Piktyur

 

New begginings

New beginnings are always awkward. Yesterday, “fresh meat” attended our Monday meetings as a newly-hired employee. Now, it wasn’t necessary that he had to stand in front to introduce himself to the group, so naturally somebody suggested it.

So he was talking about how he liked how informal the whole protocol in the office was and how he wished we all would get along, or in his own words, “get close” (Man, you couldn’t get gay-er than that).

I do think the casual and easy atmosphere in the office make it seem more like a boarding house than the stiff and reserved corporate organization that it is. Our old office in fact used to be our boarding house. We sleep, change, eat and defecate there. Well, not in the office. We had a toilet for that, err… shit.

Those were great times. We are all almost the same age, give or take 2-3 years. So mornings we go out for field work, go back to the office in the afternoon, play some games, chat and work at the same time. In the evening, while waiting for the boss to do his thing, we hook the Playstation on the TV then play into the night while some of us play some girl in the MIRC chatroom.  When we get bored, we went out to grab a few drinks then around 3 or 4 a.m. go to Bankerohan to eat breakfast before going back to the office to sleep. 

We woke up again at 8 a.m. to do some fieldwork and another cycle began.

Of course, that was when we were still young and stupid. Things have changed because most of us are now married AND stupid. Also, our new office is much more regimented on rules about computer games, chatting, and other “non-office” work. I guess they learned from experience not to give us too much rope with which to hang ourselves.

But the relaxed manner that we deal with each other is still there and I think that was fresh meat meant. Anyway, this post is about awkward beginnings so this is what happened.

FRESH MEAT: So, unta masabtan nako inyo batasan ug masabtan pud ninyo ako batasan.

ME: Unsa man diay imong batasan?

FRESH MEAT: ha, kuwan…
(Awkward pause as everybody waits for  his answer)

FRESH MEAT: Melancholic.

 Hahaha! How can you react to that? I wanted to say, “Hey, you have something in common with Mark, he’s also addicted to alcohol.”

But I held back because I think the wittiness of that reply will zoom past him and could even earn me an enemy.

Besides, I’m like Valium. Best taken in small dosages.

The Letter "O"

I was waiting for my lunch at one of the restaurants near our office yesterday when bad news entered: a rowdy 3 year-old child and his equally uncouth mother.

I knew it from the first moment they barged into the restaurant. The kid was throwing a tantrum and the mother, in turn, was shouting invectives like Press Secretary Ignacio Bunye probably does for repeatedly being made a complete tool in front of the media by Executive Secretary Eduardo Ermita.

Right from the get-go, the boy imposed his impishness on the two ladies sitting adjacent to my table while the mother was queuing up to order. I, on the other hand, was sitting near the cashier’s counter, just waiting for bad luck to approach my table.  

I was watching bemusedly at the boy pulling the shirt of the lady in brown while she was trying to contain her patience. I wasn’t amused at the boy’s antics but at the reaction of the two ladies next to me. I looked at the mother and she was strangely apathetic to the fact that her kid was bothering somebody; perhaps she was even relieved that it wasn’t she he was upsetting.  

I knew they were annoyed from the manner they glared at the boy and I was waiting anxiously for one of them to knuckle-crack that boy’s head to knock some sense into him but still, nothing. I guess they decided to just ignore him so he would go away. Hmmn… I might have to do things on my own. I’ve always thought that if you want something done right, you do it yourself.

So about a minute goes by and the kid got bored pestering the two ladies and geared his tantrums towards his mother, which earned him a pinch on the ear. He squatted and bawled like a big baby (Okay, I have nothing to say to that because that’s what he essentially was).  Everybody was still ignoring the scene, including the mother.

I looked askance and our eyes locked. I meant me and the boy. He walked towards me and I stared right at him, daring him to come: “Common, boy. Bring it on, I ain’t impressed with your cuteness.”

He left his mother, who was by then ordering at the counter. His tiny right hands clutched at the white toy car as he languidly walked towards me, his face stained by tears and green goop.

When he attempted to put the toy car on my table, I told him no. He ignored me and leaned on my chair instead, totally invading my private space; the car now on top of the table while his right hand was feeling my biceps. His left hand, meanwhile, reached out to my food.  While an observer might see his actions as totally cute, I see right through what he’s trying to do.  That’s some power-play shit right there, the young grasshopper challenging the turf of the elder kung-fu master.    

And because I’m such a nice guy, I again asked him not to touch my food. His hand stopped in midair for a brief moment and continued its descent. I glanced towards the mother who just passed by my table, settled in her chair and not even bothering to admonish her child.

I fashioned a letter “O” with my thumb and middle finger, showed it to the boy and released the finger that’s already taut with tension. Not my fault really, I always do that in the middle of meals and I just happened to hit his hand in the process.

Not surprisingly, he wailed and ran towards his mother. I eyeballed the lady, waiting for her to come to me and surprisingly, she stayed. But she did let go a long diatribe after another about letting children be children and all that crap and how some people have no manners. Ha! Manners is what some people use to justify backbiting other people.

Now, I’m all for letting children be but their parents or guardians should take responsibility for the wayward actions of their ward. I’m sick of these parents who allow their child to annoy everybody else and then act like you’re so mean whenever you act in response. I mean, you don’t allow your dog to bite somebody’s ass just because the mutt is cute, do you?

Besides, not a single person in that restaurant gave me a dirty look so I guess everybody’s in agreement with me.  I tuned her out and I went back to enjoying my pork and chicken adobo.

Hotlegs

It was all over the radio and newspapers. Davao City Mayor Rodrigo Duterte ordered the closure of the girlie bar Hotlegs and softened his stance a few days later after the manager and its owner promised to disallow the entry of minors in the joint and of course, abide by the 2:00 deadline on alcohols.

I wouldn’t even presume to comment about his cartwheel judgment. Though this bit of news made me recollect my early forays into these nude/semi-nude girlie bars. I think only the most hard-core pervert would find looking at naked or semi-naked girls dancing on stage erotic.

Let me walk you through what goes on inside.

We entered this darkened room with monobloc chairs and tables, draped in red cloth for a touch of elegance. I guess the red cloth was in keeping harmony with the red curtains surrounding the bar. Scanning the room, I could see people nursing their drinks (it’s P40-P60 per bottle of beer, after all) with the girls in various states of undress “entertaining” the customers.  

This gaudy theme is pretty much a portent of things to come.

As Bon Jovi’s Bed of Roses was played on the background, I saw a solitary girl, in sequins no less, dancing on a platform with a shower head protruding from the makeshift cardboard ceiling and a mirror behind her. Her long bright scarlet boots covered her knees while a skimpy skirt concealed her flabby buttocks. The only thing I could see in between the boots and the skirt was a flash of gigantic thighs that have seen better days.

When I say dance, I was being kind. It was more like thumping and thrashing, really. Like a bad cheerleading routine, the girl was doing somersaults, a series of splits, jumps, pirouettes, stunts and clapping her hands enthusiastically. Come to think of it, it’s pretty amazing how she did all those things in semi-nakedness.

As my attention drifted towards my drink I heard a loud noise.

THUD!

My heart skipped a beat and I turned to where the noise was coming from.

Oh, it was just the girl doing a cartwheel.

Excuse me if my balls got snagged in my throat. The darkened room, the gaudy interior, the kitschy soundtrack… sounds familiar? They’re just the ingredients to all slasher and psycho flicks all over the world!

How could I be aroused if any moment I thought Chuckie the doll would come barging from behind the curtains and ram an electric vibrator up my ass?

THUD!

Okay, the girl was doing splits this time. God, let this hell end.

The manager brought two girls with her to sit with us. One was a small, thin (bulimic?) girl with braces, in midriff; and the other was a buxomy girl with curves in all the wrong places. In my drunken state, I thought the thin girl with an innocent face was more tolerable.

Big mistake.

I guess I have to set the table first here. The girls earn more from the ladies drink they order, which the customer pays, than from dancing which is just part of the package deal to entice customers. Star dancers, or those who are willing to go nude all the way, generally earn more. At P100 to P120 per drink, they get 30 to 40 percent depending on the bar. To call a waiter, they just have to clap their hands. It’s non-alcoholic so they could go all night ordering the stuff.

The girl I chose? Man, she sure could clap her hands. That was her single talent I believe since I never saw her dance on stage. By the time the night was over, my pockets are as empty as my gut was later that night when I puked all my entrails into the toilet bowl.

My companion, meanwhile, had the time of his life because the girl that I rejected turned out to be a neophyte who was too shy to clap her hands. The manager had to go to our table a few times and ordered for her. So instead of paying for the ladies drink, he was busy enough necking with her.

Oh, she was good. But I was better. I knew that the only way to prevent her trigger-happy hands from clapping and calling the attention of the waiter, I had to:

1. Chop off her hands

2. Whack her with a beer bottle on the head

3. Make her my girlfriend

I opted for the third and less extreme option instead. Sure it took me a few more visits but she became my girlfriend in the end. No more numerous claps. No more empty pockets. 

I got a freebie.

Dracula, 28 weeks later

My Burmese roommate and I were bored out of our skulls yesterday sleeping together on a single bed (this is not brokeback Part 2 I assure you, it's a long story), so we decided to watch a movie. He really wanted to watch "28 weeks later," the sequel to Danny Boyle's surprising zombie movie hit 28 days later released in 2002. 

28 Weeks Later is really a dark and gory movie which made me wax nostalgic about the zombies of yesteryears who were very laggard and the opposite of graceful, outrunning them was way too easy. You couldn't empathize with the actors who had no difficulty in killing the undead.  

The zombies in the 2007 version are not only fast, they run you down.

So anyway, we were watching the movie and he was very animated. Always telling me how scary the movie was and everytime the zombies caught somebody, and that means human sushi, he always had a comment. Either "very good" or "Ahh, good, good." I just smiled at the snide remarks of the bloodthirsty fool.   

For the most part, however, he was mostly silent save for the occassional jolts he makes during scary moments. I really thought he watched 28 Days Later and was able to follow the series. Halfway into the movie and after a prolonged silence, he leaned towards me and asked:

"Are they draculas?"

I was laughing so loud that I couldn't even throw a sarcastic reply. On hindsight, maybe it's probably better that laughter overshadowed any wisecrack I might have said. I like the guy. In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is a cyclops.  

Silent movie

I had a fight with an old lady yesterday and we clashed without words. At least nothing I could understand anyway.

And before you pull up your skirts and pummel me with your umbrellas, listen. Hear me my cause, as Mark Anthony would say. Here's what happened:

I took a bus from my hotel in Phra Kanong towards the skytrain going to downtown Bangkok. The bus was supposed to have been airconditioned but let's just say that its prime was when Jose Rizal was still in shorts and playing with his uncircumcised Simon. So I was sitting beside this old lady who appears to be sleeping. I was really perspiring because of the midday heat. No, make that soaked.

I looked up and the two nozzles from the aircon was angled towards her. Those were supposed to be for two people right? So I reached up and rotated one of the nozzles towards me. It's still hot but thank God for small mercies. After about 10 seconds she opened her eyes to see one of the nozzles off tangent to her own skewed point of view; to my surprise she reached out and shifted my end of the nozzle back to her and went back to sleep. WTF!?!   

It was like a bad silent movie because we did the dance without words. I reached up again and of course, old lady or not, take back what's mine. She looked up and reached up again. Before doing that however, she tsked me like it was my fault. Whoa! It's on! We're out of the silent movie and fast forward many years past technicolor to dolby surround where the words fuck and shit from two-bit actors' mouths are more the rule than the exception. 

So I reached up again and told her, "ayaw lagi soloha ang aircon, ka laog ba nimo oi (don't be so selfish and hog all the airconditioner)." Did she back down? No. She instead reached up again and recited a long litany in Thai. I guess it must have translated to "fucking tourists."

I yielded and let her have all the aircon. I noticed however that she forgot where she was sitting — between the wall of the bus and myself. I was looking forward while my peripheral vision was on her. I knew it was her time to disembark when she started fixing herself up. The next bus stop I could see was about 10 meters away. So I pretended to sleep, leaning forward to the seat facing me to block her way.

She was tapping me desperately, the bus stop I guessed was about five meters away.  I looked at her and asked: "Unsa man? Wa ko kasabot nimo. Unsa imo ginasulti, binisaya ra gud beh (What? I don't understand what you're saying. Can you please speak to me in visayan)."

Oops. There goes her bus stop.

She stood up after me and rung the bell. She was really irate I could tell by the way she was speaking loudly on the bus attracting the attention of everybody else. I deliberately reached up real slow — so she could see what I was doing — to the aircon nozzle above me. I closed my eyes and could still her shrill voice. 

Ah, music to my ears.    

Bitoy’s funniest

The other day, I went with my Thai translator to the refugee camp. The entrance to the camp is "protected" by a military checkpoint to monitor who are going in and out. Supposedly, the camp is a haven for drug pushers and criminals as well as illegal immigrants that the military is "forced" to secure it.

So we hiked a few meters towards the camp and asked for permission to go in. The translator, who learned how to speak English by watching movies and reading books, explained to the guards on duty our reasons for visiting the camp and what we intend to do.

The Thai soldier who listened to us waved his hands in dismissal. No, we're not allowed to enter the camp. From what I could sense, his reasons for not letting us in is personal. I just don't think he liked us. He just waved us off like a fly over a turd. It's unfair, I know but I couldn't do a damn thing about it.

So we hang around the supermarket, waiting for his shift to end.  It was about 8:00 a.m. so we figured we come back in the afternoon and maybe our luck will hold in and we won't find him there. At around 3:00, we came back to the camp relieved to see that the soldier was no longer there. We approached the youngest-looking soldier manning the checkpoint and explained to him the situation. He looked over my credentials and my passport and I knew I was going in.

At that moment, the soldier who didn't like us popped out of nowhere. He pointed at us, his long rifle menacingly pointed halfway to the ground, and shouted gibberish.  "Waya waya waya waya," at least that's what it sounded to me anyway. I glanced at my translator to explain to me what the soldier was saying but he only looked agitated before telling me in a low voice:

"Run."

 So I did. I sprinted out of there quick as a flash and bracing for the bullets to hit my head. After some time, I noticed that I was running alone. I risked a peek back thinking that he was arrested or worse, killed. But what I saw unnerved me more than those two scenarios.

He was walking casually towards me and  the fucking worm was laughing.  

When he caught up to me, all he said was. "Funny, yes? Hahahaha"

Apparently, I didn't know I was the victim in Bitoy's funniest videos. I swear I could have socked his smirking face right there. I have a healthy sense of humor but that was just sick. To think I felt bad that I ran like that and leaving him.

So I laughed.

Hahahaha.

And fired his cheap ass.  

I’m back (from somewhere)

Okay… i haven't been here far too long. Much has happened over the past couple of weeks. Just to give you an idea of just how much… I'm writing this post from Thailand. Cool huh?

                                                             ***********************************************************

I realized how I hate flying when I flew from Manila to Jakarta. I knew something bad was gonna happen when we encountered an ominous cloud. The plane was jerking around from too much turbulence, I was still calm because the seatbelt sign wasn't on. Then suddenly we hit one of those air pockets and the plane dropped 10 feet from the sky!

The captain was all cool and collected and addressing the passengers in a calm voice: "Fasten your seatbelts please." 

Yeah, right! Was that supposed to make me feel safe? We were bungee jumping 35,000 feet up without safety cords on and to make you safe the captain advises you to strap your butt on a 2,000-ton plane! I think that's a conspiracy. I think that as the big bosses plan on commercializing the air industry back in the early days they decided that if the plane was gonna go down in flames, let's take along all its passengers because hospitalization expenses would be costly. While in death, they can just fix an exact amount for burial expenses.

I was there thinking that instead of life vests under our seats, why couldn't the airline just put parachutes instead?

******************************************************

I'm here on a fellowship to foster better relationship with colleagues from all over. On the same fellowship are the Burmese, Cambodian, Indonesian, Malaysian. We were supposed to have Thai and Vietnamese participants but they begged off in the last minute.

I think it's great. Learning from the others' culture and teaching mine as well. I even taught the Burmese fellow a touch of Filipino hospitality and what better way to teach our culture than our language?

So I taught him a tagalog phrase which I said means "I'm kind, you can trust me."

I taught him to say: "Maliit ang titi ko." 

Hidden Talent

Eherm! Man! this quiz is accurate… hehehe. Now, where did I put that hammer and nail so I could frame this.

Two words: Advertise baby!

In Bukidnon, Cows don’t Moo

I always associate Bukidnon with the Kalachuchi.

For what reason, I don't know. But even as I write this post, the smell of the Kalachuchi waft through the air and its overpowering scent disturbed the equilibrium of the room. The intrusion is not at all unpleasant. Like a friendly greeting from an old friend; or a slice of chocolate cake in the middle of a diet.

I was about 11 or 12 years old when my family spent a summer in Bukidnon. We lived with an evangelical pastor who was the partner of my father in a potato farm business a few kilometers from his house.

His house sits on a hill. No, it's more like a anomalous growth but the dirt road knew better than to cut through it and offend the sensibilities of a messenger from God. So the road snaked around that mound — adorned with fruit trees, bermuda grass, a small garden of gumamela, violets, baby's breath and shrubs — before it staggers and get lost around the bend.

At the back of the house stands the Kalachuchi. So huge it seemed to dwarf the two-storey house but that's not true, of course — its dimensions forever distorted by a distant memory. Without fail, right after daybreak, the pastor's little girl religiously fetched the goat from its pen and tie it to the Kalachuchi. A bald spot around the Kalachuchi where the grass couldn't seem to grow just shows how long this custom has been going on.

At night, the shadows seemed endless; fractured only by flourescent lights dangling precariously on creaky lampposts. You could count shafts of light in the main road before the darkness swallows the rest of them. As the light of moon pallidly touched the winding path, the flowers of the Kalachuchi perfumed the air, adding to the ghostly atmosphere.

"It's the moths," the pastor told me one night. "The Kalachuchi tricks the moths into thinking it has nectars to give and so the moths come back again and again."

Again and again. Quite a deceitful one, that Kalachuchi.

But this post has nothing to do with Kalachuchi.

It was our first night at the Pastor's house. I was lying between my two brothers in the sala. My father was in one room with my mother; my uncle and two other cousins slept in another room near the kitchen. In the dark, the ordinary furniture looked menacing. Naturally, we couldn't sleep. As the crickets and toads crooned, we listened… for strange noises, for a deviant clatter, even a familiar thud (the kind that falling dead bodies make when clumsy psychos stumble).

Nothing. Every sound accounted for. The hum of the electric fan, the rustling of the wind on the tin roof, my heavy breathing. I start to doze off.

Then suddenly. I heard a faint sound in the distance.

I listened.

"Mooo."

"Mooo."

I heard what a cow sounds like when it "moos" and I knew THAT wasn't a cow. It sounded guttural, like a raw wheeze from deep in the stomach; a drowning man struggling to breathe.

And it's coming from the kitchen.

"Mooo."

"Mooo."

The sound is defeaning. A pause then a moo. I pulled the sheets up to my head. My brothers followed suit.

Moo. Pause. Moo.

It surrounded the house. It swallowed the house. I didn't know how I managed to sleep that night. All I remember was waking up all covered in sweat. I went to the kitchen to drink Milo and walked into a conversation among the adults. Obviously, I wasn't the only one who had a difficult night.

"Sabaa ning Janwart oi! Sige lang ug Moo Moo, di ko katulog!" my cousin complained.

Apparently, when my uncle snores, he moos.

There's no moral to this story but nobody snores like my uncle. Nobody should have to. That's inhuman. You scare little children that way. Even cows stop to moo when they sleep.

Which Superhero Am I?

Your results:
You are Hulk

Click here to take the "Which Superhero are you?" quiz…

Maayo na lang na Hulk ang pinakataas… hapit pa ko na catwoman. hehehe

ice water wrapper

Inside Piapi public market in boulevard, and I remember this clearly, four houses from the first corner, in a small alley next to the shabby booth selling tuba is a small house, but it was really more like a quarters. A one-room grimy little quarters with a huge blue cellophane (those used to wrap bananas) hanging at the door. Up to this day, I wondered what that blue cellophane was for. It was not only superfluous, it was downright gaudy. But this is not about the blue cellophane.

One Tuesday afternoon after our high-school classes we went to the house we've been interested in for quite some time. Four boys with hormones seeping out of our ears. That day, some of us were going to be men. Weeks before, one of my friends who lived in Piapi has been bragging about scantily-clad women going in and out the alley nearby. He attested to one of his neighbor's (who was supposed to have visited the alley and came out rather satisfied) experience about getting some action for a small fee. As best as we could figure out from the way he told the story, the price for a lay with one of the scantily-clad women there was practically a giveaway.

We pooled whatever resources we had and came up short of 250 pesos. Not bad, we thought.
So we hied off to the house, our hearts beating fast, knees quaking, our eyes darting warily for
any familiar faces that could foil our plans.

At the end of the alley, beside the shabby booth selling tuba, are two adjacent houses. A blue-colored cellophane hanging at door of one house while the other one sports a fashionable white cellophane. Must be color-coded, I thought. Indeed, there were scantily-clad women sitting on the bench between the two houses. We cautiously approached one of the girls, while two tough-looking men standing nearby eyeballed us suspiciously.

She was accommodating. Her teeth were, at least, complete. Of course, if she had broken into pidgin English and said "Me love you long time," that would be the perfect moment. Instead, she asked: "Kinsay virginan nato sa inyoha?" Everybody got a kick out of that one. The tough-looking men included. We, however, were visibly embarrassed. The friend who invited us there took it upon himself to defend whatever dignity we had left and asked: "Tagpila man diay?"

The girl, she was about our age I think. replied: "P400 isa ka babae pwede na."

Well, that wasn't as cheap as advertised. Our money certainly did not reach P400. We declined and were to go somewhere else when she called to us. "Dong, sulod na lang mo diha sa pikas balay. Tanaw na lang mo bold," she said, pointing to the house with the blue cellophane suspended menacingly. We looked at each other and shrugged. We got the money and were extremely horny, a deadly mix.

We went in. The fee was 10 pesos. The man at the door collected 44 pesos for the four of us. We asked what the 4 pesos was for and he said it was for the ice water wrapper. We looked at each other, utterly confused, but I took the ice water wrapper nevertheless. My friends followed suit. We went into the single room where the showing was supposed to take place. The porno movie was still in the old betamax format. Eager faces of boys, some younger than us, looked up at us while holding tightly to their ice water wrapper.

The betamax player started to whirr. Images started to play on the TV screen. I forgot the title but it was a hilarious spoof of the Alladin story. This guy found a lamp housing a genie who gave him three wishes. Of course, he wished for girls and more girls. For lack of imagination, the producers made up for inundating the movie with naked and willing women. I forgot how many pussies I counted on that movie.

I watched entranced. The other boys started whipping out their ice water wrapper and what they did afterwards made me forgot about the movie. The ice water wrapper, it turned out, was to prevent the boys from spilling all over the room. My friends, visibly aroused, took out their ice water wrapper. Awareness enveloped confusion. Knowledge is power.

I, on the other hand, capitulated. To my mind, it was already preordained and the blue cellophane was my witness.

Madness

There is a pleasure in being mad, which none but madmen know — John Dryden

Somewhere in C.M. recto Street, I was sitting alone on the ramshackle and rusty jeepney bound for home. The barker in front of me was shouting on the top of his lungs to solicit passengres, all the more to annoy potential passengers into avoiding the very jeepney he's trying to help out. The driver appeared bored. He was about 60 years old, ashen-haired and emaciated.
Amid the stacatto of blares, the barker's voice stood out:

"Jacinto Piapi, Jacinto Piapi!"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw this old woman holding a plastic bag marked Gaisano Center, cross the pedestrian lane. She was looking all the way at our jeepney while she crossed. The barker was still shouting.

"Jacinto Piapi, Jacinto Piapi!"
The barker, who was turning his back on the old woman the whole time, felt a tap on his back. It was the old woman.

Old woman: Piapi ni?
Barker: Oo nang, piapi ni dire ka sakay oh.. (pointing to our jeep)

Before boarding, she even leaned out to look at the signboard which, of course, read Jacinto Piapi. She clambered on the steps and settled on the chair opposite me. We were still along on the jeepney. She then looked at me and asks:

"Piapi ni dong?"

(In my head, my brain screamed. argghhh!)

Instead I smiled and with all seriousness, answered: "Dili, Bankerohan ni nang."

The old lady was flustered and gathered her things, presumably to disembark. The driver, overhearing our conversation, turned around to tell the old lady: "Sa Piapi ko padulong nang, dili Bankerohan."

The old woman and the driver glared at me. I looked out, totally indifferent; I could take them both with one hand tied behind my back.

Ice Cream

When we were kids, our father used to experiment with all kinds of amulets, incantations, talismans and any scheme that would supposedly give him superpowers. In each nook of our house, you would find little necklaces, about ½ inch in width and an inch wide. It was basically a red cloth sewn together, patently concealing a piece of paper inside which, of course, holds the magical Latin chant for invulnerability.

Perhaps a little background. I belong to a family of “machos,” where balls are held more in esteem than education. I heard tales of my lolo, along with his sons, brandishing their guns and storming villages taking over lands on sheer firepower; tales of brawling, of clan wars, and of women. You see, the myth is you’re not part of the family if you’re not a player. Our surname supposedly carries with it a certain charm that could cut through women’s panties, easily. Of course, I and my brothers bought into the myth and had our shares of scuffles and women. In fights, the rule is: defend your brother or relative and ask questions about who started the fight later.

Anyway, it is in this context might we understand my father and uncles’ preoccupation with amulets. They are not exactly popular for their generosity.

One particular memory that’s etched into my mind was when my father and uncles had a ritual performed at our living room. The ritual would allegedly render them invincible to bullets. Tying a red bandana with strange markings around their head, they first formed a circle to ask for divine guidance, then with a jungle bolo, slashed through their limbs and trunks with no more than a red welt. My brothers and cousins witnessed the whole spectacle and our impressionable minds were, well, impressed.

I remember one time when my two elder brothers and I stole one of the red necklaces and tore off the cloth to look at what’s inside. It was nothing more than a bond paper with strange triangular shapes and doodle of an eye but we were not disappointed because the unfamiliar language made it seem mysterious and real. We fought for the right to hold the amulet and my elder brother earned that right because his fists said so.

We pestered our father into giving us superpowers, too, for why should only he be the superhero?

One day, our father called us three in the backyard to teach us a spell to make us stronger. With all seriousness and barely a whisper that we had to strain to hear his words, he revealed, syllable by syllable, the secret and ancient chant that could summon the gods into possessing you in times of crisis:

“EE SEE KREE AM POR SA LEE HE REE”

With a pregnant pause and as we stared agape, he added quickly.

“REG FIL PAT OF”

And with that, he went off to work.

We were thrilled and couldn’t wait to try off our newfound powers. This was the days of the kung-fu movies. Imported Chinese movies dubbed in English with titles such as Drunken Master, Shaolin vs. Ninja, Animal Kung-Fu, Shaolin Fist and other ignominious titles. But we loved those movies and right after each film in the old Betamax tapes, my brothers and I ran off outside to mimic the moves.

What they didn’t know was that I memorized the incantation and repeat it in my head before each of our confrontation. I had it down pat. You chant the mantra and don’t forget the pregnant pause. That brief gap must have been important and part of the mantra for my father to pause like that.

It didn’t work. I got beat up each time.

It was only later I found that EE-SEE-KREE-AM POR-SA-LEE HE-REE really stood for "ICE CREAM FOR SALE HERE."

And REG FIL PAT OF? Well, that was the small print you see in Coca-Cola billboards. Reg. Phil. Pat. Off.

Registered Philippine Patent Office.

Bummer.

The hood

note: this was written on August 28, 2006 after hearing that Pluto was demoted into a dwarf planet

They finally did it.
As if the distinction of being the smallest planet and the most eccentric is not enough, astronomers last week dispensed with political correctness and called Pluto for what it is – a dwarf planet.
Imagine what that classification would do to a planet’s rep which is, after all, what matters in the hood which we call the solar system.

Jupiter, the big bully, laughed his ass off after hearing the new word in town.

"Hey, did you bitches hear? Pluto who we thought was just small for his size was found to be wearing elevator shoes. The bastard apparently is a midget. So, that's why he's got a small dick!"

Mars, ever energetic and ambitious, laughed harder than most while exclaiming, “Good one boss!”

Earth, along with the tramp Venus, who might have bedded every planet in the solar system (with the exception of Pluto: “He’s too small!”) now is backing off as if he didn’t start the gossip in the first place.

“Hey, here comes the dwarf and his mini-me!” Uranus, being his usual ass-self, called out when Pluto and Charon passes their orbit. "Mini-me" refers to Charon, Pluto’s twin in size and temperament.

Some planets have always been suspicious about their relationship. Word is that they are lovers.

Saturn, with a regal air adjusts his crown and puckered his lips in disapproval, and looked away. This is so beneath him. Mercury tries to defuse the situation with logic and communication. “Aw, common bitches, they don't call them dwarves anymore. He’s now vertically-challenged.” Venus twirled her hair and gagged on her chewing gum on the comment. Instead, she called out “Brokeback!”

Pluto walked briskly and ignored them. He practically dragged Charon along with him.

Everybody hooted.

Earth, still unsure of his place in the pack, smirked: “That Pluto, he’s weird. He always love to roam in the darkness and his eyes are always shifty.”

Yeah, and he’s very pale just like that Japanese boy from that horror movie where everybody gets snuffed? Man! He gives me the creeps.” Venus added, taking a drag of her cigarette.

“Yeah, I hear an 11-year old English girl named him because ain’t nobody wanted to get near his ugly face,” Jupiter said.

“He’s a suck up too. Always forcing himself on the Sun for a little bit of light. Snorting that ray like some poor loser,” Neptune said; who is actually a little bit jealous of Pluto because the Sun in some days has been giving Pluto all his attentions.

Plus, there’s that one incident when the Sun, the big boss, was driving around the neighborhood in his white limousine looking for trusted guys for a contract. Word spread around. Neptune heard about it and so hied off to look for the Sun. His massive limousine parked near the park. He trotted towards the car when he saw Pluto turned the corner in front of him also approaching the limousine.

Their eyes met. Pluto walked faster. Neptune jogged. Their gravity starts to pull on each other and just when Neptune is about to catch up, Pluto speeded up due to gravitational acceleration from the big boss and pulled ahead. Pluto got the job and Neptune never forgot about the incident.

“The bitch does walk fast, don’t he?” Jupiter said. He leans in his chair, cigarette hanging on his lips.

“Yeah, maybe they’re going to see their girlfriends. I always see them hanging with those midgets Ceres and Xena,” Earth reluctantly volunteered. “Maybe, they’re having a foursome!”

Everybody laughed. Mars laughed the loudest.

A meteorite swung by, almost hitting Jupiter. He fell from the chair, his bling-bling falling to the ground and burning himself with his own cigarette. He stared menacingly at Pluto and Charon as if it’s their fault he fell.

“Those gay midgets. They’ll get theirs, someday.”

Blood compact

I found a wrinkled Red Cross card when I was skimming through my wallet and I realized I’m due for another donation. The way I was made to understand it, every three months the 500 cc of blood I gave would have been replaced. The last time I visited the Red Cross office was in April so I guess in a few days, I would be shedding blood once again.

I dread these moments. I never did like needles. There’s something very violent in a hypodermic breaching the epidermis and into your veins. And just like rape, you feel violated afterwards. Who was it that said “rape is not about sex, it’s about power?” (Was it Demi Moore on the film Disclosure? Or maybe it’s Margarita Holmes, I’m not sure). The same maxim works here. Bleeding you is not about sex either, it’s about power.

The experience I had the last time I was there didn’t help in shaking off my anxiety. Our STAP Glenn and I were lying there on separate beds as the nurse prepared the needles and bags. I was aware that Glenn was getting edgy and so naturally I volunteered to be the first to be bled (there’s no other way to put it).

What I didn’t know was that the nurse was just an intern and not exactly a connoisseur in the ways of the blood. He tied my arms to pop a vein and inserted the damn needle (I swear it was two inches long and about an inch in diameter!).

No blood dripped. Not even a dribble.

So she pulled out the needle, screwed it again on the vein, making another wound in the process.

She must have noticed me grimacing for she asked: “Does it hurt?”

What else could I reply? Being a wiseass, I said: “No. Maybe you should shove it deeper so it would hurt.”

Glenn laughed nervously.

The nurse looked up at me; her face a blank. Then she twisted, turned and chucked the needle a little deeper, just like what I ordered. She must have thought I deserved it for being a wiseass. God, some people just don’t have a sense of humor.

After practicing on my vein, Glenn’s was a breeze. He bled on the first try.

Afterwards, we each got Zest-O and Magic Flakes. I shouted: “Yehey! Naa mi juice ug biskwit!”

That earned me a smile from the nurse. She’s not hopeless, after all. *lol*

The guy’s rules

Got this one from my mail. How true! i'll come up with my own take on this next time…

Now here are the rules from the male side. These are our rules! Please note.. these are all numbered "1" ON PURPOSE!

1. Men are NOT mind readers.

1. Learn to work the toilet seat.You're a big girl. If it's up, put it down.We need it up, you need it down.You don't hear us complaining about you leaving it down.

1. Sunday sports. It's like the full moon or the changing of the tides. Let it be.

1. Shopping is NOT a sport. And no, we are never going to think of it that way.

1. Crying is blackmail.

1. Ask for what you want. Let us be clear on this one: Subtle hints do not work! Strong hints do not work! Obvious hints do not work! Just say it!

1. Yes and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every question.

1. Come to us with a problem only if you want help solving it. That's what we do. Sympathy is what your girlfriends are for.

1. A headache that lasts for 17 months is a Problem. See a doctor.

1. Anything we said 6 months ago is inadmissible in an argument. In fact, all comments become null and void after 7 Days.

1. If you won't dress like the Victoria's Secret girls, don't Expect us to act like soap opera guys.

1. If you think you're fat, you probably are.Don't ask us.

1. If something we said can be interpreted two ways and one of the ways makes you sad or angry, we meant the other one

1. You can either ask us to do something Or tell us how you want it done. Not both. If you already know best how to do it, just do it yourself.

1. Whenever possible, Please say whatever you have to say during commercials.

1. Christopher Columbus did NOT need directions and neither do we.

1. ALL men see in only 16 colors, like Windows default settings. Peach, for example, is a fruit, not A color. Pumpkin is also a fruit. We have no idea what mauve is.

1. If it itches, it will be scratched. We do that.

1. If we ask what is wrong and you say "nothing," We will act like nothing's wrong. We know you are lying, but it is just not worth the hassle.

1. If you ask a question you don't want an answer to, Expect an answer you don't want to hear.

1. When we have to go somewhere, absolutely anything you wear is fine.Really.

1. Don't ask us what we're thinking about unless you are prepared to discuss such topics as baseball, the shotgun formation, or basketball.

1. You have enough clothes.

1. You have too many shoes.

1. I am in shape. Round IS a shape!

1. Thank you for reading this. Yes, I know, I have to sleep on the couch tonight;

But did you know men really don't mind that? It's like camping.

The Buzz

Teachers and administrators of the University of Southeastern Philippines spitting mad against this popular (or so he thinks) ABS-CBN personality over the comments he made during his radio program.

They supposedly took exception when the ABS-CBN personality, who also anchors an afternoon show on TV, said on air that USEP administrators are "bugo" (stupid) because the investigation into the unfortunate death of Cheryl Sarate had dragged on.

Gripped with apoplexy, One teacher was heard to have commented: "Bugo pud diay siya. Mura man pud siya dili gikan sa USP. Dire baya siya nag high-school."

Hahahahaha!

Priceless

Me and my girl were eating at the Krua Thai along Torres St. Right in front of us are a group of Americans and Koreans seated at different tables. All the time, I try to look cool like I eat opulence for breakfast and use luxury to wipe my ass every time I crap.

Though I must admit I got rattled off when I read the menu.

Let me put this in a proper context. I only have P22 on my pockets, my girl had even less than me. We just thought of splurging that night precisely because we had no money. No need for money, we thought, we got Visa!

Our Visa ad would go this way:

1. Green shirt: P30 (from ukay-ukay)
2. blue pants: P800
3. accessories: P67
The look on our faces when reading the menu? Priceless!

Anyway, after finishing up all our food (our bill amounted to nearly P500). The waiter came around and asked my girl, in English, no less:

“Ma’am, are you done?”

I froze. Tucked in my smile and waited. Rarely do you get those moments when you could shot back a witty reply. You’ve seen the funny movies. You play the conversations over and over in your head, hoping that one day you get to use them in real life.
To my mind, there are several answers to this question:

1. “No, I’m not done. I’m (state your name)”
2. “No, I’m not done, but I have a brother by that name.”
3. “Yes, I have a man’s name. And yours?”

There are also several variations to these but they all go with the same theme.
And so there I was, holding my spoon in mid-air. I waited for her answer because basically we share the same sense of humor (you know, the one when nobody else gets it) so I knew it would be good.

She looked at the waiter askance, smiled her sweet smile, and replied:

“Yes.”

The waiter took her plate and that was it. There goes the moment.
I, for one, blame it on the menu. Priceless!

Mnemonics

A funny thing happened today. I was on the way to the office when somebody tapped my shoulder from behind and called my name. I glanced back and turned out it was an old flame from way back. But for the life of me, I couldn't remember her name.
I have a faint memory of her face and her eyes. She looked plumpier. But i could not really trust my memory to say that she gained weight. Even her smell is not familiar (A new perfume, maybe)? Memory is a funny thing. You think you could never forget a person but each piece of her slowly fades away with time. You forget how her laughter sounded like, how she dressed. Her smile.

Her smell that clung heavily to your clothes lightens and evaporates, but the memory is still there, however faint. It's almost like the smell of durian, lingering in the air long after the solids are thrown away; or the smell of sweaty feet in the room.

I thought we had something then but now I couldn’t even remember her name.

Our conversation went like this:

Her: So, musta na?

Me: Okay lang, kaw?

Her: Okay lang din. Saan ka na ngayon?

Me: Wala, tambay tambay lang.

Her: Atik ka man oi. Ingon ni Michael, nagtrabaho ka daw sa ______?

Me: Ah, oo. Sometimes.

Awkward silence. She looked away. I looked at her.

Me: So, asa ka karun?

Her: (smiling) wala, magpatahi uniform diha sa ____ (points to a boutique nearby).

Me: ah ok. asa diay ka work?

Her: Sa ______. Isa sa mga sales agents didto.

Me: ah ok.

Her: Asawa ka naman daw?

Me: Tsismis lang na. hehehe. Kaw, minyo ka na?

Her: Wala pa pud. Wa pa nakita. Basi ginahulat ko nimo? (laughs)

Me: Mao. Hehehe

Another silence. Longer this time. I took the chance to try to remember her name and failed.

Me: So, adto nako. Balik pa ko work.

Her: Sige. Ako pud, magpatahi pa pud ko uniform. Naa ka number?

Me: Naa.

Her: Hatagi ko beh. Save nako.

Me: Sige. Unsa man imo number kay save nako tapos miscol taka later.

Her: Ok. (gives her number) Tawagi ko ha or text?

Me: Ok

Her: Promise ha? Bantay ka lang, atikon bya ka.

Me: Nanira pa jud. Lagi. Text taka.

I didn’t. It would be pointless.