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I have a new journal.
www.livejournal.com/users/maymartinez |
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My dad is a veterinarian, and I remember when I was little, our house was a veritable zoo, what with all the pets we had, and the patients’ pets that were staying with us for observation or operation.
My younger sisters Monique and Hayzel weren’t born yet so it was just me, Kat and Alpee.
The pets occupy a large chunk of my childhood memories. My pig-tailed, scabby kneed days practically revolved around feeding them, walking them, grooming them and playing with them.
I loved every minute of it.
Hello Cuties
We once had Japanese Spitzes, 7 snow-white balls of fur that loved you with everything they had and asked for nothing in return. Weber was the daddy of the bunch, he was the biggest, most complacent and reserved. But he would become all fierce and protective of the other dogs when threatened by other mutts or well-meaning but overly curious people. He was Alpee’s pet.
April was Kat’s dog, properly slender and feminine, to the point of being sickly. Then let’s see there was Kimba.. and well, I really don’t remember the rest.
Toy Doggies
The Spitzes stayed outside the house. The indoor dogs were of the smaller “toy breeds”. There was Dana, the forever-disdainful, snobbish boxer. She wasn’t allowed in the rooms when the air-conditioner was turned on but what the little doña would do was, she would slip her tail under the door of the rooms in an effort to get some of the cool air.
Ms. World was a svelte, poised miniature pinscher, with sleek, velvety brown fur. Ms. World and Dana were Kat’s babies.
The Twink
Then there’s Twink, a hairy, scruffy, too-cute shih-tzu who jumped out of a gift-wrapped box and into my life the day I turned seven. I loved that dog to death. She was the only dog that I ever truly called mine. Many hours did I spend with the special doggy-brush to smooth out her tangled mess of white, cream, black and brown fur-- to make her look like the royal dogs her ancestors were. But she was far too hyperactive, running around and playing with everything that did or did not move, for her hairdos to last a minute.
When we returned home from somewhere, Twink would be at our feet, trying to lick our dirty shoes, the minute we walked into the door. I loved Twink, but doggy drool is doggy drool whatever way you look at it, and so Kat, Alpee and I would run for the nearest sofa or chair, trying to elude Twink’s insistent licking. She always made a mad dash for our scampering feet, and how we shrieked and laughed as we watched her try to jump up the sofa, trying to reach us.
The Others
Other dogs included a gigantic hunk of a dog named Doha, a Great Dane (a breed which I suspected, for sheer size alone, were related to horses) He was the epitome of the gentle giant. Always a little sad-eyed, and slow, always very loving. She was grey, with black spots scattered haphazardly on her body. During Doha’s era in our lives, Hayzel was a tiny child, and once we made her ride on Doha’s back for pictures. Like what they do with kids and the horses in Mines View Park. I thought my mom would have a stroke, but Doha didn’t seem to mind having the tiny girl perched on her back.
Siomai was another of our grand dogs, a bull-mastiff, who never seemed to move, prompting our friends to call her “bato”.For all these big dogs’ bulk, they were the most boring of the lot. They just ate up my dad’s earnings with their dog food portions and they drooled all over the house like a leaky faucet. One night, Siomai ate a poor frog, and that was the end of both frog, and dog.
Martinez Zoo
We had several other pets as well. A Myna bird that had been trained to say “Doc, pogi” and “Good Morning” at all hours of the day. Several goldfish that my brother tried to catch with his fishing rod. We had a parrot, and went through several pairs of love birds. We bought chicks too—yellow, fragile little darlings that Kat and I kept on our bed, and which we lulled to instant sleep by cupping our hands on their tiny backs. The rats would get to them eventually, and mornings we’d be full of dismay at the discovery of the bloody bits and pieces which were once our friends. The one chick that did survive into adulthood ended up as fried chicken one dinner time for us unsuspecting children.
A duck, who stayed in the backyard was wet and squawked all the time. We had a turtle, who lived by himself in a perpetually grimy aquarium Raphael,I think was his name. Kat and Alpee played with that slimy thing all the time and had the ugliest warts on their fingers as a result. I never touched him.
All the pets that didn’t die had to go when we kids began to have asthma attacks. I have outgrown asthma now, which is good because the pets that we do own now are cats and fish (my dad’s a little obsessed with Flowerhorns right now)—animals that I’ve always felt an aversion too. We do have a dog, a mini-pin named Cheska. She reminds me of the manic, paranoid squirrel in Ice Age. She’s so praning—jumping out of her brown skin every time somebody comes near her. What a freak.
Being unable to pet Cheska makes me wish for Twink and our childhood pets even more. Current Mood:  good Current Music: amber is the color of your energy |
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Last night, Len (our production manager) and I were running like headless chickens after learning that we still didn’t have a satisfactory cover page. Who knew that the Great Wall of China could be so darn complicated? We were so desperate that we begged the Getty’s image rep. from Singapore to work overtime so that we could purchase one of their Great Wall pictures.
It was only at around 8 p.m. that the cover was laid out, and ready to go. Finally.
It was also then that Paolo (hmm, I still don’t know exactly what he is in the office, although we’ve taken to calling him our editorial alalay) said that the Congressman from Davao texted him. The whole Mabuhay staff was invited to Davao, free food and accommodations for the duration of the Kadayawan Festival.
Davaoeños young and old loved our August special.
“Southern Star Rising”, the blurb said.
It just so happened that when Sir Jun was writing the piece (which focused on Davao being the next stellar destination down south), Mayor Duterte declared that he was ready for Davao and the rest of Mindanao, to become an independent republic. (Did you see him on TV Patrol, with their own national anthem and flag?)
We were all laughing that the blurb ought to have read “Southern Star Rising...In Rebellion”.
Seditious dreams notwithstanding, Davao is a lovely place. To our stressed, harried selves, Davao is lovely, not so much for the waling-waling or Mount Apo. But more for the Kadayawan’s street parties and free barbecue. With the beaches a mere 10 minutes away from the city.
And they were offering us one whole week of the best of Davao for free? We were ready to jump on the next flight.
The catch was, we’d have to pay for our own airfare. Oh well. Maybe they could send prawns and lechon in the meantime.Current Mood:  hungry Current Music: sunday morning MAROON FIVE |
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40 Things About Me
1. Pick 1 of your scars out now. How did you get it?
On my left arm, scalded by a baking pan
2. What's on the walls of your room?
A black and white photo of Jimmy Stewart from a magazine tribute of his death. Peanuts comic strips. Meteor Garden pictures. Some cut-outs of Audrey Hepburn, Grace Kelly and Marlene Dietrich. Pictures of friends. Jerry Yan pictures. Cine Europa poster I nicked from the Comm. Dept. Two Towers poster courtesy of Robinson's Galleria.
3. Would you rather play or watch football?
I don't do either.
4. What sport would you say you're good at?
Volleyball, and only because my fellow teammates were about as average as me.
5. What was your worst nightmare?
That the devil was at the foot of my bed, pulling my legs.
6. Apples or oranges?
Apples
7. Grapes or watermelon?
Watermelon with salt.
8. Wolves or tigers?
Tigers
9. What sort of music do you listen to?
U2, Coldplay, the Beatles, Stevie Wonder and OPM!
10. Have you ever written poetry?
Tried to. It was in Grade School, inspired by the Ateneo Fair. Hahaha.
11. Do you remember birthdays?
No.
12. Do you know what time you were born?
Seven in the evening
What's your fave phrase to use?
"Whatever" and a couple of swear words picked up from spending too much time with vile male friends,
14. Are you a sweet person?
Everyone except my immediate family seem to think so.
15. What were you doing before you started filling this in?
Writing about Bangkok.
16. What is your favorite gum?
I don't like gum.
17. Fave chocolate?
Milkyway
18. Fave candy?
Nerds
19. Chocolate or vanilla ice-cream?
Vanilla.
20. What is the first thing you notice on someone? (opposite gender)
The eyes
21. What's your fave smell?
Baking bread
22. Fave sound that you hear often?
My message alert tone.
23. What are you thinking about right now?
Going to the mall.
25. What color are your eyes?
Black.
26. Have you ever slept with a stuffed animal?
No.
27. What's the name of the stuffed animal?
?
28. Who was your first crush when you were little?
McGyver
29. What kind of hair do you like on the opposite sex?
Long hair
30. Who out of your friends (same gender) have you known the longest?
Kat, whom I've known since she was a zygote. Yes she's my sister, but more of my friend as we get older.
31. Sunrise or sunset?
Sunset
32. Where can you see yourself being proposed to?
In the beach
33. Movies?
Wong Kar Wai is a surefire bet.
34. Where can you see yourself going for your honeymooon?
Any Aman resort. Hmmm. Aman Wana in Moya Island would be great.
35. Can you play an instrument?
No.
36. Band/s?
U2 and Coldplay.
38. What kind of books do you like to read?
Anything everything.
39. Do you like poetry?
Not if I can't understand them.
40. How do you like your coffee?
With whipped cream and coffee bits. Rhumba frap is yummy.
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Do you notice how things always come to you in the most unexpected places? At the most inconvenient times? I was cooking lunch a while ago, wishing the chicken would fry faster because I had to rush off to the office soon afterwards.
That was when a torrent of topics to write about hit me. Like the candy store in my old elementary school. It was just one glassed-in counter, but it was my own Willy Wonka’s factory. Or about a certain vile VP who continually rejected the studies we sent him, brushing them off with the word “ugly”, as if we were in pre-school taunting each other’s stick drawings.
Ideally, I should be able to leave the chicken wings to burn black, and get my hands on a keyboard. If I were living alone, I could do that. But four empty stomachs were waiting for their lunch.
Now that I’m alone, in front of the computer, I can’t bring myself to write anything. So I write about being unable to write—a completely trite idea because everyone’s been writing about writing or making movies about making movies since Fellini came out with 8 ½.
Current Mood:  dorky Current Music: after the rain has fallen |
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I did overtime on my very first day of work. And not just any overtime, we're talking being at the office until 1 a.m. There I was, typing away about my visit to the Ayala Museum, beating the next-day deadline.
It was a bit extreme after two months of waking up at noon, spending the entire day staring off into space, and getting intimate with late-night TV when everyone else was asleep.
But now, I really wouldn't have it any other way. Right at this moment I'm actually in the office doing some last minute revising, rewriting, researching for the September Beijing special.
Without so much as an exhale, we will plunge right into the October line-up for next week. It gets addicting after a while. My body loves to relax during lazy Sundays, but my mind is looking for its natural, high-strung, stressful state.
The thing I miss most though, are my beloved movies. I am so behind. I haven't even seen Mr. and Mrs. Smith, or War of the Worlds, A Very Long Engagement or Batman Begins. What was the last movie I watched? It couldn't have been 2046, that was ages ago.
Aug. 7th, 2005 @ 12:13 am
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| » Back From the Dead |
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The big news at home is this: We find out that my brother is not actually deaf and mute and autistic as we'd all long ago concluded.
Where he used to humiliate us by pointedly ignoring questions directed at him, he is piping in conversations that don't concern him. When I said that Davao was going to be a country if Mayor Duterte had his way, "Mindanao Republic," he quietly corrected me.
If before, his nose would become abnormally enlarged, his face unnaturally taut as he tried holding in a guffaw, while we were all laughing our heads off at dinner table stories, now he's a regular Adam Sandler. For instance, right now he's taken a leave of absence from school, a non-performing asset of the economy. In short, a bum. He watches TV the entire day, eats, then at night, he goes out with friends. We've all been walking on eggshells trying to not make him feel useless. Then one day at noon, he emerged from his room having just woken up, in all his shirtless, mussed up hair, multi-pierced and tattooed glory, proclaiming to the people in the living room: "Nandito na ang hari. Itapat sa kin ang electric fan at buksan ang TV."
He even has a YM ID and a Photobucket account and a blog for crying out loud. Kat and I find this hilarious for some reason. He was always so brooding, and aloof.
It's like he's returned from the depths of whatever he was being so angsty about. We're all mystified. And happy.
Maybe I'll have my brother back now. The one who used to sing Mariah Carey songs late into the night with Kat and me as we lay in our darkened room. The one who played Green 2, to Kat's Yellow 4 and my Pink 5. The little boy who would wordlessly enter our room in the dead of the night with his blanket and pillow, during the times we had seen a particularly scary movie. The one who endured our merciless teasing just so he could sleep with us for the night. Aww, I'm getting sappy again.
But I do miss Alpee. You could actually miss somebody even if you live with them.
Jul. 22nd, 2005 @ 09:24 am
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| » ROCK SAMARITANS |
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After months of lobbying in the political arenas, sitting through tedious Capitol Hill and World Bank sessions, U2 frontman Bono partners up with fellow musician Bob Geldof and tries to save the world the best way they know how: through a rock concert.
Live 8 kicked off in London with U2 and Paul McCartney singing “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club,” the first line of which went, “It was 20 years ago today,” –an allusion to the Live Aid concert held two decades ago, organized to raise money for famine-stricken Ethiopia.
But Live 8 is not an encore to Live Aid, as Bob Geldof keeps insisting–it’s a brand new song whose vision lie beyond the tin cup, charity dreams of Live Aid. It is a series of huge concerts across five continents, timed around the meeting of the world’s eight most powerful nations, the G-8 summit , and its goals are nothing shot of monumental.
It doesn’t aim to alleviate poverty, it wants to erase it. G8 leaders take heed. Live 8 is demanding for Africa: 25 billion in aid, demolition of trade barriers, and the cancellation of its debt. For the rest of the world, Live 8 doesn’t want your money. It wants you. “We are not asking you to put your hand in your pocket, we are asking you to put your fist in the air,” Bono says. Geldof and Bono have been the two most passionate and visible Africa activists, with Bono landing the cover of Time in 2003, and murmurs of a Nobel Prize in the works for Geldof
If the numbers say anything, it’s that people have embraced Live 8’s anthem as their own. A million people showed up in Philadelphia to watch Destiny’s Child, Stevie Wonder and Alicia Keys. While in London, U2, Paul McCartney and Madonna played to a crowd 200,000 strong. Tens of thousands rocked to the rhythms of the gigs in Paris, Germany, Canada, Russia and Tokyo. In the face of criticism for lack of African artists in the roster of performers, a concert was hastily set up in Johannesburg, South Africa showcasing the continent’s musical best. Still it was Nelson Mandela who drew the biggest cheers in that concert, as he told the G8 countries “it is within your power to avoid a genocide of humanity.” An estimated 2 billion people watched the coverage all over the world, while 26 million texted in their support, defeating the record for the reality show America Idol.
In the light of this higher cause, the familiar song lines gained new resonance. Sting’s “I’ll be watching you”, promised vigilance to the G8 leaders. The crowds went wild with Elton John’s “children of the revolution.” Paul McCartney sang the Beatle’s “The long and winding road”, which aptly described the Live 8 concerts’ culmination: a trek to the G8 site in Edinburgh Scotland, dubbed “The long march to freedom”, participated in by some 200,000 people.
Whether a rock concert can really save a continent still remains to be seen, but there’s no question that Live 8 was able to achieve this much– it injected a sense of urgency, and even a gloss of glamour to a crisis that seems so remote and unfashionable. If these rich, accomplished rock stars can care about a crisis happening miles away from their mansions, why not you?
Jul. 9th, 2005 @ 11:31 pm
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| » From mcsweeneys.com |
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THINGS
YOU CAN LEARN
ABOUT THE PLOT OF
THE NEXT HARRY POTTER
BOOK JUST BY LOOKING
AT THE COVER ART.
BY MATTHEW A. COHEN
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Given his prominent placement on the cover, it is unlikely that the first line of the book will be "Harry was surprised and saddened by Dumbledore's sudden death, and he vowed to never think of the old wizard again."
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Harry is getting older, but he's still not old enough to get bifocals.
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Harry will learn a powerful new spell that will help him fight off the forces of darkness. Or perhaps somebody just spiked the punch bowl for Hogwart's junior prom.
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The lady who illustrates the covers ran out of blue paint on The Order of the Phoenix, so she had to switch to green. Will the seventh book be hot pink? I, for one, can't wait to find out.
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Judging by the way he is wielding his wand, Harry is left-handed. Why did J.K. Rowling leave out this important detail from the first five books? Perhaps Harry has entered a mysterious mirror world. Or maybe that's not the real Harry but a magical doppelgänger. I hope it's a doppelgänger. I'm rather proud of the fact that I can not only define but also spell the word doppelgänger, and, frankly, it doesn't come up a lot in casual conversation. I haven't been able to use it since I read The Brothers Karamazov. See? I've read Dostoyevsky. I told you I was a smart guy.
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Based on an analysis of the handwriting used to spell out "and the Half-Blood Prince," we can conclusively state that in Book 6 Lucius Malfoy will be killed, Ron and Hermione will begin dating, and Snape will finally get to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts.
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We still can't determine the identity of the half-blood prince, but we can safely assume that this mysterious figure has been supplying Harry with all the fixings for his awesome, glowing bong.
Jun. 29th, 2005 @ 08:54 am
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| » (No Subject) |
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I ride with my friend Mela every morning going to Ortigas. She works a street away, at HSBC. Arriving 30 minutes early for work, we wait at Starbucks right across her building at Discovery Suites. It was at that point, one morning when we were talking about overtime, and investments (mostly hers, since I have not a modicum of business acumen in my body) and career paths, that it hit me. We sounded just like our parents.
Was it just three years ago? Our parents, Mela’s and mine, were discussing mortgages, educational plans and other grow-up concerns during lunch at Mela’s house in Tagaytay. Us “puberty girls” sat around giggling at how unhip it all sounded. Unhip.
And was it really that long ago when we girls had dinner at Friday’s, our first real girls’ night out, when talks revolved around the future when we’d be yuppies who’d have late night beer and intelligent conversations. Proving that we were still a far cry from being independent, capable women, was the fact that we were P100 short for the bill. Mela had to run to her mom, who was thankfully around the area, to borrow some money.
You never actually feel the process of growing up, growing old. You just wake up one day and you just are. I’m not saying I’m the very embodiment of maturity right now. Lord knows I still sometimes shop at the children’s section of department stores, and that my 13-year old sister and I will move heaven and earth for Meteor Garden, Hey Arnold and Sponge Bob.
It's just that, I have an SSS and TIN number now. Bills to pay every month. And several godchildren. How can I be a tita or ninang when I have a Friendster account and a high school love life.
Jun. 24th, 2005 @ 09:06 am
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| » PRO BONO! |
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I love Anwar Robinson of American Idol. He has kind eyes and a voice like Stevie Wonder’s. His very first song as a top 12 finalist was a stylized Moonriver. All three judges gave him props for it.
And, yet another reason to love Bono: He is an excellent writer. Yes, we all know his brilliance as a songwriter, churning out lyrics that are wonderfully ambiguous and right-on-the-mark at the same time. And of course his no-nonsense work as founder of the African Aid organization DATA. These he balances with a healthy dose of “the rockstar’s fundamental right to be ridiculous”. He says this was way too important to yield. Where else can you find a guy who can party and save the world at the same time.
Bono's resume: U2 frontman and songwriter,DATA founder and prime spokesperson.And now, bless me, he can add writer to the list.
His write-up of economist friend Jeffrey Sachs balances the appeal to emotion, and good old-fashioned common sense. This appeared in the TIME 2005 Most Influential People in the World issue.
"Some academics are said to live in ivory towers. Jeffrey Sachs, 50, is a pioneer of the mud-hut school of thought. He is an economist who loves statistics because they are pictures of people’s live—people in many cases, for whom economics means working out how to feed a family on less than a dollar a day. The equations in Jeff’s head interest him because they reveal how we might be able to change the world we inhabit.
The title of his new book “The End of Poverty” sounds lofty. It is lofty. But a poverty of ambition isn’t going to prevent the deaths of 30,000 children daily from malaria, a preventable and treatable disease, or from hunger in a world of plenty. Jeff’s hardheaded analysis does not stop at why and how to do all this. He’s just as concerned with who and when. Governments, take cover: he knows where you park your cars and he’s not afraid to break into them.
When this man gets going, he’s more like a Harlem preacher than a Boston bookworm. I first met Jeff in 1999 at Harvard University when I was taking a crash course on the subject of debt cancellation. He had a reputation for being brilliant, controversial, passionate. I was struck by his uncanny ability to communicate arcane, complex economic policy and by his punk-rock instinct to question the status-quo. He set out to turn upside down the conventional economic wisdom that nothing could be done about poor countries sinking under the burden of old debts. He was proved right. For those countries that were owed money, debt relief cost next to nothing and no one noticed. For those countries that had next to nothing, it provided doctors, teachers, schools and clinics. The vision Jeff outlines in his latest book has far greater pay-offs—ultimately a more equitable and safer world. In the 21st century, the least we can do is put it to the test."
Ooh-la-la!
Jun. 1st, 2005 @ 10:37 pm
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| » Lucy! |
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May. 22nd, 2005 @ 09:45 pm
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| » Peppermint Patty! |
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I love Peppermint Patty
May. 22nd, 2005 @ 09:36 pm
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| » Because ABS CBN is airing Meteor Garden again |
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A Case of Strange Love or How I learned to stop worrying and love Meteor Garden
July, 2003
I consider myself media savvier than the average person. I’d like to think this is how my Communication electives have shaped me. Media Studies trained me to be a critical media consumer; I studied the ideologies behind Starbucks print ads and analyzed the notions of truth that we get from Disney movies. Elements of Screen Arts exposed the constructedness of the cinema, how certain techniques in lighting, editing and sound all work to evoke a specific emotional response from the audience. Communication Theory bashed the simplistic notion of media effects, which paints people as mere sponges who are only capable of absorbing media stimuli and responding accordingly.
I pride myself on the fact that, armed with three years worth of critical tools, it takes a lot for a media product to sweep me off my feet. Everybody else can mindlessly latch onto the latest pop culture offering. The latest boyband, the endless Kristine and Echo teleseryes, the next comic book to make the jump to big budget blockbuster. But not I. I have taste.
Who knew that a telenovela starring a preposterously, effeminately named boyband could make me throw all my critical faculties out the window? But no matter how hard I try to suppress it, I admit it. I am a crazed, slobbering, I-waited-five hours-under-the-pouring-rain-for-"The Event", Meteor Garden fan.
Not only do I watch every single episode, I have gone irredeemably down the oft-trodden road of the quintessential, modern-day fan. The characters’ likeness appears on my computer’s wallpaper, screensaver and in my cellphone's inbox. Their posters (bought surreptitiously for P10 in Quiapo) are crowding out Francois Truffaut, The X-Files and Edward Norton on my bedroom wall. You know that Mandarin song, Ni Yao De Ai, which plays ubiquitously on the show? I know it by heart. Our African lovebirds are named after the show’s loveteam, Dao Ming Si and Shan Cai.And just last Monday, I paid a good amount of money for a VCD collection of the entire first season.
For those of you living under a rock for the past few months, here’s the skinny on the show that’s got me wrapped around its exquisite Taiwanese finger. Meteor Garden, shown daily on ABS-CBN, is a Taiwanese telenovela based on a comic book entitled, well, "Men are Better Than Flowers" (Hana Yori Dango). If you can stop laughing for a while, I’ll tell you the plot.
Shan Cai (played by Taiwanese star Barbie Xu) is a poor girl forced by her loving-- if social climbing-- parents to enter Ying Te Academy. The school is less a place for education than for the public display of its affluent students’ latest acquisitions: clothes, cars and cosmetics. There, spunky, feisty Shan Cai clashes with the F4. (Flower 4, because the boys are so “pretty”). These four boys, all filthy rich, all sporting impeccably styled hair, strut around the campus like school royalty. Dao Ming Si (Jerry Yan), he of the pineapple-style mane, is F4’s crown prince. Ruthless and vicious, he seems to have taken pointers from Saddam Hussein in ruling his own “kingdom”. But, unexpectedly and inexplicably (to himself, most of all), Dao Ming Si falls in love with the tomboyish Shan Cai. This twist is the jumping- off point of all that follows in the show’s story.
If we’re to talk about transmissibility, SARS has nothing on F4 fever. Teenyboppers everywhere screamed for Dao Ming Si and Hua Zhe Lei on street interviews and online surveys. Constituents of a province threatened to remove from power a congressman who threatened to take Meteor Garden off the air (“lewd” content, the KJ says). These same people were also behind the requests for F4 pop songs on rock channel UnTV-- annoying the hell out of the show’s mostly male patrons.
As for me, I dared not mention my own fondness for the show to any of my friends. Meteor Garden was on its merry way to becoming a full-blown teenybopper, masa phenomenon. And with taste, being the very index of personality that it is these days, I did not want to be mistaken for an infantile lowbrow.
Imagine my surprise when one day in Philosophy class, I caught this question being asked by one of my classmates: “So what happened na to,” then in a cautious voice, hardly audible, “Dao Ming Si?” I almost jumped in on the conversation. Several similar incidents followed. The girl I was sitting next to at the cafeteria, seemingly intent on her Chemistry book, was actually flipping through a deck of Meteor Garden playing cards hidden inside it. And while having brunch with my friend, my cell phone rang, betraying my—yikes!-- Ni Yao De Ai ring tone. I reddened as he began reproaching me, “Ano ba yan, kakahiya ka.” I was about to defend myself when he added, “At least yung akin polyphonic.” He then proceeded to play the same song from his Nokia 3650.
With Meteor Garden closet cases coming out in amusing, unexpected ways, I got past tentative admissions and sheepishness with my own friends. And wonder of wonders! We found ourselves all guilty of the very same pleasure.
But when Meteor Garden came up in conversation, as it often did, while we were in public places, our conversations were always guarded. An elbow-jabbing, suppressed-laughter experience. I for one, would only feel comfortable discussing the show in terms of its shining merits in content and form.
The conversation would bounce around Dao Ming Si, the unapologetic tough guy with the requisite heart of gold and the show’s irreverent humor and witty double entendres.("May hihigit pa ba sa pagkalalake ko?" and “Mauna na kami ha, mga virgin!”). We’d praise its utter refusal to take itself too seriously, the overriding tongue-in-cheek attitude of its characters. In the show, we said, the characters refreshingly displayed their flaws and foibles with raw candor. Then we’d mention a thing or two about its muted lighting and beautiful cinematography—lending the show, we said, an air of entrancing elegance.
We would sometimes inject some Media Studies jargon here and there to coat our conversations with an intellectual gloss. Once, we talked of Meteor Garden being a postmodern product-- a phenomenon of our times. How it crossed and blurred the boundaries of geography, cultures and media.
Consider this: it is a Taiwanese TV show based on a Japanese anime, based on Japanese manga (comic book) starring Mando-pop stars, dubbed in Filipino.
It is, after all, hip to use pop culture to discuss the compelling issues of today. The celebrated philosopher du jour Slavoj Zizek, used material from The Matrix, the Bond films and Minority Report to illustrate his points about America post-9/11.
Oh, but then again, who’s kidding whom? Theory-mongering often gets tedious. Even Zizek admitted he felt cursed by this compulsion. You should hear the conversations we have about Meteor Garden in private.
It’s all monosyllables of arggghs! and eeeeehs! punctuated by long bouts of churlish laughter. We sigh about Dao Ming Si’s cute dimples and bad English. We relive every cosmic Dao Ming Si and Shan Cai moment.
It amuses me to no end that even with all those media lessons that have led me to appreciate classic works and challenging media products, my love of fluff just simply refuses to die.
Well, maturity and sophistication be damned. Years from now I won’t remember Meteor Garden for bringing Philippine social realities to the surface. I’ll remember it as the show that made my crusty, snotty, 21-year old self again laugh her loudest, cry her hardest and behave her silliest. And that is worth being called jologs any day.
May. 6th, 2005 @ 03:04 pm
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| » In The Bedroom |
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I believe in Relativity. My bedroom is a prime example. When I was a kid, it was huge. Jumping from my bed to my sister’s bed was an Olympic feat. The room was large enough to become our very own SM Department Store (one of my childhood ambitions was to become a cashier). It also accommodated our Noontime Shows, where our production numbers were held. I would descend from a stack of pillows, onto the bed, which was the stage, and into the arms of my throng of adoring fans.
Our room was also the spot for our Horror House booth, a re-imagination of the one that had scared us to pieces in Fiesta Carnival. Us three elder siblings plus some macabre expertise courtesy of our best cousin Empi (our own Dill, if you’ve read “To Kill A Mockingbird”) would guide the sole customer-- my baby sister Hayzel-- through our Horror House over and over again. Each of the various segments (Graveyard, Mad Scientist’s Lab, Alcatraz), designed to be more terrifying with every new tour. Looking back, I am less surprised by our careless exploitation of my sister as a lab rat for our mad-genius experiments, than by the idea that our room was big enough for our Horror House to have different sections.
Shizzle Dizzle--My brother Alpee
By far, the Reenactments of whole Peter Pan episodes (the Tagalized version shown on Channel 2) could also be contained in our room. The story spanned lakes, and tree-top homes, Tiger Lily’s territory, to the shores where Captain Hook’s ship was docked.
My sister Kat
Right now, four people in my room equals claustrophobia. Even when we’ve traded in our queen sized beds for bunkbeds. Even when we’ve discarded our twin desks and most of our toys. Our room’s so cramped that my sister and I get a kick out of imagining that we’d host a party in our room, with the top bunk as the terrace, the lower bunk as the kitchen, We’d deadpan to our guests, “We have more tables in the ‘terrace’!” or “Help up yourself to the drinks are ‘downstairs’.”
May. 4th, 2005 @ 04:25 pm
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| » Picture Taking! |
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At JC's birthday with Allan and Kat
Hitler's Mom?
Father Nick's favorite,hehe.
Mia and Kang
Apr. 29th, 2005 @ 11:40 pm
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| » (No Subject) |
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The three of us used to be inseparable: Alpee, Kat and I. My cousin Empi’s addition to our group officially put the Fab in Four.
We were Red 1, Green 2, Yellow 4 and Pink 5 of the Biomen. We were Leonardo, Donatello, Raphael and Michaelangelo of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. We were X-Men and the Ghostbusters. Our nemeses could be as scary and as invincible as we wanted them to be. Our adventures perilous enough to be always life-threatening, which made our triumphs all the more glorious.
When our super-hero alter-egos had delivered their share of crime-fighting, we took on roles that were just as alien and just as fascinating for us. We played Grown-ups.
Kat and I put our velvety brown bath towels to fashionable use, wrapping them around
our waist as mini-skirts. We filled some scratch paper with talcum powder and rolled them up like lumpia. We puffed and crossed our legs, and made small talk and celebrated our boss’ party.
A play-doh set that smelled of America—new and air-conditioned—was all the capital we needed to put a fastfood restaurant. We christened our burger venture: The Kulang-kulang Restaurant. Exasperated patrons, ie. Relatives who we managed to ambush with our pens and order slips never received the food they ordered. “Out of stock” was our food server’s standard response. Our unfortunate titos and titas were then left to guess at the blue-green, lumpy concoction staring up at them from a “My little Tea Party” plate.
One election year, we were campaign managers and supporters. Our chosen candidate bore no merit more important than having an amusing last name. “Paculdo”, God bless that man wherever he is right now. While a party was in full swing in my grandparents’ living room, we holed ourselves up in my lolo’s office furiously designing our campaign posters, buttons and headgear. At a well-appointed time (dinner), we marched out, single-file chanting “PA-CULDO!”.
Our titos and titas, seized by fits of laughter, all nearly choked on their lechon.
Apr. 13th, 2005 @ 10:58 pm
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| » Drive |
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The color of those drives is orange. That cellophane orange color the roads are bathed in, when it's close to midnight and the streetlights have taken over the sun's duties. We were alone, those late nights with nothing but those long stretches of near-empty, glowing roads ahead of us.
The passenger seat always made me feel tiny. Like I was being hugged from behind by a very large someone who was bundled in thick corduroy. When he spoke, I would turn just a fraction to my left, still snug in the coduroy embrace, to look at him.
His eyes never left the road when he talked. But the driving never got in the way of the conversations. Somewhere along the way to becoming what we were, we had skipped the small talk part. We had plunged right into the juicy topics, matters that kept us awake at night. So things like our future plans, our dream destinations and the finer points of that movie or this song were but natural even for a little ride home.
His face was an essay in guilelessness. He is one of the few people I know who is yet to be initiated in the art of ironic detachment. Oncoming cars' headlights would highlight the uncensored expression on his face. Being the sarcastic college senior that I was, these outbursts of emotion were a natural target of mockery. And I did tease him a lot. But inside, I was smiling for a different reason.
Just below the sound of our voices was the music he played. It was more of a musical score rather than soundtrack, for it was always background, and never intrusive. He loved old songs, jazzy tunes. If you know him as I do, this would come as a surprise. His personality seemed better suited to worldly, arrogant hip-hop. But there it was, wafting from the car's speakers. Twist of Jobim, and Gypsy Kings. Morricone and Mancini.
Sometimes we'd take a pit stop before he brought me home. Often for a drink, maybe two, at one of those after-hours places he knew so well. The night would officialy end I knew when the last drop had been drunk. So I always made it a point to take the tiniest sips possible. But the time with him never was enough. For me there were always and always will be, words still left unsaid.
I would alight from his car and he would say good night. We left our next drive, our next meeting-- entirely up to chance. We were no better or worse than when the drive started, we had moved neither forward or backward.
It was what it was-- glowing roads, snatches of conversation, wisps of song. As precious as the moment headlights lit his face, and just as fleeting.
Mar. 20th, 2005 @ 11:56 pm
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| » Oscar The Grouch |
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I loved that Charlie Kauffman won for original screenplay. And Alejandro Amenabar, wow. He made Abre Los Ojos and Tesis when he was 21 years old, that was 2 years ago I think. So he's only 24 and already, an Oscar winner. Morgan Freeman hands down, deserved the supporting actor Oscar. And though I'm sure Clint Eastwood was brilliant in directing Million Dollar Baby, I think an Oscar is long overdue to Martin Scorsese. Come on, after Raging Bull, Taxi Driver, and the more recent Gangs of New York. Maybe they're waiting until he's a really old geezer and then present him with the lifetime achievement award.
Feb. 28th, 2005 @ 05:01 pm
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| » A head for a pinky |
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My father has been practicing Veterinary Medicine for over two decades. He has had his fair share of bites from cranky, pregnant, or just plain crazy canines. These injuries were slight, and they usually meant minor fist aid by my mom (with Agua Oxinada and a trusty little band-aid), and an interesting discussion during dinner time.
Then came a poodle slash di-tiyak cross-breed ominously named Mokong. My dad was performing a routine injection when, for reasons still uknown, Mokong turned all Hannibal and bit off my father’s pinky. Blood gushed, a bone was exposed, and he was whisked off to the Orhopedic Hospital, but not before my brother salvaged the amputated finger.
Alas, the pinky that has served dad so well through many an operation or injection, could not be restored to its rightful place. This morning I woke up, the daughter of a 9-fingered man.
With the danger of rabies fatality in check, we of course, laughed at the situation during lunch. We were joking that my brother had stashed the lopped-off pinky under his pillow and could be heard muttering “My preciousssss!”at unholy hours of the day. And upon finding out that my dad was injected with contra-rabies at the buttocks (among other places) and that a gay nurse had done the honors, we could not help but drop double entendres. “Tinurukan!” “In-injection!”
By the middle of our meal, the nine-fingered man was laughing like his old boisterous self.
But our mission was only half-done. We were going to have the mangy culprit’s head. Literally. It is a dog’s decapitated head that is examined at the Laboratory for any traces of rabies.
And with Mokong’s owner’s go-ahead, Mokong is a dead dog walking. There were no shortage of volunteer executioners, even my youngest sister had the glint of revenge in her eyes.
Mokong, you bit off my master’s pinky, now prepare to die!
Happy 2005 everyone.
Dec. 31st, 2004 @ 03:44 pm
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