Sing it with me now, “Reflections of the way life used to be…”

Had digital cameras been invented during the 1990s we would have had indelible evidence of bad hairstyles and even worse fashion, from helmet hair to St. Michael socked feet (yes that was what it was called before it became Marks & Spencer) stuffed in Cole Haan shoes, or derivatives thereof, and of course, a whole rainbow of Giordano shirts.

More importantly, they would have captured:

• Baba in his Intsik white sando strumming Dust In the Wind as I, with wet hair and no bra, played lead singer
• A drive to Batangas City in Baba’s old Ford, singing along to sappy mix tapes, the music blaring out of a home-made boom box
• Many, many drunken nights in Faces and Mars with the Barrios brothers (Rica as head Barrios brother, of course), Sean and Mike, Karrie and the rest of the Assumption girls, and the Pinoy Montessori boys
• Drinking tequila during school nights in Lola Becky’s office-by-day-party-palace-by night unit at the corner of Legaspi and Rufino streets
• Getting thrown out of a party in Alabang
• Baba and the rest of the boys chanting, “Free Billy!” outside Billy Boy’s house
• Drunken breakfasts in Whistle Stop
• Baba regularly exhorting us to please behave like normal, decent girls and cover ourselves
• Beer and beach in Batangas followed by more beer and steak in Tagaytay
• A limping, bloodied Paolo, Baba singing “Reflections” and Karrie and I tittering madly even as a dangerously angry Manang Rica spewed invective and promised bodily harm to all of us
• Baba describing a magical moment with Lee that involved beer and a bonfire somewhere near the vicinity of Palace In The Sky
• Partying ‘til morning while the house and the rest of Metro Manila turned into a winter wonderland thanks to Pinatubo’s volcanic ash
• Drunken kulitan in Alpa Hotel (wrong spelling kung wrong spelling!)
• Baba and Ariel dancing “U Can’t Touch This”
• Panny smokes with Chill and whoever cared to share
• An infamous night in a BF garage with a hog-tied, badly bruised party pooper
• Guns and Roses and beer fest in the Barrios brothers’ den every Friday
• Baba in his forever Intsik white sando driving me home at 9 in the morning because we had, once again, gotten ourselves blind drunk the night before
• Bacon breakfasts and dinners with Baba and Tito Len
• Baba sleeping in that peculiar way
• The rest of us waiting for Joanna Lee in Sta. Rosa with a nervous Baba keeeping the beer and jokes flowing all night

I can’t quite remember the rest right now. And anyway, wishing that we had digital cameras back then would have been pointless. We would have lost each and every one soon enough. Instead all we have to show for our friendship are a few faded photos and a heart full of memories.

I will miss you Babs.

And the final is me

In a fit of self-righteous pique I determined that I would win every pitch that came my way. Now I have three new accounts—upping my accounts to a grand total of eight—and a burning desire to leave it all behind and just blog for a living. Why is it that whenever I get what I want, I end up not wanting it after all? Just last month I wanted to burn all my recently-acquired worldly goods and methodically trash my apartment. The same apartment that, three months before, I obsessively and methodically slaved to fix. Why, because when I finally moved in, I realized that I wasn’t as happy as I thought I would be. It’s very confusing. In late 2007 I awoke from a deep coma and discovered single-mindedness. Since then, I’ve been single-mindedly going after what I thought I wanted, and with great success too. Job in dream company, check; car, check; apartment, check; marquee accounts, check; promotion, check. I thought I’d be ecstatic by now but I’m not. There’s something missing or I may have lost something along the way. Could it be…me?

The one-celled organism as pocket of tuwa

Sometimes we meet people whose emotional and intellectual processes are so simple that we are tempted to compare them to one-celled organisms. It is not their fault. Many things shape thinking and feeling—family, friends, schools, colleagues, books, music, etc—and all of these contribute to a person’s taste, inclinations and actions. The one-celled organism, on the other hand, acts and reacts according to primeval programming. A person who is akin to a one-celled organism is therefore more instinctive than analytical. Thoughts and actions are geared towards two basic goals: survival and self-satisfaction.

It’s a wonder then when we find ourselves interested in these simple life forms. Perhaps we see the one-celled organism as a break from ourselves and everything that our life represents. Or more prosaically, we’re bored and want something different. It’s a novel way to pass the time.

But by doing so, do we compromise ourselves, even if momentarily? How far can we go before we get lost? To what degree will we regret it?

Postscript: Had a brush with an old one-celled organism. I was disgusted and I was cruel. Damn these one-celled harlots to hell!