The Naughty Dodo

(CJ starts his writing career)

I was in a bookstore today, choosing kiddie books for Faith, an officemate's daughter.

"You don't need that. That has words. After you read that, you've no use for it anymore. This one is better," the man beside me angrily told his daugher.

He was talking to a little girl of maybe six or seven, with this defeated look on her face. His pick was this fancy booklet with Barbie wearing a swimsuit. You cut out clothes and mix and match them with Barbie as your model. He kept telling his daughter that her book had no value after being read.

If you're looking for reasons why some men ought to be castrated, he was one.

The dad turned his back on his daugher and proceeded to the cashier.

"Honey, sometimes parricide can be justified," I whispered.

I am so glad she's too young to understand legalese. With a dad like that, I wish her luck and pluck.

During Christmas, I give my inaanaks cash. But it comes with a string attached: they can only spend it on reading materials. I take them to a bookstore, allow them to choose whatever it is they want to read, (no adults materials) feed them, then take them home. We all win. I get to entice them to read, they chose what they WILL read, and they go home on a full stomach.

I'm sure none of them think of "ninangcide."

Weird Stuff

The memes are piling up. So here's the one I owe Major Tom:

1. I hate shopping. I consider it a chore. Which explains why Imelda Marcos will have a heart attack once she sees my shoe hoard: there's very little there. Just enough to get me by.

2. I love nice , sexy underwear but couldn't care less what I wear on top of them.

3. The lack of something new to read at night brings back memories (and fear) of childhood poverty so strong it depresses me.

4. I've written several articles by hand in a noisy restaurant. Then typed them at home for submission.

5. I don't like medical check ups. (That's the understatement of the year) The mere description of physical pain or medical procedures make me cringe and I conjure up images of scalpels against flesh. Aaarrrrgh. Just writing that down hurts!

6. I still watch cartoons and laugh at Tom and Jerry and Road Runner and Coyote and I still imagine how those ACME anvils will fall this time around.

See? I told you I'm pretty normal.

Komedi

I think that's the best way to deal with the biggest spoof show the government offers us every year: the State of the Nation Address.

I'm glad the miscue happened. She was really eager to deliver her speech, confident there were properly-placed "clappers" all over the place. Were they instructed to clap at the end of every sentence? If we are to string those claps together, time it, it would be longer than the speech itself.

Did you notice how many "props" she brought along this time? Mga buhay na props! Hala. Is that the new formula? Get winning athletes and a "commercial" boxer, a tribal leader and his kid, a call center worker. Then make it appear they owe their wins to you. Susme. She even made it appear like the Jolibee foodchain in Basilan is her accomplishment. (Matapang po iyong negosyante, pero no thanks to you po iyon) Watch out. Baka pati iyong sanlaan sa kanto, utang na loob din sa kanya ang pagkakatayo. Liban na lang kung madalas maholdap. Pero hagalpak talaga ako ng tawa nang ang beauty queen na ang ipakilala niya, at kumaway ito ng parang pang-contestant. (Susku. Lalong hindi tumaas ang opinyon ko sa mga beauty queens. Siya. Beauty queen na nga, ano pa ba ang hahanapin natin?)

Napansin mo rin ba kung ilang kongresista, gobernador at alkalde ang binati niya at pinuri? Mga 37 daw iyon. Pag tinawag, tumayo, ngumiti, palaparin ang dibdib at umasang narinig iyon ng mga ka-probinsiya mo. Pogi points iyon! Hah! (Sana lang naasikaso niyong palagyan ng koryente ang distrito niyo, kasi baka walang nakakita. Malapit pa naman na ang eleksion.

Alleluiah moment talaga ang hapon sa pagitan niya at ng mga "barkada" niya. Susme. I kept seeing monkeys. Lalo na when she announced projects in those "friendly" areas. It felt like they heard cash registers ringing. (moolah! manna from heaven! komisyon! salapi! datung! anda! mine, all mine!)

Medyo tumaas ng limang pulgada ang mga balahibo ko nang purihin niya si Palparan. "(Palparan) won't stop until the communities are free from the night of terror and awaken to the dawning of peace." Yay! Susku. Babala iyon, ano? Oo, babala nga. Huwag kokontra, baka makasama tayo sa listahan ng mga kaaway ng gobyerno at maibilang tayo sa "night of terror."

Sabay bawi siya. "I condemn political killings and urge witnesses to come forward."
Sa takot ko, kahit ako, pumalakpak na. Pramis.

The Social Pygmy

I’m a social pygmy. I hate going to well-heeled functions, donning formal frock and wearing makeup, unless it's for a story. I cringe at being the center of attention.

Wednesday wasn’t simply hooky day. It was my birthday.

One of the earliest mistakes my parents made, aside from thinking it was a good idea to have me, was leaving it up to a very pregnant midwife to do the paperwork to legitimize my infamous first day on planet earth. So July 19 became October 19, because the midwife gave birth the day after my mom did. And so all papers say I was born in October, but I celebrate July.

I showed up for work the following day, confident the secret was known to just a few. Those in the know who texted me were sworn to secrecy. (Or threatened with the possibility of losing a limb) Unknown to me, my absence was suspect, because I rarely take my day off. Some people put two and two together, and remembered I usually celebrate my birthday in July, alone.

I showed up for work the following day. After our Debate taping, I went back to my cubicle for some paper work. While typing, I could hear the echo of a very off-key happy birthday song from the hallway.

“Oh, it’s someone’s birthday today,” I thought.

The singing crowd was getting closer...at the right side of my cubicle.

“Probably someone from Admin,” I thought.

The crowd passed by that area. I was thinking it could be someone from one of the programs.

But the singing was getting louder. And it was closing in on my cubicle.

" What the...(expletives deleted)...it's me! *&!#@"

So there they were, people from the three programs I handle, singing purposely off-key. They gave me two dozens of red roses, a cake, a platter of biscuits with flowers and candles. (Nag-cost cutting po kami, promise," someone said)

Work on the wing stopped. And I was cringing every second.

"Thank you. Now let's all get back to work," I said. They laughed.

To me, the best gift was this huge card bearing the logo and motto of each show, signed by the staff and my boss. They said nice things about me, and I'm not even dead yet.

(Rudy man, this one's for you.)

Kakarong De Sili Republic

Slept at 3. Got up at 7 and didn't quite know what to do. So I drove and headed north. Had breakfast in one of those stops. Drove again, not knowing really where to go. I decided to take the next available exit, which turned out to be a road that will lead me to Malolos. So I decide to ogle the Barasoain Church, the first time I am doing so on my free time and not "on an angle." Was wondering whether I'd be let in, since as usual, on my free days, I am wearing shorts that will make nuns cross themselves rapidly, repeatedly, and eye me like I'm Magdalene of the Nikos Kasantzakis kind.

No one was manning the store, so to speak. Well, there were two gay guys there but they were busy designing something and thankfully, they ignored me.

The church is really history in adobe and narra on terra firma. I think it's the only church in the country that still retains a pulpit. I wondered whether I could climb up there and yell out the usual line my cousins and I used as punishment for those unlucky enough in that infernal game called "Truth or Consequence." (Maganda naman ako, bakit di niyo ako ligawan?) Would that merit excommunication?

Pulpit. Confessional. Saints. Saint holders. (Don't know what those cabinet-like contraptions are called, but I'm sure the proper name would make me want to genuflect so I shut my brain off) Lots of them. It's amazing how durable our narra wood is. They've seen centuries, generations, storms of natural and political kinds, but they're still there. A bit dried out with the passing of time but resilient still, and will probably outlive me and generations of termites.

I stroll around the courtyard and read the markers. I've heard of the Malolos Republic and the Biak na Bato Republic, but who ever heard of the KAKARONG DE SILI REPUBLIC? I want to go back to school and check my grade school and high school teachers' lesson plans and demand a refund. I've never heard of it! Kakarong de Sili. It sounds silly but I just checked and found out that some 3,000 Katipuneros died in the Battle of Kakarong de Sili in Pandi, Bulacan in 1896. Two years ahead of the major upheavals of 1898.

Then I remember blogger snglguy and all the others who question the Catholic Church's "interference" in our political affairs. Aguinaldo lived and held office at the Malolos Church convent. Notice how everywhere in the country, you find the church and the town hall in the same compound? Throw in a plaza or a public market every now and then, but the outline, town by town, is almost the same. It was so then, it still is so now.

I was back in Manila three hours after I left. But the history lesson was great. I was older today.

WANTED: POSTING IN ISRAEL

I'm a journalist who wants to work in Israel. NOW!
I can take pictures.

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I can put words together to make a decent sentence.
I can put sentences together to make a decent paragraph.
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I even found a way to go inside the Dome of the Rock, though I was barred from taking my camera with me.
I've written several investigative articles the past few years.
Hire me!
Leave your email and I promise to get back to you ASAP.
Again, I am serious.

Tantanan Ako

Ayan. Wagi na ang alimango. Hindi na hilaw. May tutong ang kanin, pero ang sarap lalo na pag gutom na gutom ka na. Huwag nang maarte. Di ka anak mayaman. Laki ka sa hirap, bagoong na ulam, at higit sa lahat, di ka marunong magluto. Ipaayos mo na kasi ang pinaputok mong rice cooker. Isa ka talagang naglalakad na trahedya sa kusina. Pangalawang rice cooker na iyan na pinasabog mo sa isang taon. Pero pasalamat ka na rin at di umilaw ang mata mo nang pumutok ang ilalim ng lutuan. Aanga-anga ka talaga. Dapat, tingnan mong mabuti kung lumapat nang pantay ang saingan sa dinadaluyan ng koryente.

Ang ganda ng plano mo kagabi, ano? Magmaneho palabas ng Maynila pagkatapos ng lunch para maaliw kahit konti. Manood ng sunset kung saan abutan. Pero paggising mo, may lagnat ka. Pero grabe ang pride mo. Tsk! Kailangan mo talagang pumunta pa sa tiangge para bumili ng alimango para bawiin ang karangalan mo. Nakanaman.

Ngayon, ayan, daig pa ng lumang aparador ang mga buto mo. Umiingit sa bawat kilos. Sobrang tanga mo talaga na akala mo, kapag naligo ka, mawawala ang lagnat mo. Kinigkig ka tuloy sa ginaw. Kundi ka ba naman dodo. Malapit ka na talagang maging extinct.

Masama na nga ang lagay ng katawan mo, papasok pa sa eksena si dating kalukadidang. At ang tanga mo, kinausap mo naman. Puwede mo namang patayin na lang ang telepono. Kung kelang namaalam ka na, saka siya panay ang pagpaparamdam. Para kayong teleserye. Ilang beses na bang nangyari ito? Di na mabilang.

Panalo ang idea niya, ano? Apat na araw raw sa LA, tapos babay na kayo ulit. Nakanaman. Kanya na ang kanya at iyo na ang iyo! Pareho naman kayong single pero parang kerida at kerido talaga ang dating setup niyo. At sa mga susunod na taon, wala talaga siyang balak baguhin. Biyahe rito, biyahe roon. Walang puwang ang permanenteng bahay. Tantanan at pakasalan niya ang trabaho niya. Limang taon. Tama na iyon. In the immortal words of the singer/songwriter Tom Petty: "Don't come around here no more."

*sabay kaway, talikod sa camera, lakad palayo, harap sa bagong umaga*

errrrg. umulan. takbo ulit pabalik. silong sa ilalim ng puno. sayang ang moment.

nyemas. buburahin ko ito bukas kapag wala na ang lagnat ko. sinulat ko ito habang nakakumot sa harap ng laptop.

Not Quite The Way I Pictured It

I open the fridge and I'm assaulted by the memory of my latest kitchen failure. It involves something so darn simple to cook - crabs.

I slept at 4AM after a "readathon" and woke up a few minutes before 11. I rush out of bed, take a quick shower, drive Jiminy da Cricket to the Lung Center tiangge and buy crabs. I have this image of newly-bought flowers on one side of the table, me reading the Sunday paper while the TV is on, feasting on crabs and rice. Yummy. The vendor says once the crabs turn red, it's good to go.

And I get slapped with a huge, monumental, legendary failure only a dodo like me can whip up in the kitchen.

The rice is mush, resembling a flooded farmland. The crabs are red, but barely cooked. Put&*%#sye*&%$.

I cry. Self-pity. Helplessness.

Buti na lang I can type. At least may alam akong gawin. *hikbi*

Before I Forget

"Relish the small, pleasant things, and the stress will dissipate" he tells me.

Whoa, I thought. A lot of firsts in a span of 15 minutes. He's on the passenger side of my beloved Jiminy da Cricket, I am driving for him, and he's giving me advice. This oughta be an interesting day.

He's a lot older than I am, and he knows what he's talking about. Years ago, we argued a lot. It was so stressful, for both of us. Last year, with the position changes, we worked tentatively at first, then gradually the tension disappeared and we're a lot better now. I've begun calling him "Lolo" and he started using the word to refer to himself.

He excitedly fiddled with everything in my car like a kid. "I am happiest when young people around me begin acquiring things. I am so happy you chose this. This car really suits you," he says. I said I saved for almost two years for the downpayment, and I'm hobbling along with the monthly payments.

"Drive this out of town, relish the sights, just you and the road, and your music. That's what I do. It's bound to make you feel and work better," he says. Well, he should know.

"Your Tita and I spend Sunday mornings just reading and having coffee. It doesn't cost anything, save for the paper and the coffee, but cherish the simple things and remember how blessed you are," he adds.

"Sir, the difference between us is that you go home to your partner, your sounding board, your best friend. I don't have that. I go home to an empty pad and my laptop, and my silly plant is dying on me," I say.

"Well, that's a problem," he admits.

Then he suddenly looks stressed.

Then he taps Jiminy's dashboard and recaptures his cheerful mood. "This one. This one is your partner. Go out of town."

He refuses to be let off the main lobby. He insists to go to the parking area with me. He smiles again when he sees the huge SUVs parked there.

"This one, this one should be your next car," he says. We go around it and inspect it and agree I'd be stinking rich soon and will buy one.

He thanks me for the ride. I thank him for the honor of riding Jiminy da Cricket.

I think that short ride from the stressful libel hearing made a lot of things better, more pleasant.

(I am blogging this now before things get hazy. The earliest version of a story is the closest to the truth. I just want to remember this as one of those small, pleasant things that happened lately)

Stress

My favorite man. He greets me every morning when I turn my office PC on. But lately, not even his bug eyes can work their magic.

I look into my nephew's eyes, smile and tell myself everything will be alright today. Make myself believe everything will be alright. I can do this. I will be smarter today. I will be better today. It's 9AM,for crying out loud. What can go wrong?

In a couple of hours I have to appear in court and tell them there was, there is, no malice in a story we aired two years ago. I'd be arrested if I don't appear. Can I go in sneakers?

A couple of days ago I was being told by someone we're running low on funds because the paperwork was not done. I accidentally turned the headboard light on and discovered it was 3AM, I was having a nightmare, and I was home.

Lately, I've been waking up with a stiff neck. And sore muscles.

Before that, I woke up several nights to realize I've been clenching my muscles while I slept. Which explains why I try to run around the UP oval at 8PM whenever I can, to make the muscles relax. Go figure.

"Careful," a friend told me. "A heart attack seems imminent." Duh? Not me. I've been walking and running and climbing mountains a lot. Besides, I have no heart, honey.

This isn't me. I can do better.

I am not just a number.

The Dodo on a Saturday

FOUR PM: Breakfast. Yep. First meal of the day.

The malfunctioning video monitor has made my left eye blurry and I should be written off as legally blind. I struggle to make my order and with that done, I look for a seat. Two friends call me over to share their table and I plop down in front of them. I didn't pay attention to the person on my left. And when I did, it was darn too late. It was my ex, whose breakup antics made me consign him to a trash bin labelled "do not resuscitate, leave alone to die."

I thank The Big Boss Up There for prompting the ex from hell to leave the table ASAP, his food half eaten. I hate awkward moments.

LATER THAT NIGHT....I was in a hastily-called party for a friend who's leaving for a posting overseas.

"Want me to cook for you one of these days? I can cook, I'm good in the kitchen," he proudly says. He's been flirting with me the first hour we met. He has brains, can talk intelligently enough, nice eyes, cute smile, so I figured wadaheck.

I flirt back.

"I can't cook, but there are other things I can do in the kitchen, and I'm good at it," I said. "I'm talking about washing dishes."

Then I get a text message from another friend who's in the same party.

"Careful there. That guy who's flirting with you is A's boyfriend, and I can sense she's starting to get jealous."

Wadaheck. Another bastard. The dodo (me) exits stage left.

The good guys are really either dead, married, gay, or priests.

Susko! Gusto kong bumait pero di ko magawa.

Tempus Fugit

It's one of those lawyerspeak I tried to decipher when I was a kid.

Time flies.

"You start growing old the minute you are born," said one. And I thought that was a sad, tragic, negative way of looking at things. But come to think of it, it is so darn true.

I started "growing old" when I was six. I saw a seven-year old die and I know how tragic death can be. And how so f***ing irreversible it is. So when people start making jokes about growing old, I inwardly sneer. Age is not just a number, honey.

"Kainis sa office. Inom tayo mamaya. Libre ka ba?" is something I rarely say no to.

Here's the math:
1. He/She feels bad about something. Seriously.
2. He/She thinks I'm the best person to talk to. (Trust plays a big deal here. It's not because I'm the smartest person he/she knows, but he/she can't turn to anyone in his/her office because it's an office policy he/she wants to talk to me about)
3. It's probably urgent
4. If I die tomorrow, this is probably the last time I'm needed by someone. So the hour better count.

Namputsa. Some people don't know their math.

It's not even about the money. One of the things you cannot buy and give back to anyone, even if you're Bill Gates, is time. So don't be late for that appointment.

And find time for someone who asks you out to let out some office or domestic angst.

Friends and Funerals

I just got home from a columnist's wake. I barely knew him, but some colleagues older than I do, and so I joined them. I also knew some reporters who pounded the beats with me will be there, so I thought it would be nice to see them again, albeit a dead guy for a reason. Plus I do have deep respect for the guy and his byline. I usually saw him in the Senate when there was a big investigation, covering the event like us, mere reporters. And then I'd see his column and I'd appreciate how insighful his piece is, and how hard he worked for it. Those were the days when you know those whose bylines appeared worked hard for each story, deserving the name that appeared along with the article.

Journalists are the funniest people you'd meet. For some reasons I cannot explain, most of us have this ability to pick an issue and find something hilarious in it. Tongue in cheek sometimes. Or dark humor. We also relish the stupidities we inflicted on our networks or papers while we were "growing up."

And so former Malacanang reporters of the days of old stood one by one, and shared anecdotes about the man. How he once wrote a dud of a story about the purported resignation of the president to bait another reporter who had the nasty habit of copying his articles. They never saw the plagiarist after that. (I did the same thing to a character of the same breed in Congress)

No one wanted it to be a serious event, partly because that's how the columnist would have wanted it, and party because his family requested it.

I kept thinking minus the body lying in state, this is how I'd want my funeral to be. I want to be cremated ASAP, so there won't be reason for me to wear makeup. I hate makeup. And let there be booze. Lots of it. No one should be left sane and sober. And let everyone discuss how bitchy I was, how the word was invented for me, how I was the bitch primus inter pares.

I did see a few familiar faces. But there were more whose bylines I knew but whose faces I saw for the first time. They were in the beat way ahead of me. Some remain honest journalists and can be accused of unexplained poverty. Some have moved out of the industry, finding more lucrative writing jobs in some corporation.

I see them and I think one of these days, it will be my turn. Either to attend the funeral of former "beatmates" or my ashes lying there, irreverent tales told about me by irreverent and drunk people.

But not before I write my novels.