Scream, Weep, Free (Part 2)

Mopping my eyes again with my sleeve, I sat on the ridge; knees touching the chin, arms wrapping around my legs. I slowly rocked from side to side.

Alex sat down beside me, laid a palm on my back, and lightly rubbed it. “Just give me a minute Lex.” I said, this time a little sober. Slowly he drew his arm back.

I buried my face into my hands, and silently sobbed.

“Haay…” I let out a deep sigh after a minute or two. I looked at him with red, puffy eyes; and shrugged. He didn’t say anything; instead he just nodded, seemingly telling me “it’s alright".

“Lex, it’s so unfair. I don’t understand. Why, ngano ingon-ana sila?"

“Because you permit them. Know what, you are just too … kind, maski na you know that you’re being abused, you still let them. That’s your downfall eh, you make life easier for other people to the point of ignoring your own. I don’t know if you’re a masochist or you’re just plain stupid.

“But… they’re my friends. And I’m not asking for anything in return."

“Used to be your friends. And of course you’re asking for something, for them to reciprocate. If you’re not asking for anything, what’s the point of all the screaming and getting drunk, huh? You’re frustrated, why? Because you’ve found out that these so-called friends are unable to return your kindness. Lyle, you’ve been blind. From the start it’s obvious, but then you refuse to see it. Maybe you’re right; you’re stupid and a loser."

I didn’t budge. I remained silent, eyes still fixed to the ground. His voice rose with every word, he sounded very angry. But I wasn’t surprised; in fact I’ve been expecting this.

(to be concluded…)

Scream, Weep, Free (Part 1)

“I’m a loser!” I screamed. “Yeah, that’s what I am! The sorest of losers! “Loser! Loser! Loser!!!” I screamed, my voice grew louder with each word. I was punched drunk, tears and snot mixing in my face. “Ah! The biggest loser!"

“Lyle, let’s go.” My friend Alex said, tugging my arm. “You’re drunk and it’s getting late."

“No!” I snatched my arm away. “If you want to go, then go! The hell! I’m so tired of people like you! Go! Leave me! You’re all the same! All of you!” I screamed, slurring. “I hate this! I so fuckin’ hate this!” Fresh tears managed to escape my eyes.

Clutching the books that I launched onto the street earlier, he just clucked his tongue and shook his head. I wiped my face with my sleeve. Tears continued to spill while I struggled to remain in a vertical position. He fished out a handkerchief in his left pocket, and offered it to me.

“I don’t need that!” I said, pushing his hand away. “In fact, I don’t need you people! You people need me! I don’t fucking need you!” I screamed again, pointing a forefinger directly to his face.

“And when you couldn’t find any use of Lyle anymore, you then ditch me! Just like that, you people always walk out on me! Lyle the dumpee! Yeah, that’s what I am! Poor Lyle, people say! Fuck them! Fuck them all!"

I swayed, almost fell down. “Shitty sidewalk.” I muttered.

(to be concluded…)

Attack of the Coffee Monster, 2

“Grande Drip for here, please."
“Would there be anything else, Sir? Something to eat?” the male barista offered.

“No, thank you. Just coffee.”
“That’d be a hundred bucks, Sir.”

“Sir?” he continued. “Are you from the Ortigas area?”
“Yes, why?” I answered, a bit puzzled.

“Kaya pala hindi ka na pumupunta dun Sir, we wonder if you’ve already shifted na.” The female barista who was manning the other counter interjected.
Then I remembered them; they’re the baristas at the Megastrip branch.

“Oh. *soft laugh* Nag-transfer na pala kayo dito?”
“Borrowed lang Sir, kulang kasi dito sa Greenbelt. Balik-balik naman kayo dun.” he said smilingly.

“Oi, he’s our frequent costumer. Di ba Sir?” Another barista chimed in, speaking in a mock-angry tone.
“Hindi kaya, mas frequent kaya si Sir dun sa’min.” the second barista declared.

“Can I have my coffee now? Or pupunta na lang akong Starbucks?” I said. They laughed. I was serious.

Then the second barista produced me a humongous mug of boiling coffee, filled to the brim. Honestly, I was a bit flattered. I’ve never seen anyone being served with that huge mug before, only with those paper cups.

“Whoa! Laki naman,” I said embarrassed, it was more than what I’ve paid for.
“Thank you.” I smiled.
“Anything for our valued customers. Enjoy your coffee.”

I went outside and settled myself into one of their rather uncomfortable chairs. As I was reveling in my semi-celebrity-ness among the barista circle, white urbanite monkeys were yakking behind me.

“Akshally, it’s like this kase, you know, like, I made para this taxi, and when I made sakay, Oh my gosh, the driver was like, sooo mabaho.” Then a collective expression of disgust ensued, endless annoying “ewww-ing” filled the air.

I had this sudden overwhelming urge to make buhos my coffee over their like swollen heads, but I made pigil my sarili. Why? Bekuz, like you know, its so sayang naman this coffee.

Authors Note: I’ve just learned that they serve it in a mug upon request. But I didn’t make a request, in fact I was a bit cranky at that time since my blood-to-coffee ratio not stable yet. Still, I was grateful. Thanks Starbucks! Uh, I mean, Seattle’s Bucks. Oh, Seattle’s Best.

Attack of The Coffee Monster, 1

Shelling out a few hundred bucks of your hard-earned moolah for black powder and water is utterly insane. Venti, Macchiato, Frappuccino; daggummit!? To hell with these words! I roll my eyes on people who utter them. But that was then.

Little did I know; I was unaware that little by little these words slowly crept into my daily vocabulary.

I live for coffee; black, strong, no-nonsense coffee. Aside from helping millions of coffee farmers, it sets everything in harmony and maintains world peace (around me, at least). Guzzling tons and tons of this bitter juice has been my life for more than half a decade now. And I couldn’t be any happier (my concept of happiness, that is).

I am somewhat a peaceful human being, which to say that I am a pacifist. I try to keep things balanced, and am usually the conciliator between my combating friends. But, denying me of a caffeine fix and I’m off to a killing rampage. Did I mention coffee preserves peace and order? I mean just that.

Every morning when I wake up, the first thing that pops up into my mind is … well … coffee. Getting up, crawling to the dispenser, stirring black powder into the mug of boiling water, taking a sip and eventually scalding my tongue; the first set of chore I perform every waking moment.

And after killing all my taste buds, that’s the time I dart towards the bathroom to relieve my close-to-exploding bladder. Coffee comes before pee.

When people ask me why I’m hooked, I don’t reply with the usual “It keeps me awake” or “I like the taste” or (and this is true with some people) “It’s fashionable!” (and stress on the last statement)

In fact I don’t reply at all. Coffee is way beyond human comprehension; it’s the same as asking birds “Ya got feet, why fly?” Just because.

That coffee keeps you awake. True. But soda keeps you awake also, because of its sugar content. And apples too, which according to studies (and this is true), have a higher I-forgot-the-name-of-the-wakefulness-chemical content than coffee.

So why go for the bitter-tasting, sewage-water-looking, nerbiyos-inducing liquid? Not reason enough, unless you’re ignorant with the soda and apple scientific researches.

That the taste is pleasant. Are you kidding me!? It’s no less than drinking amplaya juice. Well, unless you find the idea of grinding amplaya, sieving the pulp, and downing slowly the green substance pleasant, then … But still, are you kidding me!?

That drinking coffee is fashionable. Fashionable my gluteus maximus! Need I say more?

(to be concluded…)

Discrimination: A Fairy Tale (P.2)

Facts: (based on my observation)

1. People would shudder when they hear the word “Mindanao”.

2. People would back off at once when they know you're from Mindanao. (and this is a good thing, in some cases.)

3. When people know you’re from Mindanao, the bold ones would always ask if you’re Muslim.

4. If you say you are, they’d think you’re dirty, backward and barbaric.

5. If you say you’re not, they’d think you’re not really from Mindanao.

6. When people know you’re from Mindanao, the bolder ones would always ask if you’re an Abu Sayaf.

7. If you say you are, they’d think you will kidnap them for ransom.

8. If you say you’re not, they’d think of you as a bogus Mindanaoan.

9. When people know you’re from Mindanao, they’d always inquire if “nagpuputukan ba dun?”

10. If you say Oo, they’d go, “Ows? Talaga? Di nga…"

11. If you say Hindi, they'd go, "Eh sabi sa news palaging blahblahblah..."

12. When people know you’re from Mindanao, they’d ask if “nagpapatayan ba mga tao dun?”

13. If you say Oo, they’d go, “Kaya pala nandito ka sa Manila…”

14. If you say Hindi, they’d go, “Hindi mo alam!? Oo, maraming patayan dun. Alam mo ba blah blah blah…"

15. When you say that Mindanao is in fact a very nice, beautiful, peaceful place, they'd just roll their eyes on you and sarcastically say "yeah right"; worse, they'd brand you as 'sinungaling' and stone you to death. (I just made up the last phrase.)


To set the records straight:

1. I’m from Mindanao (Bisayang taga-Mindanao, loud and proud!), and I’m not a Muslim.

2. I’ve lived almost all my life in Mindanao, and (emphasis here) spent 2 years in Marawi City (The Islamic City), a predominantly Muslim area. I didn’t get injured whatsoever, nor did I get killed (which makes no sense, I know).

3. Muslims are not Abu Sayaf. The latter is a terrorist group, while the former are the followers of Islam. Like Christians, followers of Christ.

4. Islam is a religion, which literally means “Peace (Salam).” Muslims are the followers of Islam, and cannot be labeled as one unless they (rigidly) adhere to the teachings of Islam.

5. This I have to point out: We always hear news (supposing that you read and watch the news) about “Muslim pinatay ang kapitbahay” or “Muslim nagnakaw.” But we’ve never heard of “Kristyano ni-rape ang sariling anak” or “Katoliko binugbog ang asawa” or “Mormon nasangkot sa multi-level networking scam” or “Pulis na INC member natutulog sa trabaho.” Nothing of those sort, wala, di ba? So why ine-emphasize ang pagiging Muslim nila?

6. Like what I’ve said, Abu Sayaf is a terrorist group; in fact some Muslim folks disown them.

7. We all have our individual differences. Never take it against another person if he has a different culture, belief or religion. Just like Christianity, they also have their share of the “odd-ones”. Lahat naman yata meron.

8. Kindly examine the newspapers, and try to find out the ratio of Muslims and Christians na gumagawa ng krimen araw-araw, and let’s see who’s more “barbaric” (if that’s an apt term to use.)

9. Wag tayo masyadong magmalinis. Kristyano ka nga, ipokrito(a) naman.

10. If you categorize Muslims as lesser people, then you my friend are lesser-er. You’re definitely misguided, not to mention narrow.

Discrimination: A Fairy Tale (P.1)

Are you familiar with the story about the three little pigs and the big bad wolf? Do you know why they were eaten by the big bad wolf? No, not because they built pathetic houses out of hay or something. They were eaten, because? Anyone?

Because instead of heading for home and preparing for the wolf’s arrival, they side-tripped to Starbucks, sat there for hours and got busy blowing their own horns off. Read on. (Real encounter with the real pigs.)

“When we went to like New Zealand last summer dude, I tried bungee-jumping!” one pig boasted. “I freaked out paah-re! Like, my whole life flashed before me! I thought I was gonna die dude, graa-beh!”

“Ugh! That’s nothing!” another pig dismissed, waving a paw. “You know naman that I you know, drive so bilis di ba? I used to be a drag racer kase paah-re. I even got into an aksidente once. Really! And I was hospitalized for one linggo!”

He then showed them a puny scar on this temple, sending the first pig flinching. “Marami pa yan, pare dude!"

“Wha-? It doesn’t even spell death!” the third pig remarked. “Me? I went to Mindanao last month paah-re! Mindanao, Imagine!?”

I laughed so hard, coffee almost shot right out of my left nostril.

(to be concluded...)

Tears of Summer

In my self-excavated pit, I seek refuge,
Consoling myself, this is for everyone’s good.
But even with solitude, still I feel agony;
Is there no other way of breaking free?

Tuck away with only my self as company,
Here, I thought, they would never reach me.
With memories, I fill my days of emptiness
Clinging unto them, tightly, my only solace.

I recall the memories of how it used to be;
Of people and me, and how we used to be happy;
How I looked forward to every waking day;
And how they abandoned me; the price I have to pay.

The sun shines brightly; the sea is so calm,
The waves slapping them, yet the shore keeps mum.
To the wind’s music, the palm trees are swaying.
A beautiful day, but why is my soul wailing?

Hovering high above me, the birds they fly
And tiny sand insects as they scuttle by
They seem peaceful, oblivious to what I’m feeling
But can they empathize? Can they feel my hurting?

I watch them; alone in my nook, I sit.
If I scream, will they be able to hear a bit?
I try to talk to them, I may be insane,
For the world never slows down to feel your pain.

Sitting cross-legged against the sand so white,
Wondering how long I could keep up the fight
I close my eyes, as the wind blows in my ear
Seemingly telling me, “Be strong, I’m here.”

They seem so merry. Ah! How dare them mock me!
While everything’s pretty, I’m gripped with melancholy.
Aggravating the pain; tears threaten to spill,
But I let them stream for I am alone, still.

Looking out into the distant horizon,
Peeking into the hole of my tiny dungeon.
Contemplating about the world I see.
Will there be any life ahead of me?

Wheeling off, slowly I am drifting away.
Like a ship, caught in a storm, gone astray.
In this oh so vast ocean of uncertainty;
Helplessly floating; drifting aimlessly.

Of Peanuts and Mementos, Part 2

Nostalgic rush! Oh my stars! I tried to stifle my screams of delight.

“Yes! I mean, no! Yes, I’m from Dumaguete, no, I’m not a barista! It’s Cafe Memento, by the way."

“But I’m positive! You served me with that Orange Smoothie, and you even gave us packets of peanuts! That was, I think, late last Feb when we visited Dumaguete!"

Then it hit me, the dam just broke. “OH MY GAAAD! YEAH! I remembered!” Humongous laughter. “Yeah, that was me! I sometimes do the waiter-ing when I was still there; I’m not a waiter though. Just a frequent customer."

“Hahaha! You’re name’s Lai, isn’t it? You were always bickering with one of the waiters, heard him scream your name a couple of times.” Omigod! She remembered. I always squabble with Richard, and he shouts my nickname every time we argue!

“Oh! Yes, it’s Lyle with an “L” at the end. This is odd! Hahaha! Hi! I’m sorry but you’re name is?”

“Michelle…” we shook hands. “I remembered you because you were so sweet (again, according to her) when we were there, giving us peanuts and entertaining us and all. (Actually, I recalled, I was a bit tipsy during that time, hence the confidence.)

“Tina!” she called out to her gal-pal who was sitting two tables away. “Tina, look! The small guy from Momento… Memento!” Small guy!?

Tina gave her a puzzled look. “What? Huh?” she mouthed, raising both her eyebrows and crinkling her temple.

“The peanut guy! Memento? Peanuts? Don’t you remember?” Peanut guy!?

“Oh hi!” Tina waved. I waved back.

“Do you want to join us?” Michelle offered.

“Nah, I’m off to work in a sec, next time na lang.”

I escorted her back to her table where we chatted for a minute or two. I was introduced to Tina, who told me she loved the complimentary “Dumaguete Peanuts.” Actually, those weren’t exactly “complementary”. I bought them from the Kuya-Allan-Mani-Beh! kids. Decided to give them away since I had plenty. Those kids, every time they go to Memento, I feel obliged to buy their peanuts!

Anyway. I soon learned they’re call center agents, and we promised to hang out one of these days. We exchanged numbers, and then I set off for work.

* * *

Small world, isn’t it? Who would’ve thought that a simple encounter, a simple gesture of thoughtfulness and my being a sweet, adorable, small, peanut guy would set the stage for new friendships!? I may have lost a lighter, but I certainly found some new friends.

* * *

To the Cafe Memento Crew & the Peanut Squad: I miss you guys so darn much!

Of Peanuts and Mementos, Part 1

One sun-drenched afternoon at the Megastrip’s Seattle’s Best, while I was reading a Coelho book (The Devil and Miss Prym);

“Uh, excuse me? Can I have a light?” a female voice rang.

“Sure.” I replied feebly, my eyes still glued to the pages of my book.

Sensing that the lady has not yet touched the lighter, I picked it up and handed it to her.

“Here…” I offered and looked up from my book. Take it, you’re bothering me!

She let out a gasp upon seeing my face, knitted her perfectly-plucked eyebrows, and flashed a perplexed grin.

“Yes?” I queried. What now, lady!?

“I know you!” she exclaimed. Oh yeah? Finally, I thought, someone noticed my hidden handsome-ness! Do you want to have my autograph or something?

“I know you!” Obviously! Duh! What do you want lady!? Can’t you see I’m trying to read here!? If you want to have my autograph, just say so and get on with it!

“I know you!” You don’t have to repeat it. I’m not deaf!

“Excuse me?” (Honestly, I was astonished!)

“I know you! I’ve seen you somewhere before!” Of course you did (sarcastic tone), before you so crudely interrupted my reading!

She rolled her eyes heavenwards, like a student being asked to explain Einstein’s Law of Relativity. Know what, you can just take the lighter. I have loads of ‘em. You don’t have to pretend to know me to just borrow my lighter!”

"Oh yeah!" she shrieked exultantly, as if she discovered the antidote to some incurable disease.

“Momento, isn’t it? You were that adorable (according to her) barista at Momento!” in a tone that could only be employed when showing affection to kitties and little doggies. “Nice kitty-kitty...”

“I’m sorry Miss, you’re mistaken. I’m not from Caloocan (Monumento).”

“No, Momento Dumaguete! You’re the barista, right?”

(to be concluded..) cafe memento

The Bleached & The Burnt Part 2

The scrawny boy picked up his spectacles and touched his nose. Blood gushed out of his pale snout, prompting him to hurl expletives in some foreign language (Korean, possibly).

He was about to throw a punch when the enraged internet café attendant barked. “Hoi! Stop that! Out you kids! Out! Out! Guard, palabasin mo nga tong mga batang ‘to! You kids, you out now!”

“Halina kayo, sa labas nyo ipagpatuloy bakbakan nyo!” said the guard, seizing the kids by their arms.

“Hey, don’t touch me, dumbass!” little mister four-eyed cotton bud snarled, trying to escape from Mamang Guard’s clutches.

“Hoy Jang-Geum! Don’t damas-damas me ha!? Don’t you reclaim! Let’s go!” snapped the guard, tightening his grip.

“Nognog… nognog… nognog…” the idiot beside me chanted again.

“Ikaw! Ang ingay mo!” the attendant growled, turning her attention towards him. “Tumahimik ka kung away mong palabasin din kita! Nognog nognog ka dyan!” That shut him up.

I went back to what I was doing and hammered away. Everyone was happy; well, except for the idiot.


* * *


Moral of the story: When people wrestle inside an internet café, don’t utter anything idiotic. Otherwise, the attendant will skin you alive.


Things I discovered:

1. Never annoy an already infuriated internet café attendant, or else you will be mud.
2. “Reclaim” is the English translation for the Tagalog term “reklamo” (for real!).
3. Never wear eyeglasses if you have a gigantic head atop a bony body, you will only resemble an overgrown cotton-bud with goggles.
4. Dorky skeletal kids are also capable of being bullies.
5. Guards watch the Koreanovela “Jewel in the Palace”.
6. If you’re a tubby black kid, no one would want to play with you. You will just get into a fight.
7. Jang-Geum is the collective name of Koreans.
8. Kids can be so violent, especially when they no longer want to play with their playmates.
9. Korean children speak better English (with American accent. beat that!) than most Filipinos.
10. Never push your opponents to the wall, you’ll get punched first.

The Bleached & The Burnt Part 1

You're a jerk!" one boy screamed. "I don't want to play with you anymore!"

“Oh yeah!?” Another tot retorted. “Then don't play with me, stupid!"

"Who are you calling stupid? You're stupid! Stupid! STUPEEED!"

I peaked out of my cubicle and stopped my keyboard-hammering to find out what the commotion was all about. Two little boys, one Korean (How do I know his Korean? I don’t know. Instincts, perhaps.) and one nognog, yelling at each other. They have the shrillest of voices, it’s like scraping a fork across a chalkboard.

One was fairly bursting with good health (read: fat), while the Korean kid was like an overgrown cotton bud with eyeglasses. He was so skinny that I could actually hear his bones creak.

“Just punch him and shut up!” One person bellowed, while the idiot seated beside me chanted, “Suntukan na. Suntukan na. Suntukan na.” He was so irritating that I want to give him what he wanted, I want to punch his lips and make it bleed.

As if on cue, the skinny boy pushed his inversely-proportional antagonist to the wall. Bang! The portly nognog slammed. Gago ka ah! Bakla!” He’s Filipino? Yeah, an overcooked Pinoy.

He gathered himself up, dusted off, went to the other kid, and without a warning, punched the cotton-bud to the nose. Bang! (I’m so poor with sound effects.) The blubber knuckles collided with the bony mug. Togsh! (Said I’m not good at “sound-effect-ing.”)

His eyeglasses fell. I thought, for a moment there, the skeletal kid’s nose was shattered.

(to be concluded...)

Fading Away

No matter how hard I shake it,
But I just could not ignore it.
Shadows of the dismal past,
Catching up with me, at last.

In my own secluded sanctuary,
I have to escape, I ought to flee.
To isolate myself, I went into hiding.
It’s futile, after all, for they’re re-emerging.

Memories that have been confined,
Locked away in the recesses of my mind.
Little by little, they are now resurfacing.
In my consciousness, they’re permeating.

Running off, constantly running away.
My life has always been this way.
This is me, unhappy in perpetuity.
Tell me, should I let it be?

Took flight, I tried to break away;
Made up my mind, I just can’t stay.
Though friends tell me “Just hang in there buddy!”
I’m sorry guys, but for once, I want to be happy.

And now it’s all coming back to me,
Reliving the days that afforded me misery,
But I’m hoping and praying that I will be okay.
Eventually, these memories will fade away.

The Picture of Dorian Gray

The Picture of Dorian Gray (Oscar Wilde)

"A lush, cautionary tale of a life of vileness and deception or a loving portrait of the aesthetic impulse run rampant? Why not both? After Basil Hallward paints a beautiful, young man's portrait, his subject's frivolous wish that the picture change and he remain the same comes true. Dorian Gray's picture grows aged and corrupt while he continues to appear fresh and innocent.

"After he kills a young woman, "as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife," Dorian Gray is surprised to find no difference in his vision or surroundings. "The roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as happily in my garden." As Hallward tries to make sense of his creation, his epigram-happy friend Lord Henry Wotton encourages Dorian in his sensual quest with any number of Wildean paradoxes, including the delightful "When we are happy we are always good, but when we are good we are not always happy." But despite its many languorous pleasures, The Picture of Dorian Gray is an imperfect work.

"Compared to the two (voyeuristic) older men, Dorian is a bore, and his search for ever new sensations far less fun than the novel's drawing-room discussions. Even more oddly, the moral message of the novel contradicts many of Wilde's supposed aims, not least "no artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style." Nonetheless, the glamour boy gets his just deserts.

And Wilde, defending Dorian Gray, had it both ways: "All excess, as well as all renunciation, brings its own punishment." --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

(Review By Amazon.com, Photo by Authorama.com)

So, You're .. uh .. Filipino? (P.4)

Earlier this evening, after school, I went to this Korean - Chinese - Japanese internet café. The place was nice; the workers were polite, giving me three Good-Evenings in less than ten seconds; and best of all, you can smoke inside. It’s in Ortigas, along Pearl Drive, fronting the University of Asia and the Pacific.

Anyway… as soon as I entered the shop, the guard warmly greeted me with a smile. “Gohd debneeng Ser!” I just nodded. That’s odd, I thought. After a second or two, one of the attendants approached me.

“Good evening, Sir! Internet or gaming?” he inquired.
“Internet…” I answered.
“This way Sir.” he said, ushering me to the cashier.

“Hi Sir! Good evening!” the plump cashier greeted me. She welcomed me so energetically as if greeting customers makes her horny. I was frightened with her up-to-the-ceiling enthusiasm. I reciprocated the greeting with a faint “Hello”.

“English? Korean? Or Chinese?” she asked, words rapidly spewed forth from her mouth.
“I’m sorry?”

“We have Korean and Chinese language-ready computer stations. So … English, Korean or Chinese?” the flab under her chin jiggled with every word. She’s still smiling, flashing me her toothy grin.

“Tagalog, meron?” I asked jokingly. I chuckled, she did not. This time her smile disappeared; her thick eyebrows converged at the middle. She stared at me for awhile, like a student staring at a very complicated mathematical equation. From me, she shifted her eyes to another attendant.

She called out, “Bobby! Station twelb!”

So, You're .. uh .. Filipino? (P.3)

When I was still in Silliman U, I had this report on Japanese literature. Halfway through my presentation, I noticed these two giggling girls in the front row. When one girl says “jiyehp-niiis” the other would reply “li-ri-chr” and they’d burst into quiet laughter again.

I wondered what the commotion was all about. So being the semi-chismoso that I was, I pranced around the room while giving my lecture in hopes of uncovering the mystery behind the giggles.

The first girl would go, “The JIYEHP-niis LI-ri-chr is the blah-blah-blah. The blah-blah is one of most important blah-blah of JIYEHP-niis LI-ri-chr. JIYEHP-niis LI-ri-chr.” propelling the second girl to snigger. They were unaware of my presence, that I was near, that I could hear them. And then at the exact moment the first girl said, “Taga-asa diay na cya!? OA pud!” our eyes connected.

I was looking at her, she was looking at me. Then I realized they were mimicking (and making fun of) me. JIYEHP-niis LI-ri-chr = Japanese Literature. Who was more embarrassed? I don’t know, I think Miss Jiyehp-niis, because she lowered her eyes first.

But I didn’t want to embarrass her so I just pretended I didn’t understand what she said and continued with my lecture. “The Jiyep-neez end thu Cha-neez went ta Astraya ta kill sum Bri-ish chi-kuhns!” (The Japanese and the Chinese went to Australia to kill some British chickens!)

(to be concluded...)

So, You're .. uh .. Filipino? (P.2)

People always come up to me (sometimes they stop me, like in the aforementioned story) to inquire if I’m Burmese, Malaysian, Indonesian, Singaporean, or Thai. The first time I encountered the question, I just laughed at it and coolly said “Dili (No)”.

So I can pass for a foreigner huh. Then came the second, still I was fascinated. Then came the third, dismissing it as mere coincidence; having three different people, on three different occasions, in three different cities.

When the fourth came, I began to wonder if these people were blind, or just nuts. Fifth time, I was beginning to suspect that I was on Just For Laughs (or its Filipino equivalent, Wow Mali.) Five times, it’s alright. But more than 10 times!? (Yes, I keep track.)

More than ten times; more than ten different individuals on more than ten different occasions in more or less 4 different cities, I’m beginning to wonder if I’m really Filipino, or some clumsy nurse switched me in the nursery when I was an infant.

(to be concluded...)

So, You're .. uh .. Filipino? (P.1)

“Hey! Wait up!”
“Huh?”

“So… You’re new here?”
“Uh…”

“Freshman. You’re freshman?”
“Yeah…”

“Me too. So… What are you taking up?”
“Psychology.”

“Me too! So… How do you like the Philippines?”
“Excuse me?”

“Hasn’t been around yet, huh? Where are you from?”
“Wha—?”

“Heard you’re Burmese. Our classmates ... they talked about you. Here in the Philippines, we talk a lot ... especially about other people. But its okay ... I mean you know you’ll get used to it. Besides, we have a lot of foreign students here, they can help you adapt. Know what, for a Burmese guy, you speak good English.”
“I’m not Burmese.”

“Oh I’m sorry. Indonesian?”
“No! I’m…”

“Malaysian?”
“Filipino!”

"You're Filipino!? (pronounced as "Fu-La-Pee-Now")
"Uhh ... yeah?"

“Really? Cool!”
“Uhm..”

*awkward silence*

*crickets chirping in the background*

"So..."
"Uh-uh?"

“Which side?"
"Which ... side ... of what?"

"Mother’s or Father’s side? Or both?”
“Bisaya! (stress on the last syllable) Budlat! Itom!

(to be concluded...)

The Infernal Regions: Part 3

Oh, and when I finally planted my bony posterior into what could be one of the most uncomfortable chairs, I decided to check on whether Mr. Numbskull’s still alive; I was half-hoping though he got swept up by an asteroid. And goodness was I shocked with what I beheld.

A throng of passing Korean tourists requested for a photo-op with him!

I cringed as I watched the excited Koreans pose beside him. The arrangement was like this: 2 Koreanas on his left side making “peace” signs with their pallid fingers, 2 Koreanos on the other side while our hero dunked one hand into the water (the other wagging), smiling before the camera! Geezzzzuusss!

They must be very amused with the jerk. They must be thinking, “These Filipino people sure are a ridiculous bunch! Full-grown people making a total fool out of themselves!”

Anyway…

The neon-clad, Mafia-lord-slash-lost golfer-slash-waiter approached my table and handed me the menu. “Good afternoon, Sir!” he croaked. I glanced at the menu for awhile, and handed it back to him.

“Coffee, please…”

“Ai Sir!” he said, scratching his head. “We're really sorry, sira po kasi yung brewing machine namin…”

“What!? No Coffee!? Do you have any idea how much hell I went through just to have coffee!? Do you want me to kick your behind all the way to Havana Cuba!? Hah!? Hah!?” I screamed, in my head.

I, then, pulled down my pennon, and heaved a sigh of defeat. Just my luck, I thought.

Now the last retort, having coffee while beret-donning waitresses scamper about. I marched towards the French coffee shop, held my breath and walked in. Bonjour Monsieur!

Good, there’s coffee! Now, if I could just find some Visine.

The Infernal Regions: Part 2

Yet again, another quandary, that of the two remaining coffee shops. (There are only 5 shops at this side of the mall, but EBUN doesn't fall under my coffee shop category.) Think, think.

Aside from the quality of coffee, I also take into careful consideration the ambiance of the place. I mulled over the situation, the pros and cons as I stood there under the shade of palm trees in the middle of the piazza, looking like a complete idiot.

Coffee Shop # 1: Café Havana

Pros: I love Cuba. I admire Fidel Castro. And I am a sucker for Latinas, especially when they get into those snuggly-fit, skimpy bikinis. Adrianna Lima! Ooh and, and. Enough!

Cons: The waiters! They looked like those antediluvian Mafia lords from The Godfather trilogy, who resigned from their kingdoms for some career growth, that is of becoming a waiter. Or some lost golfer who couldn’t find their way to the country club.

Coffee Shop # 2: Café Breton

Pros: I am obsessed with France, and everything that’s got to do with the place. I detest Napoleon though, but that’s a different story. The shop’s interior design’s classy, so … err … French! C'est parfait! Nah, not really.

Cons: Man, those red and blue berets! Outta here! The waiters look like displaced Nazi soldiers from centuries back. Those berets! Those berets! Man, they’re so … I’m lost for words!

So there I was, chewing over my plight when I noticed some dork playing with the fountain in the middle of the square. He appears to be a little over 30, was wearing a pair of denim shorts and was clasping a bag in one of his armpits.

I observed him for a couple of seconds; he seemed to enjoy what he’s doing for he was grinning while the water jets splashed unto his hands. What a strange guy, I thought.

Then he became aware that someone’s looking at him. He looked at me with the What-Are-You-Looking-At (!?) look. I responded with the Aren’t-You-A-Bit-Too-Old-To-Be-Playing-With-The-Fountain (?) look. He, then, countered with the So-What (!?) look. He looked away subsequently, I also did the same.

I noticed that the people were looking at me, because I look like a jerk standing there under the blistering heat of the sun looking at the pathetic person who’s looking at the lookie-look. I looked, he looked, and everyone looked! Look look look! Oh look, lots of looks! Where was I, look?

Nah, I'm just testing if you're still with me.

Back to the issue-at-hand: Cuba or France?

After thorough consideration, I picked the Mafia lords over the Nazi soldiers and made my way towards Café Havana. While I despised the garbs of the two aforesaid coffee shops maître d's, I opted for the less laughable one. Those berets were just eyesores. They gotta go!

(to be concluded...)

The Infernal Regions: Part 1

Buzz.

I awoke at the sound of the alarm clock. Wha-!? I wondered. 8 o’clock!? (Man!)

I forced myself into a vertical position and went to the bathroom. I took a bath at lightning-speed, skipped breakfast (as usual), and dashed out of the gate. I’m late for school!

Sprinted towards Shaw Boulevard, and waited for a cab. I waited, and waited, and waited. Arg! Ever wonder why taxi cabs suddenly vanish when you’re in a hurry and are in abundance when you don’t need them?

Hmp, I can smell some whacked-up conspiracy going on. I opted to take the jeepney instead. Heavy traffic, naturally, it’s a Monday.

In the PM. Holiday! Yay! No work! I have plenty of time to kill. But where would I do the killing? A flashbulb, then, went off inside my brain. Ting! Greenbelt.

I boarded the train, and prayed I would be able to walk out intact. The MRT is my theatre of war, and riding in it has always been my war story, but that’s beside the point.

The sun was high-up as I climbed down the Ayala Station stairs. I entered and exited Glorietta (4, then 2), and scaled the pedestrian overpass connecting the two malls.

Reaching Greenbelt 3, the dilemma as to whether I should go to Starbucks or Seattle’s Best, introduced itself to me. Hmp. Starbest? Or Seattle’s Bucks?

Starbucks it is! And as soon as I crossed the doorsill, a strange feeling engulfed me. I gazed at my surroundings and … and … Aak! I am inside the lair of the yuppies!

Coño people rocking the place with Oh-My-Goshes! An army of killer boots! Swarm of XDAs! Piles and piles of laptops! Braces! Eek! This isn’t the Starbucks that I knoow-wa! I quickly ran towards the exit screaming.

Alright, Plan B then. I strode towards Seattle’s Best, with my hopes up. But I stopped dead on my tracks. Alas, another flock of spoiled young metropolitan elites had taken camp at Seattle’s Best. This is one of the many unfortunate situations where I just want to bring out my WCD’s (Weapons of Coño Destruction) and blast these crazy-tizens to smithereens.

(to be concluded...)

Sophie's World (Gaarder)

Sophie's World (Jostein Gaarder)

"This long, dense novel, a bestseller in the author's native Norway, offers a summary history of philosophy embedded in a philosophical mystery disguised as a children's book-but only sophisticated young adults would be remotely interested.

"Sophie Amundsen is about to turn 15 when she receives a letter from one Alberto Knox, a philosopher who undertakes to educate her in his craft. Sections in which we read the text of Knox's lessons to Sophie about the pre-Socratics, Plato and St. Augustine alternate with those in which we find out about Sophie's life with her well-meaning mother. Soon, though, Sophie begins receiving other, stranger missives addressed to one Hilde Moller Knag from her absent father, Albert.

"As Alberto Knox's lessons approach this century, he and Sophie come to suspect that they are merely characters in a novel written by Albert for his daughter. Teacher and pupil hatch a plot to understand and possibly escape from their situation; and from there, matters get only weirder.

"Norwegian philosophy professor Gaarder's notion of making a history of philosophy accessible is a good one. Unfortunately, it's occasionally undermined by the dry language he uses to describe the works of various thinkers and by an idiosyncratic bias that gives one paragraph to Nietzsche but dozens to Sartre, breezing right by Wittgenstein and the most influential philosophy of this century, logical positivism.

"Many readers, regardless of their age, may be tempted to skip over the lessons, which aren't well integrated with the more interesting and unusual metafictional story line." Author tour. Copyright 1994 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

(Review by Amazon.com, Photo by Wikipedia)

Rhum and Ladder .. & Carwash

Ever heard of a board game named Rum and Ladder? No? Just as I thought.

Well basically this game is similar to the well-known board game Snakes and Ladders. The same set of rules, the same playing board, practically everything’s the same. Except for the penalty.

In SnL (not Saturday Night Live!) when a player gets bitten by the snake, he merely places his token to where the snake’s tail’s at. The same with RnL, except you have to guzzle half-glass full of the “Burgundy Juice” as a consequence. And without any chaser. Fair enough huh!? But…

Given that it is an alcohol-ingesting fête (disguised as an innocent game of SnL), there usually sits two glasses for the “tuyok” ['ikot'] (supposing that you employ the Round-Robin method). One serves as the regular tuyok glass, while the other as the penalty glass.

And what normally happens as soon as you’ve gulped down the contents of the penalty glass, your turn for the tuyok glass arrives. Thus explains the facial contortions in the photograph.

Do you want to reduce your chaser expenses and save money (for the next round of Tanduay)? Do you want to get smashed quickly? If you answered Yes, then this is the game for you and your friends. Rum and Ladder is the only sport where every contender is both a winner … and a winner pa rin!

RnL A.M. P.M. Olympics Team: Lyle, Krisan, Princess, Bunot & Cathy. Theme song: “Para sa Iyo ang Cawrash na ‘to!" Why? Secret! Nya-ha-haa! I miss you guys so darn much! “Laaaiinnn kaaaayuuu kaaa Kriii aaaii! Siii Jaaaan Reeex baayaaa kooohh… Aha ha haa…”

Death on an Afternoon: Part 5

Then the air thickened, the lights flickered, a number of heads turned as a flock of attention-grabbing, good-looking, aesthetically-superior humanoids glided through. They seemed as if they just leapt out of the covers of Vogue and GQ.

I suddenly felt like a repulsive platypus amidst a drove of graceful swans. Two members of the “gorgeous-ness squad” caught me looking at them and flashed me the you-can-never-look-as-good-as-me stare, I spontaneously turned into mud.

Consoling myself, I began chanting my mantra: “Had God made me gwapo, I would’ve been perfect. But no one’s perfect, so He instead stuffed a little extra gray matter to compensate for the lack of aesthetic appeal.”

Then, a group of old Indian women, the “dot” kind, not the “feather” kind of Indians, walked past me. Wearing the traditional Sari, they looked so beautiful despite the age. One even looked like Aishwarya Rai (the supermodel). A 350-pound Aishwarya Rai, that is.

The world suddenly turned black-and-white. I spotted a couple ever so publicly displayed their affections, smacking every five seconds. Get a room people! I almost screamed. Tightly clinging on to each other, they reminded me of two leeches sucking each other dry.

Or were they just conjoined twins? Perhaps not, the lady was Caucasian, while the guy was … well … overcooked. (What do you call “tutong” in English? No, not overcooked or burnt rice. A trivia I always forget.) I wondered what they’re offsprings would be like. Dalmatians?

(to be concluded…)