eyebrows

June 29, 2007

You know those conversations that hit home like a wayward punch into your glass jaw and you still feel the after effects much later?  Well, recently somebody punched me in the gut with her words and now this is the consequence. And if anybody should think this entry sucks, don’t look at me and blame her instead.

These are the snippets of our conversation:

Girl: Maski pa paseloson taka, di man gihapon. Maski testingan taka, wa gihapon.
Me: Ah! Testingan jud? High school man kayo na oi, di naman ko madala anang testing-testing.
Girl: (frustrated) Pagselos pud daw oi para makabalo pud daw ko na naga-care ka.

Girl: Mao jud. Kung paseloson taka, di man gihapon ka masuko, NR lang man ka.
Me: Di daw NR oi. Di lang ko pakita ug reaksyon. 
Girl: Wa jud. Kung sultian taka nga naa ko lain masuko diay ka? Di man na nimo nature.   
Me: Unsa man gusto nimo, dunggabon tamong duha?

(laughter)

Me: Bitaw, ayaw lang mo pakita sa akoa kay impulsive ako kasuko. Kanang makaitom pananaw.

Obviously, that was not the first time we’ve had that conversation so her frustration, from her point of view, is understandable. Okay, I’m going to attempt to dissect here why I seem indifferent to fits of jealousy. First, let me start by stating one incontrovertible fact:

I have thick eyebrows.

I don’t mean the bushy kind that most men possessed. My eyebrows are a single continuous streak from end to end, disregarding that defenseless break in the middle of the forehead right above the bridge of the nose.

It’s quite a glitch since I’m not a particularly hirsute person. I can’t grow a mustache ala Lito Lapid or sport a full beard like Dante Varona (for the benefit of the young generation, think Mel Gibson’s mug shot when he was arrested for DUI or Jim Caveziel as Christ). Anyway, I tried growing a mustache once and it came out a little flaky. Each beard choosing to mutiny and extend towards the heavens or the east and west, never down south, which come to think of it was a veritable violation of all laws of physics and gravity. The experiment bombed because I ended up looking like a Vietnamese chihuawa with scabies.

There’s an old myth about eyebrows. Apparently, the degree of your jealousy can be always be distinguished by how thick your eyebrows are and growing up people always tell me. “Seloso ka no?” That loaded question never failed to stump me. How could I answer when I never really assessed myself that much to care whether I’m the jealous type or not? As is the case when you’re being spoon-fed with falsehood, sooner or later you accept it as truth. For quite some time, I thought I was the jealous type and I guarded my women like a hawk. I defended even those who didn’t know I existed. Yeah I know. I came quite close to being a psychotic stalker. 

Let’s call her X. I met her in College at Ateneo and, well, pursued her. I didn’t know why she said yes but we were an item for a while. See, everytime I woo a girl, I go through two phases:  first is the charming son of a bitch — this is when I pull out all the stops to win over the girl; and just plain son of a bitch – when I suddenly lost interest because she said yes. Usually, the girl got the hint and broke up with me. 

Not this one. We were on for only one month but the space between us was a nucleus of hostility. She was jealous and I was jealous and right on the get go we clashed. I didn’t even know why I liked her in the first place (uh… wait. Yeah, she had big boobs). Only a day after we were on, she stormed into my classroom because she saw me talking to my girl seatmate with a smirk, which usually means I have a wisecrack comment, and dragged me outside. Oh, did I mention that the class was still in session? 

And so we’d fight over petty things and nobody was seemed eager to yield. Some days were more violent for her than others, when she’d swing his books or shoulder bag at me. There were also times when I came close to wringing her neck and get it over with. Good thing I had loads of self-control or else I would have been some convict’s bitch by now. 

At least I’ve learned that you could never really win in a shouting match with a woman and so the best argument is silence. Nothing annoys a woman more than utter silence in the middle of spat. 

But I digress.

That experience was pretty traumatic but more importantly, I realized that it wasn’t jealousy that pushed me to endure that relationship or even to provoke her into a fight. It was pride. I relished each moment when I sent her into paroxysms of rage while I retain my self-control; I relished accusing her of being a bitch in heat (yeah, I was a bastard) as men (dogs, I called them) toadied up to her (again, she’s got big boobs). In the end, we walked away without learning anything, certainly not as better persons. 

I saw through the obscurity that my eyebrows had cloaked me with.

I’m not about jealousy. People think I’m indifferent and even my girl thinks I possess a heart of stone, which is not entirely correct. Sure I bleed but nobody’s going to get the satisfaction of seeing me wince. 

(Anger is such a pointless exercise, I prefer to get even.)

Besides, why should I be jealous when I’m partly (I hope) responsible for the person she is now? It’s just like baking a scrumptious chocolate cake that you worked hard for. From the time you list the recipe from your favorite food channel, to doing the grocery, to the painstaking task of mixing the ingredients and baking it on the oven for 400 degrees farenheit. When the cake comes out perfect, should I then complain when others admire its beauty? I should have baked a pandesal instead! 

Am I the only man in the world who’s proud when men mill around his girl instead of being jealous? Let me see, as of last count, my girl has about five men ingratiating themselves to her at the same time! Most of these men are taller, better looking and maybe even more moneyed than me. I should be threatened, right? No, I’m beaming, for Christ’s sake! This would do wonders for her self-esteem. 

Everybody must think I’m crazy to feel secure. But if somebody reads this and still wonders about that, he or she missed the whole point of this entry. This is not about me. This is about her — even if sometimes she forgets that.

What about the incontrovertible truth that is my eyebrows?

Simple, I just plucked them.

 

Hi ho the King is dead

June 15, 2007

Down two with only 24 seconds remaining.

While in real time that only accounts for 10 blinks, in the NBA 24 seconds is an eternity. Lebron James dribbled almost lazily behind the three-point line belying how his nerves are taut from tension. He looked up the shot clock. There’s still time.

From a high school phenom back in Akron to the big stage, the game has always been easy for Lebron. A freak of nature, he was always been too big, too athletic and too talented compared to his peers.  He won the high school state championship with Magic Johnson numbers. His jump to the NBA was almost seamless, surpassing all the hype with the grace of a veteran and living up to his $100 million endorsement from Nike.

Down 2-0 against a Spur team that has been described as a marketing nightmare, bland and boring, this is the moment he dreamed of as a kid. How many times he counted the shot clock on his head as he practiced his jump shot. In the backyard, alone in the gym, even in game time. 

Three…two…  release.

Three…two… release.

Always releasing the rock with still a second left. Always in rhythm. In his head an image of Michael Jordan rising over Craig Ehlo with barely five seconds in game 5 of the Bulls-Cavs series in 1989. In his head, an image of Magic Johnson’s winning hook shot over the outstretched arms of Robert Parish in the 1987 finals. 

This is not basketball anymore. This is about redemption and proving critics wrong. To be a hero like the number 23 stitched on his uniform, a tribute to Jordan, the former Bull he tried so hard to emulate. His team belongs here. He belongs here. 

From the corner of his eyes, Lebron watched the clock as each second languidly ticked.  The number 23 hung heavy on his back not only by the sweat but by what it represented. He is The King and this is his coronation. Another second snuffed, the crowd is standing in anticipation. 

With about 10 seconds to go, he attacked. Driving right as Bruce Bowen moonwalked, he encountered a Spur uniform blocking his way to the basket, he spun left and realized that another Spur was waiting for him. He passed the ball to the Brazilian Anderson Varejao affectionately known as “Wild Thing” because of his unruly hair.

And just like his name, wild Varejao flung a wild shot. That single play dashed the Cavs’ hopes of redemption. That single play won for the San Antonio Spurs the championship.

Television is a cruel medium and the NBA Finals is a merciless arena. Sure, it was a boring championship fight, a glaring mismatch. But it was interesting in some other aspects: it was substance over flair, athleticism vs. fundamentals, supreme talent against teamwork. It magnified King James’ flaws and Tim Duncan’s brilliance.

Critics have always argued about Lebron’s reluctance to take over in the waning minutes and I agree. That’s why comparing him to Jordan at this point is ridiculous; for all his extraordinary talents in the basketball court, King James does not possess the killer instinct of a despot.   

It’s the killer instinct that Jordan, Larry Bird and Kobe Bryant held. The willingness to go for the jugular as your opponent begs for mercy. Too many times we saw Lebron passed the ball to an open teammate instead of driving the ball hard to the basket. It might be the right play at that time, but that’s not the point. The point is to decimate your opponents, to kick them when they’re down, to strike fear into their hearts that when they face you next time they know who the top dog is and who’s the bitch.

I remember an anecdote about Jordan, about how his opponents refused to stare him in the eye while they were guarding him because he considers that a direct challenge and he would end up burning you; humiliating you in front of millions of people. That’s the kind of killer instinct I’m talking about.    

Kobe, meanwhile, has been called a ballhog for refusing to pass the ball at times but I don’t think it’s true. Kobe knows taking the shot is the best shot there is of scoring points instead of passing it to somebody else. And when the game is on the line, everybody knows Kobe will demand the ball. That’s the reason why every basketball pundit agrees that Kobe right now is the game’s best player.

Kobe, like Jordan or Larry Bird before him, knows that taking the last shot is not about being a hero. It’s the willingness to become the heel.

The same could not be said of James. During this series, he settled for too many jump shots when time and again he drove to the hoop something good happened, either getting to the line or an “and one” play. He stayed at the perimeter even if his strength always overpowered the man guarding him when he stayed on the post. Game three was when he should have forced the issue, not wait for the game to come to him as he was wont to do. Game three was winnable but he failed to recognize that.

Sure, everybody loves him. His teammates love him because he shares the rock; purists love him for his vision on the court and for not forcing the issue; NBA officials love him for his level-headedness on and off the court; his opponents praise him for his sportsmanship; fans love him for his flair and talent.

But is anybody scared of the King? Not the Spurs or the 28 other NBA teams.

A massive poster outside of the Cavaliers' gym says it all: "We are all witnesses."

Yes, we are all witnesses to how the King lost his crown.

SNAFU

June 8, 2007

Man, it's good to be back in my hometown. Though Philippine Airlines ruined everybody's day by making us wait for  hours after our scheduled flight from Manila to Davao. I mean, if they're living up to their name as Plane Always Late, they might as well ask for contact number of each passengers so they could call us or text us beforehand informing us that the plane would be late.  

Consider this, my flight schedule was for 10:30 a.m. so I woke up at around 7:00 a.m to beat the traffic from my motel in Quezon City to Centennial airport. Unfortunately for me, there was no traffic so I was already checking in by 8:00 a.m. Then they inform passengers that the plane would not be arriving until 12:00 noon and wouldn't take off until 1:00 p.m. So, all in all I waited for five hours. Fucking great.

———————- 

My one-month travel in Bangkok and Jakarta was a good learning experience for me. I learned that although I'm not averse to spicy food, Thailand stretched my tolerance level to near breaking point. After about a week of eating spicy foods, I had to find other not-so-spicy-which-means-more-expensive foods.

 The first thing to do was to learn the phrase "Mai pet" which is roughly translated to "ease up on the chili you son of a bitch!" If you like your food hot, however, you can say  "pet mak," again roughly translated to "put more chili in there you son of a bitch."

 Hey, what can I say?  They curse a lot. 

 ———————–

I heard a bit of sad news though. I made some friends with Shans, an ethnic minority in Burma, who are working without papers Chiang Mai, about 10 hours by bus in the northern part of Bangkok. That transgression will earn you a time in jail or a hefty fine if you're lucky.  Most of them are deported back to Burma where they face certain persecution and reeducation. Reeducation, of course, is a euphemism for torture to milk information out of you. 

My Shan friends are not freedom fighters. They are in Chiang Mai to escape harassment and (some say) ethnic cleansing in Burma. They are all of 23 to 24 years old.

During my last night in Chiang Mai, I treated them all to dinner in a trendy restaurant to thank them for their hospitality.  One of them, Mr. Seang Yord was quite hesitant to eat there after browsing through the menu. "Maybe we should look for another restaurant, it's expensive here," he said.  

"No, it's Okay. Order what you want because maybe this is the last time we would see each other," I quipped. 

I didn't know how painfully accurate that statement was. Five days later, their headquarters was raided and they were all arrested. Now I have to live with the guilt that maybe I was followed and led the police to their lair.