stepping on dog crap, that sucks. stepping on human feces, that's fallacious. welcome to my world. wipe your feet.

Friday, August 27, 2004

two stupid dogs: a one act play


Quezon Avenue Station's southbound platform.

[Two young men are seated on a yellow plastic bench. BOY IN YELLOW SHIRT gives his ponytail a zhuzhing. BOY IN GRAY SHIRT adjusts his lightly tinted aviators.]

BOY IN GRAY SHIRT: Dude, have you seen MI:2? I have it on DVD.
BOY IN YELLOW SHIRT: Mission in Black? Yeah, saw it na. The action scenes are good ha.
BOY IN GRAY SHIRT: No, not that one. I'm talking about the sequel.


Saturday, August 21, 2004

ube, anyone?

zag (my older sister) was asked to buy ice cream a week ago. mom and i preferred selecta's version of chocnut ice cream or their super chocolate, or both in a half-gallon tub. when she came back with a bright yellow tub instead of the familiar gold-ish hue of selecta's premium ice cream, i knew something was up. and when she said that there wasn't much to choose from, i melted into the driver's seat and braced myself for what would come out of her mouth next.

"ito lang ang meron: 3-in-1 na ube, mango, and chocolate."

it sounded like a punch line to a bad gary lising joke. all i could say at that time was,

"ang third world naman ng ice cream na yan!"

being the be-seen-at-peligro burgis that i am, these flavors just won't do. they taste superb as dirty ice cream (why it's called "dirty" and why we still eat it are two questions i am not willing to go into) profusely licked and generously, albeit inadvertently applied to one's face and shirt under the afternoon sun. the last time these three flavors invaded the sanctity of our home was nearly two decades ago, during the only "official" birthday party i ever had.

it was my 7th birthday, and as a rule, my sister and i were accorded a "party" each when we reached the ripe old age of seven. our playmates celebrated lavishly every year - clowns (who were neither funny nor entertaining, partly because of their chilling disposition - marked by those horrible red eyes ), parlor games (pasabit, palayok, etc.), and of course, your regular children's party staples marlboro reds and pale pilsen. zag and i only had one said celebration each. and for a good reason - she spent her whole birthday telling everyone to sod off because she was pissed that mom won't let her open her gift: an illuminated-earrings-clad JemTM ("Jem is my name, no one else is the same!") doll. after blowing out seven "magic" candles (those that don't go out easily - which resulted in a saliva drenched birthday cake) perched around a 5-inch tall superman on my Goldilocks sponge cake, dessert was served.

you haven't lived in the 80's if you never tried magnolia's party serving ice cream. they're usually ordered in boxes; the number of kids in a children's party ranged from 20 to 800, a time when all married couples wanted a child to love for each day of the week (it's not yet jun-jun's turn to be breastfed, it's only tuesday). kids would jostle for position around the box, keen on getting the highly-coveted chocolate ice cream - it's chocolate or bust, the other choices were mocha, mango, and the why-do-all-lolas-love-this flavor: ube. after prying the white ridged plastic cup from a dead boy's cold fingers, one checks the color of the scoop of ice cream printed on the cardboard cover before peeling it. being the illiterate that i was, it was the only way i could be certain that what i got was indeed chocolate. every time i got mocha instead, i always thought that there was something amuck with the chocolate.

on that day, i got the last piece on the box - the cup looked lonely and unwanted inside its corrugated board cage. i think this was the first time i said the word "shit" - it had to be ube. shit. how does one begin to describe ube flavored ice cream? first, i must say that violet, plum, purple, or lilac isn't a very appetizing color. the color suggests inedible things - McDonald's Grimace or a day old bruise. and the taste. don't get me wrong, i like halaya (or mashed ube). but we have to admit that there are certain tubers and other subterranean vegetation that are not meant to be ice cream flavors. the day nestle or selecta produces potato or kamote ice cream is the day i will hang myself using my own colon.

and who could forget those little flat wooden spoons that came with the ice cream? those spoons were practically useless when it came to scooping out melted ice cream. good thing kids were smart then; the ice cream was in a cup, so bottoms up was the only way to go. kids were smart, but their aim was poor. ice cream stain was every mother's or yaya's (or the mother-yaya hybrid, when daddy is quite friendly with the help) nightmare during this pre-Ariel era.

ube. this was all that was left in the third world trio zag bought a week ago. the first to go was the super chocolate. all three of us (mom, zag, and i) worked hand in hand to get most of the chocolate out of the tub. the ice cream was frozen solid, and our spoons could only do so much - we ended up with ice cream shavings that night ("pangkayod ng melon, kelangan niyo?"). i have no idea who massacred the mango portion. but it was clear why a half-gallon tub of ice cream lasted a week in our freezer. no one wanted what remained in that yellow plastic container. but i ate it, all of it. certain sacrifices must be made. i've made my family proud. i stood up against this adversary of all things delicious, this four-letter word seldom uttered for its universal inappropriateness and despicability.

kinain ko ang ubeh. i thank you. bow.

Thursday, August 12, 2004

full cavity search: kwentong komyut

almost every full-blooded male has fantasized about being frisked and handcuffed by a playmate of the year (this year's winner - Carmela DeCesare. and i know this because...) in a police officer's uniform while being read a distortion of one's rights ("you have the right to remain horny..."). those delicate hands, always too small to hide the shame of areola and silicone, deftly exploring the unconquered regions of the body in search of a concealed weapon. my batuta perhaps? the operative word here is almost - i say this because i no longer share this fantasy with my playboy mag toting fellows. those who take the mrt would know what i'm talking about.

case in point - the mrt bag inspector. be wary of the tall security guard in the mrt's guadalupe station. he's the one with the sunglasses -those aviator rayban's made popular in the 80's, a universal symbol of authority (top gun's maverick, sgt. slaughter, john regala) - and he's quite a handful. or he gives quite a handful. their search routine is quite simple: the ladies' bags are checked for dangerous paraphernalia (weapons, explosives, a can of spray net), but they are never frisked even by female guards. it's a bit more complicated with us guys - our bags are opened, its insides tossed with what looks like the missing half of a pair of chopsticks. those without carry-all gear are given the simultaneous-belly-back-pat - both palms are used to gently massage both sides of the lower torso. and there are the lucky ones - those who look suspicious enough to be given both the garden-salad-bag-toss, and the back-and-up-the-wazoo-pat. this variation entails the patting of the lumbar region, technically. but for those taller than average blokes (such as myself), their butt-cheek (pick one) gets delicately caressed, with Officer Frisky's hand gliding towards butt-cleavage, and with a swift upward motion, one's hapless ass is given the grocery-atm-card-swipe. transaction approved.

i wouldn't be complaining if Officer Frisky had asked me out first. they don't call me man-slut for nothing.

Saturday, August 07, 2004


jod was laughing the whole time. there's nothing funny about turning shell select inside out, at four in the morning, hoping that no one has taken it while we weren't looking. it wasn't funny either how jc was pretty sure that one of us had it. the chief, tago mo 'to routine has always been an adolescent prank, the perpetrator enjoying the sight of his friend fussing over the loss of a valuable item. the said item is returned only after tears had been shed and the words "papagalitan ako ng nanay ko kapag nalaman niyang nawala ko yon" had been uttered in between sobs. what was remotely funny in the situation we found ourselves in was jc's unfrantic demeanor, displayed by his eloquence and his calm tone -

"pare, okay lang. di ako magagalit kung tinago niyo nga. pero uuwi na kasi ako. halika na."

we were looking for his car keys - the keys to his corolla and steering wheel lock. ah, losing one's car keys - one of two things that can make grown men cry (the other one is getting kicked in the nuts - why they are referred to as such will be the subject of another entry). jod was still laughing, unconvincingly defending his innocence. i was explaining to the poor guy that it wasn't our style to regress and act like a couple of 14 year olds taking pleasure in tormenting their peers (there is a time and a place for this). he wasn't convinced and i was coming close to being exasperated. it was four a.m. we just had breakfast at the adjacent jollibee. our tummies filled, everyone was anxious for a good night's sleep or even a crack at bangungot while we're at it. i was saying things like, "empty the contents of your pockets" - the effect of a healthy overdose of cop shows. it was probably jod's laughter that was keeping him doubtful of our credibility.

"hindi, okay lang. ilabas niyo na lang."

he wasn't pleading with us. he assumed that sooner or later we would hand it to him, have a good laugh, then bring our asses home. it's like, "okay, i get the joke, haha, cough it up para makauwi na." even if he did, what could we have done? we really didn't have it. it's our own time that we were wasting. i was checking my own pockets to see if i had inadvertently pocketed the damn thing. found nothing but the three pesos i had left, keys to my house, and my phone. we went to his car, peered into his tintless windows, making sure he didn't leave them in the ignition. hindi puede, he said, he clearly remembers setting it down at our table in select.

this is where my little story ends. we are all aware of the fallibility of memory. and this is a clear illustration of it. just for kicks, we decided to go back to jollibee and ask the manager whether we left something or not.

"dalawang susi?"

bingo. case closed.