Food, Ingredients, and Revenge

I like to cook. If I have the money and the ingredients, I would choose to cook over buying things at the carinderia. That way I get to specify the flavor, like with Sinigang, I like it super sour, so that I don't need to put in kalamansi anymore. That's not to say that I don't appreciate a cordon bleu affair over at the next foodie fad restaurant. Up to now, I don't know how Margarita Fores does her Spaghetti Aglio e Olio that it tastes like that. It's just garlic and olive oil, for chrissakes. Sabagay, masyado talaga akong ambisyosa at ilusyonada. Sabi nga ng kapatid ko: “may niluto ka bang hindi ka nasarapan?”


He's got a point there. Pero naman, kaya ka nga nagluto, pwede mo namang habulin ang lasa. Pwedeng tikman, kuya. Ang mga hindi lang nahahabol ang lasa e kung pumutok ang apdo ng isda mo. Good luck. I've had a few misses when it comes to cooking, but I generally appreciate what I put on the table. Sabi nga nila, walang ibang pupuri sa iyo kundi sarili mo.

Speaking of ingredients, dahil nga sa may pagka-OCD ako, gusto ko authentic. There was a time when nasa bahay ako ng pinsan ko and I was blabbering about spices to make a Taco better. She whipped out an instant Taco mix and gleefully added it to the meat, whilst looking at me from the corner of her eyes. Ugh, people. Tapos, meron akong kakilalang pastry chef (he's employed by a five star hotel) and we had conversations like these:


Me: “Do you know where I can get whole nutmegs?”
PC: “You can get the ground ones from the grocery, like McCormick...”
Me: “No, I want the whole ones, you know, the ones you can grate.”


Me: “Which red wine do you usually buy?”
PC: “Huh, I just buy the Dona Clara one.”
Me: “The table wine?” - I was horrified by the Philistine.


PC: “You know, you remind me of Bree.”
Me: “Huh?”
PC: “You know, from Desperate Housewives. She's such a perfectionist.”
Me: “...” - Asar talo na ako sa puntong ito.


Needless to say, wala na siyang kredibilidad para sa akin.


Sa ngayon, in love ako sa Thai and Indian cooking, so talagang namomroblema ako sa paghahanap ng mga sangkap. E kung sa Australia nga, nahirapan akong maghanap ng kaffir lime leaves, dito pa kaya? Meron sa Shopwise, pero kukunin muna nila ang dugo mo at maliit na piraso ng atay mo sa sobrang mahal. Isa rin tong Garam Masala, talaga namang dadayo ka pa ng United Nations para lang makakita ka ng Indian spices.

Isa pang nakapagtataka dito sa Pilipinas, meron sa ating wansuy (coriander), pomegranate (granada), luyang dilaw (turmeric), at dayap (lime) pero pumunta ka ng palengke at bibigyan kita ng piso pag nakakita ka. Locally, meron tayong mabolo, sampalok na hinog, balimbing, camachile, lipote, bunga ng sasa, bunga ng buli, at ang pinakapaborito ko pero kahit kelan walang nagbebenta, ang aratiles (hoy, batang bulol lang ang nagsasabi ng alatires). Talaga bang hindi tayo mahilig kumain ng prutas o ng gulay? E paano naman ang alupihang dagat, salungo at la cucaracha na masarap pero walang bumibili? E ang mahal nito sa restaurant, ah.


Ngayon ko rin lang nalaman na may parang green curried chicken dish na iniluluto sa Panaon, Quezon at sa Marinduque. As in Pinoy dish siya pero parang Thai food. Meron ding turmeric rice pala sa Batanes. At merong iniluluto ang mga ilonggo na hindi ko alam kung ano, basta, masarap sya. Ibig sabihin, ang Pinoy food e hindi lang adobo o sinigang. Na kahit ako na kung saan saan na napadpad na mga isla ay marami pa ring hindi natitikman sa pagkaing Pilipino.


Isa pa ring gusto ko e cheeses. As in cheeses talaga. Roquefort Bleu, Danish Bleu, Camembert, Brie, Smoked, atbp. Kaso ako lang ang may gusto nito, wala ng iba. Yung bleu cheese, may amag na nga, inaamag pa kasi walang ni isa man lang sa kanila ang kahit hawakan ang keso na to ay ayaw. Yung tipong, uh-uh! Ayaw koh! Di nila alam, nilalagay ko to sa mushroom omelette na sarap na sarap sila, wag lang nila malaman kung pano ko niluto. Meron din sa atin na kesong puti na kelangang nakatambay ka sa kanto ng mga isa hanggang anim na buwan para matyempuhan mo si Manong na naglalako nito.



Speaking of cheese, I made a mac'n cheese with just a Cheezee spread. Gagawa sana muna ako ng roux with spices at nadiskubre ko ang malaking problema. Yung whole nutmeg na binili ko e inamag na at nadudurog nang kusa paghawak ko pa lamang. Yung Queensland butter ko ay inamag na rin sa katagalan kong di ginamit. Tininggg!!! Wala akong bleu cheese, so kahit may amag si Queensland butter ay yun ang ginamit ko at thyme, basil, oregano na lang ang spices. Ipinakain ko sa kapatid kong walangya na nagsabing wala akong niluto na di ako nasarapan, at hayun, masarap naman daw. In fairnez, kumain din ako at masarap naman.

Ranting and Raving and Slobbering

Okay, let me just rant a little over social media.

• Po and Opo does not end with an H, ever.
  
• Unless you like Vietnamese soup, then the H is misplaced on the Pho.
  
• Last time we met, we didn't even acknowledge each other, and now you're adding me as a friend? Come on.
  
• It's sad, but as Maria Ressa said, and I paraphrase: anything you put on social media is public property. So, no credits need be given.
  
• Sabagay, as Will Smith said, anything you will ever think has already been said before, and that's also paraphrasing him.
  
• Should I hide all posts from you on my timeline? Uhmm, sometimes you come up with self-indulgent crap, other times, you're fine. Oh, fuck, I realize that's what all friends are like in real life, it's just that on FB, it's printed for all to see.
  
• In real life, we tend to gloss over unpleasant things and remember only the good stuff. In social media, you can't. You can delete, but google still has a cache.
  

That's it, I'm done.

2013 Wrap Up

The year is almost over and I wanted to take a look back to see if I had stagnated (like I feel) or if I should celebrate, because I've grown.


I spent most of 2012 taking care of my grandmother and that was a year that I would celebrate. I spent it cherishing one of the people who shaped up who I am today and I would be forever thankful for the opportunity.


The first quarter of this year I spent in Australia. We got my grandma a rental hospital bed so she would be more comfortable. The bed would cost about $5K if you bought it, but the health care for retired Aussies are so good, we only rented it for $120.00 a month. We were also provided a wheelchair, commode, and anti-bedsore cushion for $100.00 a year. We were also visited by a pathologist fortnightly to take her blood samples as well as an Occupational Therapist to help us adjust to a semi-ambulatory patient. Maybe if our politicians were not crooks then we'd have a health care as good as this one, but I'm afraid this will remain a pipe dream.


I also went back to the Art Gallery of NSW for the third time as I really love it there. I went by the NSW Museum of Contemporary Art but unfortunately did not go inside. I got intimidated by the size of the building, thinking that I would need weeks to see everything inside, plus, contemporary art just puzzles me, unlike classical art. It may be blasphemous to say, but Picasso's Guernica doesn't evoke any emotion in me unlike the renaissance masters do. I don't know what I'm talking about so don't crucify me here.


I went to the beaches as it was summer and those were the highlights of my wanderings. Bondi I went to with Tita Juliet. Now I know why surfer babes don't wear bikini tops. I was standing in thigh-high water feigning coolness with my wayfarers and ballcap when this huge wave inundated me. My shoulder almost got dislocated from the force of the water, I rolled end over end toward the shallower edge and thankfully got deposited sitting up. With my top askew exposing my non-existent boobs. Yeah, bikinis should have something to anchor on to. There were a lot of macho rugby and football types cavorting in the water and fortunately, nobody saw me, I hope. I lost my wayfarers but not the ballcap (I held on to it as it was signature while the sunnies were fake-oh) and went home with my coolness factor leveled down.


I also went alone to Cronulla beach and tried to get a tan with my SPF100. The difference between Philippine beaches and Aussie beaches is the temperature of the water. Aussies appreciate a 25 degree water. We whip out our jackets in December if it gets to 26 degrees, some even have mufflers like it was wintertime. And they won't think you're strange if you turn out alone in a beach, unlike here where they'll whisper behind their hands and think you've gone mad and sad. You also won't get robbed, but, I'm not that naïve to just leave my belongings without having my eye on it constantly. So, what I do is sun myself to get pleasantly hot, run to the beach to get cool, look behind my back to look at my bag, and stay until I'm shivering. Then run back to my malong, sun myself again, pass the time looking around, and go back to the water when it gets too hot. Repeat as necessary.


I also learnt how to bake. And it was as if I was making up for lost time. I baked rosemary bread, banana bread, banana cake, carrot cake, macaroons, and my favorite scones! I made clotted cream, chantilly cream, buttermilk – from a greek yogurt starter, chocolate mousse, chicken biryani, and persian rice.


I won a writing competition writing about a fictionalized account of an incident in my childhood. It was my first time to write about anything in a long, long time. And I wrote it in one day, yay!


I was also interrogated for an hour and a half by an Australian Immigration agent thinking that I was going in and out of her country to work, which I assured her I definitely was not. I was smirking, she was fuming, I kept my cool, she was sarcastic, I let it pass and just took it literally instead of taking it for the insult she meant it to be. In my head I was swaying to the beat of Plants vs. Zombies and swinging my foot backwards and forwards. The chair was not meant for little Asians, so I'm swinging, she was standing waving my passport at my face and threatening that I'm never ever going to get a multiple entry visa again. “Okay,” I said with a Mona Lisa smile and she stamped my passport to give me entry to Australia. Customs was a breeze even if I had 6 boxes of Vita plus in my backpack. The customs officer just opened one sachet and sniffed the contents. If it was cocaine she'd have been high.


I also enrolled in school thinking I'd get a student visa, but the visa got denied so that plan was scuppered. My grandma died so it was like my anchor was gone and suddenly I was adrift, no job, no purpose. I buried my head under science fiction books, went home to Quezon and wanted to live in some other world. I was reading The Passage by Justin Cronin and that was a dark world to live in. My brother pulled me up by the hair to go hiking to a nearby falls but I just wanted to read and read and read. My mother teamed up with him and I surfaced briefly.


The ride to the river was an event as it was on the back of a motorcycle that would have long ago given up the ghost were it not for the stubbornness of having no money to replace it. We made it on roads that were littered with rocks streaked with marble, the scent of wild tarragon and cinnamon in the air. We arrived in the back of beyond, Quezon province looking like some remote outpost in the Mountain Province were it not for the abundance of coconut trees. There was a nip in the air, like we were high up in altitude, small packhorses laden with copra, and a dead snake on the road being eaten by huge ants.


We stopped by a store which had nothing to sell except for Halo-halo. The owner was swaying in a hammock and didn't know which way Dayap falls was. My sister immediately went on campaign mode and said she'll pave everything, even the falls if she gets elected. She wasn't even in her district and she knew it. So we set out in the general course of the vague directions we got. It's easy to get to a falls, what's hard is wondering when you'd get there.


I was underwhelmed by the falls but it was pretty in a remote kind of way. The hike to get there was great, it took me out of my head and into the moment. It was not a hard hike by any means, but you needed to concentrate if you didn't want to stumble. We also went back to Borawan Island, Dampalitan Island, and the Bantakay Falls in Padre Burgos with the relatives after my Grandmother's interment.


When I was accepted into the Writer's Workshop held by Jessica Zafra, I had this notion that maybe, just maybe, I could really write. Maybe I could make a living out of this. So here I am now, trying to finish four books at once. Well, two of them are not really novel-length, more short novella types while the other one would be a collection of essays about the supernatural.



So, here's to a new career and hopefully it pays off. Looking forward to a more productive December and hoping the next year would be even better.

The Wrong Lead

The rain drove him inside the restaurant, just as he decided to give up the chase and go home. That fucking bastard is as slippery as an eel, Benito thought. He cast a furtive glance at the other patrons, and satisfied that they looked innocuous enough, found himself a seat with a view of both the entrance and the back door.


He has been chasing his latest lead through the streets of Quiapo, weaving from garbage-strewn alleys to fetid-smelling sidewalks. His pursuit was not made easier by the throngs of people still believing in miracles, congregating on Quiapo church every Friday. Miracles were for people who still believed, not people like him who have long given up. Maybe God finds people like him repulsive, that's why every prayer that he has ever uttered has not been answered.


His dark thoughts were interrupted by the waitress handing him the menu. “I'll just have a beer. No, on second thought, no beer, just your special Ramen, thanks.” He realized all the exercise he got from following the man made him famished. Two long years of searching, and this is the closest he got. He and Lorna are no longer even speaking to each other, unable to go beyond the pain of losing their only daughter. He doesn't even know where Lorna lived now. Truth to tell, their relationship has been breaking down ever since she found out just where he was getting the money to provide her the high life.


He was the best at what he did, but what he did was kill, and kill without leaving any clues. But all his skills at groundwork faded before the enormity of where to start looking for Didi and the why she was kidnapped.


The entrance of a man made him tense up but he was prevented from looking him over by the waitress delivering his order. He absentmindedly appreciated the steam from the soup as it was set down while he sneaked a peak at the newcomer. He felt slivers of ice slide down his spine when he saw it was the erstwhile vice-mayor, now Mayor Rudy Calimlim, a one-time client. Rudy slid down the opposite bench, and Benito could see his bodyguards waiting outside. “That could kill you,” he remarked, pointing at the bacon swimming in the soup. “Vice-Mayor! Este, Mayor, do you think this is a good idea?”


“I hear you're still looking for your kid. I have it on good authority that she is well, she's not being victimized by any crime ring, and whoever it is that has her, wants her to be happy.”


“She will be happy only with me, her father!”


“She was only two when you lost her, I don't think she will remember you anymore. If you know what's good for you, you will stop looking for her.”


“Or else, what?”


“Do you really want me to spell it out? I want you back in Laguna by tonight. I know you've amassed quite a nest egg, here's more, go find a new wife and build a nice life for yourself and move on.” He stood up and walked out without looking back. He left a thick brown envelope and if that was filled with new thousand peso bills, he guessed it would contain about 2.5 million pesos. 2.5 million pesos for his precious child. Fury filled him as he realized just where Lorna and his daughter was all this time.


He walked out of the restaurant and he knew he would go back to Laguna that night. What the Mayor forgot was that he was also a dangerous opponent and he has now given him additional ammunition. He turned left and was confronted with his second surprise of the night. Blood spattered the restaurant's window and quickly became pink as it mixed with the raindrops still sliding down toward the gutter.


“Why?,” he asked Lorna as she stood looking down dispassionately at him.



“I followed Rudy as I knew you would never leave us alone,” she quickly took the brown envelope he still clutched and quickly disappeared into the night.

Lost Childhood Restaurant

Great. The weather and now the décor match my mood. Perhaps the gods are punishing me for being a jealous and miserable chicken shit. I look at my friends and I see happy, shiny people and I wonder how come they get to be my friends.


“Are you sure this is the place?,” Lester asked. “Yeah, I think so, but they changed from Chinese to Japanese,” I said. “You think so?,” mocked Rigor, “we've traipsed all over Baguio looking for a restaurant where you ate 'the most delicious chicken curry' when you were five years old and that's the most sure you're going to get?” “Gimme a break! I was five years old as you said, and all I could remember is that we turned left from off of Session Road and you could immediately see the doorway and formica tabletops that looked like wood.” “I think they're real wood,” “whatever, let's just go in, I'm so hungry I could eat that St. Bernard we saw in Mines View.”


I looked around and I felt lost. This was The Restaurant, but not the restaurant of my childhood. Cheap formica, spoons and forks dunked in glasses with hot water, white plates at the ready with folded napkins at the center were all gone. It was replaced by those clean, austere lines favored by the Japanese. Now I would never get to taste that chicken curry ever again.


“Huy, you're looking glum again. You don't look pretty when you cry. Plus, it's not crying with you, it's more like a dog howling when he sees kamatayan,” Rigor ribbed. “Hoy, bakla, I'm just letting out all those negative feelings slash aura when I cry. What's the use of crying when I can't get rid of them?” Lester interjected with his favorite topic “you know what? Linda Goodman said to just take a shower to get rid of all the negative aura.” “Yeah, and she also said a lot of tosh about eating yellow foods, red foods at certain times and you will live forever, and the last I heard, she's dead,” I said. “She's not, she's still publishing those sign chorchor!” “Hello, the book says Linda Goodman's sign chorchor, she's not the author, she just started it.” Rigor said “people, before you discuss the Art of War, let's go order. They've got 'good fatty ramen here'.


Look! Bacon in a ramen! Bacon's one word that would prevent me from being a vegetarian. I'll order that. Sorry, moaning Ramona, I don't see chicken curry listed anywhere.” “Yeah, I knew as soon as I saw the décor, no need to rub it in, Mr. Rigor Mortis. I'll just have what you've ordered.” “Me too,” said Lester, “I think coming to Baguio so soon after your Dad... We should have gone to a different place, created a different set of memories.” I silently agreed with him. All the places we've gone to were different. I came here expecting to go back to a place where I was so happy with my Dad, thinking that maybe if I could see this place I could recapture part of that happiness. What is happiness anyway? What the fuck does “the world is my oyster” mean? All my dreams vanished because all my dreams were tied up with one person. All the cliches that people mutter to console me mean nothing in the end. If it were not for Lester and Rigor forcing me to go, I would have been content to curl up in my bed and just let sleep be my oblivion.


The ramen arrived and the waitress placed it just so that it looked like it was bathed in its own spotlight. The bracing steam enveloped us and the warmth of the soup killed the cold that the weather instilled. I took a sip and realised how famished I was.

The Magic Rock

My mom is a monster...No! I mustn't think of her as mom, otherwise, I would fail to kill her. She's no longer my mother, she's been warped by that...thing! Rock! Pebble! I don't even know what to call that shit she ingested. All I know is that rock made her superhuman. She does not need to eat or sleep but she can overpower me. Oh, how she can overpower me. I refuse to believe it was my mom who helped tie my hands and feet just to feed me to the dogs. You see, the rock demands that she feed it money. And when almost every piece of appliance has been sold, my mom had nothing left but me to sell.

I tried to see whether she felt remorse at what she did. I failed to see it. The rock made her complete. This was a magic rock that she took and it made her happy, and strong, and content, and all those things that we can't give her. I don't want to inherit the rock, I don't want to be a magical creature, I just want to be normal. But I know that if I don't do something about it, I will go my mother's way.

Shh!! I hear the lock! Must act normal, must smile at her, uh, should I smile? Or would that be overkill? Overkill?! Hahaha, fuuun nee! Wait, I don't have anything planned, damned fucking idiot. What's important is that the rock be cast out into the fire. I don't want to kill her by stabbing her. She'll have blood splattering all over the place...hello, only person to clean that would be moi. Should I strangle the monster with the nylon cord? Carotid artery : blood = plan discarded. A rope would do. How? I'll ask the monster to look under the bed and jump on her while slipping the rope under her head. I have to be quick as she's fast, and, let's repeat, strong. Quick, put the rope on the bed!

"Ma! (nster), help me look for grandma's ring. I dropped it near the bed, I looked everywhere for it but I can't find it."

The rock may have made her superhuman but it didn't make her any smarter. I held on for five more minutes after the monster stopped struggling. I looked at the wall clock to make sure. It was hard to hold on while my snot dripped, but I dare not let go lest the rock revived the monster.

Now, for the rock. It's a pity I didn't learn how to hone the edge of a knife, otherwise, this would have been a lot easier. It's also a good thing this monster is a small woman, she and I can fit inside our small bathroom. She smells like raw pork, that is, after I hosed out her shit and piss and most of the blood. I failed to find the rock, but I can still destroy it by putting all of her guts into the oven and cooking it until it turns to ashes. Thank God she hasn't sold it yet.

No Permanent Address

No T.V., no books, no radio, and no neighbors for kilometers. This hell was my summer. I was sent to the boondocks where I could spend time with my grandparents so my Mom would be spared the burden of another mouth to feed. At least they were rich enough to have water from faucets and a toilet and bath, not like others in this province who only had holes in the ground and a wooden plank to stand or squat on. We also had a half-finished swimming pool with no tiles and no water, and a big lawn with no gardener.

Everyday I would sit on our art-deco tiled terrace and wait for the bus. It passes our house four times a day and you could hear it five minutes before it would appear on the horizon as a cloud of red dust. I would hope like hell it would stop by and bring some visitors. Like Mang Sauro with his talk of caves in Bonifacio as big as cathedrals, or streams that disappeared underground. I got a recipe for the Tagabulag Anting-anting from him. You just need to get up well before dawn on Good Friday, sit facing east, stare at the rising sun without blinking while chanting “taga-bulag taga-bulag” and, once a tear slides down your cheeks, wipe it with a pristine white and dalisay handkerchief. Do not, under any circumstances, let the tear or the hanky touch the ground. I tried to do it that morning but there were several problems. Good Friday was several weeks away but I wanted to use the taga-bulag on my cousin Aman who was a pain in the ass. I also did not know what dalisay means. I couldn't also figure out how to not blink.Perhaps that's why it didn't work. I was determined to try again the next day, maybe try to think of something really sad so I'll cry for real, faster than I could blink.

I didn't see them coming. They didn't come with the bus and it felt like they just materialized at the gate and knocked on it. There weren't even any dust to indicate which direction they came from. Two men with a teenaged girl and a pregnant woman. I couldn't grasp the concept that they were NPA and my Lola had trembling hands while she prepared food for the visitors. Ka Eugene was the handsome one who showed me his gun and taught me how to cock it and line up the sights. Ka Thomas was the husband of Ka Malou who was due to give birth any day now. Ate Bel is the teenager and they would stay with us until Ka Malou felt strong enough to walk again after her son's birth. It was annoying that I now had to share a room with my cousin, but my Lola said I had to behave and be kind. Her eyes were darting from side to side, rather like the cows being hauled from pasture by their noses. Maybe it's a good thing since I wouldn't now be woken up in the living room where I slept with an Iloko mosquitero by my Lolo shouting at 7:30 am, saying “gising na, tirik na araw.”

Lola said I had to pretend that they were cousins back home and I should not ever talk about them. They allowed me to sit with them while I listened to them talking about equality, armed revolution, and how God didn't exist, which to me was plain ridiculous. I watched while my Lolo brought out his big Jerusalem bible, the one with all the pictures of the naked women, half-naked men brutally murdered, and babies held by their hair. I saw Ka Thomas bring out a ratty red and brown book that looks like it has been trampled by horses. They went back and forth arguing in very low voices, as sound really carries in the province. Neither side believed the other, but I think Lolo won since he could quote chapter and verse while Ka Thomas only had books that looks like he made them himself and his only had poems from an Intsik and a bearded guy who looks like one of our mangangawits.

Much to my disappointment, Ka Eugene and Ka Thomas would be leaving the next day, depriving me of eye-candy and gun lessons. My quest for the taga-bulag anting-anting would also have to be shelved since I didn't want to share it with just anyone. I did share with Ate Bel my secret beauty paste of baby powder drizzled with baby oil. It just really takes patience to apply since it tends to clump together and fall off your face. I also asked her opinion if it was a star-apple leaf that was used for the Palmolive commercial, the one where a dried brown leaf magically becomes green and supple after Palmolive lather was applied to it. I couldn't replicate the lather nor the feat, so I became quite skeptical about it. Unfortunately, Ate Bel said their camp didn't have any electricity so she's not familiar with the commercial. Ate Bel was Ka Thomas' sister and she's here to be Ka Malou's companion. She said Ka Thomas' real name was Pedro del Rosario and that they lived in Los Banos before he joined the Kilusan. Their parents were so proud that he was accepted as a UP scholar. He would have been the first to finish college since their family were just farmers. I asked Ate Bel to go with me and Aman to go clam-digging in the stream at our niugan. She declined as she just wanted to keep their presence a secret as long as possible.

The summer passed quickly. I was too busy asking Ate Malou questions on what it was like to climb mountains, what the ground was like, did they have to use ropes, where did they sleep, where did they bathe, whether there were snakes, wild boar, wild deer, did they kill it, did they eat it, how did it taste like, how did they hunt it, how did they kill it? I didn't lie in wait for the bus anymore. Any visitors would mean I have to go stay in the room or stay out playing in the niugan and not ask or answer questions about them.

I don't remember Golly being born. All I knew is that suddenly, there's this cute, fat, cuddly being that would smile if you made funny faces. He would cry if you pinched too hard. The only place I could pinch is his earlobe, and only if there's nobody looking. You also have to make sure nobody sees you alone with him so they won't blame you for his reddened ear. I wished I could take him back home and be my sibling. Maybe we could buy him from off of Ate Malou. I just didn't know if Ka Thomas will come for him since they've been gone for more than two months. Ate Malou and Ate Bel was getting worried since they haven't heard from him, nor has he sent anybody. Ate Bel went home to Los Banos to ask her parents if they've heard anything.

My parents came to take me home as school was starting soon. I wanted to go kicking, screaming, and crying but I was too afraid of the two-hour paluan sessions more than I loved Golly-wow. I didn't know if I would see them again since Ate Malou said it's dangerous for them to leave any clues as to where they would be staying next. I wished Ate Bel was here so I could at least get their Los Banos address and write to them there.

I settled back into my old life. I so missed being able to buy candy by the piece and just walking to the next-door sari-sari store to get it, anytime I liked. Golly-wow's memory was soon buried under school assignments, projects that I'm too klutzy to ace, and old playmates.

I went back to Quezon the next summer to find out that both Ka Eugene and Ka Thomas died inside a Catholic Schoolroom. They were noticed by a group of soldiers patrolling the street outside. They only had one magazine between them and they tried to shoot it out. Ka Eugene was 26 years old, Ka Thomas just 23. I pictured them lying on their back, side by side, their eyes closed, arms and legs spread out, like when we play dead. I heard Ate Malou walked a hundred kilometers from our house to where the shootout happened, but wouldn't dare claim the bodies nor see them. They left soon afterwards and we never heard from them again.  

Amateur Book Review : The Magicians by Lev Grossman

Amateur Book Review : The Magicians by Lev Grossman

This is the first time I will be writing a review of a book, so please bear with me if this turns out to be what you do not expect.

This book was included in a list I read somewhere about the 100 Best Science Fiction Books of All Time. Among that list is The Lord of the Rings, 1984, Necromancer, and the works of Isaac Asimov, Neal Stephenson, Robert Jordan, and others. You get the drift.

When I read the title, I thought to myself, “Harry Potter.” When I read it at first, there was no magical feeling of discovering a new world, just a rehashing of all the old cliches of magical worlds and mythologies. This is kind of what I felt with the books of Rick Riordan with his Percy Jackson books. This book has been heavily influenced by the work of C.S. Lewis, particularly his “Narnia” series. You can see it with the scenes of the children going inside an ordinary home furniture, a grandfather clock instead of a wardrobe, and coming out in a magical world. There's also an Aslan reference with the ram gods Amber and Umber, and a similar four thrones for the human kings and queens. A Peter Pan similarity to Martin Chatwin is also there as well as a Hogwarts in Brakebills'.

The book hits its stride after the kids graduate from the school. I realized while I was reading this part that the previous pages were just preparation for the emotional roller coaster that the book brings out in me. Much like Quentin and the Physical Kids clique had to study magical incantations to prepare for the real world, some of the earlier scenes laid the background for what will be happening later.

Quentin, the main protagonist, has won the genetics/circumstance lotto. He has magical abilities. But much like what would happen to your worldly ambitions should you win the lottery, Quentin and his gang has everything they've ever wanted, and it has made them deeply unhappy. There was an earlier scene where Alice made Quentin promise not to grow up being exactly like her magical parents. People who has it all and thus bored out of their minds. They don't have any overriding ambition to do anything else, except to have a fictional book about magic go real and the ensuing pathos resonated with me, thinking, I could be them.

The magical beings and the magical world they inhabit becomes secondary to the emotional milieu of the book. Going inside a grandfathers clock suddenly takes on a sinister turn as the reason behind why a kid would hide behind it is revealed. Going to Neitherland and on to Fillory instead of rotting away in a boring desk job may be a reflection of how we want to escape our own ennui. I could be Quentin, I realized. If The Lord of the Rings suddenly became real and I could go to middle-earth through the Neitherlands. I would be happy, but then again I could live to regret it.

My Brush with Death

My friend asked me to recall in writing how I almost died. He particularly wanted to read about it because to hear me tell it is hilarious. I am a bit of a raconteur, if I may say so myself, and I don't mind looking silly or bad in the pursuit of a few laughs.

He asked me to write about an incident I had with our motorcycle. I needed to clarify which one because I've had several accidents and several near brushes. http://www.grmtech.com/blog/always-wear-helmets-while-riding-a-motorcycle/

Considering my harrowing experiences, you would think that I would swear not to get back on a motorcycle ever again, but if you think that, you don't know me at all. I'm the kind of person who likes to face her fears. That's not to say that when I'm a passenger in my brothers' bike that I get on it without any qualms. Quite often, his ears would be burning from my admonitions to not go too fast, remember that facebook photo of a brain splattered on the pavement, etc., etc.

Now, to get back to the story. I don't really drive motorbikes anymore, am usually just a passenger with my brother driving me to the bus stop. It was business as usual and I have forgone wearing a protective helmet as our destination was just over a kilometer away. My brother IS was driving me to the bus stop and we were speeding along as traffic was light that night. My brother knew that our brake was faulty but he took a chance with his speed. He's a gambler that way.

So here I was, enjoying the wind in my hair, savoring the freshness of the air and dreading my coming shift at the call center I was working at. I hated that we were transferred to chat support and I was having a difficult time adjusting to it. I was jolted from my musings by my brother's cursing. “Putanginaaa!!!,” he said. “Tanginaaa!!!,” I echoed, just as we crashed headlong into the tricycle trying to cross the highway. I always figured that I would confess and ask for God's forgiveness just before I died so that I would go straight to heaven. No purgatory for me, nuh-uh! As it happened, had I died that night, I would have gone straight to hell.

I found that most accounts of accidents are true, and that Hollywood's version of action happening in slow motion is correct as well. Those few seconds of before we crashed and our reations after can be recalled in minute detail, like it was stretched across time, with our reactions exaggerated and having a bigger significance beyond the moment. I remember right after hearing my brother's curse looking ahead and there was this tricycle, stopped in the middle of the lane, seeing us ahead, but still continuing forward. I could see the slight shift of my brothers' head as he contemplated between crashing into the back of a parked car, going around the left side and into incoming traffic, or squeezing between the tricycle and the parked car. He chose to go between but it was too late. He's already tried to brake full-stop, I immediately felt we slowed down, but not enough for us to avoid smooching the other driver. The back wheel of our bike left the road, with me on top of it. Thanks to my Famke Janssen thighs I managed to hold on. We tilted sideways, I looked to my right and saw the road and the edge of the pavement rushing in to bash my skull. I remember thinking, if my head bangs on that, I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead, Diyos ko po Rudy (Diyos ko po, Rudy or OMG Rudy being a phrase we like to say, taken from a radio commercial that I haven't even heard)!!! I unclenched my fingers from the death grip they had on my brothers' arms and braced myself for the impact. I still managed to kiss asphalt and tasted grit, uh, to think people spit on it. Then I looked at the tricycle driver and saw that he was still sitting pretty astride his bike and all this rage came bubbling up. “Tangina ka, muntik na kaming mamataaayy!!!,” said my inner Bella Flores. Education and poise be damned, we almost died. I tore strips from off of the other drivers' hide, all the while knowing that whoever gets the upper hand first will not get the blame for it. Underneath all the anger was my brain calculating how we could pin the blame on the other driver. Of course, since my brain was still functioning, I noted that it was already 8:30 P.M. And I'm supposed to be at my desk before 9. I'm partly gleeful as I get to play hooky and in this frame of mind my first call after the accident was to my boss (who incidentally looks like John Regala while planning to rape a beautiful gel).

“Hi Boss Jim!,” I said cheerfully when he picked up the phone. “I won't be able to go to work today,” I said while thinking yey! This would be at least two days and I have an excuse. “Huh, why?,” he asked. All of a sudden, it hit me that I could have died, as in Killed Dead, as Baygon ads go (I don't know if it's possible to kill alive, or kill partly). I tried to speak normally, but my voice went from being husky-sexy, then ear-splittingly awful, as I went from normal to having my voice break on a sob, then plainly wailing out that we almost got killed. Thankfully, I walked a little bit away from the scene of the accident so nobody witnessed me doing an impersonation of a wailing banshee. My normally blustery boss was flustered trying to handle a crying employee. The conversation ended with him asking if I will be coming in later and me saying I don't think so as we will still be going to the hospital and then on to the police station to file a complaint. I think I hid my satisfaction at this behind my hiccups.

I composed myself before going back into the fray and noted that the broken metal thingies that were lying on the road have now disappeared. Huh. Metal railings affixed on bridges disappear overnight. These things were no longer attached to our bike and they disappeared during the course of a phone call. I must learn how to do that.

Well, the rest is history, we were relatively unscathed although it took a week before I could fully type without any pain. I had my brother undergo an x-ray and get antitetanus shots since he had wounds from his contact with the filthy tricycle. The other driver was okay and I filed a police blotter more to excuse my absence than to prosecute him.

What's hard is that my boss never fails to remind me of how I cried when I called him, then laugh maniacally while gleefully recalling it to whoever would care to listen. Hmp. Bully. Che!

On Damaso and Jailtime

Early last year (I'm not too clear on the time-frame), thespian and tour guide Carlos Celdran walked inside a Roman Catholic cathedral dressed in 19^th century garb and held up a placard with the words “Damaso” written on it. This was done while a concelebration event (not a mass, as Celdran clarified later) was being held with several priests, bishops, and laity were present.

Damaso, of course, is a central character in Jose Rizal's novel “Noli Me Tangere.” He is a Spanish friar heavily biased against what he considers his “lessers” and so morally corrupt that to be called a “Damaso” is to insult your integrity and your character. http://bethge.freepage.de/padredamaso.htm

One of the recent events that call into question the bishop's integrity is the way they accepted luxury vehicles from former Philippine President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo. The funds were gotten from off of the Philippine Charity Sweepstakes Office and the funds were supposed to go to the poorest of the poo and the sickest of the sick. The bishops knew where the funds came from and whom they were getting it from. It represented a kind of bribe to keep them from voicing out against a government that has no right to rule, given that the last elections were rigged so heavily in the then incumbent's favor. The bishops offered to return the vehicles once the scandal was unveiled but the rot had set in. http://zamoracartoons.blogspot.com.au/2011/07/bishops-cars.html

Things came to a head once the Catholic Bishops Conference of the Philippines pulled out all the stops in their war against the Reproductive Health bill. The Reproductive Health bill had been languishing in the House of Representatives for over a decade. Congressmen would sponsor it then bail out once the bishops threaten to endorse their opponents. The Catholic clergy had been putting all of their power into blocking its passage, saying it is against God's will to take pills or don condoms to prevent pregnancy. They even contend that some birth control methods have abortifacients. The message is somehow diluted/corroded coming from the same bishops who virtually took crumbs from the mouth of the poor dying from hunger in order to travel in air-conditioned luxury. Granted that they later apologized for doing it, but it's like Lance Armstrong admitting to taking Performance Enhancing Drugs. They've already lived the life and taken to the podium to bask in the glory. Victory is just a moment and it can never be relived. Just like apologies cannot resurrect people who died from hunger or sickness.

Carlos Celdran went inside a Catholic Church where these bishops are to give them a mental slap about who they've allowed themselves to be. I know that they are fallible human beings, but idols with feet of clay should not stand in a pulpit and expect nobody to bash them. I do not know what his impetus is, it may be to highlight our need for the Reproductive Health bill, or to hold up a mirror for the bishops to see the truth about themselves, but it did do something : the Reproductive Health bill is now a Law.

It also did something else. It put Carlos Celdran into jail. Or he was sentenced to spend two months behind prison bars. I think Celdran intends to appeal (I would) the verdict.

Now, would it be justice served if he was incarcerated? I don't think so. I would think that the bishops should be thankful to Celdran for trying to humiliate them. As one priest puts it: God uses humiliation to bring down the proud. Let me bludgeon you if you did not get it the first time: You would not be humiliated if you were not proud (Pride is one of the Cardinal Sins, pun unintentional, but too amusing to leave out). But this is not to say that the venue he chose for his protest is proper. I myself as a Catholic would be offended had I witnessed this. The hullaballoo he created could only be excused if he was missing some nuts in his mind's bolts. Only escaped mental hospital patients scream inside a church (by the way, I don't know if he screamed, but this is like a scream to me, no matter how quiet he may have been. I'm also not saying Celdran is crazy. Remember, he's a thespian, an Artiste, if you will. These genus of the homo sapiens tend to act, well, theatrically).

If he had done it outside the church, or even inside a convention hall where the Queen of England, the Philippine President, all the laity, the Pope, the Cardinals, Bishops, Monsignors, Priests, and even the cadaver of St. Theresa of Calcutta were present, that would be fine by me. Even a Grade Two Catholic school pupil would know to genuflect in order to cross the aisle inside a church, you know you can't really do what you did no matter how rebellious a laity you feel.

Now, would it merit a two-month jail time? I don't think so. I agree about the conviction that he offended religious beliefs or feelings or whatever law it is that he broke, but I also think that standing up for what you believe in should be celebrated, not incarcerated. Only those beliefs that become a menace to society or harmful to individuals should merit time behind bars.

111Lasenggo Partylist

Nung isang araw, nag-iinuman kaming magpipinsan, naisip namin na lahat na lang ng tao ay may representante sa Kamara. Mga siklista, mga jaguar (guardiya sa hindi marunong mag-beki), mga piloto (drayber or tsuper), mga ayaw sa droga, guro, at kung sino-sino pa man. Pero kaming mga lasenggo, wala man lamang gustong tumayo at buong-tapang na iproklama sa buong Pilipinas na Lasenggo ako at ako ang magtataguyod ng karapatan ng mga lasenggo. Kaya heto at kami-kami na ang nagbalak, nagpulong, at nagpanukala na bumuo ng partylist na papangalan naming 111Lasenggo.

Bakit kamo may 111 sa unahan? Para mauna sa listahan ng Partylist at matsekan ng mga tamad tumingin at pumili nang karapatdapat na partylist. Aminin na natin, kalimitan sa atin ay hindi maabala na tingnan man lamang kung ano ang inirerepresinta ng ibat-ibang partylist at kung anu-ano ang kanilang mga prinsipyo. Case in point, yung partylist ni Mikey Arroyo. Saan naman kayang alternative universe naging Security Guard itong si Mikey? Mukha siyang aroganteng bodyguard ng isang bigating politiko, oo, pero hindi siya mukhang security guard na mahilig magsabi ng “Dipidi” sa mga estudyanteng gustong lumabas saglit ng campus. Mukhang di rin nya motto ang “No ID, no entry.”

Sa palagay ko naman ay karapat-dapat akong maging representante ng mga lasenggo. Marami akong maibibigay na dahilan. Ang sagot ko sa ilan sa mga panuring tanong kung ikaw ba ay isang alcoholic ay isang resounding YES. Ang tingin pati yata sa akin ng aking mga kaibigan ay San Miguel beer, kasi tuwing makikita nila ako, ang bati sa akin ay hindi hi, hello, nakakain ka na ba, o saan ka pupunta, kundi, “Inuman tayo!”

Hindi na ako magpapatumpik-tumpik pa, inilalagak ko na ang aming ipinapanukalang isagawang batas na karapatan ng mga lasenggo:

• Karapatan ng isang lasenggo ang tumanggi na siya ay lasing na.
• Karapatan ng isang lasenggo na itanggi ang mga ginawa niya nung kasalukuyang siya ay lasing.
• Karapatan ng isang lasenggo ang mag-pass sa tagay.
• Karapatan ng isang tanggero ang malito sa pag-tagay.
• Karapatan ng isang tanggero ang manlito kung siya ay nakatagay na o hindi pa.
• Karapatan ng isang lasenggo ang uminom sa sa harapan ng bahay nila.
• Karapatan ng isang lasenggo ang umabsent sa trabaho kung may bertdeyan sa kapitbahay.
• Karapatan ng isang lasenggo ang pumasok nang nakainom.
• Karapatan ng isang lasenggo ang pumasok ng opisina na may baong nakalalasing na inumin.
• Karapatan ng isang lasenggo ang pumasok sa isang pampublikong gusali ng nakainom, katulad ng Kamara de representante o sa Senado, maliban lang sa Malakanyang, dahil mahilig sila sa tuwid na daan.
• Karapatan ng isang lasenggo ang tumawag ng uwak at itanggi ang mga pangyayari.
• Karapatan ng isang lasenggo ang balewalain ang basic rules of cleanliness, i.e., dumukwang sa pulutan pagkaihi sa tabi-tabi.
• Karapatan ng isang lasenggo ang magdagdag ng letrang “H” sa bawat letrang “S”, i.e., “shaan ba ang tuwid na daan, ha?”
• Karapatan ng isang lasenggo ang kalimutan ang nakaraan.

Ang karapatan ng isang lasenggo ay mas mahigit pa sa Basic Human Rights. Bakit kanyo? Sa palagay ko ay naranasan nyo na ang mabulahaw sa madaling araw ng mga kapitbahay na nag-iinuman at kumakanta ng My Wii. O di ba at nasagasaan na ang inyong basic human right na matulog nang matiwasay? Kasama na rin dito ang basic human right to a clean drinking water. Makakatanggi ka ba sa tagay/chaser kahit ang katabi mo ay dinadalahit na ng matinding ubo at sa palagay mo ay may sakit nang TB, yung OLED pa? Masabi pang nuknukan ka nang kaartehan.

Kung kayo ang may mga karagdagang suhestiyon o bayolenteng reaksyon, tandaan, ito ay isa lamang panukala. At ibabalik ko ang isa sa mga mungkahing karapatan, ang karapatan ng isang lasenggo na itanggi ang mga ginawa niya nung kasalukuyang siya ay lasing, sa kadahilanang lasing kami nung pag-usapan namin ang pagbubuo ng partylist.