LATELY I was spending time with my stationary bike. Like every physical activity, it's not something you take lightly and plunge into without enough preparation like warm up and stretching.
So last night, after dinner, when the kids are both in bed, I mopped the floor. I went out to wash the car, and realized the engine was dirty too. So I ended up spraying grease-remover on its dirty nooks and cranny, and washed its engine altogether.
It was quite complicated than usual because you have to make sure alternator and battery terminals are not soaked in water. Vangie wanted to make sure I did it right so I tried to start the engine and it did, but of course. In one click.
The neighbors were all probably asleep. But I was just getting started. After that I took out the garbage. From the kitchen to the comfort room and around our small yard, I collected trash and put them in large black bags ready for collection in the morning.
By that time I felt all revved up and ready to break a sweat. So I saddled right onto the bike and thundered on the pedal.
Nothing beats household chores for your cross training needs.
I came to think about it because Vangie got an assignment to write an essay about – what else? -- raising a family without any house help. Her editor wanted her to specially touch on the fact that both of us are working, and meeting the demands of day-to-day including Mavi and Maxi's school schedules.
Now that I gave it some thought, I realized it's no ordinary feat. You're in charge with every single detail of housekeeping, parenting and cooking – topics that I seriously felt must be taught as major courses in college. The good thing about it is we spend a great deal of time at home, and with the girls.
Yet I guess we're not the only ones rolling up our sleeves and doing the dirty jobs ourselves. At this day and age, I know there are parents like us who worry about clogged sink and how best their kids can memorize the multiplication table – and all the while keeping our day jobs.
Her story's coming out in Inquirer Lifestyle on Wednesday.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Saturday, July 10, 2010
You don't sing Bawal na Gamot on Jazz Night at Merk's
IT IS largely unspoken, but there is really such a thing as videoke ethics. It's the code of conduct when singing in parties in front of friends, or sometimes, even strangers.
Like you shouldn't by any means try to sing Stylistics unless you're with very close friends willing to put up with it. And singing only your tried and tested piyesa when there are new faces around because, even in singing, first impression lasts.
It is something learned through the years. Like knowing you're singing out of key when everybody fell silent, looking at their cellphones or just simply looking away.
Same thing with singing the same set of songs over and over again with the same set of friends. It is not something taught in school, but something you either have in you or not.
I came to think about it because last Wednesday I sang on stage, accompanied by Richard Merk's Band, at his place in Greenbelt 3.
I knew trouble was brewing when from the men's room I heard Richard Merk himself calling my name. Turned out my fellow sportswriters volunteered me to sing just when I stood up. So I was there inside the cubicle listening as Merk was calling me out on stage.
``Come on, let's enjoy the band,''' hollered Merk, while I took extra time washing my face.
``Marc, come out already,'' Merk said through microphone. The crowd was laughing, and everybody in the room was into it already. When someone walked by, Merk would ask ``Is that Marc?''
I was planning to sneak out and go home but I left my phone on the table. ``Can somebody check out Marc if he's still alive?'' Merk joked.
Finally, it seemed like Merk gave up and began singing another song. So I slowly walked back to the table, but people from other tables were already greeting me with knowing smiles. It was as if they knew it was me.
And true enough, when Merk finished singing, he called me up. Now here's one thing I know for sure, when you're called up on stage by a celebrity and everyone in the crowd was looking at you, you stand up and take the mic.
He interviewed me briefly, and asked what song I'd like to sing. Now here's where the ethics come to play: I said ``For Once In My Life.''
Merk said: ``Magaling 'to,'' probably because I picked the type of songs they're singing all night. Well, I chose it because I have sang it countless of times already, and the margin of error – when you factor in stage fright and blinding spotlight – is considerably low compared to any other song.
And, of course, you don't sing Aegis on Jazz Night at Merk's.
Like you shouldn't by any means try to sing Stylistics unless you're with very close friends willing to put up with it. And singing only your tried and tested piyesa when there are new faces around because, even in singing, first impression lasts.
It is something learned through the years. Like knowing you're singing out of key when everybody fell silent, looking at their cellphones or just simply looking away.
Same thing with singing the same set of songs over and over again with the same set of friends. It is not something taught in school, but something you either have in you or not.
I came to think about it because last Wednesday I sang on stage, accompanied by Richard Merk's Band, at his place in Greenbelt 3.
I knew trouble was brewing when from the men's room I heard Richard Merk himself calling my name. Turned out my fellow sportswriters volunteered me to sing just when I stood up. So I was there inside the cubicle listening as Merk was calling me out on stage.
``Come on, let's enjoy the band,''' hollered Merk, while I took extra time washing my face.
``Marc, come out already,'' Merk said through microphone. The crowd was laughing, and everybody in the room was into it already. When someone walked by, Merk would ask ``Is that Marc?''
I was planning to sneak out and go home but I left my phone on the table. ``Can somebody check out Marc if he's still alive?'' Merk joked.
Finally, it seemed like Merk gave up and began singing another song. So I slowly walked back to the table, but people from other tables were already greeting me with knowing smiles. It was as if they knew it was me.
And true enough, when Merk finished singing, he called me up. Now here's one thing I know for sure, when you're called up on stage by a celebrity and everyone in the crowd was looking at you, you stand up and take the mic.
He interviewed me briefly, and asked what song I'd like to sing. Now here's where the ethics come to play: I said ``For Once In My Life.''
Merk said: ``Magaling 'to,'' probably because I picked the type of songs they're singing all night. Well, I chose it because I have sang it countless of times already, and the margin of error – when you factor in stage fright and blinding spotlight – is considerably low compared to any other song.
And, of course, you don't sing Aegis on Jazz Night at Merk's.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Feel free to call me
FUNNY how our mind can store a lot of things that have no use to us anymore.
Like old telephone numbers. I grew up having to memorize the phone numbers in my father's tailoring shop. It's 97-58-38. Numbers that are repeated are easier to remember. It's like they have rhymes to them. I don't remember the last time I dialled that number but there's no way I will forget about it.
There were only six numbers in telephones back then. They were printed around the face of a black, rotary handset. And you have to put up with having partyline. Ours happened to be a nearby beauty parlor just a few meters across the brisk and blue-collar Kamuning Road.
Later my mother took over a corner sari-sari store along the same street and it had a phone also. It's 99-82-05. I won't forget that either. Because me and my brother Jonjon would dial the two numbers and talk to each other just for the heck of it.
I got to thinking about it because yesterday I gave up my old cellphone number. It has been with me the past four years and it felt like I parted with an old friend. Specially when I got the call from the service provider telling me it's the final notice for ``permanent disconnection.'' The way they put it it's like you're ending some very important chapter in your life.
Given the choice I would like to keep that number because I don't have to start all over again and text my contacts that I have a new number. But the office issued smartphones which carry with them brand new numbers.
The number I just gave up was 0917-8590489. Before that I had 0917-9408908. It was my first and we lasted seven years. I wonder what they would do with my old numbers. Would they be assigned to other people or thrown away for good? If they are given to other people, I hope they treat them well.
Now back to the service provider, I think the last thing they wanted to happen is to cut a subscriber's line. The person on the phone tried to convince me to keep it and even offered promo to downgrade my monthly fees.
But I stood with my decision, and with a firm voice, I said no.
Like old telephone numbers. I grew up having to memorize the phone numbers in my father's tailoring shop. It's 97-58-38. Numbers that are repeated are easier to remember. It's like they have rhymes to them. I don't remember the last time I dialled that number but there's no way I will forget about it.
There were only six numbers in telephones back then. They were printed around the face of a black, rotary handset. And you have to put up with having partyline. Ours happened to be a nearby beauty parlor just a few meters across the brisk and blue-collar Kamuning Road.
Later my mother took over a corner sari-sari store along the same street and it had a phone also. It's 99-82-05. I won't forget that either. Because me and my brother Jonjon would dial the two numbers and talk to each other just for the heck of it.
I got to thinking about it because yesterday I gave up my old cellphone number. It has been with me the past four years and it felt like I parted with an old friend. Specially when I got the call from the service provider telling me it's the final notice for ``permanent disconnection.'' The way they put it it's like you're ending some very important chapter in your life.
Given the choice I would like to keep that number because I don't have to start all over again and text my contacts that I have a new number. But the office issued smartphones which carry with them brand new numbers.
The number I just gave up was 0917-8590489. Before that I had 0917-9408908. It was my first and we lasted seven years. I wonder what they would do with my old numbers. Would they be assigned to other people or thrown away for good? If they are given to other people, I hope they treat them well.
Now back to the service provider, I think the last thing they wanted to happen is to cut a subscriber's line. The person on the phone tried to convince me to keep it and even offered promo to downgrade my monthly fees.
But I stood with my decision, and with a firm voice, I said no.
Monday, July 6, 2009
He's out of our lives
WORKING in a newspaper, and having a wife in the Lifestyle section certainly allowed me a few perks. Like watching concerts for free.
I have very sketchy memories of Michael Jackson's concert held in 1996 at the reclaimed land along Roxas Blvd. But what stuck into my mind was the two hours it took us to park our cars. From there we walked for about 500 meters to the arena, with a few local celebrities in sight.
It was part of his HIStory world tour which stopped for one December night in Manila. Tickets were in the form of thick plastic cards with his face emblazoned on it along with the P5,000 price tag. It costed three-fold at ringside.
There was massive build up of suspense that evening as we were advised to be there 5 p.m., and the concert proper started past 8 p.m. There was no opening act. But of course, no one needed an opening act if he's the one performing.
True to hype he arrived in style. The lights went out. A space ship suddenly plopped on stage in blinding smoke. Then, he emerged. For some reason, his first number escaped me.
What I remember was he sang Billie Jean in exact MTV get-up of black sequined jacket and white shirt. Thriller in red and black. He also hang on a moving crane while singing a song I can't recall; brought out a giant globe and sang with kids as he belted Heal the World.
But he didn't sing Ben. No One Day In Your Life. No Got To Be There. The songs that made me sleep in the afternoon when we we small weren't in his repertoire that night.
Thinking about it now, I remember the few foreign acts I had the good fortune of watching.
The very first one was the Hall and Oates Unplugged at the Big Dome. I was still in college then, and that meant I had to scrimp on my baon to raise P100 that earned me a seat at the general admission. I don't know if it was just their style but Darryl Hall and John Oates didn't have any spiel, which was probably a good thing.
There wasn't even any back drop but exposed scaffoldings behind them. They just sat there on wooden boxes, acoustic guitars on hand and sang hits like Out of Touch, She's Gone, Maneater, Private Eyes one after another.
Which brought me to Phil Collins concert at the Philsports (Ultra) football field in the early 90s. Reports had it the former Genesis drummer arrived with eight trailer trucks of concert set pieces. Strangely, the whole place looked like building rooftops. He came out of one of them, and did a solo on drums as an intro.
A couple of years back, I was at the far end of that football stadium watching Barry Manilow. It was a two-night concert, the first one of which was held at the PICC which an office crush named Vangie watched. I only had enough money to watch it standing on the field. Alone.
The first song I remember very well. He started out straight to the chorus of Ready to Take a Chance Again. His Greatest Hits rang in the air one after another. But his voice was often overshadowed by the audience singing the song themselves. There were ladies crying, especially when the first strains of I Write the Songs played out.
He sang As Sure as I'm Standing Here reading the words from a paper. He said it wasn't one of his most popular and was surprised to learn that it was a big hit back here.
Now, that was one major conversation piece for me and Vangie later on as we both heard the song from a Lovingly Yours, Helen episode starring Vivian Foz and Ariosto Reyes Jr.
Thinking about it now, and totally abandoning the thread of thought I had when I started writing this blog, it felt good learning that both of us happened to be watching the same show on that same Sunday afternoon far back then.
I have very sketchy memories of Michael Jackson's concert held in 1996 at the reclaimed land along Roxas Blvd. But what stuck into my mind was the two hours it took us to park our cars. From there we walked for about 500 meters to the arena, with a few local celebrities in sight.
It was part of his HIStory world tour which stopped for one December night in Manila. Tickets were in the form of thick plastic cards with his face emblazoned on it along with the P5,000 price tag. It costed three-fold at ringside.
There was massive build up of suspense that evening as we were advised to be there 5 p.m., and the concert proper started past 8 p.m. There was no opening act. But of course, no one needed an opening act if he's the one performing.
True to hype he arrived in style. The lights went out. A space ship suddenly plopped on stage in blinding smoke. Then, he emerged. For some reason, his first number escaped me.
What I remember was he sang Billie Jean in exact MTV get-up of black sequined jacket and white shirt. Thriller in red and black. He also hang on a moving crane while singing a song I can't recall; brought out a giant globe and sang with kids as he belted Heal the World.
But he didn't sing Ben. No One Day In Your Life. No Got To Be There. The songs that made me sleep in the afternoon when we we small weren't in his repertoire that night.
Thinking about it now, I remember the few foreign acts I had the good fortune of watching.
The very first one was the Hall and Oates Unplugged at the Big Dome. I was still in college then, and that meant I had to scrimp on my baon to raise P100 that earned me a seat at the general admission. I don't know if it was just their style but Darryl Hall and John Oates didn't have any spiel, which was probably a good thing.
There wasn't even any back drop but exposed scaffoldings behind them. They just sat there on wooden boxes, acoustic guitars on hand and sang hits like Out of Touch, She's Gone, Maneater, Private Eyes one after another.
Which brought me to Phil Collins concert at the Philsports (Ultra) football field in the early 90s. Reports had it the former Genesis drummer arrived with eight trailer trucks of concert set pieces. Strangely, the whole place looked like building rooftops. He came out of one of them, and did a solo on drums as an intro.
A couple of years back, I was at the far end of that football stadium watching Barry Manilow. It was a two-night concert, the first one of which was held at the PICC which an office crush named Vangie watched. I only had enough money to watch it standing on the field. Alone.
The first song I remember very well. He started out straight to the chorus of Ready to Take a Chance Again. His Greatest Hits rang in the air one after another. But his voice was often overshadowed by the audience singing the song themselves. There were ladies crying, especially when the first strains of I Write the Songs played out.
He sang As Sure as I'm Standing Here reading the words from a paper. He said it wasn't one of his most popular and was surprised to learn that it was a big hit back here.
Now, that was one major conversation piece for me and Vangie later on as we both heard the song from a Lovingly Yours, Helen episode starring Vivian Foz and Ariosto Reyes Jr.
Thinking about it now, and totally abandoning the thread of thought I had when I started writing this blog, it felt good learning that both of us happened to be watching the same show on that same Sunday afternoon far back then.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
It was raining when summer left
I'VE read it somewhere that parents shouldn't rush to pick up the clutter on Christmas morning. That happy mess after the kids unwrapped their presents would represent just another precious family moment.
You don't throw that away quickly as it's good for another stash of memories. To be kept for tomorrow.
It had me thinking about it because today I torn down the tent in the yard. It stood there the whole summer and sheltered the girls while frolicking on the inflated pool. The pool also had to go.
I've been putting off placing them back in their respective boxes. But I admit it was because of laziness on my part as it was for sentimental reasons.
The clouds have gathered thick and heavy as I looked at them outside.
High winds and rains already ripped the tent canvass, and the lining underneath the pool had already gathered moss. They have become a lonely sight in that corner of the yard, to tell you the truth.
Yet in about eight weeks that they stood there, they played big part in the family's Summer of 09. Squirt gunfights. Halo-halo. Crushed ice wars. Videoke. Cold beer.
One by one I untied the ropes that held the tent together. By this time, big raindrops came as if in a hurry to get to the ground. I disassembled the metal posts. Piece by piece. Lifted the canvas from its joints, and folded them to the side.
It was already pouring when I get to brushing the pool. I needed to dry it first before I could deflate it, but it had be cleaned inside out. When I got to the heavy matting that was under it all this time, the rain was torrential.
I called out the kids earlier to play in the rain. They were sailing their slippers in the rushing water by the driveway. I hosed down the slippery patches. And swept away the remnants of the summer that gone by.
On that note, another season came to an end.
You don't throw that away quickly as it's good for another stash of memories. To be kept for tomorrow.
It had me thinking about it because today I torn down the tent in the yard. It stood there the whole summer and sheltered the girls while frolicking on the inflated pool. The pool also had to go.
I've been putting off placing them back in their respective boxes. But I admit it was because of laziness on my part as it was for sentimental reasons.
The clouds have gathered thick and heavy as I looked at them outside.
High winds and rains already ripped the tent canvass, and the lining underneath the pool had already gathered moss. They have become a lonely sight in that corner of the yard, to tell you the truth.
Yet in about eight weeks that they stood there, they played big part in the family's Summer of 09. Squirt gunfights. Halo-halo. Crushed ice wars. Videoke. Cold beer.
One by one I untied the ropes that held the tent together. By this time, big raindrops came as if in a hurry to get to the ground. I disassembled the metal posts. Piece by piece. Lifted the canvas from its joints, and folded them to the side.
It was already pouring when I get to brushing the pool. I needed to dry it first before I could deflate it, but it had be cleaned inside out. When I got to the heavy matting that was under it all this time, the rain was torrential.
I called out the kids earlier to play in the rain. They were sailing their slippers in the rushing water by the driveway. I hosed down the slippery patches. And swept away the remnants of the summer that gone by.
On that note, another season came to an end.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Talking about sports
My favorite author Erica Orloff once blogged about making up different excuses just not to tell people what she does for a living when in a room full of strangers.
She said it takes a lot of work explaining what she does if she tells people she's a writer than it does if she tells them she's does something else.
I relate to her completely as I encounter that same situation every once in a while. People, for some reason, tend to ask a lot of questions when they find out you're a writer. When you write about sports, that makes them doubly inquisitive.
I don't mind them thinking how cool it is covering big sporting events and then reporting them later on the big newspaper with a by-line to boot. But I swear there are people out there who challenge me with what they know about sports and then compare it with how much – or how little – I know about my supposed field of expertise.
Off hand they ask you about Pacquiao. His next fight. Cotto. Mosley. Mayweather Jr. The NBA playoffs. PBA. London Olympics. Laos SEA Games. Major League Baseball. Federer. Tiger Woods. It makes a great deal of conversation fodder when in a party among strangers. My close friends hardly ask me anything about sports when I'm with them.
Unlike her, though, I haven't gotten around to tell people I'm someone else although there are plenty of times I wish I tell them am a short-order cook instead of a sportswriter.
I got to thinking about this because Pacquiao once again redeemed the country by demolishing yet another A-list foe in Briton Ricky Hatton.
Everything has been said about the spectacular 2nd round KO win. But when the topic comes up in a gathering, it most likely get the attention of everybody in the room. Including the women in the crowd.
Suddenly it became very fashionable to know about sports. So here are my advise to people who want to brush up on their ``sports smarts.''
1.The best pound-for-pound boxer in the world only means the most successful fighter across the board who normally competes with the lightweight to welterweight categories.
2.Pacquiao doesn't own a single title belt outside of the WBO welterweight crown he wrested from Hatton. WBO is second-rate compared to the more prestigious WBA, WBC and IBF, which nowadays are dismissed as just ``alphabet titles'' because the real big fights are those that command big pay-per-view buys – like that of Pacquiao's.
3.Tiger Woods is generally acknowledged as the greatest who ever played golf. There are four majors in golf: US Masters, PGA Tour, British Open and US Open where Kevin Costner's character in Tin Cup competed.
4.Federer is just three Grand Slam titles away of beating Pete Sampras' 14 titles. There are four Grand Slam events: French Open, Wimbledon, US Open and Australian Open. There is only one Filipino who won a Grand Slam (Nino Alcantara who won doubles in the Australian Open juniors early this year).
5.Deuce in tennis means a tied score after 40-all. Ace means a serve that wasn't returned. In baseball ace means the top pitcher for a team. In golf, ace means hole-in-one.
6.A baseball game is played on a diamond which is sometimes called a ballpark. The one who throws the ball is called the pitcher, while the person who holds the bat is, well, the batter, while the catcher is the guy with a grill mask behind him. There are nine players per team in a single game of baseball. A single game is normally made up of nine innings.
7.There are 90 minutes in a soccer game or football. Football, and not basketball, is the most popular game in the world. David Beckham plays right midfield and is usually the guy who runs the play similar to a pointguard in basketball. Eleven players are in the field at any given game including the guy who man the goal who is called the goalie.
8.The Philippines has not won a single gold medal in the Olympics but we had two silvers before. Neighbors like Thailand, Hong Kong, Malaysian, Indonesia and even Singapore each have a gold medal already.
9.A perfect game in bowling means scoring 300 pinfalls – not points – which means he or she had 12 (not 10) strikes in a single line. Paeng Nepomuceno is a Hall-of-Famer in the sport and has four other Guinness Book of Records for his achievements. He's a lefty.
10.Lance Armstrong won the Tour de France seven times and is found to have lung capacity double to that of an average person.
Given the chance, I'd rather leave the game analysis to the guy next to me, and reserve mine for the day's story quota.
She said it takes a lot of work explaining what she does if she tells people she's a writer than it does if she tells them she's does something else.
I relate to her completely as I encounter that same situation every once in a while. People, for some reason, tend to ask a lot of questions when they find out you're a writer. When you write about sports, that makes them doubly inquisitive.
I don't mind them thinking how cool it is covering big sporting events and then reporting them later on the big newspaper with a by-line to boot. But I swear there are people out there who challenge me with what they know about sports and then compare it with how much – or how little – I know about my supposed field of expertise.
Off hand they ask you about Pacquiao. His next fight. Cotto. Mosley. Mayweather Jr. The NBA playoffs. PBA. London Olympics. Laos SEA Games. Major League Baseball. Federer. Tiger Woods. It makes a great deal of conversation fodder when in a party among strangers. My close friends hardly ask me anything about sports when I'm with them.
Unlike her, though, I haven't gotten around to tell people I'm someone else although there are plenty of times I wish I tell them am a short-order cook instead of a sportswriter.
I got to thinking about this because Pacquiao once again redeemed the country by demolishing yet another A-list foe in Briton Ricky Hatton.
Everything has been said about the spectacular 2nd round KO win. But when the topic comes up in a gathering, it most likely get the attention of everybody in the room. Including the women in the crowd.
Suddenly it became very fashionable to know about sports. So here are my advise to people who want to brush up on their ``sports smarts.''
1.The best pound-for-pound boxer in the world only means the most successful fighter across the board who normally competes with the lightweight to welterweight categories.
2.Pacquiao doesn't own a single title belt outside of the WBO welterweight crown he wrested from Hatton. WBO is second-rate compared to the more prestigious WBA, WBC and IBF, which nowadays are dismissed as just ``alphabet titles'' because the real big fights are those that command big pay-per-view buys – like that of Pacquiao's.
3.Tiger Woods is generally acknowledged as the greatest who ever played golf. There are four majors in golf: US Masters, PGA Tour, British Open and US Open where Kevin Costner's character in Tin Cup competed.
4.Federer is just three Grand Slam titles away of beating Pete Sampras' 14 titles. There are four Grand Slam events: French Open, Wimbledon, US Open and Australian Open. There is only one Filipino who won a Grand Slam (Nino Alcantara who won doubles in the Australian Open juniors early this year).
5.Deuce in tennis means a tied score after 40-all. Ace means a serve that wasn't returned. In baseball ace means the top pitcher for a team. In golf, ace means hole-in-one.
6.A baseball game is played on a diamond which is sometimes called a ballpark. The one who throws the ball is called the pitcher, while the person who holds the bat is, well, the batter, while the catcher is the guy with a grill mask behind him. There are nine players per team in a single game of baseball. A single game is normally made up of nine innings.
7.There are 90 minutes in a soccer game or football. Football, and not basketball, is the most popular game in the world. David Beckham plays right midfield and is usually the guy who runs the play similar to a pointguard in basketball. Eleven players are in the field at any given game including the guy who man the goal who is called the goalie.
8.The Philippines has not won a single gold medal in the Olympics but we had two silvers before. Neighbors like Thailand, Hong Kong, Malaysian, Indonesia and even Singapore each have a gold medal already.
9.A perfect game in bowling means scoring 300 pinfalls – not points – which means he or she had 12 (not 10) strikes in a single line. Paeng Nepomuceno is a Hall-of-Famer in the sport and has four other Guinness Book of Records for his achievements. He's a lefty.
10.Lance Armstrong won the Tour de France seven times and is found to have lung capacity double to that of an average person.
Given the chance, I'd rather leave the game analysis to the guy next to me, and reserve mine for the day's story quota.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
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.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
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.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
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.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
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.
Monday, June 23, 2008
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...''
Friday, June 20, 2008
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.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
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.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
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.
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.
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