Christmas is a two-edged sword

THE HOLIDAYS work both ways.

I did a lot of thinking about the coming Christmas and New Year while staying at home with the kids. (And when you're left alone with the kids, you get to think about lot of things). And I'm convinced Holidays make you happy only if you're already happy. When you feel miserable, they only make things worse.

Think about it. It's like having a drink. After a few bottles, it's either you feel bliss, or crap. One makes you feel even better, the other makes you cross to the dark side.

Lt. Dan explained it without saying a word in Forrest Gump. When in the din of New Year's Eve revelry at a bar filled with merry-makers, he sat there frozen – tinsel and confetti trapped in his hair – and remembered that he's still a forgotten soldier who lost his feet in the war.

Well my sad theory has nothing to do with what I'm writing now, except that it also concerns the Holidays.

In the process of this year's gift-giving chores, Vangie informed me that I have a grand total of 32 godchildren. Quite a feat, if you ask me, though I know someone from office who has more than 50 of them.

I have 13 girls and 19 boys. The oldest two are already 18 years old. I was their age when they were baptized. The youngest is three. That means nobody asked me to become their kid's ninong for the past three years. I still don't have wedding godchildren.

Vangie has about the same number of godchildren as mine (we are both ninong and ninang to one boy whose mother we helped rushed to the hospital to give birth to him). She keeps track of the children's ages, but even then things get mixed up once in a while.

One particular year, I inadvertently gifted a god-son kiddie basketball goal with plastic ball. Turned out he's already in his teens by then.

Then only a few years ago, I gave one of my god-sons pink, embroidered cheong-sam. It's because I didn't ask the boys' parents – who are our officemates – what's their kids' gender and instead asked a fellow ninong who also didn't attend the baptism.

Like the past few Holidays, we have prepared our Holiday attire this year. We have started a small family tradition to wear identical shirts on either Christmas or New Year. It's not as expensive as our previous get-ups, but something I expect to draw attention no less. Because it has our picture emblazoned on its front.

Horror movies that actually scare you

ONE evening on the long drive home, I asked Vangie which type of horror movies scares her most. Maybe it's because a couple of days back we watched Kulam, a movie whose screenplay was written by one of our close friends.

Well I find the movie entertaining. Made in the same vein as the so-called Asian horror genre, which packs lot of surprises at every turn, and cashes in on strong sound effects and straightforward editing.

All through the movie, I was trying to recall if there are scenes that I may have been familiar with. Something its writer Elmer may have already told me back when we were killing long hours in between subjects at UST. Even back then, I knew he is a prolific writer.

But back to that conversation I was having with my wife.

Quickly she rattled off the movies that made her scream in horror while watching them,``Sukob...Fung Shui...Sixth Sense.''

For her, the presence of a murderous beast like that in Sukob is most frightening. The chase along dark, narrow alleys. Dimlit stairways. And the image of a grotesque, violent being gaining slowly on the hapless victim causes her fear worse than anything else.

Then she mentioned Evil Dead, the movie with zombies storming into a house whose occupants were dumb enough to keep another undead down its basement. That is also in my list.

But my idea of scary movie is different from her altogether.

I dread the movies which jolts you silly (The Eye). With evil spirits (Exorcist). Or a character who in the early part of the movie used to be stable but is slowly losing his or her mind as the story goes (The Shining).

There's a scene in The Eye where a disturbed ghost jumped straight at the main character because she was sitting at her favorite seat. Before that movie, ghosts generally scare people by just standing there. Here, they not only join people in elevator rides, they also attack. That scared the hell out of me.

But nothing beats the girl who throws up in Sixth Sense. The moment the boy turned on his flashlight inside his makeshift tent – and discovered he's got company – I let out a loud, primal scream. Something that I think if I kept inside me, would cause terrible damage to my health.

I was just warming up with several more films up my sleeves, when Vangie suddenly cut me and asked me to stop.

It's scaring her already.

Badminton kung fu style

DOES anybody remember Chinese movies on Sunday mornings when we were kids? Unlike nowadays, they were not dubbed in English or Filipino back then. And the subtitles were, painfully, still in Chinese. It's like knowing something is going on but they just won't let you in.

Well for the most part, they are Kung Fu movies. Masters and students. The master teaches every fighting style he knows, but ends up getting killed by his student – who molds his own style to match that of his master.

I thought about it now while preparing for a badminton tournament. I took up the sport a few years ago, and after a while I convinced several of my friends to play it also. One of them is Volt, my friend from way back.

Because he started out playing with me, he somehow mastered my moves. And much to my dismay, he developed a perfect antidote against my style. Somehow, he knows when I'm hitting a smash or flicking a drop shot corner of the net just by looking at how I arched my arms.

My fancy for that feathery crosscourt net shot just won't work against him anymore. Now I have a hard time winning against him.

Well, last Saturday our paths crossed once again. We went against each other with separate partners.

We won first set, 21-12, something that surprised me because I was expecting a lot of fight from him and his partner who is an advanced player among females in their lineup.

There were a lot of spots in defense, and the returns are just a tad short of the usual, allowing us perfect opportunities to place our shots. Second set, they showed some pride. With us leading 18-14, they raced back and tied the score.

That was major test of character and, if it were actually a Kung Fu movie, that's the part where the students taunt the master, by saying ``you think you can beat me huh?!

Well in fairness to Volt and his partner, they didn't say any word to that effect. Instead, they silently worked their way out of the hole, firing well-placed shots while me and my partner frantically attempted to stop the bleeding.

A deep lob shot to the left corner box made it 19-18 in their favor, but I flicked a drop shot to the right to make it even. My partner served, Volt once again lifted it to my back-hand. I got ahead of the shuttlecock and lifted it back. They missed.

We served. Long rally took place. But it was clear our rivals' partnership still lacked seasons. They lined up in attacking position to the left, and match-point fell like a burning arrow to the unguarded side of their court.

Ateneo-La Salle: dream match, nightmare coverage

NEWS from the internet: A patron seat for the Ateneo-La Salle UAAP finals game fetched P25,000 from ebay. If I'm not mistaken a Big Dome ticket that close to the action is worth P500 at face value, but its prices get to soar to crazy heights during the games featuring the two rival schools.

I've had a chance to cover a few games pitting the Blue Eagles and the Green Archers in the past – they've only fought for the crown three times since I became a sportswriter, 2003, 2004 and this year. The previous championship duel they had in 1988 I watched as an AB freshman at UST.

But I hardly enjoyed covering it, though. Parking is hell. When you get inside the backgate of the Araneta, there are long queues to the entrance. They check your name from a master list, cross it out, put an access pass around your wrist, and stamp you with it.

There is rowdy crowd even inside the press room, and getting into the press row (the place at ringside supposed to be reserved for us) is impossible because all big-shots, like senators, congressmen, sports officials, from the two schools already occupy it.

Almost always, we cover the game slumped on the floor underneath the goal. Mind you, that is something that could work for our advantage because we could easily slip outside into the working area after the final buzzer before the crowd collapses onto the players heading into the exits.

If you're a new reporter, it would be hard not to get overwhelmed by those ``big event'' matches, especially if you came from the two schools. But since I didn't, I have no problem with it.

Well the reason I thought of it was that while I was discussing the finals (which landed on Inquirer page 1 by sheer magnitude) with Vangie on the way home, she asked if I fancy covering a game that practically everybody is talking about.

So I gave her a piece of my mind regarding my kind of basketball coverage.

Given the choice, I would prefer to cover a lopsided game between the least popular teams in the league. That readily assures peace and quiet. You can park anywhere you want, the ticket ushers you graciously inside, and airconditioning works better.

``You still have to cover the games, right?''

Well, the kind of game I'd love to cover must have double-digit leads that keeps growing. Players are not defending anymore, and it was open-court, fastbreaking game all throughout. There are vast stretches of empty seats; bleachers are no man's land; and both teams have nothing more to lose as they are already closing out a bad season.

``But nobody cares about that kind of game.''

Precisely. But I still have to stay until the final buzzer to make sure no players died during the game.

``Do you still keep scores?''

Of course, I watch the first three quarters on the TV monitor inside the press room to make sure I get the biggest lead, who scored that basket and at what point of the game it was scored. But otherwise, coverage will be a walk in the park. I take my own sweet time to the snack bar and get pizza and coke. Greet people. Surf the internet. Make some calls. Text a friend.

``That must get your adrenalin pumping.''

Then, at the start of the fourth period, I go out to take my place in the deserted press box. All clear and no distraction at all. If the lead keeps getting bigger, the better. That would give me enough time to write my story ahead of time. You don't want endgame dramatics in this kind of coverage.

Things you can do in a mall

THERE are a lot of things you can do nowadays that you simply can't under the same situation some 10 years ago.

One Saturday at the mall, I wrote three news articles for my newspaper; went banking; and had a facial treatment in succession. All of them in the confines of the mall. I walked leisurely in between my tasks, a tall tumbler of fruit juice in hand, in cargo shorts, shirt and slippers.

If it were 1998, I'd still have to get to the office to write my stories. I can do it via fax machine but even that would be difficult because there were few places outside the office which had one.

A few years back I was issued my first laptop computer, which was a groundbreaking event in local journalism as everybody else in the sports beat was just using typrewriters or electronic writers back then.

We used modem and connected through the phone to transmit the stories, but then again when there's no game coverage you have to rely on interviews to gather information. And cellphones didn't really enter the scene until very late into the 1990s.

Banking, inside the mall, at weekend, was unheard of five years ago. But last Saturday, I breezed through it opening a new ATM account.

Then I went for facial treatment.

I took small, unsure steps to the counter. It was my first facial since 1998 when I was preparing for my wedding. I told them I want my pores cleaned and blackheads and whiteheads removed. They recommended deep down facial treatment with chocolate mask.

The attendant assigned to me was business-like and buckled down to work in no time. She washed my face first with cold cream, rinsed with towel paper. Then repeated the process for the second time.

In my periperal vision I saw another guy having a facial treatment himself. I think he was having vanilla or mocha topping.

Then she brushed my face, gently with a small, tingly stick. Applied cold cream then brushed it again, this time with smaller, thinner bristles. Vacuum. Then she did the pricking.

It was as if being stabbed by an oversized needle in the face. Repeatedly. Tears rolled down my cheeks, but she was quick to wipe it away. She may not be good at small talk, but she wasn't about to let anybody see me cry.

Not another cake, please

THE INQUIRER recently came out with great lists of the yummiest cakes – both baked privately and commercially – in and around Metro Manila. The cakes are recommended by the experts in the field and were chosen from countless others.

One thing about cake is that it has a way of putting smile on people's faces. No matter where you stand in the social ladder. Even when slammed on somebody's face, like in the movies, it evokes laughter.

I can't think of anything bad to say about cake. For many, it's a comfort food. Something that makes you feel better when you like crap. It conjures happy times of birthdays and weddings. I haven't seen a cake served in funerals.

Back to the lists, a lot didn't make the cut, but I must say that those which landed in the lists rightfully deserved it.

Why? Because I tasted some of them. Actually, I ate a lot of them. A handful of them ended up in our ref at home. Some came in big styropore boxes with dry ice on them so it won't easily melt. Others in fancy containers that also looked delicious as the cakes in them.

I had them for breakfast. Desserts. And even as midnight snacks. When I go to the ref to get something else, I end up taking piece of it. It has become a way of life for us in the house for quite a time.

Pistachio Sans Rival. Pistachio Symphony. Concorde. Dark Hazelnut Crunch. Claycakes with Chocolate Sauce. Pastillas de Leche Cheesecake. Mango Charlotte. Most of them are layered with ice cream and topped by fresh fruits. But some of them can only be bought through advance orders, and for a hefty price.

But after about 15 to 20 slices, they begin to taste the same. The palate could barely distinguish one from the other, and their details are blurred by creamy sweetness.

When the whole slab of Polly's chocolate cake – undisputed heavyweight champ when it comes to cakes -- found its way to our home, even the girls appeared to have reached their saturation point.

That evening, Maxi excitedly took off the lid of the box, marvelled at the dark brown confection and quickly dug at its soft, moist, decadent side. She took a small piece on her mouth. Turned her back and left it alone.

The neighbors loved it as well.

Peking duck dinner in Beijing

ALL eyes are on Beijing Olympics currently unfolding in the Chinese capital. We have 15 athletes competing, and as of this writing three have already fallen by the wayside and more are expected to follow suit. From where I am sitting, it's the boxer and two taekwondojins who carry real chances at winning.

I had my first overseas assignment there back in 1995, to cover the Beijing Open Chess championships.

My task was primarily to chronicle the campaign of our lone bet there, then international master Nelson Mariano II who was hoping to catch a grandmaster norm. A chess player needs to secure at least three GM norms to become full-pledge grandmaster, and that tournament dangled precious GM norms.

Back then, it was very difficult to obtain Chinese visa, as it was just beginning to open up its market to the world and was still very much a socialist republic.

As it was, when we got to the Chinese soil, airport authorities in Guangzhou held me for more than an hour because they saw discrepancy in my visa. They never talked a single word in English back then so I didn't really understand what it was that was causing the delay.

What I knew back then is that my very first international trip was headed for disaster.

I told Nelson to go ahead and board the flight to Beijing because round one was to begin that same morning. But he chose to stay with me. Fortunately, after some calls were made from the embassy back home, I was allowed to go.

Still shaken, we went straight from the Beijing airport to the tournament venue clutching our luggage. Nelson readily walked toward his waiting opponent, offered a draw, then we both headed to the hotel to rest. Brilliant move.

I understand that a lot has happened between then and now in Beijing. But I remember the city to have wide highways; tall, gray buildings; In restaurants, there wasn't a single pancit canton in the menus.

While Nelson was playing, I would sneak out and check out the city. Back then, the streets were cluttered with people, ground-level trains and cable-operated buses. At the close of office hours everyday, a large portion of the streets would be filled with a sea of bicycle-riding public, some were even in dress and suits.

By mid-tournament, organizers arranged a trip to the Great Wall, whose nearest portion was still about two hours bus-ride from the city. There was a plea market around the area, where you can by silk items, ornaments and other souvenirs. I bought Vange a white night gown piece with a roaring dragon hand-painted on its back.

The Great Wall was true as advertised, stretching as far as the eyes can see. We walked through it along with the throng that came from all over the world. Some portions are wide as the streets below, some are like dark narrow alleys. There were flat stretches and uphill segments, the better for the imperial soldiers to spot creeping invaders back then. Then we repaired to a KFC outlet just near the premises.

After 12 rounds of the Swiss System tourney, Nelson finished fifth and secured a GM norm. We celebrated the feat by having a peking duck dinner.

Songs from Harrison Plaza

IF RIZAL Memorial Sports Complex has been second home for me the past few years, then Harrison Plaza – yes that old, tired-looking, third-class mall – has been my chill-out place of choice for about the same period of time.

And why not, it is decked by SM department store, and has Guess, Levi's outlets, and most importantly a plethora of unabashed vendors of pirated CDs, DVDs and MP3s. No wonder I felt at home in it in no time.

Some weeks ago, I rummaged through one of the stalls and found MP3s containing 100 songs that made the US Billboards for each year from 1970 to 1979 – my favorite era when it comes to music.

1,000 songs all in all, in 10 MP3 CDs. I didn't iTune all of them and just chose songs I liked best and still came up with about 250 of the songs I almost never hear being played nowadays. It was pure bliss. I went home that night with a renewed faith in humanity.

In high school, I used to scrimp on my meager lunch money to have my favorite songs recorded in a blank cassette tape which back then cost a whopping P5 per song.

One day tragedy happened and my precious tape got entangled under our malfunctioning player. I tried to salvage it by removing its crumpled remains. Unwound, then wound again it up again via pencil. But no matter how I painstakingly attempted to restore it, the songs in them never sounded the same.

Well back to the MP3s, it contained hits like Midnight Train to Georgia and Neither One of Us by Gladys Knight and Pips. Midnight Blue by Melissa Manchester. Mister Blue by Michael Franks. Certain Sadness by Astrud Gilberto. Living Together by Fire and Rain. I Don't Want You to Go by Lani Hall. Come in From the Rain and All of My Life by Diana Ross. Our Love is Stronger Far Than We by Esther Satterfield.

The whole stack of CDs also contained lesser hits by famous artists like Never Let Her Go by the Bread. Sometime by The Carpenters. Disney Girls by Captain and Tenille. There are so many of them, that I only recognize when I hear the intro.

I am listening to it even as I write this blog. It is my dayoff. Mavi and Maxi are already at sleep and I am just waiting for Vangie to pull over by the gate any minute.

I will open a can of beer once she arrives.

I'd love to (always) have things my way

WHEN things could get worse, it most probably would. That's Murphy's law. I didn't know Murphy or the anybody who named that theory after him, but in all aspects, I have witnessed that come together many times in my life.

But I have decided not to discuss it now. There are a lot of bad things happening around us these days that I figured blogging about unfortunate moments that happened to me would not help make the world a better place.

Instead, I listed a few, small, everyday things I wished could happen the way I wanted.

1. In the morning when I walk out of the bedroom, I would love to have a hot cup of coffee served right away. Not a moment too soon, not a second too late. I want it on my hand the moment the thought of having coffee cross my mind.

2. When I peek outside the house in the morning, I'd be thrilled to see the car already freshly washed, waxed and tire-blacked. And I prefer that everything used to cleaned it -- rags, foam, bottles of wax and shampoo – are neatly back in place to where they were kept.

3. When I go to the bank or pay our mortgage, I'd be happy to see the cashier or teller with nobody to deal with but me. I'd especially love it if they are already calling me out while I'm still filling out the forms because they wanted to get my transaction done with the soonest time possible.

4. I wish my cellphone and laptop are always charged. I don't want opening my MacBook to see its batteries about to get depleted. That distracts me when I'm writing a story because I never charge it unless it's ready to completely shut down. And most of time, I dies on me in the heat of doing an article.

5. In the badminton court, I wish every shot given me are angled just enough for me to smash it right back. If it's lifted enough to allow me to decide whether I'd flick a cross-court drop shot or hammer a straight-up smash, I'd love it even better.

6. When arriving at the games late because of traffic or other domestic duties, I wish the scoresheets are already there waiting for me. Then the winning coach, or the player who stood out in the game would text me the quotes they wanted me to attribute to them on the newspaper the following day.

7. After work when I'm unwinding with friends, I want beer served in just the right coldness. It should refresh the mouth when taken by the bottle and be felt rushing right down the throat. Icy beer numbs the palate and won't allow you to relish its taste, but it practically spoils it all when it's not chilled enough.

8. When dining out in busy districts like Tomas Morato or Jupiter St., I wish there's always somebody pulling out of the parking slot in front of me just when I was trying to find a place to park.

9. On my rest days when I get to watch television all by myself, I'd love it if I don't have to launch a major search for the remote control, which has the tendency to get lost whenever it's my turn to use it. That completely takes away the fun out of channel surfing.

10. Once a month I wish a handy man would come over and check if there's something around the house that needs fixing. A peeled paint here, a missing cabinet handle there or an appliance that's not working.

If we can get around to avail of small conveniences in our lives, it would be worth the hardships people are facing right now.

Can't take the house out of the man

OFTEN I have dreams happening inside the houses I've lived in while growing up.

It's been 10 years since I left the neighborhood and built a home of my own with my family some 60 kilometers away, but when I dream of something taking place in a house, it's always the houses I've known when I was a kid.

Rarely was my dreams set in our present home in Bulacan. But I reckon our house right now would be the default setting of Mavi and Maxi's dreams even in their adult years.

I came to think about it because a few weeks back I bought something from Mercury Drug in the corner of Luis Shianghio St. and Kamuning Road. It was the exact same spot where my parents used to have a sari-sari store in my pre-teens. In front we sold softdrinks, cigarettes, LPG, candies, and behind it served as our living quarters.

The counter where the pharmacist took my orders used to be the spot where we placed a table so people in the summer can have halo-halo sitting down. Its parking space used to be a small plot where my brother Jonjon burned his eyebrows lighting a mound of gunpowder from the previous night's New Year's Eve celebration.

Just a block away stood an apartment building which served as our first house. Several years back, when I already had a job but was living in another house nearby, the place was converted into a multi-level beer joint. One evening after work I tried to visit the place and have few bottles there.

In short I had that Jack Nicholson moment in About Schmidt where he journeyed back to his old house only to find a tire store built on its place. Dennis Lambert also touched on it in a heartfelt song that began with these lines: ``They're tearing down the streets where I grew up, like pouring brandy in my dixie cup...they're pouring concrete on a part of me, no trials for killing off a memory...''

We hit four of six winning numbers

SOME years back I had the chance to become one of the lotto draw observers. There were six of us in a panel and I represented the media sector. The draw was then being held at the government-owned station, NBN-4 in Visayas Ave., in Quezon City.

I arrived there an hour before the 9 p.m. draw. Early enough to catch the then host Tina Revilla rehearsing her opening spiel and marvel at how well the lady carries herself even when cramming for her lines. She was wearing thick foundation, bright red lipstick and big, brown and bouncy hairdo.

I didn't see any reason to doubt the draw. There was nothing underneath the table from which the tambiolo is placed. And we got to touch at random the numbered balls that was to be sucked up by the drawing machine.

The gig, much-anticipated by my family and neighbors back in Kamuning, earned me P1,600 as honorarium. That for just staying put for about two hours and watching the whole proceedings happen on live nationwide television.

A few weeks later, I was watching the draw on the office TV sets. I was clutching my ticket which bore my favorite numbers – 9, 21, 42, 11, 2, 32. Revilla started to call out the winning numbers, one by one, in the order that I would never forget:

``9, 12, 42, 11....''

By that time I was already hysterical, unmindful of my officemates who by then already realized that I was headed for richness and fame.

``1, and 34..congratulations to the winning combination ticket holder of 9, 21, 42, 11, 1, 34.''

In a matter of seconds I came crashing back to reality. I got the first four numbers correct only to miss the last two in the narrowest margin possible. Just like that, I missed the P9 million jackpot.

It came to me again because this afternoon we found out that the combination Mavi chose for my father-in-law to bet on got four of six winning numbers. It won us P1,000. Back then the consolation for four correct number was only P500.

Mellow touch stays with us

Lately I have developed the habit of You Tubing for music videos of songs I almost never hear on the radio anymore.

Take for example Kathe Green's Alone Again and Free. Nobody plays it anymore. Not even RJ 100.3 which is about the only FM radio station still playing the genre popularized by DWLL 94.7 in the late 70s and early 80s.

If you're about my age, chances are you also love this kind of music: Stonebolt's I Will Still Love You. Neil Sedaka's Perfect Strangers. Tavares' Hardcore Poetry. Dan Henry's 20 Minutes Before Takeoff. David Castle's Ten to Eight. Dan Hill's Sometimes When We Touch.

The list is endless, mostly those that comprise the soundtrack of our youth. But sadly no longer getting airtime they used to have back then.

Further back in the time when I was still required to sleep in midday lest I don't grow up, I remember At Seventeen by Janis Ian, Lovin' You by Minnie Ripperton, the only song whose second voice was provided by a bird.

When I was making an attempt to learn to play the guitar back in high school, I was bestfriends with Loving Arms, that hit by Rita Coolidge and Kris Kristofferson with the very arresting opening lines.

Love Won't Let Me Wait is ideal on a rainy evening when you're alone with the wife, and that's not just because of the sound of a woman moaning in the background.

Morning, Noon and Nightime fits any given Sunday, and when you're driving home tired from a long day in the office, Great Day should be it.

They don't make this kind of music anymore. Probably they still do, but the kind of stuff they're coming out with no longer has that same effect on us.

Goma and I didn't shave last Sunday

ATHLETES and show biz stars go about in worlds that intersect, and in my line of work, it's not a rare chance when I get to mingle with movie and television personalities from time to time – even when I'm actually covering professional sports. Like baseball.

This was last Sunday when the sun didn't feel like showing up all day. The first game between Manila and Dumaguete was rained out but organizers decided that the pitch was dry enough to let the match pitting Cebu and Makati go ahead.

Cebu, in case anybody bothered to know, is the defending champion in Baseball Philippines. It boasts of one of the country's best pitchers like 27-year-old Joseph Orillana, and a host big hitters like veteran Joel Binarao and upstarts Miggy Corcuera and Nico Uichico.

And, of course, it has the most famous rightfielder in the land – movie actor Richard Gomez.

For some reason, Gomez seemed to excel in just about any sports he went into, namely golf, rowing, fencing, trap shooting. In most of which he became member of the national team and won Southeast Asian Games gold medals.

Baseball, though, is a different story. He is seldom used, and when he gets called from the dugout, he is often struck out, either swinging or standing -- which only meant that he didn't get to swing the bat at all.

And so it surprised everybody at Rizal Ballpark when, on the top of the second inning, he actually hit a linedrive to the right for an RBI single. In basketball, that is about as spectacular as scoring a jumper off a tight defense.

Just the same, his feat didn't merit an interview from the sportswriters who went for Binarao who in the same game hit a grandslam or a four-run homerun – which in basketball is the equivalent of a game-winning slam dunk that even drew a foul.

Gomez just stood there as the reporters milled around the day's hero. But of course, you don't ignore a show biz icon like him. When he was introduced to me, I shook his hands and made small talk like we're friends from way back.

``Pare, hataw yung second inning mo, RBI single yun ah,'' I told him.

``Onga, medyo maganda ang hitting namin,'' he said.

``You remember your championship match last year, when you hit a triple (when the game was all but won by Cebu already and it actually didn't matter anymore)?'' I said. ``I wrote you a feature story for Inquirer.''

``Kaw ba yun?,'' Gomez said, his eyes brightened up. ``Pare thank you, may clippings ako nun.''

We exchanged high fives.

Listen, standing close to him I realized he wasn't that tall. If I only stood straight and didn't wear flat sneakers, I'd probably be about his height. He is also as dark-skinned as I am. His face was small and covered with two-day old stubble.

I also went out of the house that day without shaving. And later after talking to him when I looked in the mirror, I realized something:

If I squint my eyes hard enough, and probably lose some pounds, and maybe straighten my spongey hair, we actually look alike.

Lozada loses battle against rice

I USED to amaze friends who drop by our house at dinner time. I was in midteens back then in Kamuning. That was the time when I was having a four-inch summer, meaning when my growth hormones was working triple time.

The reason was that I can consume a plate brimming with steamed rice with just one boiled egg as viand. Sometimes with a few strands of instant noodles or meat, but the feat revolved around how I can eat as many rice with as little viand as possible.

It's the opposite now. Sometimes I don't have rice at all. But this came to mind after I heard yet another news report on the rice shortage, which is beginning to sound tired and suspicious at the same, if you ask me.

If I remember it right rice shortage wasn't confirmed, and I doubt if it would ever be. But the deluge of news reports about how the price of rice and other basic commoditites have soon buried the issue of the ZTE-NBN deal. The more trendy acronym nowadays was NFA.

Suddenly the same people who watched the Senate hearing live on television as if it was a Pacquiao fight have soon switched their attention to the looming crisis on food (regardless if it's true or not).

Whoever thought of the diversionary tactic did a brilliant job. You want the Filipino masses' attention, strike a chord closer to their stomach. Mas malapit sa bituka mas maganda.

I vacuumed a mouse

I READ IT from the legendary Andy Rooney that vacation shouldn't be taxing to make you feel like taking another after having one. Well unfortunately I think I just had one the past nine days.

The run-up to our grand excursion to the beach was gripped with suspense and slam-bang action. Maxi had back-to-back affairs in school. I had three coverages right on the last day before the trip. Vangie had errands. Mavi was busy wondering what bikinis to wear.

What we left behind were mountains of laundry and a wild jungle, rain-forest of a house. We kept them in the deep recesses of our minds, hoping they will disappear while we basked in the sun and drink margarita and vodka martini by the beach.

But sure enough, we came back home to their menacing embrace. And just as soon as we realized we had a lot of stuff to do, move, transfer, throw away, file, and clean up, the energy we have recharged over the weekend drained just as fast.

There were some excitement in the general cleaning, though.

Like when the juggernaut reached the kitchen –where we also kept our shoes – Vangie noticed something stirring from among the boxes underneath. So she called up the Man of the House.

I'm not afraid of critters, roaches or rats. I once crushed a two-foot snake coiled by the washing machine one evening after arriving from the office. But that was topic for another blog entry.

One by one, with bated breath, I took out the boxes. Silently I was preparing for something to jump on me. But nothing came out until I reached the last box tucked in the corner. I lifted it slightly. Shook gently. And out came a small rat.

It hopped away and scurried by the LPG tank. I didn't make any attempt to hit it or crush it by my feet because I might break things. I slammed the kitchen door so it couldn't get into the house and hold my girls hostage. But it dashed by the table and took cover in the hamper now brimming with laundry. I then took a calibrated preemptive response.

I opened the back door in case it decides to lay down its arms and avoid bloodshed. But the suspect refused my offer. Instead, it took refuge in the back of washing machine, by the umbrellas and some clothes that were strewn by the commotion.

Listen, that washing machine, just because it was located near the back door, has now been a favorite battleground between me and small animals.

But I let it rest. I got the vacuum cleaner and cleaned up the mess. From where the shoe boxes were until I again reached the battleground. I moved it gently. Nothing. Vangie asked if it's gone. I said most probably. I moved the washing machine to a different spot so I can vacuum the floor underneath.

I trained the nozzle at the ends of the linoleum fold and then suddenly things happened so fast. The vacuum cleaner went crazy. It's as if it was choking. There was a loud buzzing noise all the way up from the nozzle to the hose and down to the dust bag inside the vacuum cleaner.

Then there was silence. I looked at Vangie and she nodded knowingly, like some mafia boss happy after an excellent whacking job of a rival family member.

Cigar, wine and speedboat ride

I ONLY used that title for effect, but no, I didn't get to smoke sigar and sip red wine while on speedboat last week. We packed light and the decision to hire a speedboat by the hour came in the last minute – or at least after I made sure there was still some money left in my pocket.

It was the third straight summer we hightailed it to Boracay, the past two years timed for Maxi's birthday. Every single time an experience, so I listed up a few things I observed while vacationing in the hottest destination this part of the tropics.

1.It was perfectly cool to hang around and even walk the whole town without a shirt on. That's regardless of what shape you're in. And from what I saw, the ratio of those sporting a well-toned body is 50-50 to those who don't.

2.I have the license to have an ice-cold beer anytime of the day. The earliest I recorded was 9 a.m. just right after breakfast and the wife absolutely had no complaint about it.

3.You can have fresh seafoods cooked as you like it, but it would cost you almost five times more if you decide to have it by the beachfront than in talipapa which is far less fashionable place to eat while in Boracay.

4.Hotel prices along the white beach have big discrepancy, like it's $300 (or its peso equivalent) a night in Discovery Shores, which lies on the same stretch as Marzons which asked for a little more than $50. We planned to stay out most part of the day, and only need a room to sleep so that should be no-brainer.

5.People can still get hurt in the calm, crystal-clear waters. While we're taking a walk one afternoon we chanced upon a crowd milling around a drowning victim.

6.SEAir is true to its advertising claim of 35-minute flight from Manila. I timed it from takeoff to landing and it clocked just 27 minutes.

7.Topless sun-bathers are extremely rare in Boracay. Women no longer undo their bikini top and when some of them do, they're mostly the ones you don't want to see naked.

8.Nobody reads the newspaper in Boracay. You also don't feel like checking out the TV while you're there.

9.There are plenty of water sports to get into, but the best one for me is people-watching because it doesn't cost me anything and I never had to get off from where I was sitting.

10.Mavi doesn't know who the hell Aga Muhlach is. He passed by us in the airport on the way to Manila and he was short and ordinary looking wearing big shades and faded shirt. Anne Curtis looked radiant even when not opening her wide mouth to smile. Both Mavi and Maxi recognized her.

11.Wearing shades on the beach looked cool, but it leaves racoon marks around the eyes which would then force you to wear shades within the next few days until the color in your face are even matched.

12.Watching school of fish of different colors and live coral reef landscape is more fun on TV than when you're peering at them yourself in the open water meters from the rented boat. If you don't know how to use the snorkel, it's twice as worse.

The school year's mostest and bestest

MAXI had her Recognition Day this morning. It was the prelude to her Prep Graduation Day for tomorrow, and an event to distribute academic and special awards including those in Kinder and Nursery.
One thing I like about the school is that it is very generous about giving away medals. They have an award for just about every pupil for being just about anything.
But before we go there, let me first cite that this year's awardee for the Perfect Attendance didn't make it. On the day his school was to commend him for being there all the time, he chose to be absent. Later the teacher said the poor pupil is downed by chicken pox.
Maxi is very smart and very pretty so I don't really feel bad if others received multiple medals for both academics and special abilities. This year, she didn't make it to the top 10 honors but she nevertheless went home with the Most Disciplined medal.
I was the designated parent on the stage, and when I accompanied Maxi up there with the school officials and bestowed the medal on her neck, I was as proud as the next parent whose kid ran away with the Best in Math, Best in Science, Best in Computer, Best on Language, Best in GMRC, Best on MAPE all at the same time, on top of the honor roll.
I wasn't an excellent student myself back then. I only barged into the Top 10 in Grade 3. My teachers just gave us ribbons for the feat. My first ribbon was in Grade 2 when my teacher deemed me as the ``Best Storyteller'' of the class.
In high school the only medal I got was in CAT class for Best in General Information. Later a buddy who was a high-ranking CAT officer revealed that they just happened to have a spare medal to give away and they thought of bestowing it to the cadet who knows trivia more than anybody else. See, even then it pays to have friends in the high places.
Back to this morning's rites, I noticed that Maxi's teachers appeared to have run out of things to name their awards. One boy received Most Generous award. What would a six-year-old boy do to earn that? He gives away his crayons and shares his lunch?
Another won Most Active. Yet another bagged Most Patient. Am a parent myself and I could very well testify that kids at that age are always active and are never patient. While at it, they might as well give away awards for the student who has best shown Dignity, or Integrity, or Courage.
But the morning ended on a sad note for me. Because I lost the Parent of the Year award for the third straight year.
It was given to a mother who the Principal said was there to pick up her kid everyday, sometimes even braving noontime sun ``without an umbrella.'' She, according to the Principal, was also very active in voicing out her opinions about the school and its policies. I had to disagree on both counts.
First I always bring umbrella when I pick up Maxi from school because I don't want her burned by the sun or soaked by rain. Later in the school year I even decided to avail of the school service, which should be more convenient for my daughter. That actions must earn big points in whatever criteria the school was using.
I also don't complain much about the school and its policies. Except now.

Way of the Cross up north

THE joke goes something like this: One lent, an old lady was praying the Station of the Cross. But for some reason she started it from the opposite end, when Jesus Christ was nailed to the Cross, and was thus going the wrong way.

And when somebody informed her that she got it all wrong, she quipped: ``So that's why Jesus gets stronger and stronger...''

Of course He would. Because Jesus would have been up and about by the time the old lady reaches the last station.

I first heard that joke from the great Joey de Leon many years ago, and just recently I heard him crack it once more in Eat Bulaga. I guess just like beaches and mangoes, that joke comes in season.

Well the reason I used that as grabber is that we're again planning a long drive to Abra next week, Holy Week. I enjoy road trips with the family especially on the long, smooth country lanes of Ilocandia. But my chief concern is traffic.

Based on our experience last year, travelling anywhere out of Metro Manila around that time is almost like doing the way of the cross in itself.

Last year we left Marilao 6 a.m. of Maundy Thursday and arrived in Tayum 6 p.m. We caught the tail-end of the gridlock near Sta. Ines exit and plodded from then on. We hit Luisita in Tarlac where we had breakfast at 9:20 a.m. after only covering 95 kilometers!

The whole stretch of Tarlac was by then the traffic ground zero. We only reached Rosario, La Union (where all Baguio-goers stop) at 1:20 p.m. There we had quick lunch and freshened up. By then we had travelled 191 km. After one hour and 10 minutes we refueled at a small gas station in Bangar, La Union's last town going to Ilocos Sur.

We were already logging on 357 kms on our mileage when we came to Narvacan Junction at 5:15 p.m., which offered a fork to the right if you're heading Bangued and left if you're going to Vigan. But just when I thought it would only be a few minutes to go, it took us another 30 kms and 45 minutes to finally reach Tayum.

On the way back home, we took off 3 p.m. Easter Sunday and made it home 3 a.m. the following day.

The drive back home was even rougher because everybody was asleep. We took many layovers to recharge and keep awake, including one last time in a gas station along NLEX where I had a coke and a chocolate bar. I also did some stretching while the wife and kids were in dreamland. But the eyes couldn't stay open and my thoughts wandered. So I had to take the slow lane all the way and not make unnecesary risk.



It was like taking the penance for all the sins I have committed the whole year.

Face-reading, my real talent

THERE'S one reason efforts to oust President Arroyo from her post won't succeed: Jun Lozada totally lacks convincing power.

He's not the type of person that would compel people like me to march in the streets or at least join noise barrage by blowing my horn when I happen to pass by them.

He may be telling the truth but I don't think he's the right guy for the opposition to get people rally behind him. Political/religious rallies just won't push GMA out of power for as long as they don't replace Lozada as their main man.

And I'm coming out with this stand based on the single reason that I don't like his face. I'm not talking about his sins which he readily admitted and asked forgiveness for -- right in the church pulpit, no less.

I anchor my statement on account of his face: He can't be trusted.

Now I have a strong credentials to lay claim of this talent that I posses. I can predict, almost 100 percent of the time, if a person is nice just by the look of his/her face.

It's not something I learn over the years like writing, but it's something that has been with me ever since. I can always tell if a person is up to something good or bad by observing the way he moves his eyes, shakes his head, open his mouth. I don't even have to hear a person speak to make an educated guess of his/her personality.

Now back to Lozada.

He has an unsure, half-smile, half-grin of a small-time crook caught red-handed. It was as if he's always trying to charm his way around people, especially those in the Senate who are all obviously so eager to accept whatever dirt he has on the President.

When he's not having the senate hearing floor but the camera is focused on him, look at how he conducts himself. He moistens his lips and gives everybody a shy look. I bet he never does that when he's all by himself, or at least when he's surrounded by house help or his employees.

Then he cries. Without tears. The kind of crying Willie Revillame did when he was You Tubed cheating on his game show.

What's strange is that when he laughs, he suddenly turns into a different person. Especially when he cracks self-deprecating jokes meant to endear himself with the crowd. That just won't work with me.

His eyebrows would always droop on the sides of face whenever he talks, which gives the impression that he's helpless and thereby in need of sympathy.


I don't care if what he's telling is gospel truth regarding the ZTE-NBN deal but from what I'm reading -- and I'm very good at it -- his face speaks of treachery. Tusong matsing.

Fortunately, it appears like many people read faces as excellent as I do.

Kids at sickbay

VANGIE had the virus more than a week ago, which was about the same time Maxi had – or so we thought.

Turned out Maxi's flu-like symptoms metamorphed into pneumonia which explained why the cough didn't subside. But that's leaping ahead of the story. Mavi, over the past four days, got high fever and also wasn't able to go to school.

So last Saturday we headed to the hospital confident with the thought they would just be given antibiotic prescriptions. Traffic was unspeakable at Edsa and we lost almost an hour on the road which I could have utilized writing a story, and Vangie attending a meeting with her comebacking boss.

Vangie has slipped to the office by the time the doctor saw the girls. The doctor, admitting she's on a hurry to catch her own kid's school program, didn't like the way Mavi looked. ``She looks sick, I might need to admit her,'' the doctor said.

Shen then ordered complete blood tests for both Mavi and Maxi. Urinalysis for Mavi and X-ray for Maxi – procedures to be done in different corners of Makati Med.

The frenetic shifting from the doctor's clinic to the health card to the pathologist lab and x-ray lab and back would have been a breeze if not for the fact that I was tagging along two sick girls. It was already past 4 p.m. and we haven't had lunch after getting stuck in traffic. I was thinking the girls may have been more hungry than sick.

But what the results said floored me. I didn't understand Mavi's blood test results but her white blood cells exceeded the usual (signs of infection, doctors would later explain). Maxi, on the other hand, had something in her chest x-ray which prompted a resident from the radiology dept. to ask me if she ever had contact with somebody who had tuberculosis.

We brought the results to the pedia's clinic only to be referred to the emergency dept., because the girls, they said, just might need confinement. I was by then burning the texting lines to update Vangie.

At the ER doctors were questioning me about the two of them all at the same time.

``When did Mavi's fever begin?''

Thursday

``Did Maxi's cough and colds come with high fever? What's the highest?''

It came with all three symptoms. The highest was 38.5 degrees

``Which one is Mavi?

The one with the pink sweater

``Are they twins?''

No.

Emergency doctors next told me they will consult the girls' pedia and fill her in with the lab results. There was trouble at the Makati Med ER that time because shooting victims were rolled in and there were police officers at the looby. I would usually inquire about it but under the circumstances I let it slide.

Then Vangie came. Her boss still wasn't in so she left a word (later in the evening the office called to say the meeting was reset for the next Monday). Good thing she brought food, it was almost 7 p.m. by then, I wasn't able to leave the girls to buy anything and there was not even a vendo machine nearby.

The ER resident then approached us. We had two options, we could have the Mavi and Maxi admitted and take medications through IV. But since they saw the girls eat and concluded that they never lost their appetite, we could choose to take them home with prescriptions medicines to be taken orally.

We chose to go home. But it didn't go smoothly.

Back home, Maxi threw up the first two times she took her medicine. Mavi thrice, one after another. So all in all I mopped the floor five times before I threatened to drive them back to the hospital and get doctors to prick big needles into their veins.

Rescuing an ill-fated adobo

MOST LOCAL food experts point to one reason Filipino dish just fail to break into the international cuisine radar screen.

Our food generally lacked color, they said.

Vangie, who happens to be one of the best food writers in the country, explained that to me bite-sized.

Adobo is plain brown. Dinuguan is all black. All dishes with coconut milk white or off-white. Sinigang looked just like stock or broth. Even sidewalk barbecue looked like burned meat.

They just don't have the prettiness of French dishes, or the blush of Vietnamese or Thai cuisine. Taste, ironically, is not the only factor when it comes to food. Maybe that's why presentation weighed heavily in Iron Chef decisions.

I thought about it after I tried to salvage a failed attempt to cook a dish my mother suggested – chicken-pork-squid adobo.

Just because I whipped a chicken-pork adobo which Maxi raved about, I thought that gave me all-access pass to adobo country.

Well the long arms of the law quickly caught me and deported me back to reality last week.

The main problem turned out to be the extra ingredient I tossed – rather carelessly – in what I believed to be tried and tested formula.

There was too much ink than I initially considered.

It spoiled the rich chicken-liver taste because even if the pork was tender and chicken peeled from its fibers, the murky black sauce just don't appeal to the palate of my little girls. Ewwww!

That was for lunch. And since I knew they won't be as nice when they saw the same disgusting thing by dinner, I did some major renovations. I poured all the sauce to the sink and then fried the grimy meat on fresh cooking oil.

And then I started adobo all over again.

(Sports) Writers in Movies

WITH apologies to the great Erica Orloff who just recently wrote about how movies depict writers, I'm about to venture in a blog slightly on the same topic.

My first take is that putting writers in movies readily allows scriptwriters to have characters who can mouth all the right words at the right place at the right moment -- which rarely ever happens in real life, even to real-life writers.

I may be trained to write under pressure about games that end past deadline but during heated discussions with the wife, I fold at crunchtime, completely at a loss for words most of the time.

Things are different in the movies, but of course.

If the male character happens to be a novelist like Paul Giamatti's in Sideways, or even somebody who just happens to sell books like Hugh Grant's in Nottinghill, there's a strong chance that despite his insecurities and stuttering he will win the girl before the credits roll.

Today, however, I'm writing about movies that portray sportswriters, which isn't very often.In Forget Paris Billy Crystal played an NBA referee whose best friend happened to be sportwriter.

I don't know back there, but here sportswriters and PBA referees hardly ever cross paths except in the hardcourt. We live in different worlds. I have sat down for a few bottles with pro players but never with the men in gray.

When Kevin Costner's character scored eight in a single hole in Tin Cup, the person who talked to him in the bar was a sportswriter. Now there's some truth in there, because we tend to gravitate to beer joints after a day of coverage.

The closest a sportswriter could get to becoming the lead character was Dermot Mulroney's in My Best Friend's Wedding. I sort of identified with him because his love interest played by Julia Roberts was a food writer, and Vangie is our newspaper's top food writer.

Only in the movie, the sportswriter chose to end up with a sports mogul's daughter played by Cameron Diaz. Again that premise is not remotely possible here because sportswriters don't tread the same grounds as those in the upper crust of society except on rare occasions like a coverage of a polo event in Forbes Park.

Again, they only do happen in the movies.

Jackpot

There were long lines of people at the lotto booth today at Harrison Plaza, which has been my chill-out place of choice the past few years. Funny how Filipinos fancy multimillion-peso jackpot, no matter the odds are.

This reminded me of the conversation I had with a taxi driver on my way to the badminton court in Makati. We passed by yet another long queue of fortune-hunters and, immediately, the cabbie popped what has been the best -- if not most used -- of all ice-breakers: ``What would you do if you win the jackpot?''

That particular day, the 6-42 version has a P100 million purse, and we were talking primarily of winning the windfall solo.

I wasn't in the mood for that -- though it was also an all-time favorite driving conversation topic between me and Vangie -- so I threw the question back at him.

The driver, visibly delighted to suddenly get to say his piece, fixed his seat and then started his multimillion-peso plan.

``Unang una boss, magpapa check-up kaming lahat,'' he said, ``Buong pamilya, misis ko, apat na anak. Doon sa pinaka magandang ospital.''

I must admit that he managed to grab my attention with that first crack, considering that I was expecting him to say that he'd buy a new house and car like most I heard.

``Kasi paano namin ma-enjoy yung yaman namin kung merong may sakit?'' he quickly added. ``Kaya kung may konting diprensiya, naku sir, ipagagamot ko na agad.

``Ultimo ipin naming lahat, ipapagawa ko,'' he said.

Then, he said he would build four-door apartment in the piece of land his family owned. And probably go abroad and buy cars.

I asked if he doesn't want to make any investments. He said he'd put what's left of the money in time deposit. That was neat.

Then he shot back the question at me.

``Kayo po sir?''

Without much thought, I told him that after I claimed the P100 million, I will fly to Europe.

``Ganun lang po sir?

And that's where I will try to figure out what to do with my fortunes.

I would take my own sweet time deciding where to put my money, I explained to him.

I'd have coffee al fresco in bustling streets of Paris, hit the wild London party scene and visit the summer and winter palaces of the former Russian monarchs.

I already have the money, what's the point of rushing?

The cabbie was speechless but nevertheless appeared to be convinced. And as I stepped out he shot back: ``Galing nung naisip mo sir!''

Bamboo kissed Maxi

I had a rare birthday treat last Thursday. What was planned to be just an afternoon in the mall and seafoods dinner turned out to be filled with music and fireworks -- literally.

Bamboo, the rock star who looks like a wayward brother of Sen. Chiz Escudero, was holding a rehearsal at the makeshift stage at Mall of Asia ocean drive. It was only 4:30 p.m., and people in that part of the mall was scarce. That's until he began singing. In dark shades, white cotton shirt and black pants, Bamboo slowly gathered up the crowd. When he hoohooed the chorus of Alleluia, the people went wild. Then he left.

Three hours later, Isay Alvarez and Robert Sena were already doing the front act. They had beautiful, fantastic voices, but Vangie and I agreed that they didn't hit it off with the crowd. With repertoire of standard classics and broadway ditties, the crowd got obviously bored prompting Sena to jokingly tell them ``Don't worry, lalabas din si Bamboo.''

They could have chosen less snobbish FM radio songs and even Filipino hits, the better to click with the generally masa crowd who were there for the love songs. The girl who sang before and after them got a bigger applause just by hitting the first notes of The Greatest Love of All.

Then Bamboo arrived. He sang two songs we're not familiar with, probably cuts from his new album we don't know about. On his third song, he jumped off stage, went to his right, scanned the delirious crowd -- which included us standing by the railings -- and went straight to us. At that moment, my theory is confirmed: The glare of the spotlight plus Maxi's megawatt smile could steal anybody's attention. He stood there in front of Vangie and Maxi, and made a salute, while me and Mavi extended our hands unnoticed like the rest.

You see some months back when Bamboo performed for the office anniversary, he also bounced into the crowd and sat beside Vangie. Now for a while there, it got me curious. Could it be that he recognized Vangie from the thick crowd? That Bamboo could have the hots for my wife?

Things went so fast I wasn't able to pull out my phone to record the entire thing. He held Maxi's -- and not Vangie's, thank God! -- hand and kissed it. Then ruffled her hair before springing back to shake the hands of the rest of the adoring crowd.

Later, when we were washing hands for dinner at nearby Dampa, Maxi asked me to soap her hands well because she said she doesn't like the smell.

But that, of course, is jumping ahead of the story and is by no means the highlight of this blog entry.

By the time Bamboo blasted off with the first chorus of Alleluia, the sky began to light up. Massive sparks of different colors and speed flew into the night sky and opened up the bay with furious blaze. The crowd went crazy. It was as if we're inside a movie which was rolling to its rousing finale. It got into Vangie, Mavi and Maxi who kissed me and greeted me happy birthday.

Crab-and-shrimp dinner: P1,000
Concert: Free
Birthday Experience: Priceless