Horses Need Haircuts Too, 2

The next message came from my mom. Her phonebook name’s “Mom Jezebelle”; not because her name’s Jezebelle but because she has “Jez-pulgadas-bilbel” (ten inches of flab/love handles).

The message spoke of horses and whips and pains and winning and stuff (see first paragraph of the first part of this entry). I replied with “That’s highly debatable, besides I’m not a horse. Morning Mom.”

I proceeded to stir black power into my mug of boiling water. After performing the blow-and-sip ritual, I dragged my sleepy carcass to the bathroom to relieve my bladder. “There you go again, my sarcastic son. You’re over - intellectualizing things again. It’s a start of a new day, take it easy, will you? The world is already filled with sour people, don’t add up. Jerk!”

Of course she didn’t put the last word, I just made it up. Moms don’t just call their sons jerk; unless you really are one. But had I been my own parent, I would’ve called myself a jerk.

“I know Mom, a new day. So what’s in it for me? Kidding! God, I need a haircut. Could you spare me some dough there mother? Love yah.”

“Whatever happened to ‘independence’? And ‘it defeats the purpose ma’? You have a job, pay for it. Better yet, chop it off yourself. Haha. Mind the wrinkles son, loosen up. And easy on the smoking; million dead cells remember? Love you too, nak.”

“Mama? Mama…”

“Okay, collect it from the bank. God bless.” She is so charming.

Horses Need Haircuts Too, 1

“The winning horse doesn’t know why it runs a race. It runs because of the whip and pain. Life is a race; if you are in pain, then clearly God wants you to win. Keep running even in pain. Never give up, we’re about to finish the race. Good morning, winner!”

I woke up with a jolt. Still remaining horizontal, I surveyed the room with still bloodshot eyes. For a moment there, I didn't know whose bed I was on, then I realized, "Okay, it's mine. Been one hell of a party last night."

As if they have a life of their own, my hands began to crawl. The left tentacle crawled aimlessly across my body like a demented snake on crack. Itstopped where my left thigh was, feeling a small mound. I pressed the knoll unconsciously hard and let out a yelp. It stung! “Where the hell did I get that!?”

It wasn’t there the night before. Guess I drunk a bit too much that I totally forgot. The right hand, on the other … uhm … hand (So that makes three hands then! I must’ve mutated overnight!), managed its way to my bedside table and found my cellphone. I tried to lift it but it crashed to the floor. Holy dung beetle!

I quickly got up to retrieve the piece-of-garbage from the floor. But Holier Dung Beetle (!), hangover!

I checked the time, 10:53am. There were 3 missed calls and 14 text messages waiting to be read. I read the first message. It was a forwarded message from a friend who’s so hooked into this unlimited texting thing.

She’s not satisfied sending just one message so she sends 10 messages of the same content. I deleted the succeeding 9 messages without opening it for I’m dead sure it has the same content as the first.

(to be concluded…)

The Address of Greatness, 3

Your Silliman education will never be complete if you haven't experienced Doltz. In Doltz, I have experienced things I know I wouldn't be able to experience anywhere else. Now I thank my mother for plotting my murder.

From the ridiculous 10 pm curfew time to the movie marathons; the boring Thursday-night devotions; the overpriced Pancit Cantons with Mountain Dews, smoking under the Doltz tree, learning the art of climbing walls, sneaking in barrels and barrels of Tanduay and Tequila, the almost monthly brawls, the relatively unappetizing cafeteria food, the dorm outings, the jamming sessions, the bonding, everything! I wouldn't trade them for the moon!

If there's one place that I truly call home (aside from my Dipolog), that's gotta be Doltz Hall, Silliman University, Dumaguete City. “Lan, kung ma-senador naka, bisita biya dinhi ha? (Lan, if ever you become a Senator, pay us a visit okay?)” my dorm matron said, just before I left. “Dili diay ko! (Never!)” I replied jokingly.

And when I got out, tugging my maletas with me, I saw some of my “mats” (dorm mates) smoking under the revered Doltz tree. “Mats, saon na man ni, laya na man ko!” (author's note: I dunno how to translate this, its bisayan slang or idiosyncrasy or something but i'll try it in Tagalog, roughly it's: Mats, so ana na? Laya na kasi ako.)

“Laya gud!? Saba dinha! Sigarilyo ta mats!” (What's do you mean, laya? Tumigil ka nga, let's smoke instead!) Oliver said. “Bali! Mahawa na gali ko, pangayu-an pa jud kog cigarillo!” (Grabe naman kayo, aalis na nga, you’re asking for a smoke pa.) “Aw di ba, tinood ka?” (No seriously, are you sure?)

“Lagi,” (Yeah.) I took out a stick and gave them the box. I savored the moment, my last time of smoking under “the tree.”

“Sige mats, adto nako, mularga na ang fastcraft.” (So pano? I'm going na, the fastcraft will be departing any minute from now.) I bade them goodbye. “Di na jud ka kapugngan? Ayu-ayu na lang mats! Oi, imong yosi o!” (Hindi ka na talaga mapipigilan? Cge, ingat na lang. Oi, yosi mo!) said Samuel.

“Inyu-a na na!” (No, just keep it!) I gave them the cig box. Kleine uttered, "Salamat el presidente (The author was dorm president for a year. Sob, sob.) “Dili” I said, “Thank you!” (No, thank you!)

I turned around and I heard one of them shout, “Mats, remember Doltz!”

Author’s Note: I apologize for my deficient Tagalog.

The Address of Greatness, 2

"Ma?" I said with a begging tone. "I can't live here! It's impossible for me to live here! Do you want me dead!?"

"Ah stop it! You survived MSU unscathed, you'll survive here."
"But ... but ..."

"Here or home? You choose!"
"Let's find another dorm. I don't wanna stay here. It's ... it's ... old!"

"The dorms are already full. Had you not been a lazy bum, we could've booked you at New Men's It's your problem! Deal with it!"

"Put me in an apartment then. Or ... or put me in a boarding house, however tiny the room or however basic the bed, I can live with that. But not here ma, please!"

"You know very well that apartments and boarding houses are out of the question. Now quit it!"

I know what she meant. I don't deserve to have my own place; I screwed up my first two college years and now I'm paying the high price of my dumbassery.

"Alright," I said, defeated. I've been a debater since, but I cannot seem to win an argument with my mom. So the saying is true, "Mothers know (argue) best." That same morning we went to the Department of Housing. Mama signed me in, while I hang on for dear life.

"So is this goodbye Mama? Permanently?"
"You're being impertinente! Are you gonna stop this nonsense or what!?"
The voice inside my head was screaming "Or what! Or what!"

"Okay, but can I have Gary Valenciano to sing in my funeral?"
Mama glared at me, I knew I had to stop. Lest she kills me before the dorm does!

(to be concluded…)

The Address of Greatness, 1

Mention the words "Doltz Hall" in Silliman University, and you'd surely get a collective reaction of disapproval, with a slight hit of hostility.

With its dilapidated walls, older-than-Mampur structure, Superferry-like windows, a creepy gigantic Acacia tree in the front yard, hundreds of ghost stories, resident druggies, frat people, a penguin (!), secret societies of reinas and maias; the dorm certainly lives up to its name, Doltz Hell.

Here, you can meet and greet, and get acquainted with people from the extremes; frat men and geeks, druggies and Christian fanatics, reinas and maias, social climbers and silent millionaires, achievers and bums, humans and animals.

Aside from the haunted house reputation, it’s the people that make this dorm famous (or infamous!). However, if you put Doltz side by side with other dorms, hands down! Doltz gonna go for the kill, baby! And if you mix a Doltz haller amidst all kinds of dormers, no he's not gonna kill the other dormers, but he'd stand out as well. With the bad reputation and all ... kidding!

One can't help but wonder how these people, despite their Heaven-Hades differences, survive with each other and live harmoniously under the same roof. It's the same amazement you'd get upon seeing a snake and a frog sharing the same cage.

I lived (and mutated) in this dorm for about … three years. Three years of adventure, of fun, of brotherhood. I can even remember the time when my Mom dragged me to Doltz hall (since the first choice was the modern, concrete, relatively-welcoming New Men's Dorm), it was pure horror.

The same horror you used to get when you were 5 years old, and you accidentally swallowed a calamansi seed. Oooh, the branches will be sprouting out of your ears!

(to be concluded…)

Sinking in Bottomless Mush, 4

“Here, take my seat Ma’am.” I stood up.

“Oh no, I can’t. I’m alright. But thanks anyway.” She looked at me with her eyes seemingly saying ‘I know you’ve been through a lot today, you need the seat more than I do."

“But I insist.” I said.

She exhaled heavily through the nose, subtly shaking her head and curling her lips to a smile. “Sige na nga. Salamat ha."

I helped her gather her things from the floor to her lap. “Thank you, hijo.” She repeated. Then she smiled again, this time wider and ‘warmer.’ And at that very moment, I felt better, loads better. It surely took the world off my shoulders. For some weird reason I felt good, I felt I was reborn, that I’ve just started my day.

I got off the next station even though it wasn’t my stop yet. I got off the coach feeling much much better. Before the train sped off, I looked at the old lady again, she was waving at me. I just tipped my head and smiled.

From there I flagged a cab to my place and phoned my associate that I couldn’t make it, and asked him to reschedule the meeting with the client. Funny thing was, I wasn’t a bit worried.

“Shit happens” I said.

“What are you, nuts!? Better get your ass over here or you’ll be shit. The client’s been waiting for …” he said angrily, I interrupted.

“Uhm … Hello?” I made some noises; crackles and buzzes, and pretended not to hear him.

“Hello? Hello! Lyle!"

“Bro … I … can’t hea …ear … you! You’re … acking … up. Postpo … me … eeting."

Click.

Sinking in Bottomless Mush, 3

I spun around and looked at Mr. Steroids with a stare that could bring Hitler down to his knees. Or so I thought. It didn’t work for King kong; he was not a bit apologetic. “Watch where you’re going, little man!” he said to me and turned around.

Watch where I am going!? Little man!? Tell you what Neanderthaloid, the only thing that’d be little is your steroid-filled body once I beat you to a pulp! Lucky for him, I didn’t get the chance to beat him up! Poof, who was I kidding? The man could kill me with just a single punch!

I remained silent, nonetheless, still trying to push my way into the train. A middle-aged lady wearing a bandana behind me whispered in Filipino “That’s alright, you know there will always be jackasses.” I was sure she was well-intentioned, trying to comfort me and all that.

But still I wanted to rip her living heart out for that. It’s not friggin’ alright! And lady, that jackass just ruined my life! What the hell is alright about that!?

As soon as I entered the threshold of the train, I quickly ran towards the first vacant seat in sight and planted my bony posterior into it. Countless thoughts ran through my mind like how am I going to explain my being more than an hour late?

Or how would I explain to the client why the papers are now drenched in coffee? Or why am I wearing an army fatigue? I scratched my head in exasperation; searching for answers, realizing that I’ve managed to pull a couple of strands of my hair.

Well, I wasn’t wearing an army uniform. I was wearing a light green polo shirt. But because some klutzy dumb-dumb King kong so graciously bumped into me, bathing my shirt with coffee, it resembled a green and brown army fatigue or camouflage or whatever you call it.

That’s it! I thought. My alibi! I shall tell my client that I'm late because the sky train went off its tracks and ended up in Lebanon. The papers were of brownish color because we had to crawl our way out of the coaches to avoid that missiles; the mud thing’s mud.

And I’m wearing a camouflage because I was enlisted in the army for an hour. Good enough, I’m sure they’ll buy it.

I lost myself in alibi-land that I failed to notice a lady standing in front of me with her plastic bags between her feet. She was clutching a grocery bag in one hand while the other she used to cling onto the safety hand straps.

She was swaying as the train sped down its tracks. I looked up and realized that she was the woman who comforted me when my coffee was spilled; the same lady who I was planning to heart-rip minutes ago.

(to be concluded…)

Sinking in Bottomless Mush, 2

Strike 3: I queued up again; this time at the tail end. After three hell-like minutes, my turn arrived. “Shaw Station,” I ordered the cabbie. I clutched the papers closer this time for fear I might loose it again. Nothing happened, except when I crawled out of the cab, I tripped and almost spilled my coffee. 4:30pm.

Strike 4: This time I was beginning to doubt my existence; had I been placed in this world as a proof of man’s misfortune? Since I was already 30 minutes late, I decided not to panic and … well … move slowly and carefully. The faster my pace was, the more delay-opportunities I got myself entangled with.

So I went up the ticket booth and although I was dismayed by the long queue, I still remained calm. I got my ticket, went though the guard’s electronic black palo-palo and the usual kapkap-up-to-the-crotch and descended to the platform.

Amazingly, after only a minute of waiting, the train arrived. It went smoothly, thank god; until I realized I was on the wrong train! I was supposed to be headed southward, the train I boarded was North bound. Worse, I only realized this after four stations. 4:45pm.

Strike 5: What was supposed to be just four stops from the office, now became a whooping nine stops! I’m 9 stations away from my destination, four cities away and a couple of Php’s poorer. I still kept on reassuring myself that it’s way better than to be ran over by the train. It was alright, I thought; even though half of me was screaming “Are you kidding me!? You’re almost an hour late, dummy! It’s not friggin’ alright!"

The usual protocol / chain of useless procedures (Side note: How do they know kung bomb nga yung nag-eep-eep na yun?) I got out, fed my plastic ticket into the machines, made another purchase, went down the platform, waited for another ten minutes, and got on the train. 4:55pm.

Strike 6: The train arrived. There were tons of people trying to get in and an equal number of human bodies trying to get out. People were pushing each other. I, on the other hand, desperately tried to shove my small frame, pitting myself against the mass of people pushing in every direction.

Pushing, shoving, yanking, pulling, shouting when – Bam! – a King kong ran into me, spilling my coffee into my shirt … and the documents! The friggin’ documents! The same documents I was guarding with my life the whole time.

A sudden urge engulfed me; an impulse that even a serial killer or a nymphomaniac wouldn’t be able to contain. I wanted to spit on everyone’s faces, kick everyone’s teeth in, smash everyone’s heads like watermelons, grind their testicles and feed them to the pigs. I wanted to massacre everybody.

(to be concluded…)

Sinking in Bottomless Mush, 1

Now people, let’s first set aside those broken bottles and acid; this entry's fuelled not just with sunshine and lemonade, but teddy bears and cute bunnies as well. Well, not entirely. And now, get ready for something so mushy you’ll die of diabetes just by reading it.

Ever wondered how simple words brighten up your day? (I told you this is pretty mushy!) How a simple “Thank You” from total strangers is more than enough to make up for the day’s stress. (Okay, now barf!) And how a simple smile goes with it compensates for everything. (Geez-sus!)

(Brace yourself!)

My parents taught us that when you take public transport and there’s an old lady standing, whatever her social status might be, you have to willingly give out your seat. And not just ancient folks, but the handicapped, too.

I was on my way to a meeting one day, hurrying. Since it was rush hour, it’s a gimme that traffic would be unbearable. From the office at the Ortigas Center, I took a cab to the Shaw Boulevard station, which is just a ten-minute ride, and from there, I hopped aboard the train to the Ayala station.

For those who are regular visitors of this blog, I’m sure you know for a fact that I hate trains – my theatres of war!

But that day was different; it was an exception. I was thirty minutes late for an appointment, so I had to avoid whatever delay. The meeting was at 4pm and I arrived at the MRT station at 4:35. I’d rather be dead inside that string-of-boxes-that-runs than be murdered by my client … and my boss.

Strike 1: On my way down the elevator, halfway through, I realized that I’ve forgotten the papers which were very crucial for my deliverance. I came out on the sixth floor and took another elevator to the nineteenth – the office. I checked my time; it was 4:10pm.

Strike 2: Grabbed my coffee at the Seattle’s Best ground floor. I was so much in a hurry that I forgot my change … and the sugar! But no biggie, I don’t have any problems drinking sugar-less brew. I lined up at the taxi bay outside, and when my turn for the next cab arrived, I realized that yet again I forgot the friggin’ papers! T’was 4:20.

(to be concluded…)

Homelessness and Wet Shoes, 3

So I walked around the mall, looking at the displays in the windows when this nice shirt caught my attention. I stopped dead in my tracks and looked at it for awhile, salivating.

And the next moment I found myself queuing up for the fitting room with the shirt, I was looking at a few seconds ago, dangling in one hand. “Well” I shrugged. “I’ll just try it on, and if it fits, I’ll just come back for it."

Since the fitting room was so tiny, and the mirror just above my knees, I got out to have a better look, to see if it goes well with my shoes.

“Sir, bagay na bagay po.” A sales person came into view.

“Huh?” I said, looking behind me.

“Parang tumangkad po kayo, at parang mas pumuputi kayo Sir."

“Well … I dunno …” I said painfully, letting out a heavy sigh.

“Last na ho yan Sir, small."

"I'll take it!!!" Swipe!

Then when I came out, I saw a very familiar shirt at the window of the shop across. I approached it to have a better look, and let out a gasp. It’s … it’s the shirt I have been looking for all this month! And … and now it’s on sale! “Just one, please… please, just last one."

Swipe!

(to be concluded...)

Homelessness and Wet Shoes, 2

Armed with only my wits and charm, and a few hundred bucks in my pocket, I began my journey down the road to Tophet, oblivious to the catastrophe that lies ahead.

I arrived at the Megamall after a ten-minute walk from my place. It was uneventful except that I was stopped by an old little lady asking me to open her bottle of mineral water. But the damn bottle was so tightly sealed I couldn’t open it.

I handed it back to the old lady saying I was sorry. She just nodded, and I walked away.

When my back was turned, I heard her mumble stuff in a dialect I could not understand, Ifugao probably. I spun around to ask what it was but the old lady already disappeared.

Was it a sign? Was she cursing me for failing to open her bottle?

Seattle’s best, at last. I ordered my usual Grande Drip and waited for the barista to fill my cup. I looked around and realized that the place was jam-packed with humans. Every table was taken, so I told myself, “Okay, I’ll just take this home."

But by some twist of fate, as soon as I came out, a table was emptied; and my favorite spot at that! Another sign? Maybe. But my mind was just a blur I couldn’t think of anything else aside from having my coffee “right here, right now.” Besides I’ve just arrived and I want to rest my feet for awhile.

After 30 minutes or so, boredom struck yet again. “Alright!” I said. “Just ten minutes and then I’ll head for home.” I stood up, grabbed my coffee cup and proceeded to the nearest entrance to the mall.

SALE! The Sale! signs welcomed me. Boutiques and shops screaming with SALE SALE SALE signs. I’m not so much of a shopping person, in fact I detest shopping. It’s a waste of time; I’d rather watch stupid movies than go shopping and get varicose veins. “But I have a lot of time to kill. So,” I muttered, “I’ll just window-shop."

(to be concluded...)

Homelessness and Wet Shoes, 1

Everyday we get bombarded with life’s atrocities: impossible deadlines, intense traffic, annoying pimples, cheap movies, stupid people, and stuff.

We go through our daily existence like robots that have been programmed to do what the people tell us to do. We are like guppies swimming the impossible currents of life, that we fail to appreciate the littlest, most trivial things like … a warm bed … or … or some clean, dry shoes.

People say that no matter how fast your life is, or how tight your schedule gets, you have to, once in a while, stop and smell the flowers. But in my case, stop and smell the shoes-es. I have never fully appreciated the value of a warm cozy bed and a pair of dry sneakers … until last night.

The rain was violent that morning, hammering on the roof like a bunch of elephants doing the samba. Good thing it was a Sunday; no work, no classes. I decided to just stay hole up for the rest of the day. But you know, boredom strikes at the most unopportuned time.

I said “Alright, I’ll just go get some coffee and come back after an hour or two."

So I dressed up and waited for the rain to cease-fire. But boredom never ceased boinking me in the head, screaming “Get out! GET OUT!"

I succumbed to the evil ennui’s demand and decided to brave the rain; oblivious to this poor creature – me – that two other devils were lurking outside, waiting to snatch him. Their names were Poverty and Homelessness.

Funny how, when I stepped outside, the rain suddenly stopped. Everything was so serene like the world’s just been created. I looked up and I saw Noah waving from his ark atop one of the buildings. I said, Thank God for the blessing. Or was it?

(to be concluded…)

Bibliophiliac Misadventures, 3

“I mean, are you taking the book?” Emphasizing the last word and looking rather sarcastic, he pointed to the book I was still embracing.

“Oh? Oh the book!” I loosened my grip and held it up for everyone to see. “Yes, I’m taking it.” And without saying anything, he snatched the book from my clutches and gestured me to the cashier.

For a second there, I had an impulse to pounce at him and rip his living heart out! And hold the throbbing, bloody mess aloft for the nosy customers to see, sending a message to everyone not to mess with the dog’s book! However I restrained myself.

“But I think I can manage. Besides, the book doesn’t weigh a ton and I promise I won’t be lost on the way to the cashier. Thanks for the concern, though.” I grabbed the book back, flashed my best smile, and walked away. “How rude!” I muttered. “How dare you deal with The Melancholic Mutt like that!?"

And I read happily ever after. The end.

* * *

It’s actually a very long story, with several episodes.

Such as “Back and Forth: My Journey to the Cashier” and “To Buy Or Not to Buy … Or Not to Eat for a Week”, and includes the critically-acclaimed drama “Alms, Spare Me Piece of Bread” which tells the tale of a young man desperately scavenging for food, for he spent his whole week’s allowance on a book that, rationally, is not worth its price tag.

Inspired by a true story, this book chronicles the adventures of the Melancholic Mutt in the kingdom called National Bookstore at the Empire of Shangri-la. Critics say “A must-read!”, “Better than ‘Jack & Jill Sat on the Wall!’”, and “Same caliber as ‘The Faggot Spider: Insie Winsie And his Yellow Polka Dot Bikini.'"

Grab a copy NOW! Proceeds will be donated to the newly-established and UN-recognized Coffeeteria International Co.

Bibliophiliac Misadventures, 2

As soon as I crossed the threshold of the bookstore, I repeated my battlecry, “OH MY GAAAAD!”

I ran towards the book stacks and hugged the book I've been desperately searching for!

“Oh My God! Oh My God! Oh My God!"

It took me more than 10 minutes to calm myself down. And when my Oh-My-God’s subsided, I began shrieking again, “OH MY GAAAAD!"

People stared at me as if I were a raving lunatic. Some made hurried phone calls and spoke in hush tones. I surmised they were calling the mental hospital to repost a patient-on-the-loose.

“The hell!” I muttered, under my breath.

* * *

Once again, I felt a tap. “Huh?” I groaned. Then came another one, a much harder one. As if on cue, my eyes fluttered open.

Silhouettes, which I thought were outlines of angels, transformed into faint images of people. The blinding light, which I assumed was the portal to eternity, changed into – gasp! – fluorescent bulbs!

For several seconds I didn’t have any idea where I was, or how I got there. It was scary. “Am I in … the underworld?! Then my vision became clear. “Flying F*ck!” The realization smacked me right on the head, I almost passed out.

“Sir!" With the book still pressed tightly against my body, I turned around to see who h been slapping my shoulder. Shoot! It was not God, but an irate employee of the bookstore, glowering at me with that fierce glint in his eyes.

“Sir!? Is there anything I can help you with?” he spoke with a harsh tone in his voice. Clearly he was not pleased. “Huh? … Oh! … Ah … No, thank you, I’m alright.” I said, still befuddled over what had transpired.

(to be concluded…)

Bibliophiliac Misadventures, 1

I was sweating all over.

Tears threatened to spill at the sides of my eyes while I grinned from ear to ear. My heart was thumping so hard it almost jumped out of my chest. I felt my veins exploding all over me, “Pop! Pop! Pop!” And at that very moment, I thought I was going to face my Creator. “Take me Lord”, I said, “My journey’s over."

With the book pressed tightly against my chest, I heaved a sigh and closed my eyes. Then I heard a voice and felt a tap on my shoulder. “Sir?"

“God, is that you?” I answered. “Am I in heaven? Lord, don’t call me Sir. I am not worthy."

“Sir,” the voice called out to me once more, the tap seemingly harder. I opened my eyes, but my vision was hazy, all I can see were shades of red, and silhouettes of people encircling me. I rubbed my eyes and saw a very bright light. “This is it!” I said. “The light at the end of the tunnel!"

* * *

OH MY GAAAAD!

I screamed as I passed by National Bookstore. I hurriedly went inside, thrusting my small frame against the mass of people also trooping in the same direction. I shoved them aside, left and right, leaving them trading baffled looks at each other in my wake.

“Walang tolakan!” the guard exclaimed causing a young girl, drinking Coke, to laugh so hard, Coke shot right out of her nose. “Ay Bisaya si Manong…"

(to be concluded…)