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.

My Two Cents Worth... And Yes, Amalayer!

I would guess the only people who doesn't know what or who Amalayer would be are ones who are not constantly connected to the wired world. I was ambiguous at first when I viewed this by now, viral video. I guessed it would not go viral as there was no clear beginning and no clear contravida to the snafu. I did not know what set off the Amalayer lady and while she came off as condescending, who knows what I would have done had I been in her place. Knowing me, ganun din siguro ako kataray at shempre pa, wag na nating banggitin ang boses kong kayang mag-project hanggang sa dulo ng gym, tipong pang-actress sa stage play. Itsura namang kawawa din si Ate Lady Guard, parang me sa ipis ang boses.

O sige, let's talk about Ate Lady Guard. Mababa ang sweldo ng mga yan, at saka kaya guard sila, kasi baka hindi sila qualified sa call center jobs o di kaya ay di pwedeng maging Deejays. Tsaka trabaho nila ang manita at maging mahigpit, dahil kung hindi sila maghihigpit, baka magkaron ng LRT bombing part XXIII. Wala din naman sa job description nila ang maging innovative in times of trouble o maging pro-active when it comes to unique situations. Kalimitan, de kahon ang replies ng mga yan, kasi nga, kung tutuusin, foot soldiers sila, di sila generals. Kung lagi na lang nating iisipin na wag sumunod sa mga queues, we're needlessly making their jobs hard and we're also endangering others. Malay mo, isa sa mga innocuous-looking persons na ayaw pumila at magpa-x-ray ng bag ay may dalang C4. Wag maging utak-wangwang, Ms. Amalayer. Nakaka-asar din naman kasi na plain and simple lang ang pagpila e may mga tao pa rin na ang tingin e they're above such pleibian activities. At maghapon nilang ginagawa yon.

Speaking as a mataray-person and a former call center agent, kuha ko si Ms. Amalayer. Meron din naman kasing mga guards na power-tripping. Yun tipong: “I don't like the way your sunglasses are perched on your nose—take it off.” Wala man lamang please. Kahit wala sa katwiran, komo sila may hawak ng keys ni San Pedro, kelangan sumunod ka na lang. E malay mo, baka naman kasi may ginawang karumal-dumal na krimen at pusakal na Jaguar pala tong si Ate Lady Guard, baka naman warranted ang pag-a-amok ni Ms. Amalayer. Kung ako ang nasa posisyon nya, e baka mas malakas pa ang boses ko at marinig hanggang Katipunan station. Wala naman sa pagiging guard ka at mababa ka ang pinag-uusapan, nasa feeling nya e nabastos sya ang puno't-dulo ng gulo from her point-of-view. Di lang naman guards ang humaharap sa nakakainis na sitwasyon maghapon, halos lahat ng taong nagtatrabaho, may source of stress. At saka wag nyo namang hamakin si Ms. Amalayer komo nag-english sya. Alam mo kasi, pag lagi kang nag-i-english at sanay kang makipag-away sa English, mahirap humagilap ng tagalog words lalo na kung galit ka at natatabunan ng high-blood ang motor-functions ng neurons mo.

And speaking of her “Amalayer” accent, para kasing southern accent yan eh. Yung pang-redneck. I should know, I also speak like a redneck. Tang-ina, di ko sinasadya, pero kasi naman, ang puro naging kausap ko sa call center na pinagtrabahuhan ko e mga taga-south, so sa kanila ako nahawa. American accent nga, promdi naman. Di man lang nabiyayaan ng mga kausap na mga taga-New York or Boston man lang, para mas Brahmin ang dating. Kaya naiintindihan ko yung amalayer, kasi, ahmalayer din. Yung accent na yon, sila yung mga nagsasabi ng yore tarhs are flat on yore fahrtrack, mister. Pero I draw the line on saying y'all and yes, baws, no baws, and a'll git on it baws. Ah dahgress (slap me now).

My point is, wag na natin syang pasikatin pa. Let's all just move on and remember, kung tayo ang mapunta sa sitwasyon ni Ms. Amalayer, kung hindi ka nakikita ni God, may FB at Twitter namang nakabantay.  

Pinoy Election Blues

Do you like Mitt Romney Sarmenta? Let's ask the common Filipino voters.

Pedro : Tanda na.

Juan : Wala namang kilalang artistang ini-endorse sya, baka kasi hindi katiwatiwala.

Julian : Mas magaling si Obama sumayaw at kumanta.

Bhoy 1 : Eh mas guapo naman yung vice president nyang si Ryan.

Bhoy 2 : Katoliko naman yung vice president ni Obama. Sabi nga nya nung kasalukuyang hinahanting si Bin Laden, umattend daw sila ng misa.

Bhoy 1 : hoy, at least pag si Mitt Romney Sarmenta binoto, at namatay sya, pogi yung magiging POTUS.

Bhoy 2 : Di ba kay Paul Ryan ibinase yung bida dun sa mga isinapelikulang tungkol sa CIA operative, yung ang artista e si Ben Affleck at Alec Baldwin?

Bhoy 1 : Oo yata, pero iniba lang pangalan, ginawang Jack Ryan.

Bhoy 2 : Magaling pala yun!

Ako : wala akong alam jan, Pinoy ako na naninirahan kasalukuyan sa Sydney. Di ako apektado jan dahil sa Oztrelya, uso quarantine, bago makarating ang problema, ikuquarantine muna.

I was Wonder Woman

     I've just "discovered" Jango internet radio and I've tuned in to the Hits of the '80s. I Just Died in your Arms Tonight is playing, and instantly, I can picture Cris Villanueva rocking it on That's Entertainment, back when it was cool and not cringe-worthy to admit you're a fangirl. Sweet Dreams (are made of these) was on a loop in the concert scene being sung by everybody who can sing it. I was not into music then, all I knew of music is what blared on somebody else's radio and what was sung on T.V. You'd have to be deaf and dumb, though, if you could not identify what the hits were. New Wave passed me by, though a friend swears it's the best music that ever came out of God's creations. Personally, the '90s was where music came alive for me, I knew all the lyrics to my favorite songs, I knew who the bassist was, whether the drummer was prone to using a double bass or just a double-pedal. Although you must admit that '90s music is way darker than the '80s, what with Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Alice in Chains, with Wolfgang and Razorback locally. Light fare is Greenday and Parokya ni Edgar with their Basketcase and Buloy. 

     The '80s is just a blur for me. One of the earliest memories that I had is requesting to get a Wonder Woman costume and being so excited to get it. I opened the gift and was disappointed that the costume was not exactly like Wonder Woman's. It in fact is not a swimsuit with a bright sparkly belt, but a bikini top with long shorts. God, I wanted those bikini bottoms so badly and parade along Casubuan St. in my costume together with the whip. I could picture it so easily, cool as a cucumber walking in my Wonder Woman bikinis, careful not to stray too close to the canals lest my whip get some burak. Alas, my parents had my future self in mind when they exercised restraint and just bought a modest costume. Thank goodness for parents. Thank you Jango, for bringing it all back. 

Starting Over from The Rocks

Today I will be starting a new chapter in my life. I'll start pretending that I can write shit worth reading and be a blogger.

I'll pretend that my life is all great shakes and all that I will be doing is so rockin' that it will be worth writing about.

For a start, I'm going to The Rocks' weekend market. Mind you, it's The Rocks, not just any plain old rocks. I did not come up with the capitalisation, but as it is where the original Sydneysiders settled, I suppose it is entitled. It has long fascinated me, this place where thugs, prostis, and the lowlife abounded until it evolved to a place where to be seen in the nighttime is something rad.

I have Gotye's Somebody That I Used to Know blaring in my headphones as I'm writing this. I think that no summer is ever complete without its own theme song. I remember hearing Never Mind by Colors on the radio after a summer in isolation in Quezon and feeling like I lost 3 months of my life. It IS winter here but still summer in the Philippines.

Fuckin'A, whaddaya know, so many goodlooking toyboys coming my way, and I can't take pictures of the scenery while surreptitiously including them in the frame as I'm walking and they're against the light. Calling on digital camera makers, this really is for the good of humanity.

I managed to snag one but he's already tottering on his legs, the others quickly got away.

In a Country of Dog-Eaters

Don’t you love dogs? If you have been around dogs as long as I have, you will be acquainted with their different personalities.

There’s Timmy, the first dog that I remember as being around during my childhood. She was such a sweet creature, with never a bad day and no temper tantrums. The closest thing that she would come to a display of temper was when she would sulk and not respond to anybody when my grandfather raised his voice in anger against her. It would be funny if it wasn’t such a heartbreaking sight. She would not eat, she would not wag her tail, and she would be so morose until my grandfather came and stroked her hind and spoke to her. Timmy would also be my introduction to doggy goodbyes.

We all thought Timmy was pregnant when she developed bigger boobs. We waited and waited for her to grow big with her litter. Unfortunately, what we were waiting for was just for her cancer to grow bigger and bigger. It got so big and heavy that she yelped in pain whenever we accidentally brushed against it. As a child, I couldn’t understand why she could not come home with them when they took her to the dog doctor. It was just unfortunate that I had an insensitive clod for a father when he described in great detail how he cried when the doctor gave the injection and Timmy looked at him as if saying “you know, I still want to live.”

This article would not be complete without a mention of Bruce Lee. Bruce Lee (or Brusli as I thought of him, since I didn’t know who the original was) was the fattest of the litter born to Doggie. He was the brightest star since he would reign supreme for over ten years of my life. He was the biggest dog in the neighborhood, becoming the Alpha dog without any effort on his part. The neighborhood kids called him Bigfoot. Bruce Lee was the only light during my summer vacations, my only playmate that was faithfully waiting for me year in and year out. I just didn’t like to pet him since he never, ever took a bath nor consented to having one. Bruce Lee knew every path of our coconut grove, and would often race ahead of me, anticipating where I would go. He would look stupid racing after me when I veered off the track and head to the beach instead. He would run hell-bent-for-leather and only stop to look back at me as if saying “why didn’t you tell me we were going to the beach today?” Bruce Lee and the other dogs would be on the beach waiting for me with their tongues lolling, but he would never get near the water. Kiss-kiss, Doggie, and Whitey would be gamboling on the waves but Bruce Lee would be the farthest on the beach, as if playing with water was beneath his dignity.

Now Bruce Lee was a dog upon which legends are born. They said that he often hunted our neighbors’ livestock. He would stalk the prey by day, kill them at night, and store them by burying their carcasses by the river where the cool water would help preserve them. They said that our workers have unearthed goat’s thighs by the waters’ edge. These stories I would hear from my cousin who sometimes spent his summer vacations at my grandfather’s. My Grandmother would proudly say that unknown people would leave poisoned meat chops just inside our waiting shed, hoping that one of our dogs, particularly Bruce Lee, would be fool enough to eat it. Granny said that she herself saw Bruce Lee smell the chop and just shake his head, as if saying, “This is bad meat.” I myself witnessed Bruce Lee protect me from a snake. It was during one of my numerous walks on our coconut grove where three of our dogs accompanied me. I veered off the path towards a balimbing tree when there was a hissing sound and something slithered down the slender tree trunk. Bruce Lee and Kiss-kiss took off barking towards the snake while the other dog stayed by my side. The snake was understandably faster and they came back empty-handed. I was badly shaken by the incident but the dogs just came back wagging their tails as if nothing untoward happened. Bruce Lee took on heroic proportions on my mind since then and it was not lessened by the fact that he took on the role of protector, sitting by my or my Granny’s side whenever there was a visitor, growling menacingly whenever a visitor would make a move that was too close for our dog’s comfort.

The summer vacation came when no Bruce Lee welcomed me with frenzied barks and fiercely wagging tail. I sat on the wooden rocking chair and waited for when he would come rushing and begging for a pet on his dusty brown coat. I waited until the next day to ask the question of which I’m afraid of the answer. No tears will fall if you imagine your favorite playmate somewhere out there, playing. I just asked for the general location of where they buried his body, but never for the particulars. I never came back for a vacation.

I never wanted to own a dog. To own a dog would mean too much responsibility. You have to feed him and bathe him. At least Bruce Lee spared me of the last chore. Hotdog had a different idea.

Hotdog was born in Laguna but grew up in the fields of Mindoro. My cousin had several dogs which came with him when he and his mother (my Aunt) came to live with our Grandma when his father died. Maybe it was the attraction of being the only pet but Hotdog upped and left my cousin and came to live with us. He would not go home two doors away to where my cousin and my Grandma lived. My cousin ranted and raved at Hotdog for being the traitorous and unloyal dog that he was, but Hotdog just stayed put in our living room. Maybe it was because of Two Dots who always sniped at him come feeding time, but Hotdog definitely transferred his affections to my little sister. Some might say that his loyalty was questionable, but you would not say that if you saw how angry he was at my father when he was hitting my sister with his belt. He would have bitten my father were it not for the length of the belt. Let’s just say that you could not hit Maegy and not hit Hotdog as well.

Hotdog was stolen the night before the nearby baranggay’s fiesta. I knew without anybody telling me where he would end. All we heard of the brilliant dog that he is was his loud yelp at being taken forcibly.

My eyes were almost swollen shut the morning after and my Aunt thought my father had beaten me for something I did. I let her think what she wanted for it was just so shameful to cry for a dog that was not even mine. You can not treat a dog like family in a country that eats it for merriment. I wanted to go to the police and complain about somebody you loved and cared for being napped and murdered. I wanted to do something violent to the drunkards who were undoubtedly being merry and happy and eating him at the moment but there was nothing that I could do, except to let it go.

My father bought Boomer from a person who had him on a leash and had his crying son with him. The person needed money and all he could sell was his poodle. The son came along to ensure that she would not be sold to persons who would not think twice about eating him. He started to cry when nobody seemed interested enough in buying an old dog. My father was soft-hearted enough to be affected by big eyes, a placid countenance, and a crying kid.

Boomer produced a very handsome litter even if the sire was a mongrel and she a proud poodle. Wikwik was what was left of the litter after all the admirers took their favored pups and carried them away in their adoring arms. Wikwik didn’t like to be touched and would bark “Wik! Wik!” to anybody who would dare touch him. He was often left alone in Boomer’s arms and I would be the only one patient enough to see through his ugly mug and cradle him in my arms. Boomer would just be there, patiently waiting for her turn to be petted, wagging her tail if you sent her an approving look and just was a passably affectionate presence in your life. Perhaps Boomer learned that loyalty gave you nothing.

Boomer started to reek like a decaying meat and we just left her food in the garage and generally forgot about her. I knew my uncle just tied her in a sack and left her to starve to death but did nothing about it. I just wanted to remember her as she was when she first came to us, healthy and clean-smelling. I didn’t want to be bothered to come with her to the doctor and put her to sleep.

At least Wikwik had grown up and had shown signs that he wanted me to be his human. I only came home during weekends but I was his special human. My mother would know I was home because Wikwik would become all excited and start to purr aloud, much like a cat would do, only louder. Wikwik was not special. His coat was sort of bland dirty pale beige, not shiny like all those Eukanuba commercials, but he had a beard that was straggly in places where food had dried. He was not particularly intelligent like Hotdog was, nor especially brave like Bruce Lee was, but he was mine. He stuck to me like glue whenever I was home, but he knew and stayed when I left for the boarding house.

Like Bruce Lee, I came home one day and found him gone. They said they found his body in the gutter. I had no more tears left after all those dogs that came before him, especially in the light of what I did to Boomer. I just shrugged and did not even ask where the spot was where they threw his body into the river.

Welcome to the world of the neurotically happy poet.

Welcome to the world of the neurotically happy poet. 

The first BF

I affix obsessions to distant sports stars and conduct relationships with them that occur entirely inside my imagination. The only way that my boyfriends can disappoint me is if they lose games. I don’t care if they are cads in real life since the persona that I attach to them is entirely ideal. My first boyfriend was Bret “The Hitman” Hart. 

We broke up when he came to the Philippines and I watched them and realized that wrestling is not really a sport in the true sense of the word. It’s a staged entertainment designed to string us along. I promptly dumped Bret for going along with this silly hoopla that they call sports entertainment. My next boyfriends were Erik Menk and Rudy Hatfield.

Yes, both.

 Yes, I had them both at the same time. It’s just fortunate that they didn’t know about each other, I dread to think about the bruises that they’re going to inflict if they go into a brawl over me. I definitely don’t want that, I’m a peace-loving gal when it comes to my boyfriends. I left Erik when his game dropped and he stopped getting the MVP trophies. Rudy upped and left for the United States when his Filipino Citizenship was questioned. We haven’t really had a closure. That didn’t stop me from cradle-snatching and hooking-up with the then-teenaged Rafael Nadal. They say he’s ugly but I DON’T CARE. He’s magnetic. He’s sexy. He’s brilliant. And he’s my boyfriend. Just don’t inform him of that fact or he’ll puke and immediately break up with me.

Rafa at his smoldering best