With priests like these, who needs Satan?

I deliberately avoid writing about current events in my blog because socio-political commentary is not really my thing. But when I read Archbishop Oscar Cruz’s remarks in the aftermath of the Subic rape case I was so incensed that I just had to write about it. He said that the case offered lessons to Filipinos; “and women, most especially, should be taught that ‘womanhood is precious and noble, so it is not right for them to be flaunting it around.’” He further added that “they should not appear cheap and practically inviting to be violated by men.”

Dear Bishop of Eternal Ignorance and Darkness, what exactly do you mean when you say “flaunting it around?” When a woman goes out wearing a mini skirt and a spaghetti-strapped shirt, does that constitute “flaunting” her womanhood? I think I can safely speak for all women when I categorically state that no woman, or at least no woman in her right mind, deliberately sets out to “invite” rape or any form of sexual harassment—whether she goes out in a bikini or a burkah. And by perpetuating the notion that women who act and appear cheap deserve to be sexually violated by men, you Bishop, have just condoned, nay encouraged, the rape of women. Congratulations, through your ignorant remarks you have set the cause of women back 1,000 years. I’m sure your Taliban friends will be happy.

Sadly, many in our society subscribe to the same twisted thinking that Bishop Cruz espouses. It is the old archetype of woman as seductress, maliciously tempting men and leading them to their doom. History and literature is rife with cautionary tales against falling for the sexual wiles of women, from the biblical Eve to the Sirens of Greek mythology to Nabokov’s Lolita. By telling women not to “flaunt” their sexuality, people like Bishop Cruz are demonizing women and by doing so, they are shifting the blame of rape from the rapist to the rape victim. In effect, they are saying it is the woman’s fault for giving men reason to rape them. As if men don’t have a choice in the matter! It is this generally cavalier attitude towards rape that forces victims to suffer in silent anguish and humiliation rather than bring their rapists to justice.

Then there’s Fr. James Reuter who insists that what happened wasn’t rape at all because it was consensual. Consent, James, not only means that the person must act freely and voluntarily, it must also preclude that the victim has full knowledge, understanding and acceptance of the nature of the act. Nicole was drunk out of her mind. Do you honestly believe that a person severely impaired by alcohol can act freely and have full knowledge, understanding and acceptance of what is happening to her?

It is prejudiced statements from men of the cloth like Fr. Reuter and Bishop Cruz that make me question why I bother to remain in a Church ruled by patriarchal, ignorant, sexist assholes. In the Bible, coveting, stealing and killing are three of the sins listed in the Ten Commandments. When a man rapes a women, he covets what he should not, steals what is not rightfully his, and by doing so, kills the woman’s spirit and sense of self-worth. You’d think these priests would at least remember these three commandments before they condemn Nicole and women in general. NO ONE deserves to be raped. Neither a sex worker nor the most virtuous woman on the planet. Not even when a woman is stoned or drunk out of her gourd or acting provocatively. NO ONE DESERVES TO BE RAPED.

Oscar, I would say “Putangina mo!” but that would be an insult to the prostitutes of the world. Instead I shall say “Tangaangina mo!” Your mother is a dumb bitch for raising her boy to become a sexist, ignorant, bigoted pig. May she burn in hell for what she’s done. And as for you, well, I take back what I said about no one deserving to be raped. Because obviously, you do. So here’s a Christmas wish from me to you: may you be gang-banged by five burly Americans with a frock fetish. (And that goes for your friend, James, too.)

Tigyawat sa ilong

I have a zit in my right nostril the size of a small child. It’s so bad it looks like I’m about to birth an alien booger baby into the world. I dealt with it the way anyone with an alien problem would: ruthlessly with the help of a sharp instrument—in this case, a nail-cutter. I went and ripped the fucker out. The pain was fantastic and brought tears to my eyes. Sigourney would be proud.

I rooted among my sister’s stash of ointments for benzoyl peroxide. I found countless vials and tubes with arcane descriptions like high performance balancing cleansing oil fresh, crème regenerante contour des yeux, dark spot corrector pen, fraicheur toni-active, ultimate whitening spot eraser, maquiliquide UV perfect forever, but NO benzoyl peroxide. Sweet mother of god, where is acne cream when you need it?!

I was getting desperate. Blood and fluid were dripping out of my zit non-stop. Then I remembered this bit of low-rent homeopathic wisdom. Yes, Colgate! I hurriedly stuffed toothpaste up my nose. Within five seconds I was whimpering for my Mama. What the fuck was I thinking?! I cleaned it up as best as I could, found a bottle of Betadine and shot the contents up my nose.

Well it’s stopped bleeding now and I’m just waiting for the PGH/dental office smell to go away. Tanginang tigyawat!

Kodak moment

I hate looking at people’s photo collection. My idea of hell is looking at someone's family album. And as if staring at celluloid strangers wasn't torture enough, this nightmarish task is almost always accompanied by boring anecdotes and reminiscences that stretch to eternity. Parents are the worst offenders. They’re always shoving snapshots of their progeny in your face. Really parents, if I am ever possessed by a deep desire to go looking at photos of children I would begin by looking at pictures of my cats—not some unknown brat. Actually I wouldn’t mind so much if I was emotionally invested in the kid (i.e. my godchildren, kids of my close friends, kids I like). Generally though, looking at photographs is one chore that I try to avoid at all cost.

The worst thing about it is how you're expected to react to each and every boring photo. Which would have been okay if I could at least be honest. “And who is this ugly little boy? Oh your youngest?” or “It’s uncanny how much your boyfriend resembles Jejomar Binay.” I think it’s only fair. After all, it wasn’t my idea to look at their stupid pictures in the first place.

See, the trouble with most home photos is that they never tell a story. Nor do the subjects do anything remotely interesting. That’s why I think these photo pimps should take a tip from this unsolicited pic I received via email. Now this is a Kodak moment.

The cooking show for people who don't give a fuck

I woke up with a massive hangover and a craving for bacon and eggs. As I pondered on the wisdom of having a cardiac breakfast I suddenly hit upon a brilliant idea. Why not do a cooking show that features nothing but fatty delectables? I shall call it “Cooking With Cholesterol” and every week I will feature cholestilicious dishes like Homemade Chicharon Carcar Style (Carcar is a town in Cebu famous for its chunky chicharon which the locals cook in huge woks by the side of the road), Linguine & Pancetta Chunks in Heavy Cream, Bihod sautéed in Butter, Aligue & Garlic, and for the busy moms, Five-Step Lechon Cebu (Step 1: Slaughter good-sized pig; Step 2: Rub pig with mash of sea salt, garlic, lemon grass and star anise—make sure to get the stuff under the pig’s skin. You can also mix up the mash with water and inject the solution directly into the pig’s flesh; Step 3: Stuff the rest of the mash inside pig’s stomach and sew shut; Step 4: Dissolve atsuete in hot water. Baste mixture all over roasting pig using strips of banana leaves. This will give your pig that nice, rosy lechon glow. There are those who might prefer a blue- or green-hued lechon. I say, go wild! You can even have a rainbow-colored lechon for those “gay” nights with friends. Or if you plan to serve it at a children’s party why not deck your pig out in purple and green like Barney, or the red, yellow and blue of Superman. Just buy the appropriate food coloring and baste away! Step 5: Be creative and junk the tired apple-in-the-mouth garnish. Instead of an apple, why not put queso de bola or roast chicken (a two-in-one delight). Or how about a severed de leche head? You can call it Peek-A-Boo or Reverse Birth. Serve and enjoy!).

I imagine I won’t have a hard time finding sponsors for my show. Minola, Purefoods, Nestle, Magnolia, Monterey Meats, RFM, ScanAsia, Santi’s, Terry Selection and other purveyors of fat-rich food will be begging to be my sponsor. Then there’s Biguerlai, Kankunis and other slimming aids. The multinational drug companies, recently under fire for their greedy licensing tricks, can advertise all their outrageously expensive anti-hypertension drugs on my show. Heck, maybe even Vicky Belo, Marie-France and the Calayan Sisters will want to get in on the action too.

Hah! I’ll make a killing! (Uhm, so to speak.)

In time, maybe I can go into merchandising. Of course I’ll start off with a mascot, maybe a fat, jolly-looking heart which I shall call Angina. Then later I can expand to cooking apparel emblazoned with bon mots like “I survived my second triple bypass,” “Vegans are Satan’s spawn,” “Non-fat is for pussies” or “I ate three kilos of liempo, 17 chicken legs, a ham and two gallons of ice cream and all I got was a lousy stroke.”

Now if only I can find a network that’ll fund my pilot…

Kamote

I like kamote. That lowly tuber that’s ugly on the outside but sweet on the inside. For many Pinoys, its notoriety as a flatulence-inducing delicacy only adds to its charm. The kamote may be cooked in various ways: roasted over hot coals, boiled, fried like potato chips or boiled and steeped in a sugar and water mixture called minatamis na kamote. Since my family is Visayan, our kamote is boiled then topped with guinamos or fish paste. But the hands-down favorite way of cooking kamote is to fry it with brown sugar then skewer the bits barbeque style.

In the vernacular, kamote also means something other than food. To describe someone as “nangangamote” means that the person is clueless. I don’t exactly know the etymology of this expression but it’s normally used to describe students who cannot answer their exam because they failed to study for it.

Last week, I was nangamote big time. I went to a presentation knowing that I had nothing. I knew that I was going to have my ass handed back to me but I went just the same. Halfway through, I wanted to crawl out of the room in sheer embarrassment. As my friend used to say, “E bakit kaya hindi pa ako lamunin ng lupa?!”

It’s fun to eat kamote. It’s not fun being a kamote.

Single Repeat

A brilliant feature of digital technology is the “single repeat” function. I love to single repeat. In the bad old days before compact discs came along I would play and rewind a favorite track until the cassette was all but demagnetized. With compact discs or mp3s all you need to do is press the single repeat button and your music plays on forever.

But it’s not just songs I like to put on single repeat. I also single repeat movies and books and even food. When I was in college I ate garlic chicken everyday for an entire semester. I single repeat all three Godfather movies, The Great Gatsby (the book, not the movie. Parenthetical question: why do all film adaptations of this book suck? ), The Once And Future King, Somerset Maugham short stories, Tennessee Williams plays, PC Buyer’s Guide and Buy & Sell. Yeah and I single repeat mistakes too but that’s a different entry.

It’s compulsive behavior that’s sometimes triggered by a little innocent stream of consciousness thinking. Last night for instance, while I was chopping up olives for my spaghetti, I thought how fortunate it was that I found green olives instead of black; then the phrase “black and white ball” came to mind, which made me think of Truman Capote, which made me think of Holly Golightly, which reminded me of the line “I have this strange feeling that maybe the blueprints and my knitting instructions got switched. I mean it isn’t impossible that I’m knitting a ranch house.” Next thing I knew I was watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Again. For the millionth time.

Oftentimes it comes as a sudden craving. I crave books and music the way one would crave certain delicacies. It’s what compels me to drive to an internet café at one in the morning to download a remembered song. Or turn the house inside out to find a book just so I could re-read a certain passage. It’s fucking neurotic.

This afternoon, single repeat compelled me to drag down a biyahera bag full of books from the bodega-slash-bubong because I wanted to re-read this C.P. Cavafy poem, which I am posting here as an accessible digital copy so that I need never single repeat that stupid thing I just did.

(C. Day Lewis’ introduces the poem: “…And no less magical is this little poem called “The Afternoon Sun” by Constantine Cavafy. He was an Alexandrian Greek poet who lived on into this century. And in this poem he’s simply revisiting a room where he and his lover used to meet. But the poem is absolutely steeped in the deepest human loss and poetic feeling.”)

The Afternoon Sun

This room, how well I know it.

Now they are rented this one and the next

As business offices. The whole house has become

Offices for agents, and merchants, and Companies.

O how familiar it is, this room.

Near the door just here there was the sofa,

And in front of it a Turkish carpet;

Close by the shelf with two yellow vases.

On the right; no, opposite, a wardrobe with a mirror.

In the middle a table where he used to write;

And the three big wicker chairs.

At the side of the window was the bed

Where we made love so many times.

They must still be somewhere the poor old things.

At the side of the window was the bed;

The afternoon sun fell on it half-way up.

…One afternoon at four o’ clock, we parted

Only for a week…Alas,

That week became perpetual.

Word up

I read a speech by a retired US legal journalist named Tommy Fernandez in which he enumerates the top ten things he hates about PR people. As a dilettante flack myself, I found him and his speech extremely annoying. Anyway, somewhere in his speech he said something about how PR people throw “conniptions” over deadlines.

Conniptions.

Conniptions is an ugly word. It reads ugly and it sounds ugly. And it makes me think of 5am puke-fests after drinking tequila. In fact, I find it annoying enough to want to throw conniptions of my own on Tommy Fernandez’s ass.

Made me think of words I hate. Here are some of them:

Strategic – Flacks looooove this word. It’s right up there with “retainer.” No meeting, no brainstorm session, no communication plan, is complete without this word. Good thing I don’t keep a gun handy else the next time I hear anyone use that word again I would be compelled to shove it in my mouth and let rip.

Team – This word became dirty when corporate folks co-opted it. It’s especially grating when used with “player” as in “team player.” Aaaaarrrgh!

Proactive – The equally hateful sibling of “team player.”

Robust – Once had a colleague who was unnaturally attached to this word—a robust communication plan, a robust relationship with the press. I always felt mildly homicidal whenever he said it. Even as I maintained an impassive face during presentations, I would fantasize about bitch-slapping him to Kingdom Come whenever I heard him say robust “Stop. (bitch-slap) Saying. (bitch-slap) That. (bitch-slap) WORD! (bitch-slap)”

Reliable – Especially when used to describe computer hardware. Years ago I did an AVP for a computer company in which I had to write “reliable” about a million times into the script. To this day I could never read the word “reliable” without hearing the voice talent in my head, “blah-blah…scalable…blah-blah…and...RE-LAAYA-BÜHL!”

Why can’t people communicate normally using simple language? It’s not just the corporate and technology types who are guilty of verbage. Once received a brief from an international NGO that read like this: Provide technical support and monitor existing media activities organized by implementing partners in relevance of technical information and mobilization of community (review scripts, advise channel and relevance of messages, technical advise and supervise in organizing pre-events and actual shows etc).

ANO DAW?!

Copyediting Shakespeare

Thomas Christensen posits: what whould happen if today's editors had a go at copyediting Shakespeare?

Hiiiiiiii-laaaarious!

To be, or not to be: {COMMENT: Weak, confusing opening. Is something missing here? The thought seems unfinished.} that is the question: {COMMENT: Indirect. Why not get right to your main point?} Should I exist? Is it Whether 'tis nobler in the mind {COMMENT: Where else would it be noble?} to suffer endure The slings pellets and arrows {COMMENT: Not parallel. A sling is a throwing device whereas an arrow is something thrown} of outrageous {Right word? Did you mean “raging”? or just “bad”?} fortune, Or to take arms against a sea troop of troubles {This metaphor is just silly. How can one “take arms” against a “sea”??},

And by opposing end them defeat them? To die: to sleep ;

No more and die; and by a sleep in this way {COMMENT: I’m completely lost. First we were dead and now we’re sleeping. Were you hurrying to make your deadline? Please review!}

No, Nyet, Nevah!

Last night my friend of many years called to invite me to drink at her cousin’s house. I was writing and didn’t want to go out but after much hemming and hawing, and some bullying on her part, I said yes. As I was taking a shower, I realized that I really, really didn’t want to break my writing to go drinking so I called her to take a rain check. She huffed, “Ang labo mo talaga kausap,” and hung up on me.

I have a problem with saying no and it’s gotten me into more trouble than I care to remember. I’m such a wuss at rejecting people that I suspect I give off an “ask-me-I-won’t-say-no” vibe to everyone, which is why I’m a magnet for people who solicit donations in exchange for religious trinkets and “students” selling all manner of kakanin. And I always give in. Never mind that my last wallet got torn end to end from all the estampitas I stuffed and forgot to remove. And never mind that I don’t even like kakanin. Come to me all ye sellers and solicitors, I’m the sucker of your dreams.

The thing is, I equate saying no with rudeness and ungraciousness. And I can never think of polite and plausible excuses for saying no. Well, at least, not fast enough. So I doom myself to attending meetings I don’t really need or want to go to, make commitments I know I can’t or wouldn’t want to fulfill, go out when I really just want to stay home, give or spend money when I can’t afford to, and talk to people who bore the living Jesus out of me.

But saying yes all the time has turned me from a sucker to a flake. As last night’s episode shows, saying no from the get-go is better than saying yes and then flaking out at the last minute. But that was a relapse because this year I decided that I would rather be an asshole than a flake.

Now I decline with a vengeance. Do you want to go to the mall and keep me company while I spend hours in shops you don’t care to be in? No. Can you come down to Makati to take a look at a document that I could just as easily email if I wasn’t such an inconsiderate bitch? No. I have a great project for you, the fee is so small it won't even cover bus fare or a meal at a roadside carinderia but you’ll be so busy doing all the work you won’t notice how screwed you are. No. Let’s go to some-creep’s birthday party. No. Why not? Because I prefer to stay home and do something equally pointless but enjoyable like read Buy & Sell or pick my nose.

Life is short and saying no is a lot less trouble in the end. Besides, I’d rather have people annoyed at me for saying no than have me annoyed at them and myself for saying yes.

Multo Sa Paningin

A few days ago I had a conversation with my mother about my sister who, we both felt, would be better off moving to another job.

“Dapat lumipat na siya. Parang walang mangyayari sa kanya kung magse-stay siya with *****,” I said.

To which my mother replied, “Oo, wala siyang aasahang asenso doon kasi bakla iyon.”

It felt like someone just slipped an ice cube down my back.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?!”

“It’s not supposed to mean anything. It’s just that pag bakla di mo alam…” I couldn’t hear the rest of what she said. I think she deliberately mumbled the words knowing that a discussion was imminent. But I wasn’t in the mood to argue so I let it go.

Nice. My mother the bigot.

My mother believes that homosexuality is a character flaw and being gay makes a person unstable and generally suspect. Hence, all gay men are certain to throw away their fortune and the fortunes and well-being of others at the first sign of cock. Oh yeah, and she believes that gay men will chase anyone with a penis. Conversely, lesbians will take advantage of anyone with a vagina. In short, gays are degenerate sexual predators. “But,” she often says to soften her bigotry, “I find baklas funny.” Hooray for gay men! They may be degenerate sexual predators in her book but at least they’re funny. Lesbians, try harder.

I shouldn’t be surprised anymore. I grew up hearing my mother make idiotic remarks whenever she sees a gay person walking down the street. In the most annoying Facifica Falayfay impression, she’d say, “Ay baklaaaa! Hoy bakla tumabi-tabi ka riyan at baka masagasaan ka!”

It must be a real riot to be inside my mother’s head with all the syokis and badafs: Dolphy in dual incarnations as Fefita Fofonggay and Facifica Falayfay, Bernardo Bernardo as Manay Sharon and Soxy Topacio, Sandy Garcia and Georgie Quizon as themselves. Hag heaven circa ‘70s and ‘80s. Bongga!

Because this is such a bigoted, politically-incorrect society in the first place, I’ve learned not to make a big deal out of ugly anti-homosexual remarks. But it does get a wee bit too much when you hear them from your own mother. Especially since she is well aware that I’m a lesbian.

I came out to her out of sheer exasperation.

Months after a relationship of mine ended, she began asking why my “friend” no longer came to the house. I casually explained that she was busy with work. It would have ended there except my mother got it into her head that it was because we had a fight; and that I was, in fact, the bad person in the scenario and was being “unforgiving,” “bad-tempered” and generally not a good friend. For months, she would ask me about it whenever she had a chance.

One evening, while the two us were having dinner she brought it up again and as usual, recited her litany of reasons why I was a Bad Friend. Finally incensed, I blurted out, “Hindi na siya pumupunta dito kasi split na kami!”

“Wha…whaat do you mean?”

“I mean: she was my girlfriend and now we’re no longer together so stop asking me about it.”

Silence.

Finally she spoke. “Did you have… (insert look of distaste)…sex?” Eeeewww. What the fuck kind of a question is that to ask your own child?!

“Naku hindi! Naga-Amy-Susy lang kami.”

More silence. Then she said the cruelest thing. “Well, good for her. At least she got out. Now she can live a normal life.”

Why thanks Mother, I really needed to hear that. For a moment I was seized by a strong desire to go Norman Bates on her. Just reach over and stab her thoughtless, ignorant heart with a chicken wing. And before she closes her eyes for the final time I’d say, “Well, good for you. At least you got out. Now you can live a peaceful life.”

Through the years we have kept an uneasy peace about my being gay. She just refuses to acknowledge it as far as she can. I talk about it to get her off my back. For instance, whenever I’d get tired of her pestering me about my sister’s lovelife (which my sister and I agreed is none of her business) I just volunteer to tell her about mine instead. “I don’t wanna hear it.” She leaves me alone. Ah, bliss.

Though sometimes she comes up with these weird non sequiturs.

“I think kaya ka nagka-ganyan kasi you never really had a father.” Apparently there is something gay about cars, which is what we were discussing before she made that remark.

Once, we had that textbook heterosexual conversation about gayness. “Baka naman kaya ka ganyan kasi you never tried going out with a man.” I knew where this would lead but I wanted to give it a chance. “Maybe you’re right,” I said, “And I haven’t really closed my doors to that possibility. Of course I’ll give it a try if I meet a really extraordinary guy who I feel an emotional connection with. But the thing is, it’s hard for me to connect with men on a romantic, emotional level. On a physical level, yes, but I really can’t imagine being with a guy for the rest of my life. Maybe as a best friend, yeah.”

“E kasi nga you haven’t tried,” she persisted.

After much argument I finally said, “Okay, here’s the thing. Let’s reverse the question. Why don’t you try going out with a woman instead?”

Revulsion. “Ay ano ka ba?! I’m not like that!”

Well, there ya go.

Why Ate Guy is my guy

Her name is Carmen Moncada. And she is the single reason why I am a Nora Aunor fan. Carmen or Mameng is the kind of fan upon whom a movie star’s career is firmly anchored. She lives and breathes only for her idol.

Mameng is my yaya and I became a Nora Aunor fan the old-fashioned way: through osmosis.

One of my earliest childhood memories is spending hot afternoons lying on a heap of freshly-laundered clothes while listening to the Dambuhalang DJ Ike Lozada deliver Nora-related news through his radio program Balitang Artista. It would be followed by what seemed like hours of Nora Aunor songs. The only sound that punctuated the music from the transistor radio was the soft sssss-sssss of hot plancha over lavacara-dampened clothes as Mameng silently ironed. Like Mameng, I surrendered myself to the golden voice of Nora. I was four years old.

Because I spent most of my time with Mameng I became immersed in the vagaries of fandom. One of them is Fan’s Day. Being Waray, she pronounced it as pans-dee. Fan’s Day, I learned, is a sacred time when a fan communes with her idol. Never mind that “communing” only lasts half a second—and from two hundred feet away. I was not to throw a tantrum whenever she left for these pans-dees. Instead I must play quietly and not give my grandmother, Mama, any trouble. In the evening, she would regale my Mama and me with stories of Nora Aunor.

Like any fan, Mameng actively involved herself in everything Nora including her causes. I remember one in particular, Mamera Para Kay Nora, called on fans to donate mamera which would be used for charity. A “mamera” is a one-centavo coin, which apparently still had some value during the early ‘70s. I shared Mameng’s excitement as her plastic Cheez Curls jar slowly began to fill. I helped by collecting stray mamera from my Mama’s room.

Since I was too young to see her movies, I only saw her through Superstar. It was how I passed my Sunday evenings—watching Nora Aunor on our old Zenith tv with Mameng and Mama.

When I was seven I was taken to live with my mother and stepfather. Superstar or any local show was heavily discouraged in their house. But it was too late. I was a fan and like a peroxide blonde, my roots eventually showed.

As the eldest grandchild I invariably had to bathe a younger sister or cousin and whenever I did, some force always compelled me to sing “’Tiny Bubbles” while blowing soap bubbles in the air—reverting to a corny game Mameng and I shared so many bath times ago. I still play it today with my goddaughter Bea.

Recently I caught an old Nora Aunor film on cable. She played a maid (what else) who was in love with Tirso Cruz III’s señorito/matinee idol character. While doing laundry she suddenly launches into song and it was, of course, Tiny Bubbles. And yes, Nora blew soap bubbles while singing. It was an epiphany for me. I had a huge “Oh so that’s why…” thought bubble during the remainder of the movie. Mameng you are truly great.

The funny thing is, I never really went to the theaters to see her films. Most of them I just saw on TV. When I was old and had money enough to see them, it was already the Nora-Tirso Reunion period of her career which, honestly wasn’t such a great period anyway. But the ones I’ve seen blew me away. Put simply, Nora Aunor is the only local actress whose performances move me. So I don’t care what other people say about her substance abuse problem or her unprofessionalism or her sordid lovelife or even that she’s already laos—a has-been. Nora Aunor will always be a great actress and I will always be her fan.

But more than anything, Ate Guy will always be special to me because she represents everything good about my childhood: Mameng, my dear Mama and our house in Kamuning.

So here’s to the one and only Superstar! I love you Ate Guy!

The Funny Paper

I love reading Buy & Sell. That finger-dirtying rag (Manila Bulletin you have found your match) is as interesting to me as the latest Dan Brown pap. I pore lovingly over each line like a yaya looking for kuto in her alaga’s head. And why not? There are many interesting things to discover. Like Rocky. Rocky not only gives a relaxing massage but he’s also “discreet” (nudge, nudge) and “well-endowed” (nudge, nudge). Yeah, and he lives in my subdivision. Oh Rocky, you is so my daddy!

And eat your heart out children of Narnia! In Antipolo there’s a house that not only has three bedrooms but also its very own walking closet. Unlike those poor children’s closet which only opens out to a frozen wasteland, this one can take you to different places. Think of the possibilities! Walk in one morning and voila you’re in Pancake House Cubao! How about Greenbelt! Enchanted Kingdom! Or 168 Divisoria! Maybe next time it’ll even save you the trip and you’ll walk out in front of your office building. Yiiippeee!

Car thieves of Cubao, rejoice! For the low, low price of only P6,000. you can now have your very own Car Jacking Device. That’s right, it’s thievery made easier. Car technology has really come a long way; I don’t even know some of them. Like, what the fuck is a DVD Rare View Mirror?!

By the way, why is it that most people think that a “lady-driven” car is such a hot deal. I don’t mean to perpetuate the myth but really, ladies are the worst car owners. They just drive the damn thing and not even very well too! My mother, for instance, drives her stick vehicle like it was an automatic. The poor engine positively howls from the strain of hitting 60kph while on second gear. And forget about watchful maintenance. For as long as the AC is cold and the radio’s working, the car is fine as far as a lady’s concerned. A man, on the other hand, is spiritually welded to his car. The average Joe will not hear his own child crying in the next room but he will hear, and be profoundly disturbed, by the tinniest rattle in his car. It doesn’t matter if he’s the only one who can hear it (a cockroach’s death scream is probably louder), a man will make a beeline for the nearest talyer/casa so his favorite mekaniko can find the “problem.” Oh and a man will tear you limb from limb if you so much as breathe too close to his freshly-waxed car. So what gives with this “lady-driven” nonsense in car ads?

Really, reading Buy & Sell is more thought-provoking than the average PR-infested broadsheet. Well, funnier at least.

Songs from my guni-guni

Being a music whore I have a knack for remembering song titles and artists’ names. Even those I don’t like (God help me but I still know the name of the guy who sang “Classic”. It’s Adrian Gurvitz.). What gets me are the songs that I only know phrases of. The worst thing is when no one remembers hearing them. One song in particular bugged me for years. I remember hearing it quite regularly on Kiss FM and yet not one of my fellow music whores seems to have heard of it.

After several years I began to think, “Baka naman guni-guni ko lang iyon?”

Yet it was real. As real as the 25-centavo Abevon Beverage I used to drink as a child which no person my age believes ever graced the hallowed refrigerators of sari-sari stores.

Well thank Jesus for piracy, I finally found the song. And tonight, thanks to Limewire and Mary Louise Parker, I found the other song I’ve relegated to my guni-guni collection: Roxy Music’s “To Turn You On.” Though I have to say, I remember it sounding more languid; the beat, not Bryan Ferry’s vocals. If he were any more languid he’d be dead. Or maybe they really did a slower one and I just found the other version. Like maybe one of those special singles that they loved cutting during the ‘80s.

Oh well, the hunt to disprove my guni-guni continues. And in the end...

“It will be mine. Oh yes. It will be mine.”