At 22 hours of wakefulness

If you've ever doubted yourself, then this is for you.

If you are a knight, all gallant and valor, doubt creeps, unexpectedly, through cracks on your armor you never knew existed. If you're a chambermaid, tame and pliant, doubt nags at you, a child wayward and strangely familiar. If you are a king or queen, burdened everyday by magnanimous decisions, doubt is a fallen angel ready to take your feet to the grave. If you are a layman, plying your trade or tilling the fields, doubt is the uncertainty of tomorrow dinner plate.

Steel as your will maybe, there will be a time when scornful looks and distasteful sneers break you down and you ask yourself whether you're good enough. Used to doubt as you maybe it's cold, sudden touch still startles you. Aware of it and afraid you may be, but when it comes, it breaks all preparations and renders you dumb.

Doubt is something that cannot be helped, even the most learned statesman drops a cold sweat once in a while.

But if you let it entangle you, it is the end of you.

Never has doubt ensnared this writer so. Looking at this flashing cursor I see me. The looks and disdain I got today I would've shrugged off it if were only from other persons. Learned in social barrages, I have weathered many onslaughts.

But not came at a more precocious time than this.

If someone whom your someone cared for cared none for you and it hurt, then this is for you.

If you've felt the stabs on your back as they weaved lies and deceit behind you, then this is for you.

Doubt, it seems, does not need to come from within to be so potent. It can come from someone who holds a special place in your loved one's heart and hurt all the more. Hurt, it seems, is all the more painful when one knows that those who dislikes one does this out of the love they feel for who one loves dearly.

So feel the way I do and cast that doubt aside. Know, nay, accept that you are good enough, if not better. Breathe deep, ever so deep and know...that you are adequate.

My overdue annual look-over

Ok, so there. I'm 26. And no, I don't and will not start this with a "I look into the mirror and ask myself, 'Where am I now'", shit.

I still haven't held a job for more than six months, I still can't say that I'm with the one I truly love and I still will not claim that I'm in total control of my life. Finally, I am yet to get an inkling of stability.

But, life rocks. As it did and as it will, my life is what I have chosen it to be.

I still haven't held a job for more than six months because I've chosen to take risks that my parents never took, I've decided to stand up and try to create something that I could truly call my own. I've risked hard-earned money on my passions, I have been distracted from the drone-like routine of 9 hour shifts and 15 minute breaks quite easily by even the slightest hint of a job as a Off-set printer, a cook, a small businessman, a writer on any medium.

I'm in a rush to get out of clocking in and out and get to the gold carts and long lunches. If I fail now, I know that I will pick up the bits and pieces of wisdom that'll prepare me for bigger ventures. If I fail now, as I have before, I know I am still competitive enough to get a decent paying job, as I have, and to excel in it. I know what I want and I'm sure as hell ready to take even bigger risks.

I wasn't born with a trust fund. I grew up eating sardines out of a can shared with buddies and heaps upon heaps of rice after a nice long game of basketball without shoes on.

I still can't say that I'm with the one I truly love because she's in another country and I am finding a way to go to her. So if anyone can help me get to Canada, I'm telling you, I will do the dirtiest job on the planet and be best at it. But the distance has shown me that at some plateau, I can be a mature person. That, even under the stress of a long distance relationship I have kept my word of being true to her, that, even if the success of the relationship entails that I turn over a new leaf socially, that I do love her so and that the once-great sacrifices become merely crumbs to dust off. But one day, and one day soon, I will be with her.

I still will not claim that I'm in total control of my life, and I'm proud of it. I love the uncertainty, the fact that I still can avoid routines, that the paths I take form a semblance of a productive life without being drained of the bullish intensity I am proud to bear. I have no total control of my life because I don't want it. I am serious when I need to be, but I don't constantly strain for normalcy. I am not pulled like a guitar string ready to snap at extreme changes in pressure. 2008 was bad for me, it hit me like I was the aged Dela Hoya and Manny Pacquiao was on steroids. But hey, here I still am, a bully, I still have "Don't fuck with me" tattooed on my forehead and I still abide my my self-taught sense of decency and justice. The fact that I've kept myself intact assures me that the waves haven't worn this jagged edge smooth just yet.

Finally, I am yet to get an inkling of stability. This, i am truly sorry for. And this, is my goal. I want to be man enough. I want to write the general plot of my future and be secure in it, so that I only have to do the adlibs for the sudden twists and turns.

Of yesterday's ink.

SO there, I got an email from a former writer of mine from our college newspaper, a questionnaire for a special they were writing about the history of our organization. The organ that I was Literary, Features, News, Managing editor and Editor-in-Chief for. It was a flashback, a welcome albeit bitter reminder of six years I spent in college bordering on obsessively focused on one thing: making the Advocate the best damn university paper out there.

We all have different opinions on what "best" means, but for me, back then -- an overly enthusiastic I-know-I'm-good greenhorn -- it was about writing about things people needed to know. Generally, school newsletters bathe heavy praises on sporting teams, academic athletes and school milestones. Well and good, yes, people should be given a pat of approval and we did mention the triumphs of the school as well, but after everything, the biggest letters on the front page should be about an issue the students of an institution should know. If their faculty members were squabbling over a memorandum of agreement, if a student was stabbed twice in a shady alley outside the campus, if half of the professors don't have the approval of students, that's what I wanted to print.

I wanted teeth. I wanted a paper that was independent, well written and incisive. I got that. Exactly that. During those years, we sauntered into school with everyone knowing what we were all about: we wanted the truth. Because of our tenacity, we weren't barred with the same evasive red tape that other school organs had to endure. We were respected and listened to. We finished 15,000 copies in two days only because we wanted everyone to have a copy, and not give away all our copies in one day.

I miss those days. I miss the purity of academic writing, well, at least our version of it. We were edited purely for our grammar, nothing else. We had control of our funds and planned the entire school year. We weren't threatened or pressured into canceling or printing a story. We received feedback from students, professors, alumni and organizations -- good or bad. We were proud of what we came up with because it was entirely ours.

I miss those days. I would like to say sorry to every writer whose article I crumpled right in front of them, to the staff I shouted and glared at. I would like to thank everyone who told me I would never succeed with the Advocate, to every single person or entity who TRIED to get in my way. I remember my team, those who taught me how and allowed me to lead.


---


Questions for Arvin Dauz

What made your term different from others?
We were the most unsupervised iteration of the organization. We handled all finances with almost absent supervision. For the first time too, the Advocate was fully independent. We did our own layouts, printed our own proofs and found our own printing presses. It was like a real newspaper, composed of hard nosed writers, photographers and really talented and funny artists.

What are the things that you and your term achieved?

There were no barometers for the ”success” I felt we achieved. Let’s just say this, back then, the Advocate had teeth. We went where we wanted, we interviewed people on the fly, our photographers had complete access to any and all events. Back then, it was normal to have people come in and out of the office with either complaints, fuming mad reactions and queries on the release date of the new issues. Oh, we do have a record, fully distributing 5,000 copies in less than an hour.

How did you deal with the hard times faced by the Advocate?

We were a team. Sure, I was the EIC, but no decision was mine alone. Our editorial board was one of the most close knit. Ever. Up to now, we see each other frequently. So every challenge, every hardship, every threat to the Advocate was handled by everyone. The board protected the interests of the organization, which was fully geared to protecting the interests of the stud entry.

What are the seminars, activities, number of published issues, etc in your term?

We published six or seven issues, if I’m not mistaken. We went to most of the seminars, even those not connected to journalism. We went to team building seminars, student leadership seminars and shone most brightly during the biggest gathering of schools: The YMCA program in Baguio, where we took the lead in producing the seminar newsletter.

How your term did improve the Advocate in releasing quality newspaper?

We created internal processes that expedited the various activities need to produce the paper. Before anything else, story board conferences were held, wherein most of the board, together with the writers, discussed possible stories. Editors were all very opinionated, so the stories were really important.

We discussed a lot during those days, making sure that we wrote only what we know the students needed, and no filler, nonsensical articles on vague and irrelevant topics…like love. Also, as each article was edited and approved, these were directly laid out.

How did you managed to implement office policies?

Respect. The Advocate knew how to get and give respect, especially internally. Though the office had the feel of a family or a group of friends, everyone knew the boundaries. I had kept things pretty simple then, if we weren’t working, we could horse around and treat each other like real friends, but when we got serious, we really were. We really did fire people when they broke our rules, we were severe with deadlines and was very strict with the quality of the articles. Basically, we did what we said we’d do.

Overall, how did you and your Managing Editor manage to budget the Advocate’s fund properly?

We even took money out of our own pockets. See, the Advocate fee back then was not substantial enough to fully support an organizational structure that was as independent as we were. The main budget we got from the Institute Councils was devoted entirely to printing and other pertinent costs like developing and office supplies. But, in reality, we wouldn’t have been able to keep the morale or the solidarity of the group without extra activities. We ate together a lot. After a long and tiring lay outing night we normally ate out, with money from own allowances, in seminars and other off-campus activities, the board contributed money for pocket money. This made it ok for writers to shoulder travel expenses for assignments themselves. We had parties and get together - cum - seminars that we paid for ourselves. You remember those, right, Pia?

During your term, what are the assigned tasks of the Editorial Board?

Governing body, final arbitration entity. Whatever conflict, decision or move the Advocate had to resolve or do, it passed through the board, with fierce discussions.

What motivated you to stay in the org despite of all the hardships during your term?

I lived for the Advocate. My entire college life circled around making it as true-to-the-profession as I can. I was pretty hands-on, pretty fierce. I guess, if anything, I did it because I loved it. Back then, there was no threshold for me, no limits. I would do anything. I would write without thinking “Would this get me kicked out?”, I would protect my staff from anything. The hardships, they were all challenges that made us stronger, not once in my entire stay did I ever think of quitting. I held the organization in such a pedestal that there could be no other reason but a real sense of kinship with the organization and its members.

Who are the people that helped the Advocate? What did they do?

We respected and were respected by all the other student organizations. Professors literally came to see us when they wanted an event covered or an issue made public, the security department gave us elbow room and secretaries knew our writers. I can’t really mention sources but let me tell you, professors knew our personal numbers, our inboxes were full with student feedback. The student organizations, even the unrecognized ones, knew our names and were very cooperative. We got tips about faculty issues, plans that weren’t supposed to be made public yet and got the information we needed without having to go through red-tape.

The transition for Academic Year 07-08 was late and you supervised the election of new EB, why or how do you think it happened?

I was still with the Advocate, then as a writer. There were a bunch of people who didn’t know what to do next so I simply facilitated the transition. The main reason behind that delay were scheduling conflicts.

How much effort did the student councils exert in funding the org? How well did you deal with them and to FEUCSO?

As I’ve said, they know us, we knew them. There really was no need to remind or pressure them. Everything was pretty smooth -- fund transfer wise.

Can you say that 05-06 term was successful in its role as the student mouthpiece of FEU? Why?

Is that how you define the role of the Advocate, a mouthpiece? Please. It was very successful as the Vanguard of the Studentry. Because we had the cooperation of the faculty, staff and the students, we had a lot of input regarding the stories that needed to be published, administrative decisions and information that needed to be disseminated. We didn’t write just to fill pages, we wrote, drew and shot pictures to give the studentry an empowered and informed place in the university.

What are the improvements did your term implement?

I was already a cog in the former Editorial Board led by Richmond Quiambao, what I merely did was follow through with the plans we made then, like the computer, internet access and layout capabilities.

What are the downfalls of 05-06 term?

That we could only do it for a year.

What was your priority during your term, the paper, the office, or both? Why?

The paper. Always. Everything stemmed from that, anyway. There would be no paper without a properly trained staff, a calibrated editing team, a good office, and even better working environment, so the focus was always on producing the best paper we could.

Can you say that the EB was successful in doing their tasks? Why?

A group of people with strong convictions, above-par mental faculties that were hell bent on publishing only what was needed by the studentry could not fail, even if we tried. The editorial board of our term was not a tyrannical holier-than-thou system, it was highly attuned to the staff and even competed for excellence. There were no useless squabbles or power struggles. Everything was out in the open and the staff didn’t see us as bosses, but friends and older siblings. We knew what we wanted and exhausted every avenue to get it.

How was the working environment back then?

You should know. Hahaha. The office was friendly, but revered. Sure, there were goof-off periods and what not, but hummed with activity whenever there was work to be done. We weren’t strict with rules, because we didn’t need to be. It was where discussions made a lot of sense, where you could go to chill out, work beyond healthy restrictions, have a great time, learn a lot of new things and go out proud to be a member of the organization. I learned digital design from our artists, I learned basic photography from our photographers and we all shared what we knew and were fiercely proud of the paper, the staff and the name of the organization.

Did all staff consistently report in the office? Why?

Oh yes. The Advo office was never empty. Sometimes, people even slept over. Because it was a fun place to be in. Because we all knew we could be ourselves and could give our talents to a worthwhile cause.

For you, what is the most controversial/ unforgettable issue in your term? Why?

Every issue.

What is the best thing about being an Advocate in 05-06 term? And what is the worst?

The best was being able to do what I loved in a time where independence was a reality and growth was consistent. There was no worst time, not even a bad instance. The experience, in its entirety, was one I would look back to with gratitude and fondness.

How do you see the current Advocate and its succeeding years?

I hope it stays true to the name Advocate.

This year sucks

I'm so glad this year is almost over. These past few weeks have been the epitome of the wretchedness that was 2008. My fingers can barely move over the keyboard.

I just feel so down.

December, instead of being a month of blessings, has been a month that more and more represents an end to the things I started. My confidence is waning. I'm the guy who you never see flinch. Many have told me that they wish they had my calm confidence. But this year, wow.

I am starting to question myself again. Something I thought I left in High School, when I was a loser kid with ink marks on the tip of his nose due to excessive reading.

I don't know man. If you read me for my blogs and writing style, stop reading this. This is one of those pieces that are rendered incoherent because my faculties are just shutting down. My mind tells me I need to write lest I implode. I thank the fates that I have an outlet like this. That I've been writing for most of my life and this skill proves most useful when one is down and out, believe me. If you're prone to depression or can't handle anguish or tribulations, write. Don't think about grammar or form or all that crap. Just write. Like what I'm doing now.

I am losing so many things. I am.

See, for someone who has been practically alone since 18 in a country where it is normal to see wedded couples still living with one set of parents, one has to be tough. In a country where the government can tax 30% of your income, where the ratio of food prices and wages is extremely unfair, there's a need to develop a certain sense of calm. Most Filipinos panic at adversity. Sure, we smile and laugh about it, but it haunts our sleep. I've seen that in my mom, in my bosses, in colleagues.

So there I was, Mr. Can Do.

But now, can I still can?

My girlfriend and I just had a fight. She's out at a friends birthday party. It's 4:50 AM there. Normally, I'd just shrug it off, confident in her. But dude, there are like five or six men there. I haven't gone out with any lady friend, heck, I doubt if they still know me, since what, January? I am so paranoid I can't handle it. Should I just call it quits and put an end to her suffering? she's young, with a future so bright I hate it that I'm weighing her down. Yes, I'm cracking.

I don't know if it's right that I publish this here, because this is just too personal, but fuck I can't think straight. I am one hour away from drinking myself shit-faced. I long for the numbness. The haze that envelops me when I drink. That escape that let's me, for a horridly disillusioned span of time, feel like there are no worries.

Yes, damn it. I have a drinking problem. I admit it. I calm myself by drinking. In the hangover, I think of what I can do to solve my problems. In the alcohol-sweat tinged morning I hate myself for drinking again. Red-eyed and woozy, I just think.

So there. I'm almost calm now. Though I still feel the almost-electric anger in my veins. coursing especially strong through my extremities. So let's write, damn it. I mean, really write.


Good on ya'

Pour me a drink barkeep,
make it strong.
Tell me stories of old,
like woven fabrics of lies and deceit.

Pour another stiff one for that lad yonder,
on the side of the bar
face slumped in unknown woes.

Pull up your prepared stories, barkeep,
those that you keep for disinterested,
never-somber regulars you keep here.
Make it fantastic, make it riddled with life's wisdom.

Give me the whole damn bottle, barkeep.
Ignore the drunken melee,
they'll feel it tomorrow.

But I won't barkeep, I won't.
'Cause by the morn, I'll hug my whiskey tight.
And when the pain creeps in,
I lift that paper covered bottle and chug one down,
as I remember your stories, barkeep
Your lies and my truths,
your acid concoctions that
makes it all go away.
Goodnight barkeep, goodnight.

-Hellbound

I hate Twilight.

OK, here's the thing, I've been reading the Stephanie Meyer ebook and I just managed to finish it before I saw the movie.

Now, I wasn't a big fan of the book, not at all... but the movie sucked. Big time.

Now, a colleague asked me, "Why don't you like Twilight?"

Here's what I said:

Arvin: "Did you read the Harry Potter series?"

Colleague: "Uh, no."

A: "How 'bout Paulo Coelho"

C: "Oh yeah...the Alchemist! Nice"

A: "I thought that book was suited for teenagers. Well, see, even the Harry Potter series has more literary integrity than this book. I mean, it's OK...if you're 16. It's fun and I love that books are getting more interest from the young, but at least move up after reading this. I mean, sheesh, I like her imagery and all, I like the way she paces the story, but I just don't see much to it.

C: "So, you don't like it?"

A: "It really isn't that simple, I mean it's like saying that because a kid can't dig a good Bicol Express or Dinengdeng, the dish is rubbish. It's more as to what suits you.

C: "Sheesh, what books do you read?"

A: "I am not gonna tell you that I read the heavy stuff alone. I mean, I enjoyed Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged and am looking forward to Fountainhead, but I still enjoy my Angels and Demons and the occasional Paulo Coelho. Wait, here it is, if I am to name a writer that entertains me and yet I hold in the highest esteem, it would have to be Neil Gaiman: a fantasy writer.Getting back the book, props to Meyer for being able to twist the whole Vampire idea into an interesting One Tree Hill or Gossip Girl twist, props to her for getting kids to read again, but it doesn't whet my appetite.

C: "Uh, ok..."

A: "And the movie, damn the movie. I even waited for it to end, so that the torment stops!"

C: "Didn't you enjoy it? Are you one of those people who complain that the movie didn't stick to the book entirely?"

A: "Oh, no, I am not a purist. But see,the real outstanding point of the book was that it clearly painted a picture of the chapters. I loved how Meyer projected Edward and his family as almost godlike. I appreciated the 'almost-human-but-too-good-to-be-one' aspect of the Cullens. But that got lost ENTIRELY in the movie. That piece of Hollywood hype turned a completely respectable book into a freakin' teenage screenplay. I mean talk about cheese man. Seriously. Even my mom and my cousin didn't like it."

C: "Uh, you watched it with your mom?

A: "Shut up. Now, the book was OK, it was palatable, but the movie? If it was a pasta dish, it would be a gag-inducing mac and cheese."

C: "What's with the allusions to food?"

A: "I'm watching Top Chef so shut up. That movie sucked. Seriously."

C: "OK, but I liked it.

A: "How old are you again?"

C: "20"

A: "That figures."


Now, of course the conversation didn't last that long and wasn't really like that, but that was the gist. Man, that movie was a total letdown. Seriously. Edward Cullen was giggling like a school girl, far from his regal, smoldering character in the book. And the Jasper and Alice characters, the ones who gave a whole new dimension to the book, were totally disregarded.

Twilight's lines, the ones between Edward and Bella were poignant in the book because so many things led up to it. There was so much back story and build-up that when things were said, especially with the descriptive silent musings of Bella, readers get the full image of the moment.

The movie didn't use that to its full effect.

Sheesh, why am I talking about a book and a movie that were unmemorable and unpalatable, respectably?

Because I was let down. Seriously.

Please, Angels and Demons starring Tom Hanks, don't do that to me again.

Frustration

I like art.





In fact, my greatest frustration is that I can't draw to save my life. That's why I turned to computer graphics and became a decent vector-art maker. Decent because though I was the one who taught my artist friends to do vector images through Photoshop, they've advanced way farther than I can hope for. Because they can actually draw. I can't. My imaginative artistry is limited to what I can see. I can't just see something in my head and create it on paper or any other medium.





I hate it.





Marvin, one of my closest buddies even said : " Galing ng Photoshop 'no? Nagiging artist kahit 'yung taong 'di marunong mag-drawing" (Photoshop's great, huh? It makes artists out of people who can't even draw)





That's why, when I was head honcho of our college paper, my favorite section was the arts section. The guys from Fine Arts and Nursing (it is painful how really good artists are forced to take up Nursing in this country) got all the pampering they needed from the editorial board. I gave them freedom to express their views through silly or incisive cartoons. I even allowed one of them, Nemo Aguila (featured in the exhibit above) to hide -- he never did hide it well -- genitalia in his artworks. I hung out with them, fed them, chugged back alcohol and joked with them. Because I wanted so bad to be one of them. They taught me Photoshop, Image Ready and how to appreciate art. They made me see lines, curves and color combinations. They told me about style and how Bugsy Garcia has none, but can copy any. Gio Guiao taught me about computer graphics and what can be doe with tedious effort. Dande Mirambel made me appreciate Marvel Comics again. Kyo showed me just how emo anime can be. Obald Castillon shared his love of symmetrical lines, Aldrin Vasquez showed me what obsessive-compulsiveness can do to an artist and Erich Rafer and Danny showed me what fanaticism is.

I love art.

Though I am no connoisseur, I know what I like.

It's the maiden that eludes my every woo.

The beast that foils my every trap.

The dish that, with every bite, makes me wonder how it was cooked.

Go to Nemo Aguila's exhibit. I'll be there. Catch Gio and Bugsy on their Multiply and Friendster pages. You'll read my comments there.

Hate Mail

I absolutely hate jologs hip-hop. The Philippines has been festering with nasty-a*s posers for years. Lately, they've gone extremely cheap and irritating. I mean, dude, I love rap, hip-hop and R&B. I understand the culture behind the music that encompasses break dancing, clothing and deejaying.

But these young 'uns are pissing me off. To them, "keeping it gangsta" means gang banging with all the hype and none of the bite. I'm just thankful gats and pieces aren't as proliferated here as it it in the 'hoods of the US. They dress like crazy cheap. fake FUBUs, JNCOs, Marc Eckos, Sean Johns and Phat Farms without even knowing that P. Diddy owns Sean John and FUBU means "For Us, By Us". They think the coasts wars are still going down and that they can get in on the action. Lately, they are diggin' the Chicano hip hop with all the vatos and hombres mixed will ill-spelled ghetto speak with all the Zs and the OEs which just kill their vocabs. Dang, if you can't spell right, you ain't going nowhere. They rave on about being the toughest gang and holding down their turf, it's crazy.

What pains me is that my younger cousins are into it, even one of the girls man. What the effin' eff. They're all hooded up with fake blings, crappy market-bought bandannas, over sized fake shirts screaming audacious logos, listening to crap like Gagong Rapper (Stupid Rapper) and all that nasty, senseless jabber about keeping it flip-style. Sheesh man. Anyone who listens to somebody openly calling himself stupid is stupid himself. I borrowed one cousin's mp3 player once to find out what he was listening to. I didn't know the subculture of Pinoy Hip Hop was as inundated with sex-related, empty-machismo and false pretenses rappers as I saw in his playlist.

Filipino Hip Hop is such a dynamic community. It's quest for respect has long been sidetracked by forgettable fakers like Salbakuta and Dice and K9. Hear the real stuff being churned out by people like Gloc-9 and Francis M and hear the true angst of Pinoy Hip Hop. For the young and lost jologs to desecrate the culture doesn't only negate the sense of respect the community is trying to bring, but also is a sorry sorry reflection of how uneducated and uncritical these kids are. I mean, I once listened to insanely stupid stuff like Grin Department and Siakol but I really grew up with Alanis, Yano, Eraserheads and Rivermaya. My hip hop idols aren't the Snoop Dogs or the Ice Cubes, I revered Bone Thugs and Harmony, Outkast and Run DMC in their heydays.

Stop dicking around with all this ghetto crap.

Happy Mother's Day

Mom,

I aint a kid anymore. You have to understand that. You have to know that the moment I didn't need your hand to hold on to when I cross the street was the moment the world opened up it's big mouth and invited me to go in.

I'm all grown up. If I can smoke a cigarette, what's keeping me from hanging out with my friends? Mom, understand the 10PM isn't bed time anymore, it's party time.

Please, please, please stay out of my room to check out my drawers and the contents of my pod, and never EVER fiddle with my phone, those things are too private.

I get embarrassed when you show my friends my baby pictures and tell them how I was when I was a kid. I don't appreciate the attention to my health when we hang around the house, I can take care of myself, mom.

I'm stronger now, I can take on so much, if you only knew the stuff I'm into, you;d be surprised just how much I can take. high school isn't the way is use to be when you attended it. I don't want to tell you about it because you'll never understand.

Mom, I have a special someone now and she's the woman in my life. The faster you dig that, the better we can get along.

I love you mom, but please, don't get on my case too much, sometimes, just sometimes, understand that we are very very different, and so are the worlds we live in.

Happy mother's day.


Your Son


----


My dearest son,

I know that you can do so much and that you're so talented and I'm proud of you. The world you're talking about didn't open it's mouth, it spread its arms to embrace you. All that we're doing is for that moment when that embrace becomes too tight for comfort. I'm glad you're honest enough to admit you smoke now, all I'm asking is: how much to you really enjoy it? I trust that you can take care of yourself and I have watched enough television that today, the parties aren't "rad" anymore and that you feel comfortable with them, but please remember we'll always be looking out for you and for us to be there when you need us, we need to know where you are. Just know who you're with and where you are will give me the peace of mind I need as a mom, because I know I've raised an excellent young man who's responsible and with a good head on his shoulders.

I clean your room son, when I do come across stuff you don't want me to see, is it my fault if you don't clean your stuff yourself? Just kidding son, but all I'm doing is trying to know what you're into, as you're too busy to chat with and update me about your hectic life.

Son, I am so proud of you that I want your friends to know who you really are, aside from the posters on your wall of the shirt on your back. I take it that soon, you'll know that it's important for the people around you to know you completely. I know that school is difficult for you and I don't want to be another burden, but please, know that when you come in after school with a frown on your face, I wish you'd let me know how I can help.

Your girlfriend is very special to me as well and I commend you for finding a person that cares for you as much as she does. I know that she's the woman in your life, just let me be the woman making sure you have a beautiful life.

I love you too son, in ways you right now don't, but will understand. If I bug you too often, it's just because I want to know who you're becoming, because I already know who you are. Our worlds really are different son, but please, know that I'm doing this because though the road you're in right now is filled with bright new lights, I've gone through them too, and know that at times, they can blind us.

I love and trust you so much son. That's something no one can take away from me. All I'm asking you is to let me be a mother and see my son grow, be two steps away to see the footsteps you leave behind and be there when the road gets too tough.

Love,

Mom

Inner monologue

Today, left alone practically the whole day, I kept myself busy. I first lifted weights again after a while and my body is kinda hurting. Pumped by testosterone, I felt like putting up (finally!) the blinds at at my apartment and doing some spot cleaning. In a bit, I'll be tinkering with the two PCs here at home, just to keep busy.

I don't want to think.

At 25, there's this thing creeping around the corners and showing up in the most major and minuscule parts of my life: permanence. I don't know man, at this age, things that I do seem to carry a lot more weight, and be more irreversible when I was 18. I don't know if I'm taking myself way too seriously again or it's true.

The friends I keep close all seem to feel it. One, we don't go out for drinks and fun at all anymore. I mean c'mon, it's a Saturday night and I'm cleaning my bathroom? Unheard of in recent years. Now, there are no nightly text messages from the usual suspects inviting for a drive around town or a couple of beers or hanging out at the usual spots. Now, it's "I have work tomorrow," or "I can't, meeting set for brunch tomorrow, pare". I have a couple of married and/or with child that instead of chiming "We need to party," say "Diapers are the new gold!" or something in the same thread. My high school buddies now talk about marriage and settling down, I don't feel the need to pop my shoulders as much now.

Now, my biggest indulgence is food: cooking and eating it. I'm still strapped for cash these days, but instead of impulse-buying a pair of jeans or sneakers, I bought a turbo-broiler and began experimenting with it. I found out I can pretty much treat it like an oven and I am. The NBA post-season is in full swing but I'd give up watching AK47 or King James for the sake of ogling at Nigella or picking up practical tips from Jaime Oliver. But when my main man KG is on, I still only see green and white.

I don't know man, I know most of my age-group are going "What the eff man, you SHOULD be feeling those things now, so get a grip and grow some b*lls!"

I know man, believe me, I know. It's just that I can't focus. Lately, I've been day dreaming about the past. Like, what if I didn't get kicked out of San Beda? Or if I finished my college in the recommended four years? Or if I didn't get stuck in the Business Process Outsourcing industry which just killed most of my writing prospects.

At this age, the last thing I need is regret. But the permanence just taps me at the shoulder and I can't help but scream: "What the hell man, I know, I know, but why can't I?"

Why can't I really grow up, like REALLY grow up. Something inside me has grown so comfy in the juvenile cradle of knowing that my family's got my back and that I still can get back up from a fall. It's different when you're dealing with self-introspection and logically completing and agreeing with correct thought patterns. But in face of actual tests to my much-ballyhooed sensibility, I fail. I feel and know that I do.

What is fundamentally wrong about believing in yourself and not wanting to stay mediocre? For example, I was pretty comfortable in this last Communication Skills trainer position I was in, I mean, I wasn't taking in any calls and was actually helping prospective agents communicate better. For the first time, I wasn't a notorious absentee or late-comer, but one f*cked up mishap caused me to call it quits and leave the company. I felt insulted when they paid me a half-a-month's salary that was lower than the people I was training got. I felt so undervalued man.

I know I can do a lot of stuff well. But I can't seem to get into a groove that'll let me rev to my max. Maybe that groove will never come, but I'll keep risking man. That teenage rebel inside me is slowly getting beaten by the man I want to become.

These coming months, I'm risking it all.

I've already lost a total of 80,000 pesos on failed investments, but I ain't afraid to go at it again. Hell, I'm still young right? And still pretty sharp. What I need to get now, is work that will appropriately make full use of my skills and compensate. I don;t need big, I need to feel like work actually improves me. Because that's my fuel: constant improvement.

This post is so disjointed I know you'll have a hard time understanding this especially if you don't know me. So forgive me, my writing skills have never been Spartan but flowed freely like the gay-a** Athenians.

Let's Talk Pinoy : Streetfood

I lived in a pardox of sorts when I spent my formative years (seven years of grade school, three of high school) in San Beda College from 7Am-3PM and Sta. Cruz, Manila the other odd hours. The weird thing, which I will most probably expound on in a different piece, was that I went to school that charged 20,000 pesos a year while my friends took five pesos to school with them for their daily sustenance. That meant that after school, around the sons of lawyers, businessmen and other affluent families, I went home to a street where my friends and I brought out any leftover lunch; read: Black, burnt rice at the bottom of the pan and half a piece of salted fish, for a communal dinner capped by an eight-peso 800ml bottle of local cola.


So, in San Beda, I learned just how the good life tasted -- though those rich kids NEVER acted like the snotty airheaded morphlings of today's pricey schools -- and in Vision Street, Sta. Cruz a couple of blocks away from the then San Lazaro horse racetrack (yes, I knew that place before it had airconditioned department stores and Starbucks) showed me how the good life... is over-rated.


Okay, okay...

I know you like your hors d' oeuvres and your bite-sized pieces of pastries and cured meats, hell, I know what you're talking about when you say amous bouche and pancetta, but do you know the simple...rustic...so-bad-for-you-it's-damn-good delight of monosodium glutamate showered dirty oil deep-fried cow fat? Sebo, my dear cabron. Street food, for the average, subdivision-bred insolent means rubbery calamares or the classic 50 centavo fishball now relegated to second-stringer status due to rise of pretentious chicken, squid and shrimp balls. Some people recall banana-que and kamote-que. I even hear stories of "south" (Parañaque ain't no St. Luis or ATL mah boys... the real south is Cebu) grown girls in elitist schools who have not tasted balut. Seriouly, I understand the paranoia surrounding the gloriously germ infested fishball, but an egg is a perfectly clean life-support system designed by nature to protect the continuance of a species-- the point is, it won't make you sick and it's such a sin to carry a Filipino passport and not know how it tastes like. Dang.

Living in a steet filled with horse-racing fanatics, a dash of addicts, a sprinkling of street ballers and computer addicts, my life at home was classically urban Pinoy. Fishball vendors were friends I even drank with one after they sold out the day's wares, always saving a fourth of a pack of fishballs and three one-day-old ducks for our pulutan. When I was a kid the most famous lady in the community was the Yakult vendor followed closely by the Magnolia Chocolait-in-a-bottle milkmaid.

I know street food. My circle of friends are street food connoissuers.


Do not, at any time, claim Pinoy urbanite status without tasting at least five of the items below.


1. Fishballs : Not the flat discs dipped in grossly sweet soy-based sauce. I'm talking about those that were scattered along Mendiola, more specifically, La Consolacion College: those were slightly more puffy, with a dense almost-real fish taste to them. These fishballs had body, more like miniature fishcakes in their slightly more yellow tinge, but the crowning glory of fishballs is the master saucer: there was this one, balding beer-bellied manong I ran to after every school day who made the best sauce. It was golden, not blackish-brown, with a sweetness countered by the rich folding of what I now realise was margarine, with a few sauteed then boiled chunks of garlic. That was the fishball that cost me 40 pesos per afternoon. I drank that sauce like it was Jollibee gravy,man.

2. Squidballs : before the prodigious rise of the chicken ball, the squidball was the heir-apparent. The squidballs were large, well, balls - back then with a real kick of squid. Today's versions are watered down clones. They were perfect when they reached their maximum size, then one skewers them with a bamboo stick to dip in vinegar first then the sweet-spicy sauce. Now, the best squidballs I know are those that really taste like squid and with a vinegar dip red with onions, chillies and kalamansi (Philipine lime).

3. One-day-old : These are called such because that's what they are. Orange, almost dry day-old chickens. I know they're chickens because at times, one-day-olds are actually two or three days more mature with the palong (crown) starting to grow out. There are two variations, one with the bitter gall bladder (?) left on for that weird and inviting bitter bomb or the one where the bladder is removed. Both are a study in contrast: the head,neck and legs are crunchy bites, while the abdomen offers soft innards with a rubbery thing I do not even know anatomically. But, the best thing about one-day olds is to crisp them, leaving it intact, dip them in the community vinegar dip and gobble them up whole. You might not hear this very common food phrase for this food item much but, it is a symphony of textures and tastes. Life.Is.Good.

4. Quekiam or Kikiam : Normally swimming in hot oil together with the first three, I'd rather not talk about that elongated blob of excreted-looking tube because I really don't understand it. Let's just talk about this quekiam I really am looking for these days but can't get a hold of. When I was in grade four ages ago, I had this P.E teacher who sold us a stick of Chinese quekiam, those thin, long, greasy and is-this-cooked? things for 10 pesos a pop. Every purchase gained three merits for that day's activity or a plus .5 to the final examination.Yes, Juans and Marias, smile as you remember your version of my teacher. So we bought them, because it was a way to get a free pass through boring P.E. The surprising thing was, they were so effin' delicious. Now, I forgot most of elementary days because I was a library book-club primero nerd, but I clearly remember how that red and brown stick looked and tasted like. It was speckled with dehydrated pork fat, those pearly globules just melted when you bit into them. It had this chorizo-like texture of dried sausage but with a hint of sweetness. It came with a peanut sauce that just crowned the whole thing king. I tried looking for it in Ongpin, I got some sauges that resembled it, but nothing that tasted like it.

5. Dirty Mami : A bike connected to two stainless steel drums with a makeshift stainless counter top. Stopping at intersections and waiting for very eager customers. Now, when that manong grabs a red plastic bowl and proceeds to take a handful of noodles, put it in a small cup-like sieve and bobs it in beef broth, please,please, hold your claps as he ain't done. He'll put those noodle in the bowl, sprinkle toasted garlic, spring onions and boiled odd beef cuts to them. This is the time you interrupt - ask him to put boiled beef fat when he drowns the whole thing in broth. When he's done, grab the bottle of soy and hot sauce, flavor to your liking. Puto (rice cakes) optional, claps and admiration compulsary.

6. The Pinoy barbecue de rigeur edition : Normal stuff you see on any street barbecue stall. Pork barbecue, pork ears, chicken and pork interstines or isaw, the occasional hotdog, chicken gizzard and pork liver. Not much to say, just this - ever wondered why most pork barbecues taste the same? I bought some in a wet market once and bought another in an entirely different city market. Both had the same cuts with skewered pork meat with fat at the bottom and both tasted the same: sweet and salty. the marinade was a caramel-hued black and wow was it good. Is there like, a factory of this marinade or a congregation of meat dealers who came up with this? Hmmm.

7. The Pinoy barbecue Indiana Jones edition : For the more adventurous set (naks, napasok talaga 'yung Indiana Jones eh no?) there are the more acquired array of barbecues. Betamax is coagulated pig blood blocks with salt and vinegar, very tart and the right preparation makes the texture like firm gelatin. Puwit, are chicken bottoms, an explosion of fat encased in crispy chicken skin. Period. Pork skin and fat,'nuff said. Chicharon bulaklak - I don't know the exact name of the part, but it's definitely pork intestine. When it's grilled, it becomes crisp with a very oily,heavy and musky taste. Adobo chicken feet which require some level of skill to eat. It's mostly tendons and the fingers are bony so the way to eat this right is to bite of the fingers one at a time, just take the skin 'til you're left with the palm. Put the whole thing into your mouth and bite at the ankle and work your way up. you're left with a bone and a smile on your face. My favorite is helmet: chicken heads that appear in two ways - either as three whole chicken heads without the beak or just one head with the neck attached. I prefer the one with the neck. Eating the head is tricky, but I've mastered it to the point I do it without even touching it. Bite off the jaw, spit out the bones. Nit pick the eye with your teeth as these are inedible and leave the socket alone, do it with both eyes. Take the top skin off, the one covering the cranium and take the two big skull bones first. you'll see the brain, but don't chomp on it just yet. Bite the front of the head almost 'til the brain, it's gonna be juicy. Take the two smaller skull bones on the base of the neck off and suck the brains out. Chomp on the base of the neck to get the entire skull off. Wipe your oily lips.

8. Cherryball : If you're over 20 and you don't know this, you probably had cable and aircondioning when you were a kid. Even a generator, at most, in the Cory Aquino era. They're small, screaming red gum balls for 10cents a piece. Normally inside a large glass jar in fornt of the store where you buy Wonderboy, Sweetcorn, Snacku, Nachos, Chiz Curls, Butterball, Litson Baka, Tira Tira, Kiamoy, The salty spicy dried dilis and squid, Pog and Teks (uy, ngumiti, matanda na. Hahaha).

9. The kariton Cheese curls : A kariton or wood cart is pushed by an old man. The cart contains a large plastic bag of cheese curls, the source of which remains a mystery to this day, which you buy for 25 cents per serving. He makes a large cone out of a page of an old phone directory and scoops the cheese curls with a tabo or water dipper and fills the cone with it. Enjoy.

10. Sorbetes or Dirty Ice Cream : Still exists today as a Pinoy trademark as iconic as the jeepney. Sold out of colorful pushcarts which open up to three tubs of ice cream kept cold by ice and salt. The flavors range from the classical ube (taro), mango, cheese chocolate to the updated langka (jackfuit), buko (coconut), peanut butter and cookies and cream. Served in either tasteless or sweet cones, small plastic cups or, my fave, monay or round bread. Not as creamy as commercial ice cream, but suited to the tastes, and pockets, of the Juan.

11. Mani and Cornick : Peanuts and Cornick are exported these days, the peanuts are either skin on or off cooked adobo-style and fried. The cornick are crunchy pieces or corn. The one thing I love about street mani is that you can add chilli-salt to it. Plus the extra crisp garlic wedges.

12. Grilled dried squid : The man carries a small makeshift grill and plants his store anywhere the customers are. He only has one product : dried and salted squid which he proceeds to grill in front of you. This gives it the smoky flavor that makes the crisp squid that one hella of a crack.

13.Popcorn, cotton candy, scramble and taho : All served in bike and cart contraptions except taho, these are the kids' favorites.Popped corn kernels in different flavors like cheese, barbecue and cotton candy. Seriously. Seen in glass and aluminum partitions with an incandescent bulb to light the whole thing up. Cotton Candy made in front of you with various colored sugar put in the middle of a cyclotron looking device, it's topped with a healthy sprinkling of powdered milk. Scramble is shaved ice with milk and flavoring served in a plastic cup topped with powdered milk and Hershey's Chocolate syrup (kuno). Taho is a soy drink. Soft and jelly like, it's served in plastic cups with sago (taioca pearls) at the bottom and arnibal or dark simple syrup on top. The choice? To mix or not to mix.

14. Dirty Salad : Another bike and cart contraption features about six bowls of different salads on a bed of ice and salt. Macaroni, Buko, Fruit...etc. Haven't really tried these as I'm not a big white salad person.

15. The Qs : Saba and kamote (sweet potato) are fried in a bath of oil and brown sugar and skewered. Also features the tasty turon - banana halves embraced by white sugar, optional langka, then rolled in lumpia wrappers to be fried. The sweetness of the banana is heightend by the sugar and the wrapper crisps to texture defining glory.

16. Pinoy burger : Featuring a very thin and flour-y patty, the Pinoy burger is quintessianly Pinoy - a bastardization of a foreign food item given color and variety. The cool thing about this street burger is the add-ons you can pile on top of it. Though bacon and mushroom aren't on the choices, the variations are still very worthwhile. Tomatoes, coleslaw (mayonnaise and cabbage), ham, egg and cheese make for a pretty filling burger.

17. Pinagtabasan : This just takes the cake for weird factor. Literally. There was this one lady that always appears early evening along my street screaming "Pinagtabasan, pinagtabasan ng cake!" She sold sponge cake shavings. For real. I don;t know how she got them, I am baffled up to now, but when one was early and lucky, one got the parts with icing on it. Dang.

18. The two peso Lumpia : An absolute favorite of mine I just don't see around anymore. A man carries two stainless steel boxes. These are attached to a bamboo stick that runs across his shoulders. When you buy from him, he opens the box to reveal four compartments and a small working space. He takes a small lumpia wrapper and puts it in the middle of the work space. He lathers it with a brown peanut sauce and sugar then puts in the filling of sauteed carrots, string beans and monggo sprouts. He then asks you if you want it sweet or spicy. Say sweet and he lathers it with more sugar and peanut sauce, say spicy and a white mixture of chillies and other stuff is added. Say both and you get the trio. He wraps it up with a banana leaf and you jump for joy and screm to high heavens. Then put a comment on this piece with your location as I definitely want to taste that again.

19. Sebo (sub-genre: Fried Baga and Litid) : Directly translated, sebo means fat.Specifically, cold and solidified animal oil. Here's what happens, a man has a small wok-like pan on one end of his bike-cart thing and a pot on the other. After frying chunks of beef fat in the pan, he drains and puts them into the pot. He proceeds to shower it with monosodium glutamate (banned in first world countries) and salt, then he covers the pan and shakes it with gusto. Most of the time, I actually waited for it to cook a whole batch was gone right after frying. I once consumed 50 pesos worth of this stuff. At that time, it was 5 pesos for a small sorbetes cup. He measured with the cup, dumped it into a small plastic bag as I wailed for additional pieces and put more salt into the bag. I "hanged" for more than two hours after consuming that much fat. I was dazed and unable to function or do anyting but stare at nothing while sitting in front of the sari-sari (variety) store. The only entry deserving a subgenre, there's also the fried lung and tendons. Both on minute sticks and pre-fried, the lungs are black while the tendons are bright orage. You pick your sticks and throw them into the oil to reheat them. The vendor sometimes saves you of this hassle and pours hot oil over his fare. The thing about this pair is the dip. Sweet, vinegar and so based with finely chopped chillies. I have long tried to imitate the dip but I think I'm missing the core ingridient: jeepney exhaust.

20. Balut : The effin' King of Pinoy street food is steamed unhatched duck eggs.Many foreigners and pompous socialites squeam at the site of the veined yellow yoke and almost black bird. There is nothing to improve on for this thing, cabron. Salt, spicy vinegar and a healthy blood pressure and you'll taste the creamy yolk, the innard-like texture of the bird and for some, the hard, crumbly white I-don't-know what-it's-called-in-english bato. The greatest thing about balut is the juices. you crack open the wider part of the egg to make a small hole from where you suck the juice out. It's like stewed duck, but a bit more diferent as the juice is embryonic fluid that is, well, so good I can't find a western food-applicable adjective for it.

There you go amigos, The food of the streets that define the Filipino palate: eclectic, adventurous, anything but wasteful and full of flavor and unapologetic cholesterol. Street food offers the in-your-face truth of showing you how it's created but with some mysteries that are as engaging as gypsies. The Filipino is not defined by Kamayan or Cabalen, the Juan who still takes home pansit is a Juan who knows that food should not be presumptuous or rentious. Chow, kain, lafang, banat. Call it whatever you like, but eat.