Things I learned from our trip to Cagayan de Oro and Camiguin:
- The amount asked for by your taxi driver is directly proportional to the amount of caucasians you have in the vehicle and/or how many times you say, "Pila... Wait, tama ba manong?"
- Apparently, eating chicharon (may laman man or wala) non-stop doesn't get old even after four days.
- There is something seriously... fey about CdO. Pink-colored accented jeepneys named Gerdell? Bakeries na may silent J? Public transportation endearingly called Motorellas?
- Speaking of which, kung mapadpad ang Tape, Inc. execs dito, puwede natin mahuhulaan ang next project nila—Daisy Siete season 30, Mila Motorella! (May echo.)
- Meron pa: Eat Bulaga presents its Holy Week Special: Nais kong tumayo at umeffort! (Subtitle: The life and times of Kapitana Kimberly)
- Wag i-smolin both and katangahan at suwerte ng isang tao sa billiards. ("Hindi, swear, I really meant for it to go down that hole.")
- Minimum requirements for me to look thin in a picture: at least a four-meter distance at pagtatabi sa isang vertical line katulad ng waterfalls.
- Effective na alarm during the wee hours: Ne-Yo's "Miss Independent," na naka-loop. (Hi Phi!)
- Wag i-underestimate ang amount ng juice sa loob ng buko.
- Marami puwede ipagpalit na friendship when faced with the possible threat of the Mummy and Mummy Returns-like gremlins. ("Balikan natin si Merrell, baka buto na lang natira sa kanya.")
- Diyahe sa bath and number two time: walang lock sa banyo.
- Isa pang diyahe sa bath and number two time: peekaboo window sa harap ng toilet.
- At isa pang diyahe sa bath and number two time: barado na bathroom floor.
- At talaga namang may isa pang diyahe sa bath and number two time: malalaking gaps sa CR door.
- Homaygash isa pang diyahe sa bath and number two time: isang horizontally-growing termite hill to the left of the toilet.
- Hindi masyadong nakaka-assure ang mosquito net if you take into consideration ilang beses naririnig ang mga tuko at ang aforementioned gremlins throughout the night.
- Some 16 year old girls take offense to being called "ate" and "guwapa."
- You know what doesn't help when your raft is rushing towards a very solid-looking wall? Ang pag-shu-shutdown at pagtitili.
- And one more thing (*cough* Jewel *cough), the guide said it at the very start, the first rule is to not panic. Hysterical screaming is not, not panicking.
- Other panic-inducing activities: jungle walkways, ziplines at general auditing.
- Una man at nag-fee-feeling, wala namang picture. Pwe.
- When being asked to shift your weight to one side of the raft, take Physics and the combined weight of the passengers into consideration. If not, hold your nose because it'll sting.
- Kapag nakakaamoy ng hindi kanais-nais sa may mini-falls, huwag ibuka ang bibig. Kung hindi mo napigilan, i-career na lang ang Loperamide.
- Not all contact lenses are created equal: may ibang na isang tira lang sa volleyball wala na, may ibang nasusurvive ang 19 to 20 rapids.
- Some things oft-times heard when our group is rafting: "book!" "i-book na yan!" "hindi na ako aarte!" and variations thereof.
- Actually, that fact is not mutually exclusive to rafting.
- There must be something to living beside a river that induces such proud acts of exhibitionism... in all ages. ("Sa isla, walang malisya!")
- Spotted and heard while out and about CdO: Winnie Cordero, ang nawawalang bisaya-speaking Eigenman brother and ang kuma-comeback na si Jethro Rivas.
- The term "candid shot" loses all meaning and functionality with our group. Hindi siya posible.
- Hindi commercially-viable ang isang artistang mahilig umemote sa may altar ng lansones kaya tigilan na ang pag-e-MTV.
- Dumadami ang incidence of the following kapag may naliligaw na british backpacker: topless photos, pagpo-pose ala Rosanna Roces circa Machete at mga one-on-one interviews.
- Wag mag-batuhan ng piyaya sa gitna ng isang nagtitiling ilongga. (Hi Prudence!)
- Mahilig mag-facilitate ng E-mail forward ang ibang mga restaurateurs sa CdO: "If you don't the standard of our cooking, lower your standards," "If you don't get your food in 15 minutes, wait longer," at kung anik-anik pa.
- Mga panalong exchanges in the continuing saga of the Jewel/Ryan Ryan/Jewel multi-act extravaganza:
"(At Jewel) Wala ng iitim pa dito."
"Excuse me—four bottles of Glutathione... and still dark!"
"Ikaw yung before. Ako yung after!"
- Grabe tumaga ng pasehero ang mga CdO taxi drivers. Siguro't ginagamit nila itong pambili ng isang katutak ng '80s to '90s senti medley albums, na mahilig nilang ipatugtog at 4 a.m.
- Ang sigaw ng bayan kapag hindi feel ang hitsura sa picture: i-pixelize yan!
Monday, March 02, 2009
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Seeing and believing
We were at the Pizza Hut in Blue Wave having our after church Saturday dinner. My father and brother were off to the nearby sports shop practicing their inner Ilocano and looking at discounted shoes. My mother and I were talking about the night's sermon, given by an energetic, petite woman with a twang, which placed her somewhere between "grew up in the States" and "call center agent." (She was quite good actually.) When:
Mother: "Oh, by the way, Dr. Chan said there isn't any hope for my right eye."
She said it in the same throw-away manner she usually adopted when talking about any of the gazillion illnesses she have had. I was looking out of the window at the half-empty Starbucks across us, and I swiveled my head back upon hearing it.
Me: "What? What do you mean?"
Mother: "Well, apparently, the operation I had before already left a scar in the retina. It can't be fixed anymore."
Me: "Is Dr. Chan sure?"
Mother: "Yup. She even told me: 'well, just accept it. You've accepted the others anyway.' (She chuckles.) I mean, I told myself that there's nothing I can do about it. But then I suddenly cried when I was talking to your father later that day so I guess it isn't that simple. (She chuckles again.)
I sat there frozen in the booth, and sunk into a familiar feeling of complete helplessness, a normal reaction I have when dealing with my mother's health. I am always reduced to the kid I was years ago with welled up tears in his eyes, who saw his mother being wheeled into her hospital room, bald from chemotherapy, exhausted and broken from an eight-hour operation so hard that she vomited repeatedly. I give out another automatic reply:
Me: "Let's pray later. Nothing's impossible with God."
Mother (almost offhandedly): "Of course, of course, I know. We were just taught that, right? Oh by the way, Tracy gave birth already..."
She went on about the news about my newborn niece, and I half-listened, still distracted. I am constantly amazed by how she handles these things. Even when she told me repeatedly that I was the strongest one in the family, I still thought she was a lot tougher than me. I guess having gone through everything from almost stage 4 breast cancer and bone problems to kidney and gallbladder stones the size of five-peso coins and diabetes and being able to still smile about it has taught her a thing or two about putting matters into perspective.
Time and time again, my family and I have to rely on faith for all the things that we go through, which are, believe me, more than my mother's medical condition and the randomly uneven state of our lower-middle class finances. Our prayers and pressing needs always get answered in the end (and more) so there's no real reason to doubt. But I guess there's a lesson there I'm not getting just yet.
People have asked me in the past why I shouldn't just give up on my beliefs when there are things about it that I do not understand, when I let it control my decisions and that I make it seem like a grudging obligation at times. I guess, part of it is that I recently realized that it is one of the few things that can truly give me happiness despite my glaring imperfections, contradictions and humanity. And another part is that it's for this moments when I don't feel particularly in control.
Mother: "I mean, you just have to look past the things that are happening to you to what God has in-store, right?"
She was talking about something else, but it reverberates all the same. I nod, smile and open up the menu and order something strawberry-ish, filing away that little tidbit in my mind.
Mother: "Oh, by the way, Dr. Chan said there isn't any hope for my right eye."
She said it in the same throw-away manner she usually adopted when talking about any of the gazillion illnesses she have had. I was looking out of the window at the half-empty Starbucks across us, and I swiveled my head back upon hearing it.
Me: "What? What do you mean?"
Mother: "Well, apparently, the operation I had before already left a scar in the retina. It can't be fixed anymore."
Me: "Is Dr. Chan sure?"
Mother: "Yup. She even told me: 'well, just accept it. You've accepted the others anyway.' (She chuckles.) I mean, I told myself that there's nothing I can do about it. But then I suddenly cried when I was talking to your father later that day so I guess it isn't that simple. (She chuckles again.)
I sat there frozen in the booth, and sunk into a familiar feeling of complete helplessness, a normal reaction I have when dealing with my mother's health. I am always reduced to the kid I was years ago with welled up tears in his eyes, who saw his mother being wheeled into her hospital room, bald from chemotherapy, exhausted and broken from an eight-hour operation so hard that she vomited repeatedly. I give out another automatic reply:
Me: "Let's pray later. Nothing's impossible with God."
Mother (almost offhandedly): "Of course, of course, I know. We were just taught that, right? Oh by the way, Tracy gave birth already..."
She went on about the news about my newborn niece, and I half-listened, still distracted. I am constantly amazed by how she handles these things. Even when she told me repeatedly that I was the strongest one in the family, I still thought she was a lot tougher than me. I guess having gone through everything from almost stage 4 breast cancer and bone problems to kidney and gallbladder stones the size of five-peso coins and diabetes and being able to still smile about it has taught her a thing or two about putting matters into perspective.
Time and time again, my family and I have to rely on faith for all the things that we go through, which are, believe me, more than my mother's medical condition and the randomly uneven state of our lower-middle class finances. Our prayers and pressing needs always get answered in the end (and more) so there's no real reason to doubt. But I guess there's a lesson there I'm not getting just yet.
People have asked me in the past why I shouldn't just give up on my beliefs when there are things about it that I do not understand, when I let it control my decisions and that I make it seem like a grudging obligation at times. I guess, part of it is that I recently realized that it is one of the few things that can truly give me happiness despite my glaring imperfections, contradictions and humanity. And another part is that it's for this moments when I don't feel particularly in control.
Mother: "I mean, you just have to look past the things that are happening to you to what God has in-store, right?"
She was talking about something else, but it reverberates all the same. I nod, smile and open up the menu and order something strawberry-ish, filing away that little tidbit in my mind.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Too hot (for my love) handles
I've been wanting to try out Bikram Yoga since Mark, a tennis friend, suggested it and Bianca, a colleague, wrote about in our Papa P Rules the Universe/Fitness Issue. The idea appealed to me for some reason: trying to hold poses in a heated room, sweating those excess pounds off seemingly without trying. I thought that it would complete, salted, skinless peanuts for me, who, despite my girth, had a pretty good endurance level, who can walk miles without complaining, who routinely punishes himself with random things like, say, running up a gazillion steps to a mountain top groto when he even isn't Catholic. Bikram Yoga? Pfff.
Well, my "pffff"quickly became a "@#$%@#" about 10 minutes into the session. I trudged up to meet She at Bikram Yoga Manila's Tomas Morato studio one early Thursday morning armed with several bottles of water and misguidedly mild expectations. I took the one week unlimited package for beginners. After a very quick orientation with us newbies (it went something like: breathe-correctly-that's-not-how-you-breathe-correctly-don't-leave-the-room-unless-you're-like-dying-already-if-you-feel-dizzy-or-nauseated-just-kneel-down-and-stay-still-just-do-as-I-say-don't-close-your-eyes-keep-at-it-any-questions?), I stepped into the room (which didn't feel particularly stuffy at first) with my two somewhat-cold bottles of water and found the spare mat laidout for me just in front of She. I notice that the class was mostly composed of middle aged women or these fitness buffs/seemingly amazonian creatures that probably did crunches along with their morning cereal.
We started out with a couple of breathing exercises to warm our bodies up and, by the second set of that first position, I was already sweating. That's when I started to really notice the heat and humidity of the room. Ryan was giving instructions in, what I would find out later, a rapid pace typical of instructors. Just before the midway point, my clothes were soaked entirely through, I was exhausted and was feeling light-headed. Several times throughout the session, I did as Ryan suggested at the beginning and kneeled down and stayed still until I had reined in the vomit threatening to escape amidst all the flexible elderly women around me; I felt like such a complete, utter wuss.
From several difficult standing postures (some involving making your body mimic the letters of the alphabet and/or an animal or two, my own personal attempts of which were, needless to say and at best, comically lopsided), we moved onto the floor exercises, which concentrated a lot on the spine. After each posture, we were to have a 5-second rest period (the name of which escapes me, savanah or something?), and move back up to the next one by doing a quick sit up. By then, the towel covering my yoga mat was soaked as well, my clothes felt like dead weight and I was still soaking torrents. I finally heard the words I've been waiting to hear: "last posture." We finished off by doing the "breath of fire," were we knelt down and proceeded to inhale and exhale quickly, to the beat of the instructor; we sounded like a lamas class.
Ryan asked us to lie down once more, turned off the lights and told us to have our final rest period. I lay on top of my mat, not wanting to move at all, but finally had to when I noticed that three-quarters of the room were already showering. I mouthed a couple of oh-my-gaz-I've-never-been-so-tired-in-my-life to She, and said goodbye and promised to go back the next day.
I went into the shower room and sat directly under the ceiling fan to call off. And I realized something: despite being extremely tired and feeling as if I've been run over by a 10-wheeler made entirely of perspiration, I kinda felt great. I felt lighter, healthier and de-toxified. If this is what I can happen in one session, what more after a week's, or maybe a month's worth?
Maybe Kate Moss-hood (finally!), or my sudden, understandble demise or me going even nuttier, randomly shaking people around quezon city and demanding that they give me an ice cold liter of water.
Can't wait.
Well, my "pffff"quickly became a "@#$%@#" about 10 minutes into the session. I trudged up to meet She at Bikram Yoga Manila's Tomas Morato studio one early Thursday morning armed with several bottles of water and misguidedly mild expectations. I took the one week unlimited package for beginners. After a very quick orientation with us newbies (it went something like: breathe-correctly-that's-not-how-you-breathe-correctly-don't-leave-the-room-unless-you're-like-dying-already-if-you-feel-dizzy-or-nauseated-just-kneel-down-and-stay-still-just-do-as-I-say-don't-close-your-eyes-keep-at-it-any-questions?), I stepped into the room (which didn't feel particularly stuffy at first) with my two somewhat-cold bottles of water and found the spare mat laidout for me just in front of She. I notice that the class was mostly composed of middle aged women or these fitness buffs/seemingly amazonian creatures that probably did crunches along with their morning cereal.
We started out with a couple of breathing exercises to warm our bodies up and, by the second set of that first position, I was already sweating. That's when I started to really notice the heat and humidity of the room. Ryan was giving instructions in, what I would find out later, a rapid pace typical of instructors. Just before the midway point, my clothes were soaked entirely through, I was exhausted and was feeling light-headed. Several times throughout the session, I did as Ryan suggested at the beginning and kneeled down and stayed still until I had reined in the vomit threatening to escape amidst all the flexible elderly women around me; I felt like such a complete, utter wuss.
From several difficult standing postures (some involving making your body mimic the letters of the alphabet and/or an animal or two, my own personal attempts of which were, needless to say and at best, comically lopsided), we moved onto the floor exercises, which concentrated a lot on the spine. After each posture, we were to have a 5-second rest period (the name of which escapes me, savanah or something?), and move back up to the next one by doing a quick sit up. By then, the towel covering my yoga mat was soaked as well, my clothes felt like dead weight and I was still soaking torrents. I finally heard the words I've been waiting to hear: "last posture." We finished off by doing the "breath of fire," were we knelt down and proceeded to inhale and exhale quickly, to the beat of the instructor; we sounded like a lamas class.
Ryan asked us to lie down once more, turned off the lights and told us to have our final rest period. I lay on top of my mat, not wanting to move at all, but finally had to when I noticed that three-quarters of the room were already showering. I mouthed a couple of oh-my-gaz-I've-never-been-so-tired-in-my-life to She, and said goodbye and promised to go back the next day.
I went into the shower room and sat directly under the ceiling fan to call off. And I realized something: despite being extremely tired and feeling as if I've been run over by a 10-wheeler made entirely of perspiration, I kinda felt great. I felt lighter, healthier and de-toxified. If this is what I can happen in one session, what more after a week's, or maybe a month's worth?
Maybe Kate Moss-hood (finally!), or my sudden, understandble demise or me going even nuttier, randomly shaking people around quezon city and demanding that they give me an ice cold liter of water.
Can't wait.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Friday, January 09, 2009
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Boypren - Happy Slip
Okay, throughout the boring, more-than-week-long break, I was Youtubing like crazy. There I came across videos by NigaHiga, KevJumba and that guy from the What The Buck show. These videos are mostly made up of shameless, complete ham, which, for one reason or another, seemed to have worked on my bored-out-of-my-mind state. And apparently, it works with a lot of people as well because their view and comment counts are ginormous.
(It seems that most of the youtube stars know each other also. They're all fighting it out to be number one or something, somewhat akin to tour rankings. Gee, I must be really bored if I'm correlating youtubing to professional sports.)
Anyway, I also came across Christine Gambito AKA Happy Slip, a a youtuber who happens to be Filipino American. She does these funny web videos wherein she impersonates various members of her (extended) family. She does everything in all her videos: writing, directing, producing and even editing.
She's brilliant, able to swing from character to character (much like Ja'ime King!), and, at the same time, take note of the dialogue transitions when shooting and editing. I also hear that she became a Filipino ambassador for tourism or something (hmmm).
Check out her other videos on youtube or at http://www.happyslip.com
Thursday, January 01, 2009
The Story of Belligerent Bliss
“The American short story writer Grace Paley produced little more than three volumes of stories—remarkable stories, to be sure—but never saw her way to finishing a novel, although she ‘tinkered with drafts.’ She had a wonderful way of explaining her predicament: ‘I’m extremely interruptible.’ She once told an interviewer. ‘Hey, that’s me!’ I wanted to scream—my life’s been nothing but a series of interruptions, but gleefully so, with Macs, VWs, fountain pens, cameras, oriental junkets and other people’s stories always getting in the way of the fiction.” — Butch Dalisay, "Pen Man"
As I’ve been telling some people, it has to start somewhere.
I’m going to try and live out a dream I’ve had since, oh, forever. (Fine, it started sometime between finger math classes and my last Prosec session. So, long time.)
When I was a wee bit (well, a lot more than now anyway), a family friend (who also happened to be the English department head at my school, oh yeah, I was down with the grammarians early on, y’all. Yeah, you can just whack me in the head when you see me for saying that) asked me what course I wanted to take in college and what I wanted to do with my life. I paused for a bit, and answered: “well, I want to write a novel.” She kind of laughed and said, “Well, you don’t need a degree to do that.”
But then I did finish school, and I did Tracy Flick (watch Election, people) my way to a degree (to the bemusement and/or chagrin of my professors). I became a writer, a blogger, and a publishing and journalistic geek, all the while not letting go of that little literarily fantasy and wedging it at the back corners of my tiny mind, between “studying abroad” and “aspiring for six pack abs.”
Last September, however, during our college block’s reunion/birthday party for me and She, Ailene’s quirky dad, who’s a writer himself, started ribbing me about the non-existence of my book. “Nabasa ko yung mga sinulat mo. (I’m not going to take it against you that you write in English, by the way.) Okay ‘to, walang takot. Bakit hindi ka magsulat ng libro?” he said. “Um, next year, promise,” I sputter. “Sus, narinig ko na yan. Magsulat ka na lang,” he finishes before reaching another cold one. And then I sat down for about 30 minutes, half-listening to people, and pondering about what he said. Yeah, he’s right. There’s probably no reason for me not to write a book. I’ve let myself be “interrupted,” as Paley and Dalisay say, for too damn long.
For just about any writer, being published, that is having text credited to you (even if it’s a pamphlet or whatever) and be responded to by any amount of readers in or outside of your immediate family is a special, special thrill. But, a whole book? That’s something else. That meant you were patient, tough, coherent and creative enough for a long period of time to finish one on your own. Not to say that writers who don’t have a book are not as respectable on their own, and I say this without being completely self-serving: we are. It’s just that an ideal that most of us wish for, whether it gets sold or not (though, I’ll probably bitch about that if that happens. But I digress).
So to help me along, I’m going to try and focus this whole year on that theme: stories. Being creative on the things and about the people that I know. You’ll get it when I write and tag my first entry on that.
But wait (there’s more!), you can help as well my future minions! Whenever you see, please nag me about it. Berate, prod me with a stick, get violent, do whatever so that I really start on it. Will you?
Happy 2009, y’all.