" (noun, [Lö' bē-vör]) that preys on nutty law professors and law deans. What do we know, cranked up professors and gassed up deans would make for a sumptuous meal to a hardcore "Lawbivore." From what I heard, "Lawbivores" (noun, pl. [Lö' bē-vörz]) just looooove icky stuff! Bleeek!

I mean, here I am, stressed out to-the-max, depressed, hating my erstwhile law school to the marrow, and worrying about my hair!  What could be worse!? That's about the same feeling as freakishly cuddly Mahal trying to look catty-bitchy like Paris Hilton!

Shame! If only I had that glorious mane, I would be at Watson's anytime, digging the latest inventions in Hair Erection Science.  Hell sure, If I had IT, i'd have nowhere else to go but right on the Erectile Hair bandwagon!  Call it the new wave in Phallus Worship.  It's almost like a cultic phenomenon, you see?  Take to the streets, look around, be a witness: multitudinous heads a-sporting vertical, horizontal, or diagonal columns, beams, locks, of hard, gloss- or matte-finished, hair! And the hairstyles? Think anime! And the colors? Aaaargh!  I could walk out on the street anytime and turn green in no time!  It's called The Alopecian Agony.

<< Aww, shucks! THIS (and that one below)
is my crowning glory. Sad. Sad.

But you know what? I think I realized that there's really no use ranting about my gradually "emerging" scalp and whining on how awesome a ride it would be on the Erectile Hair Bandwagon.  You know why?  Because, maybe, I have no choice. 

HELL NO! That's crap! You can tell me, "get a life, brutha! Be satisfied with what you've got!"  But when the time comes, and I can DARE say it's coming fast, i'll tell you, "Shut up, bitch, THIS (points at head) is what i've got! I got no hair! Hellooo!!!!"

Man! While that day is still far off. I'd like to think this blog entry would be a sort of record  of my once glory-mane days.  "There WERE quite a few strands stuck up there, honey... before they all went down the drain."  You know, people hardly believe you when you say things without that shit called evidence. Hope this counts as one, and with my sad pics up there to bolster it. It's sometimes a good thing to get diverted to such nonesense as "hair loss" rather than think about the something as friggin scary as the upcoming Bar results. (F*cka-a-doodle-doo!) And, just in case, I'll keep banking on the vials of Minoxidil and hair booster pills.  You know, just in case.

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Kissing the Earth at Home

Oh, it's so good to touch down right here;  right were I have been longing to return after 5 months of being away for battle.  Man, there is nothing compared to its typhoon-free clime, its greens and golds, its sea and mounts, and, oh, that spiny globe that holds heaven captive within.  It's great to turn that wheel on uncongested streets, to sip native coffee in A-plus cafes and bask in free Wi-Fi for hours, or go wild in that cosmopolitan yet subdued nightscape.  Whether on wheels or on foot, I shall never grow fearsome of the evils that lurk at night for they are elsewhere, not in these streets.

"Far cry," was all that comparison can muster, as regards the many other places I have been to. I should wish never to leave again.

Inebriety and Catharsis

Inebriated, I trailed the barren streets and walkways near our condo en route to an internet cafe nearby.  A while ago, I had been engaged in an activity I consider therapeutic--Videoke, a term locally-coined to mean "Video Karaoke."  You know, lyrics to the beat on the foreground, and a completely sleazy, unrelated video playing in the background.  You'd be singing "Amazing Grace" and find  in the background bikini-clad women cajoling by the beach.  Notwithstanding my complaints, I have always found it relaxing... and, yes, cathartic.  Like many Filipinos, they say, singing is a favorite pasttime to me.

Anyway, here I am. Well, yes, intoxicated yet completely sober. I decided to update my dried up, fried, forgotten Friendster Blog and spurt out the thin bits of sentiments and thoughts that have luckily remained despite the alcohol intake earlier.  It would be a blast to find out that alcohol would have the same effect to me as, say, Edgar Allan Poe.  From what I heard, he was more effective writing is famous tragedies whenever in a state of inebriety.  And, again from what I've heard, he wrote all his famous works, like "Raven," while drunk.

"'Twas a fair and radiant maiden whom the angels called Lenore. Quoth the Raven, Nevermore." A line went something like that.  Do correct me to update myself.

Too many asides.

Stress does have its finer side.  The moment you're stressed, you will seek out ways to relieve it.  That's talking for myself only.  I hardly care what other people do to relieve it.  As for me, I'd take time to go out, in the middle of the night, usually, and find the nearest Videoke joint.  Or maybe a bar with live band, or some place playing my brand of canned music.

Stress has been bugging since April 15, the day I flew in to The Capital from Davao.  Staying in Makati, and taking review classes in UP Diliman, Quezon City, you can only imagine what it's like to travel 30 minutes to 1 hour (depending on traffic density) just to get bored in three- to nine-hour review sessions.

Albeit reluctantly, I come to class everyday.  Do some readings at night when I get home. Sleep.  That's the vicious cycle I have been living since April 15.  Apart from that, the weather was a tough one to adjust to.  It's quite literally hell during the day, and sometimes worse at night.  Sleeping seems the hardest thing to do--my busted airconditioner can barely neutralize the heat at times, leaving me with swollen eyebags the next day. 

People say I've always leaned towards exaggeration.  But, hell, yeah, this place is hellish.  And that's just the weather.  I haven't told you about the taxi drivers yet! Ga-ha! I'm not generalizing, though.

Ramblings.  That's quite exaclty what this is! LoL. Pardon if i'm rather "sabog" - scattered?  I guess Edgar Allan Poe is not what I'm cut out to be. But what I'm going through right now is exactly what Edgar Allan Poe wrote about.

Times are rough where I am right now.  Missing the people I left behind in Davao and terrible loneliness have been burdening me since I came here.  I miss my hometown. True, I am perfectly at ease driving to and from Bocobo Hall in UP Diliman, yet it's nothing quite like driving to Rizal Street or Wheels and More Drive or to Basti's Brew at Victoria Plaza or Karl's Koffee in Buhangin where I often hang out.  I also terribly miss Pidok's... that Videoke Bar along Camus Street where I've been having singing lessons since 2001! LoL.

Something tells me I have to conclude this entry.  The sun is coming out in 30 or so minutes.  "Kill-joy." Pooper.  Just when I was getting warmed up!

LoL.

Finally, I think I've turned pale from being all red and swollen a while ago.  The people I know would normally comment about my turning burnt sienna after a round of alcohol.  I would often ask my friends, in crisp Bisaya, "namula na ko?" or "pula pa kaayo ko no?" 

Oh well, I guess this is farewell for now.  At least I've had a break from all that "book-diving" as I would call it.  And those boring review classes.

Thanks for taking time to read this rather scattershot entry.  Be glad, though, because you have helped me in my catharsis.  Haha.  I guess, this is "thank's and good day."

 

The Real Score on Pacquiao's Victory

The unanimous and uncontroverted triumph of Manny “Pac-Man” Pacquiao over Erik Morales came at a time when the nation needed victory the most. The sight of the Filipino pugilist beating his chest over a downed and bloodied Mexican heartthrob on live telecast and pay-per-view channels the world over did the almost impossible job of hoisting the Filipino pride skyward. The circumstances immediately following the great pinoy victory were no less shocking: throngs of Filipinos from all walks of life took to the streets for a reason other than decrying poverty or condemning government action. Pinoys throughout the archipelago and even abroad roused to a frenzied celebration because a solid Pinoy left-hook brought a foreign El Terrible to his knees.

For a brief moment, Pacquiao’s victory eclipsed the mires and tribulations that make up Philippine reality. Could we be prouder: it was one of the few times the Philippines would make it to the top of the list other than the “poorest countries list” or the “most corrupt governments list.” It didn’t matter that Pacquiao spoke less-than-perfect English, or that the Filipina “triller” who sang “Lupang Hinirang” in front of a world audience fumbled at the end.  In fact, it didn't matter at all that Pac-Man's victory would by no stretch bring our country out of its quagmire. All that mattered for that brief moment was that we can say, “Pinoy ako, Pinoy!” with neither qualm nor guilt.

But the party, like I said, was all but, well, brief. Like big fish eyeing a school of fingerlings, the politicians were quick to dive in. Not long after the bout, Philippine bigwigs, arse-lickers and turncoats included, climbed onto the ring where Pacquiao stood, hurling praises at the Pinoy hero with prepared speeches and artful accolades, likening the champ's hard-fought victory to the government’s supposed hard-fought battle to overcome its own evils. According to them, Pacquiao was the personification of the administration’s struggle to improve the country’s lot. To the ordinary Pinoy, it’s called chicanery—calculated to improve their own lots.

I do not wish to seem rough on Pac-Man’s glorious win for truly, his victory was something which we all can really be proud of as Pinoys. What appalls me, however, is that people in top governmental positions were so lacking in their own merits that they had to capitalize on Pacquiao’s glory for much-needed “pogi points” and all its appurtenances. I find it almost striking how these bigwigs, arse-lickers and turncoats alike, have mastered their craft in insulting themselves.

True, Manny “Pac-Man” Pacquiao’s triumph came at a time when the Filipino Nation desperately needed to redeem its lost pride. True, we rumbled in celebration and reveled in Pac-Man’s victory taking it as our nation’s own. True, that for that brief moment of glory, we felt proud to be Filipino. But as quickly as the dust settled the ugly reality of a potbellied government and a malnourished nation come crashing back at us. Alas, we are back to the real score. Alas, the show is finally over.

Some troop back to their queues gripped by the phantom of a better life in game shows, scores dying in the process. Some queue outside of Manny “Pac-Man” Pacquiao’s fence for a tad bit of his bounty, whose efforts would likely end in futility. A woman comes out, child in hand, demanding from the Pinoy hero support for the spurious child he allegedly fathered with her. Soon after, it’s not all gold and glitter for Pacquiao. Soon after, the political bigwigs, arse-lickers and turncoats would lounge about in their comfortable chairs, cooking up ways to score it big again. Perhaps this time, not with a Pacquiao.

Home Alone and Needing a Juicy

It's way past 3 A.M. and I have just gotten home from, well, doing a little reading for tomorow's exams. O.k., nothing new there.  But what's new is that I came home to a house... (I had a little trouble making this statement come out really good.)  Ok... here goes an attempt: Unlike on other 3 A.M.'s, I came home to an empty house. (Maybe I should try harder?)

Anyway, the deal is I'm home alone. Now, isn't that just great?!

I actually revel at the thought of being home alone and the many potentials the situation holds.  We all may have some cool ideas on what to do when we're home alone:  host a house party with pals, turn up the radio volume to max, run a movie marathon, bring a date home (ha!), or just make a huge mess, et cetera, et cetera.  Fun is the idea.

These things played round my mind as I drove in at the garage, a dark, empty house in sight. But as I was gathering my things scattered in the back seat, among them two 300-page law books, half-a-ream of photostatic copies of cases, interspersed with two boxes of cigarettes and some coke, I was convinced that the former two were just a product of some hallucinogenic compound I may have inadvertently taken because some desperate, neurotic and underpaid scientist-cum-food attendant mixed it in with my Iced Kafe Mocha to find out it's friggin effects on mega-stressed out law students.  I mean, what do you know, the world is full of morons!

Then OUCH! I may have slipped through a warp zone and found myself back to the grim reality of a hurting left foot.  One of the books just fell, hitting me on my left lower limb.

OH NO!!!!! Why is life so sh*tty!  My turkey-jerky-dry brain sent signals to my triple-decker eyebags making them tremble at the thought that it was not possible to bring a date home! (Errr... or maybe host a house party? Run a movie marathon?  Anyway, the idea is:  SH*T!)

Why is it that when an opportune time comes, the opportunity you have always associated with that opportune time is missing... inaccessible... unobtainable... gone... pfft!

Talk about bad timing! Talk about frustration!  It's times like this you need a "juicy!"  If only a "juicy" could lend me some much-needed freedom, I'd buy a truckload!

*Sigh!* If not for Dad, I would not have gone into this cesspool masquerading as a school of law! Call me grumpy, grouchy or a spitter of plain gobbledygook, i'm really sick of this.... this.... AAAAAAAARRRGHH!!!

Amen.  Pardon my whining.  Now I remember, Dad called me this afternoon reminding me... demanding... to prepare for tomorrow's test.  Oh man, I REALLY NEED A JUICY!!!!!!

The Mafia and the Fumbling Songstress

I alighted from the Van onto the ramp at the back entrance of the Grand Regal Hotel and two men in red uniforms politely opened the twin glass doors bidding me to come in.

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I started my way into the long halogen-lit hallway leading to the main lobby while the rest of my clan trailed behind me: my father, mother, two sisters, my brother, his wife and their 4-year old son and his nanny, two aunts and three cousins.

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The hallway was lined with not merely a few curiously clad ladies and gentlemen in their late teens. One lady was dressed in a black-and-white tube, legs a-screaming in her very short ruffled black skirt, black stockings, stilettos, her head topped by what looked like a Stetson hat while another lady, wearing a little too much makeup, was clad in a black corseted gown with a huge silk bow at the back, black gloves, pointy black-leather boots, and a funny-looking tulle hat. The women seemed almost gothic in their predominantly black get-ups, except that their lips weren’t in ebony, and their cheeks did have shades other than black. Without bunny bands, however, I refused to give in to thinking I’ve gotten inside a sleaze joint.

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Most of the teenage men in the hallway wore black suits. What prevented them from looking like a fifties blues band was that all of them didn’t wear white shirts and black ties. I swear one guy looked asphalt-esque with his black silk button-down, black tie and black beret perfectly matching his soot-colored coat. Another young man had gotten the concept of accents a little muddled and wore black everything and a pearl-white bow tie. I despised the white embroidered tunic one skinhead wore under his coat. But my eyes found favor in the brown, beige and checkers repertoire one guy was in. I have always been partial to brown and beige.

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But, costumes aside, the women were pretty, and the men dapper.

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“Mafia,” whispered one sister of mine, which about explained everything I was seeing.

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I retorted nodding, “Ahh.” Well-to-do families nowadays have been so hypnotized by the trend of themed coming-out parties!

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My dad had to shelve his plan of hosting dinner at home to make way for our neighbor’s daughter’s Debut party. My dad, mom and I were set to leave for a two-week sojourn in Vietnam and Thailand so the family patriarch planned on holding a quasi-get-together dinner before we “flew.”

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It has become a family tradition to hold dinners whenever somebody leaves for or returns from travel. Actually, we hold dinners for whatever reason. Ok, just to be frank, our family loves food! When it’s my family you’re with, you’d feel like a bona fide member of The Glutton Club.

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Our group settled around a table for twelve at the Champagne Bar, a restaurant-cum-piano bar, while my dad, mom, one sister and I helped our way up the winding staircase en-route to the Grand Ballroom. (Most grand ballrooms I know are on the ground level, but for some reason, this one’s on the second storey. ~_~ )

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Thanks to my sister’s tip, I knew I was ill-clad for the occasion: White-purple-pink-and-blue vertical-striped button-down shirt tucked in dark-blue Levi’s.

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“What the heck, there were people who wore formal attires at our youngest’s Caribbean-themed Debut party,” I ratiocinated. “I know it’s a mortal sin to come to a themed party unaware of the motif. If only I’d known of it a few hours earlier, I would’ve had time for last minute shopping. I haven’t even seen the invitation!” As if the thought could bring me redemption. >_<

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Entering the ballroom, I glanced around and let out a sigh of relief. There were people who looked more cowboy-ish rather than Mafioso. I socialized a bit, greeted the debutante’s parents, took a quick glance at the buffet table, and scrammed out the door.

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The roasted whole-calf would have been a sumptuous pick, but I desisted. Waiting for the debutante to come out is out of the question. For sure, she was busy getting ready for her number. People who have eighteen-year old sisters (or have sisters who once were eighteen year-olds) know pretty well how they take their debuts sooooo seriously: preparations months before the date of celebration, week-long practices for cotillion, dance numbers, whatever, appointments with the couturier, florist, choreographer, organizer, or whatever “ek-eks.”

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I felt much better when I got out the ballroom, notwithstanding my failure to take a nip off the roasted calf. I don’t know its name, but I have this fear of huge formal gatherings. They just freak me out. Maybe because they’re so darned boring. “Gimmicks” are way easier to take. Hehehe.

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I got down that winding staircase and signaled my brother, who was sitting with the rest of the clan, for a smoke, and so we placed ourselves in the smoking area adjacent to the Champagne Bar. We found ourselves in the company of some of the Mafiosi—teenage boys in predominantly black get-ups, lit cigarettes between fingers, mouths spewing jets of smoke, desperately trying to look their roles at the party.

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Nearby, a maestro was fondling the keys of the piano while in front a lady trilled familiar, old-ish tunes. Her thick vibratto pierced through the glass panels separating the smoking area from the Champagne Bar.

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Not impressive, but easy enough on the ears.

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I thought for a moment the scene could have smacked right out of a movie.  Mafiosos in their quintessential attires, voluptious songstress singing blues by a black, shiny grand piano. I panned my focus towards the stage. REALITY BUMP!  I should never have checked the woman onstage.  Far cry. Far cry.

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I tapped the window to catch my sister’s attention. She had been busy chatting up my cousins. She's our youngest, and also the chattiest. When she finally responded to my tapping, I gesticulated to her to request “Love Moves In Mysterious Ways,” originally by Julia Fordham, revived by rising star Nina. Which was very popular at the time. 

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Her rendition was palatable, just as gelatin-filled cheesecake is palatable: bland but cheesy enough.

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Considering the sheer “timeliness” for which the restaurant is known in serving a-la-carte, a little music does help prevent the thin strands of patience from snapping. Timeliness, to them it seems, is serving the dish just before closing time.

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The night went on with the same “triller” intoning the same “gelatin-filled-cheesecake” brand of singing. That brand of cheesecake is only as good whilst still cold. You see, when the coldness fizzles away, the whole thing melts, and what do you get? Goulash!

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This was exactly how I felt after a dozen-or-so songs, which was just about the same length of time it took for the a-la-carte orders to finally arrive. I had to consume the steak lest the lady triller would think she had triumphed on her quest to scare my appetite away. I tell you, she was almost victorious.

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I even thought there was a conspiracy. Champagne Bar’s “timeliness” tactics and the “appetite-scaring” vocals of the songstress were a perfect tandem to dodge away anyone’s desire of partaking meals at the resto. I wonder if the hotel pays its employees the right wages.

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My mom, dad and my other sister finally got down after the party upstairs was concluded. I assumed that it was concluded because the Mafiosi, the cowboy-looking ones, even the girls who looked like sleaze bar attendants (sans the bunny bands), started their descent on the spiral staircase.

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At just about that time, the lady “triller” heightened her vocal acrobatics with her own rendition of “Get Here,” by Oleta Adams, which is a piano-bar staple. In fact, the songstress did a serious overhaul of the song. A snippet of the closing bridge went like this:

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“you can jump on a speedy van,
cross the desert in a blaze of van”

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Not wishing to scare appetites this time, but craftily trying to induce vomiting.

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Gathering ourselves and trailing back down the halogen-lit hallway, along with some of the costumed lads and lasses, we were ready for home. My belly a-bulging, I climbed back into the Van, sticken by Last Song Syndrome, and with one thought resounding, re-echoing in my brain:

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"Singers can be Mafiosi.  They can be murderers."

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