pressing women

Whoever designed women’s clothes must have never ironed a day in their life!

As for my buddies out there, when it comes time to teach your teenage kids or your macho pals weeping from a recent episode of being dumped, all you need is a slow lecture on the skills of ironing. There’s no way you can get the wrinkles out of women (and their clothes) without blowing a lot of steam.

That’s all I’m going to say on the matter.

Almost committing a crime

It was a couple of hours later, while I was in the shower, contemplating the oddness of my predicament, when a thought struck me. I effectively threatened a nice old Mexican lady fixing the room, “Can I give you your extremities later?”

Must have set her back a bit, being in a strange country, with some even stranger asian geek suggesting not only that he would cut her up, but that he would actually return certain body parts at a later time. And he was smiling too, like it was all perfectly natural.

There was no such violence, however. That’s why it was funny.


A couple of days ago, I was comfortably immersed in my hotel desk doing some internet research, when the chambermaid arrived to fix up the room. I booked the room for cleaning just to keep it decent, and we often leave a tip just to make sure we comply with the social mores of this new cultural environment. This day though I had all of five dollars on my pocket and would hardly be happy if I had to toss it all away as gratuity.

So, here I was seated on the desk as the Mexican lady started doing her stuff…fixing the sheets, cleaning the bath, this and that, you know, hotel stuff. All this time I wanted to ask if it was ok to give her the tip later that afternoon as I did not have enough change. But she no habla ingles so I was screwed.

Aha, my mac, this precious little thing, had a translation widget! I was smiling, smug, as I decided to type my question and let the nice lady read it. Impress her with the nuances of modern technology. Shrink the world and bind cultures! This was world peace stuff. I translated “can I give you your tip later?” and she laughed a little. I was beaming with pride. She can only have been awed.

Ok, at the time it happened I was fairly self-absorbed and impressed with my own genius that I never realized I could have it all wrong. This was a mac, after all, and I was a foreign lawyer full of techie panache. I could not be wrong. Ever.

I was glad though that as she didn’t scream out of the room, arms flailing, demanding justice. As she stepped out of the room that day, she was nice enough to tell me, in deep Spanish dubbed with signs, that I probably meant “proponidad” as a translation for gratuity. Instead of "extremidad" for tip. I guess the mac just thought I was the godfather or something. Or a debonair member of the sputnik gang.

Warming up

So i've spent a couple of weeks now in this new town. Alien landscape. The mountains are too near. And clear. The sunlight bright. The rains forgotten. And the air breathable. There's a nippy attitude to the air that makes one feel alive. The same one that kills your skin. I actually understood that queer eye guy who does the facial moisturizer bit. Eoww, but...better than cracked sore skin. That's the actual irony of this whole experience so far. Its all a mix good and bad, but not in the food processor kind of way that something good always comes out of it. Rather, its the type that makes one have to choose between strongly developed good habits, and appreciating the new found strong sense of NEED; where you choose wrong and you die.

After all, i really like the nippy air and the innate sense of order in the lives of these US people, among other things here (blonde hair and pale skin is overrated by the way), but as one steps off the airport one can immediately discern that much of the filipino lifestyle is quite charmiing. That child's play mode we approach our life and crimes seem quite inviting now, though it hardly jibes with our notion of the american dream. Maybe its because i'm a visitor here. And i cant do as i please. Because i dont know the rules. And i cant break them.

I like the fact that in the Pinas we dont take life too seriously for the most part and that we can mock anything that comes our way. Here, everything has to be registered, certified, the rules seem unflinching, with no margin for human variety. It actually scares me. Plus the penalties are in dollars and thats way more than i can afford.

But there's a piece of the phil i went to just a few weeks back. Theres a jollibee there and a filipino store. Quite a ways from the American highway is a corner of glendale where the grocery is more eunilaine than ralph's. Dust and all. Of course, they have sinfully sized produce and only approximates the Philippine taste. But it is comforting in its crazed messiness and lively hustle and bustle. With sacks of what-not randomly set everywhere, it seems. It really cant compare to the cavernously neat and orderly supermarkets everywhere else here that lacks in crowds and lines and dirt. But its lack of people, to be honest, we could describe as nilalangaw.

Its good here. But its not that warm.

So im stuck here in the davao airport

So im stuck here in the davao airport. The flight that brings us to the rest of our lives has not arrived just yet, and so we stew on our partings just a little while longer. Which is quite unbearable, to be honest. At the same time affirming.

The hollowness in the chest kinda yawns just a bit more. I can only imagine how cecille must feel since she is far more the better liked. The volume of friends reminding her of past gimmicks and missing future ones can only extend her longing and make her wonder if all this is worth it. She does manage to keep a central role in the affairs and memories of her friends, after all, and thus making parting more difficult. The stalling of the fun life she will leave behind will be felt, I’m sure, as will the lack of a crowd often seen around her laughing, rumor mongering, or otherwise engged in some gadawful scandalous behavior. These days, the tension can very often be relieved only by the constant hugging and embrace between relatives and friends...with the gentle roll of tears.

Girls...

I must admit to my own mushiness, however, and i do drop tears quite easily. But parting with friends like mine are both glorious celebrations as well as secret regrets. My friends are quite rare so i tend to keep the ones i have...and there is never a promise that i will find new ones where I’m going. At the same time, there's a confidence about them that declares we will meet again, or that we will keep in touch, or that they are just ridiculously macho, or that...you know...we're friends so what does it matter if youre here or not. Ultimately, there is always a discreet sense of joy in these times when someone will be going out to somewhere from which new adventures can be made and told. Except genie, who is stuck with a mall job in cubao. :)

I guess all these mixed feelings are the rationale for airport security. It just might be that the world will stop turning if we were to drown in all our filipino method of partings. Or we can lose ourselves to our anxiety and entertain some method of self-destruction...along with someone else. With people these days, one can never really say.

my courage and my shame

The rain just started to condense the thick metro soup further when I skipped into a cab. It was a race for me, scurrying from the drudgery of the white walled work of a previous script. The smell of steaming asphalt, not yet foul, but quickly gagging in this part of town, trailed me somewhat as I fidgeted in my seat fumbling with the seatbelt. But it disappeared against the torrent of pine-in-a-wet-bundle-of-taxicab-rags kind of smell. I was off to the MRT, trying to outpace a rush hour with a completely unfair head start. An hour in fact. But the rallies were on. The Filipino mind knew traffic will be close behind.

It was in Edsa, the news informed, with couple of thousands. This day, however, far different from every other inconvenient bastard son of hassle, I was not at all ticked off. This was a show of outrage I myself desired but could not express beyond my own soulful, hollow, internal scream. It needed a medium, if not for anything else but my own longing for a ravaging of all things un-good. The cheats, the liars, the unjust, and all their familiars…I want vengeance upon them for every perceived malevolent unfairness. I want to embrace them all. Embrace. And never again let loose.

But I’m too much of a sissy today. Thankfully, much less than that of the day prior. So I do my math, geometric progression…I pray. Keep on. Keep on. Just a few more days to diminish my own hesitation so that I find the wherewithal to damn them all and go…march to where the wrong does not thrive. Soon I know, as the days go by, more and more of my cowardly counsel will abandon their cause, and I will run into the streets.

Then the cabbie did me one better. Turns out, he was in Edsa 3. a buddy of that tragic guy Lumbao (was it? I’ll change it when I get the right name). He cried out my shame for me. Not in the way of a raving oration of a distorted mind. He was sober. And wise.

He told of bygone days when they'd battle in the streets, weathering all challenges, human or natural. this rain, he said, is nothing. they'd fight gill-faced if they needed to. but it sad, he says, that the street will not be full this time. perhaps a little more of that Machiavellian loss of patrimony, or manifest oppression, and more will be so inclined to drop what they’re doing and march on. but now, ano nga naman daw magagwa ng mga taxi driver at manggagawa. di na nga makabili ang limang piso, pagnagrally pa sila, gutom na talaga sila. isang araw ding kita yun.

He begged me not to think ill of those not yet in the gutter. because their spirit is. but the failure of "she, the short one" is her own insurance against street revolution. fail the people enough to get them hungry. hungry enough to afford them an ascetic's chance to win a long distance race. And she'd have secured herself her seat by virtue of her driving people down to their destitute circumstance.

but the cabbie says, just wait awhile. pag wala ng makain, lalabas din yan. and from what I see, give it a couple of weeks; and we'd be reminded again of our own poverty, our inability to acquire our own dreams. perhaps then, he said.

Of course, much depends on whether abs-cbn will allow it. I laughed. it’s true. seems too obvious in retrospect. whenever our so-called freedom of the press expresses itself by refusing its mandate, we somehow lose courage to do what is required.

Our media can encourage and inspire people to hurry to Edsa, comforted by the fact that you've seen on TV that there are people there...many, many people. less courage is required to goad you.

but the media can also take the inspiration away. so the masses of Edsa 3 have done their part. they've gone to war, true, seeking to save themselves from a future that has come to pass and proven them correct. but in our arrogance, us, with more food on our tables, more finesse in our moves, more brand in our clothes, we scoffed at them. we saw no sin in the refusal to broadcast, even cover, the events, the NEWS, which should have brought to our attention the bravado ongoing on the streets. It's become a tool by the same sinful class, the middle, my own, to justify its own wrongful acts on Edsa 2. but what can we do. they are in power. what are they in power for.

these days, we may fail still. because we are poorer. and the rich have designed that we remain so.

But I did find courage from this cabbie. and yes, I refuse to be embarrassed when I find myself in the streets when the occasion calls for it. other people have done it for me. unknowingly of course. but I must return the favor. some day. hopefully soon