Taking on the universe without parachutes

A friend who's in a very senior position recently quit her job after eight years in the company. "

"Creating room for the wonders of the universe to unfold," she said in her FB shoutout.

Another friend, an artist, urged her friends (again via FB) to "tell the universe what you want and it will happen." She has just returned from Paris where she had an exhibit of her works.

They're both single, under 40, and, after saving up a bit, are pursuing their dreams - without parachutes.

A lot of people would want to do that. Save enough money and explore the world. Be a barista or waitress in some restaurant, preferably in an exotic location and bum a bit longer before working on projects they really wanted to do but never found the time. Pursue a dream which more "stable" people would probably dismiss as flighty.

Today's high-pressure world is creating a lot of people like my friends.

Some may consider their options a bit too risky, crazy even.

A generation ago, people's dreams focused mostly on being employed in a good company, getting promoted there, earning more money, building a mansion, and equating all these with their status in society.

Is the world changing? I have other friends who plan to do the same. Quit their jobs to bum for a while and then pursue a dream career, or pack their bags and try something new, in some foreign place far away. Brave. Very brave. I have brave friends who inspire me.

I guess my friends are a different breed, no longer trapped in the definition of success as staying in one company, clawing their way up the corporate ladder till retirement (gasp!) day.

I must admit I dread what I just described. *Shudder*

I just ditched my parachute. I need to focus.

Geriatric gigolo

We were goofing off at a cafe in the mall when Bunny noticed the old man, a Caucasian. He caught the guy staring too long, too many times, at my boobs.

"Ibebenta kita riyan, bro, kikita ako," he said. Evil grin.
"Namu! Ibebenta kita sa bakla, kikita ako," I said. Evil grin.
"Mabenta ka sa foreigner," he said.
"Mabenta ka sa bakla," I retorted.
"Ayaw mo niyan, geriatric gigolo?" he laughed.
I laughed. I loved the term.

I remembered that term this week. A man twenty years my senior was flirting with me.
"Sir, you are apparently a very married man," I said.
"My wife has nothing to do with my flirting with you," he said.
And Gabriela's blood rose to stratospheric heights.
I imagined the caption in my head. &#&@!

Good manners and right conduct. How do you teach your elders that?

**********


Paalam, Farrah Fawcett-Majors. Ilang buwan mo rin akong pinuyat noon.
Paalam, Michael Jackson, ginamit ko sa year-ender MTV report ko ang kanta mong "They don't care about us" para sa social issues noon.

Cheated

I love the sound of the rain battering everything, ramming its sound through my sleepy ears, the wind making me grab my blanket, or grab a shirt to put on while I sleep.

Living in a condo robs you of that. You hear nothing of the pretty sound the rain makes. I even miss the sound of lightning and thunder, which I fear.

What remains constant is the sound of the traffic below, macho men in big cars parting the cars in front of it with their truck-sounding horns or their illegal siren. Yes, the size of a car and its beep are inversely proportional to the size of its owner's dick and brain. (Sue me for that. I may lose the case but I would love the headlines. Big car owners sue for being called small-dicked and pea-brained. Yes, I WILL demand visual, tangible, measurable proof to debunk the theory.)

I digress.

I have no roof. Ergo, I don't hear the rain pattering. The glass is thick and droplets rarely hit it.

I woke up to drenched streets floors below me this morning and I felt cheated. I didn't hear the rain again.

I want my farm. I wanna be outta here soon.

On fatherhood

I read this and cried.

Fatherhood
By President Barack Obama

As the father of two young girls who have shown such poise, humor, and patience in the unconventional life into which they have been thrust, I mark this Father’s Day — our first in the White House — with a deep sense of gratitude. One of the greatest benefits of being President is that I now live right above the office. I see my girls off to school nearly every morning and have dinner with them nearly every night. It is a welcome change after so many years out on the campaign trail and commuting between Chicago and Capitol Hill.

But I observe this Father’s Day not just as a father grateful to be present in my daughters’ lives but also as a son who grew up without a father in my own life. My father left my family when I was 2 years old, and I knew him mainly from the letters he wrote and the stories my family told. And while I was lucky to have two wonderful grandparents who poured everything they had into helping my mother raise my sister and me, I still felt the weight of his absence throughout my childhood.

As an adult, working as a community organizer and later as a legislator, I would often walk through the streets of Chicago’s South Side and see boys marked by that same absence — boys without supervision or direction or anyone to help them as they struggled to grow into men. I identified with their frustration and disengagement — with their sense of having been let down.   

In many ways, I came to understand the importance of fatherhood through its absence — both in my life and in the lives of others. I came to understand that the hole a man leaves when he abandons his responsibility to his children is one that no government can fill. We can do everything possible to provide good jobs and good schools and safe streets for our kids, but it will never be enough to fully make up the difference. 

That is why we need fathers to step up, to realize that their job does not end at conception; that what makes you a man is not the ability to have a child but the courage to raise one.

As fathers, we need to be involved in our children’s lives not just when it’s convenient or easy, and not just when they’re doing well — but when it’s difficult and thankless, and they’re struggling. That is when they need us most.

And it’s not enough to just be physically present. Too often, especially during tough economic times like these, we are emotionally absent: distracted, consumed by what’s happening in our own lives, worried about keeping our jobs and paying our bills, unsure if we’ll be able to give our kids the same opportunities we had.
Our children can tell. They know when we’re not fully there. And that disengagement sends a clear message — whether we mean it or not — about where among our priorities they fall. 

So we need to step out of our own heads and tune in. We need to turn off the television and start talking with our kids, and listening to them, and understanding what’s going on in their lives.

We need to set limits and expectations. We need to replace that video game with a book and make sure that homework gets done. We need to say to our daughters, Don’t ever let images on TV tell you what you are worth, because I expect you to dream without limit and reach for your goals. We need to tell our sons, Those songs on the radio may glorify violence, but in our house, we find glory in achievement, self-respect, and hard work.

We need to realize that we are our children’s first and best teachers. When we are selfish or inconsiderate, when we mistreat our wives or girlfriends, when we cut corners or fail to control our tempers, our children learn from that — and it’s no surprise when we see those behaviors in our schools or on our streets.  

But it also works the other way around. When we work hard, treat others with respect, spend within our means, and contribute to our communities, those are the lessons our children learn. And that is what so many fathers are doing every day — coaching soccer and Little League, going to those school assemblies and parent-teacher conferences, scrimping and saving and working that extra shift so their kids can go to college. They are fulfilling their most fundamental duty as fathers: to show their children, by example, the kind of people they want them to become. 

It is rarely easy. There are plenty of days of struggle and heartache when, despite our best efforts, we fail to live up to our responsibilities. I know I have been an imperfect father. I know I have made mistakes. I have lost count of all the times, over the years, when the demands of work have taken me from the duties of fatherhood. There were many days out on the campaign trail when I felt like my family was a million miles away, and I knew I was missing moments of my daughters’ lives that I’d never get back. It is a loss I will never fully accept.

But on this Father’s Day, I think back to the day I drove Michelle and a newborn Malia home from the hospital nearly 11 years ago — crawling along, miles under the speed limit, feeling the weight of my daughter’s future resting in my hands. I think about the pledge I made to her that day: that I would give her what I never had — that if I could be anything in life, I would be a good father. I knew that day that my own life wouldn’t count for much unless she had every opportunity in hers. And I knew I had an obligation, as we all do, to help create those opportunities and leave a better world for her and all our children. 

On this Father’s Day, I am recommitting myself to that work, to those duties that all parents share: to build a foundation for our children’s dreams, to give them the love and support they need to fulfill them, and to stick with them the whole way through, no matter what doubts we may feel or difficulties we may face. That is my prayer for all of us on this Father’s Day, and that is my hope for this nation in the months and years ahead.

Lakad ulit

Naglakad ako pauwi. Inorasan ko. Hanggang sa kalye lang na kaya ko ang usok.

Trenta minutos hanggang sa kanto. Pero parang epic ni Gabriel Garcia Marquez ang nakita at naisip ko sa panahon na iyon.

Pasado alas-diyes na, ang dami pa ring batang nagkalat sa kalye. Parang gusto mong pagdadamputin, isama ang kapitan ng barangay sa pag-uwi sa kanila at pagalitan ang mga magulang.

Naalala ko lang na noong minsang sinubukan ng isang programa sa TV na gawin ito, nadiskubre nilang adik pala si Tatay, at nasa saklaan si Nanay. Ang ganda nga namang imahe ng pamilyang Pilipino.

Ang ibang pamilya naman, sa gilid ng bagong Mercury Drug store pumuwesto at doon natulog sa daan. May paslit pang gumagapang, pero patulog na ang ina. Paano nila natitiis ang panghi ng paligid, na madadagdagan pa ngayong gabi habang sila ay tulog, at lalong mangangamoy bukas pag naarawan?

Makikita mo ang kaibahan talaga. Sa maliwanag na bahagi ng Morato naroon ang mga may perang susunugin para kumain sa mga restoran. Ang mga walang pera nagtatago sa dilim.

Saan nga ba papunta ang siyudad na ito, ang bansang ito? Noong 1980s, 45 million tayo at hikahos na ang marami. Ngayon, 91 million na tayo at hikahos ang 40 porsiento sa atin.

Kung tatanungin mo ang mahirap kung ano ang inaasahan nilang mag-aangat sa kanila sa buhay, sasabihin nilang ang kanilang anak. Pangarap nilang maging inhinyero o abogado o ano pa mang titulo ang dadalhin ng kanilang mga anak. Pero ni hindi nila ginawang turuan itong magbasa o sumulat.

Naghihintay ng itlog, wala namang manok.

Sa lalim ng iniisip ko, nataranta ako nang mahimasmasan kasi kailangan ko nang sumakay ng jeep dahil masyado nang mausok ang kalye. Taon na ang bibilangin nang huli akong sumakay nito. Magkano na nga ba ang minimum na pasahe? Di ko na matandaan.

Hinulaan ko na lang. Nagbigay ako ng sampu. Sinuklian ako ng tatlong piso. Wow. Pitong piso na pala ang minimum.

Pitong piso. Ito rin ang halaga ng pansit habhab na kinain namin ni Friedwater sa Lucban.

Parang hinahabol ng diyablo ang driver ng jeep. Buti na lang maigsi lang ang distansiya at bahay ko na.

Maghahanap ako ng ibang ruta pauwi. Iyong malayo sa usok at hindi ko kailangang mag-jeep.

Pero hindi ibig sabihin na hindi maglalayag ang isip ko habang naglalakad. Wala akong magagawa, ganoon talaga ako eh.

Walk, walk, walk

On my way to the office today I saw a woman who walked and talked like a man. She's in her forties, lean, mean, and she means it.

She was selling tickets to some taxi drivers.

Filipinas are usually shy, timid, so feminine. Maybe she married a loser and had to change, I thought. I know, that was unkind. Judgmental even. But I know some women who were so timid once but changed dramatically after a few years into their marriage.

Maybe a woman is a reflection of the man she married, I thought. Maybe. Yes, maybe.

There was a street kid walking with a puppy, barefoot master and hungry pet oblivious to the world around them.

Children talked like the world was on fire around a dug-up fire hydrant.

A young girl walked sheepishly beside the young man who held an umbrella for her in the rain. Will she lose that coyness and sweet mien when she marries the man beside her and they have a baby or two?

I walked part of the way home tonight.

Tomas Morato, the side near one of the network's gate is a lot different now from when I first worked here. It's well-lit now, and no thanks to the huge restaurants and the mall that were built here recently, there's more noise.

We used to eat lunch at Lutz, a shack with a few chairs. Now it has its own apartment-type place.

We used to pass the time drinking coffee after shows at Brew-huh, beside this expensive restaurant. It's still there, and the clothes store beside it still sells girlie, frilly stuff.

The waiters at Friday's used to hate us when we spent our afternoons in their restaurant, because we drained them of the free-flowing coffee while we sat out the two hours of lull in between shows.

We used to resent the kids who lined up to enter Virgin Cafe. How can they afford it, when even we who work our butts off in front of the computer cannot? Virgin Cafe is no longer there. It's been replaced by another I-don't-know-what-it-is, but I do see muscled men guarding the entrance with the word "bouncer" on their shirts.

We once had a great time drinking beer at this place called "Brew" on the first floor of Mother Lily's hotel. The bar brewed its own beer.

Brew is gone now, but not the memory of us laughing at the fruit-flavored beer the first time we were there, belittling it and drinking liters of it. Then it was too late when we realized it packed a punch, and we staggered meekly out the door, humbled.

Why the heck is it no longer there? We need that humbling experience once again these days.

"I can't remember how we managed to have fun during those days," said one of my friends. "We got so little money but we had so much fun," he said.

I walked that street again tonight, remembering those days years ago.

Things and people change with the times, depending on the times.

Books!

In the season of feared flu, I decided to do some panic-buying of my own.

I bought books.

Saturday, Con told me she has to hit the gym before she could join me at the mall. It meant waiting for her for two hours. But I've paid my bills and I've nothing else to do.

"Go shopping," she texted me.
"What have I ever done to you to deserve such a punishment?" I asked.
"Go, be like the rest of the womankind," she said. Of course she knows I am never your average woman who enjoys shopping.

So I hit the second-hand bookstore. Okay, the second-hand bookstore first. That's more accurate.

I went home with these from the used books store:
Bias by Bernard Goldberg. It's about CBS. Journalism, what else?
Coach, edited by Andrew Blauner. 25 writers reflect on people who made a difference. (Must be about dead people)
Prague, a novel by Arthur Phillips.

From Hardbound (yes, the more expensive bookstore) I bought this:
Isabella Moon by Laura Benedict. About how an old murder case affects a small town.

Con and I didn't meet up for the movie. We met up for drinks.

Then today, I decided to drop by a second hand bookstore near the office after lunch.
I was lugging five books when I got back to my desk.

Here they are:
Public Affairs Reporting by George Killenberg
Jack Kerouac by Tom Clark, a biography
Maestro by Bob Woodward. About Allan Greenspan and the American boom years
The Color of Water by James McBride. This one's interesting. K was lugging around a copy of this book when we first met.
The Canterbury Tales by Chaucer

There. A total of 9 books. It feels like I just died and went to book heaven. Oh, I spent less than P2,000 for all these books.

All I need is H1N1 and a mandatory 10-day live-like-a-hermit period.

But then again, I don't have cable. No free TV. Who needs H1N1?

Yes, I feel like a kid who went shopping for new notebooks. (Well, I don't really know how that feels.)

Yes, I am happy. Soooo damn happy. I am rich. I can buy books I want.

Up...and away

I just finished watching the movie "Up." Yeah, cartoons, courtesy of my friendly neighborhood pirate.

A childhood dream, falling in love, getting married, and then dying in ten minutes. Then the adventure begins.

I know you haven't seen it yet, so I won't write anything that will spoil the movie for you.

This one's for me: no matter how old you are, no matter what phase in life you're in, make your childhood dreams come true.

Don't wait too long.

Hen wan ewan

WHEN I was a kid, I was taught to stand before answering a teacher's question. These days, kids have no legroom to do that. Chairs are lined up so close to the ones in front of them to accommodate more kids, leaving no room for any type of movement.

The kids even have to crawl or step on chairs for those "Ma'am may I go out" moments. They line up for a long time to be able to use the toilet. They're lucky if there's water for handwashing.

Against this backdrop, I see trouble. Big trouble.

Right now, many people believe H1N1 disease is being caught by those who went abroad, or have had contact with people who went abroad. The first schools to be hit were private schools, anyway.

Ergo, many assumed H1N1 would affect mostly the rich and their households.

What some forget is that the rich are being served by the poor - literally.

Yaya goes home to her own kids every weekend. Mang Berto the driver goes home every night. Aling Barang the laundrywoman shows up early every day and goes home to her rented entresuwelo somewhere in this crowded city.

The poor cannot afford Tamiflu.
The poor will choose not to get treated to be able to continue working and earning.
We are a city percolating in H1N1.

I wonder if this will remind the forgetful rich that there are poor people around them? That we are all in this together?

"I ask my maid to shower once she gets home from her weekend off, before she starts working," said one. While I think that's okay, I doubt if the maid traveled abroad recently.

Hay buhay.

When gods get together

When the gods of rock get together, mere mortals like me get goosebumps.



Now I gotta get back to work. I should be able to afford tickets to concerts like this one.

Ang 6PM priest sa Christ the King

Tatlong linggo na akong nagsisimba. (Kidlat!)

Totoo. Tatlong Linggo na. I swear.

Ito iyong kompletong misa, ha? Hindi iyong madalas na ginagawa ko, na makita ko lang ang belfry ng simbahan, kumaway lang ako ng "Hello, Big Boss!" ay pakiramdam ko nagsimba na ako. Sabay layas. Iyon ang simba, version ni JJ.

Ito iyong isang oras mahigit na nakaupo ako sa loob ng simbahan, katabi ang di ko naman mga kakilala, at pinagpapasensyahan ang batang naghuhumiyaw sa gitna ng aisle. (I resist the urge to trip them. Haha!)

Iyong pari kasi sa 6PM mass sa tahanan ng mga SVD, nakakaaliw. Para siyang nagco-concert na rocker. Hindi siya kontento sa altar lang. Lumalakad siya habang nagsasalita, bawat aisle pinapasyalan niya. Tinitingnan ang bawat isa na para bang hindi malaking grupo ang ina-address niya.

Kung minsan may question and answer portion pa siya, at ang biktima niya ay ang mga nagsisimba at ang choir. Pag di naman bumalik sa katawan mo ang naglalayag mong diwa dahil bored ka sa simbahan dahil pinilit ka lang ng magulang mo o ng sinumang gusto mong bigyan ka ng 50,000 pogi points.

Noong Linggo, kasama ako sa mga napuri niya. Maulan kasi kaya palakpakan daw ang mga taong nagpunta sa simbahan kahit binabayo ng ulan ang siyudad. Kilig naman ako, parang grade one na nakasagot sa tanong ni titser.

Pero sa loob-loob ko lang, naghuhumiyaw si Taning at sinasabing "Sows. Madalang pa nga sa patak ng ulan ang pasok mo sa simbahan! Hindi ka kasali roon!"

Binura ko ang thought bubble na iyon at binuhusan ko ng malamig na tubig ang namumulang imahe ni Taning. Kasi naman, 5:30 pa lang umalis na ako ng bahay para hindi ma-late. Kailan ko ba huling ginawa iyon para sa kahit anong appointment? *clap*clap*clap!* I deserve that.

Hindi ako relihiyoso. Pero kung ganitong may degree yata sa public speaking, storytelling at logic ang pari, magsisimba ako. Mula "please rise" hanggang "go in peace."

Hindi ko alam ang pangalan niya. Pero hamo na, basta 6PM sa Christ the King. Listen to the priest.

(Huwag mo lang ikuwento sa mga kakilala ko na nakita mo ako sa simbahan. Walang maniniwala sa iyo at aakusahan ka nila ng rumor-mongering.)

A fist flew

When I was starting out, my friends and I often hung out at a friend's place when we had no money. His mom is a great cook and her policy was that it was safer for my friend and his two brothers (and their friends) to get drunk at home than in a bar. She'd cook for us, head to her room to give us space, then check on us at midnight and offer coffee. We all called her Mama.

Since she has three boys, she'd often host several different "extensions." I am an "extension" of the first born, and others in my group would be young reporters who had families in the provinces.

One of the extensions of the second son, a mountaineer, is Duane, another mountaineer.

I ended up sitting to his left one Saturday night, drinking beer. It was my first time to meet Duane, so I was silent at the table, listening to their stories of mountains conquered, of accidents they've survived on the trail. I remember listening intently, for I've only had two level 3 climbs at that time.

Talk turned to friends. His best friend was a girl named Merrel. Merrel was about to get married at the time, and wasn't with us because she was preparing for her wedding. They teased him about Merrel, saying he should tell her how he really felt, that he loved her.

Then all hell broke loose. People were yelling, bottles broke, and I was the cause of all of it.

I hit Duane's right jaw. Swinging my arm, I hit several bottles before fist and jaw connected. Someone came from behind me and locked my two arms in place. I was raising my foot to hit Duane, and that's when they dragged me away.

I saw Mama rush out of her room, brows furrowed, and I couldn't look at her.

"Bunny," she called my best friend, "take your friend out of here," she ordered. Duane stood there, holding his jaw, shocked. Bunny knew nothing, he was busy talking with a separate group of extensions.

I grabbed my bag and left. Bunny caught up with me and we went down the eight flights of stairs.

"Bro, what happened?" he asked.
"I don't want to repeat what he said," I growled.
"Then tell me how it all started," he demanded.
"They were talking about Merrel, and they were teasing him about his not telling her how he really feels about her," I said.
"Then?"
"I don't want to say it," I said.
"Just one time, I won't ask again," he said. "What did he say that made you hit him?"
"He said 'Di bale, natikman ko naman siya," (Never mind. I've already bedded her)."
Bunny was silent for a few seconds.
"Did you hit him real hard?" he asked.
"Yes, I think I did," I groaned.
"Good," he said.
I looked at my best friend's face. He was grinning. He put his arm around my shoulder and we started walking.
"Let's go grab more beer from the store nearby and continue drinking in the garden," he said. "I feel like celebrating."

A week later, Mama invited me to dinner again. She didn't ask, she demanded. "I don't care how you feel about your friends, this is me telling you that I want you to have dinner here," she said.

No one spoke about the incident again, though there were times they let slip a few jokes about it. They started calling me "Gabriela," for one.

I never hit anyone again after that. I've learned that the moment one becomes physical in an argument, the logic you're presenting is lost, no matter how brilliant.

I remember this in the middle of all these sex video talks, and how many times I bit my lip to stay calm.

A lot of Filipino men are still macho in the wrong sense of the word. They've imagined being in bed with a Katrina Halili, but they can't accept a Katrina Halili who knows what she wants in bed, and knows how to get it.

Based on many comments I've been getting from men, I guess a lot of Filipino males are just plain bad or insecure lovers.

She's baaack

the creature was back today.

"may i hold your hand?" i asked the creature.

"no, you may not hold my hand," the creature said.

"why not?" i asked.

"because you may not hold my hand," the creature said.

among all the kids i see in the office, she's my favorite.

as angel would say, she has character.

there's something about this three-year old kid that i like.

she is almost like me.