Engrish

Like any 70s child, my introduction to the entertaining (and puzzling) world of Engrish came with free trade. With the deluge of cutesy stuff from predominantly non-English speaking countries, I had pencil boxes that had me "lookiking out the window," stationery with lost-in-translation messages and how-to manuals that were far more complicated than actually putting together seemingly complicated parts.

In church last Saturday, I found an effective way not to snooze during the homily. It was a t-shirt that put to task my (rapidly deteriorating) memorization skills. And it read:

Romantic A

What gives me a feeling and the tranquility which made us unite and the calmness.

Produce the atmosphere.

That the spot which a spice was effective againste is smart.

While it is gentle.

If I wouldn't be condemned to stew in hell for flashing my cp camera during mass, I would have snapped up a photo and sent it to this site.

Yehey!

Here's the upside to this taking-down-the-trimmings thing that used to give me the blues:





Finally,they're getting rid of the hideous thingamajigs passing for Christmas decor in front of the City Hall.

Yehey!

Lord Hygiene

Just a quick post because I am at work and I'm supposed to be working (ha!). In any case, I came across this name which had me thinking of feminine wash and visits to the dentist: LORD HYGIENE ______.

I wonder, what could have been in the minds of the parents when they picked this most sanitary of names? Were they thinking, perhaps, of immaculate conception? Could it be that the parents are neat freaks and couldn't stand the idea of germs? Do they believe that cleanliness is next to godliness and decided to combine two concepts in naming their beloved son? And is Lord Hygiene living up to his vaunted name?

Argh! How can I possibly get past my computations when seemingly germ-infested questions are swimming in my head?

A Love Story (Not!)

Thirty years ago, this girl fell for this boy. Everyone thought--as they did then--that this was the stuff of Mills and Boon. That the girl and the boy would gallop off into the sunset to the tune of "We've Only Just Begun..."

Alas, things weren't meant to be. A few days after the girl asked the boy to have her cassette repaired, some other girl, in a classic case of "pikot," seduced the boy. To cut a convoluted story short, the boy married the other girl, leaving the girlfriend in tears and without her precious cassette.

But as young loves go, this one was soon forgotten. The girl upped and married, and happily, too. For a time, it looked as though the love story of 30 years ago never happened.

And then, their paths crossed again. For the boy, it was a case of moonlights and moon-glazed looks all over again. Not so for the girl. Having spent the past thirty years plodding through life in commas and semi-colons, she wasn't ready to forgive just yet. And the very first thing that came out of her mouth when they saw each other again?

"@#$%@*&()_^%! Give me back my cassette."

Closure, it seems, is the handsome new component that now sits proudly in the girl's living room.

Streamer Republic

When I joined government eight years ago, the first thing that struck me was this preoccupation with streamers. That and t-shirts. Any event--and there are many--merited yards and yards of coco cloth and the requisite t-shirts. The streamers, I soon learned, served the information-dissemination part of the activity. The T-shirt, on the other hand, served the documentation part. Uniform shirts, after all, looked good in photographs.

The penchant for streamers, however, has recently spilled over to the domestic arena. The fence surrounding my old high school is now covered with streamers in varying degrees of wear and tear, all of them congratulating this and that for passing the boards, for earning a scholarship, for being voted muse in some convention. In most cases, the "congratulations" bear the usual "from family and friends." Very much like those from-papa-and-mama birthday party balloons.

I understand the pride of family and friends, of course. Any achievement, whether big or small, deserves a pat on the back, after all. But the idea of hanging a streamer in a public place, especially when the object of the "congratulations" is not around to even read the fine print, is totally lost on me.

It may be because I consider myself part of a low-key, almost invisible generation. My contemporaries and I thrive in the background, behind the scenes. This doesn't make us less driven, less achievement-oriented. It's just that we don't make it a habit to crow about medals and awards and diplomas.

The streamers haven't escaped the attention of a friend, who is now "pressuring" his kindergartner to excel so that he'll do one better: he'll have a tarpaulin printed. Even if the kid is Best in Conduct, or A-One Child or Mission Month Boy.

Bawal...

I did a double take when I saw this sign. I thought: who would be stupid enough to penalize victims of the dreaded mandurukot? Would there even be enough cash left to pay the fine? Unless, of couse, this was some creative ploy to warn the unwary about presence of pickpockets in these parts...

Then I realized: I have been so used to thinking in Tagalog that it took awhile for me to recognize that the sign was in Bicol. "Dukot" (pronounced the way you say "sagot") is literally "dikit." The warning on the wall is the Bicol translation of the classic "Post No Bill."

Oh well. Posting bills may be up for penalty, but there's nothing on the wall that says graffiti is not allowed.

Autopilot

Between getting out of bed and going out to work, there are about a thousand things I cram in. "Mindless" things, really: things that don't require that much brain power. Like folding the sheets, plugging in the airpot, downing a mugful or two of Maxwell House 3 in 1, taking a shower.

Because I am so used to doing these things day in and day out, doing them seems so automatic, so effortless. Like cruising on autopilot mode.

In the shower today, I mindlessly slathered on the seven or so preparations--from body wash to shampoo to conditioner and other things in between. After 20 minutes or so, I got dressed, had breakfast and started getting ready for work.

Just when I was about to leave, I noticed that my hair smelled "different." It was nice alright. But different. Not the usual subtle green tea but a stronger scent. Could it be that I forgot to rinse out the conditioner, I wondered. But no, it wasn't that. Not the shampoo, either. Nor the leave-on.

As it turned out, I botched up the bottles. I had to go back to the shower to rinse the scent of feminine wash off my hair!

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If it's any consolation, it wasn't just me who had a case of autopilot gone awry. On the way to the office, we picked up a colleague whose husband had to rush back home. And why the rush?

Because he forgot to put on his pants!

Mc Broiley Who?

This being a lazy, hazy Saturday, I had lunch while idly surfing channels.

My attention was drawn to this segment on Eat Bulaga. In an informal getting-to-know-you Q & A, the hosts asked the contestant what the name of her son was. The reply? Mc. Broiley. As in M-C period B-R-O-I-L-E-Y. The kid, insisted the mother, was named for a character on Dragan Ball Z.

And then, there's this family of wide readers whose children were named for writers and/or literary characters: Ingersoll, Plutarco, Hulmboldt, Voltaire, Parker, Baron de Holboch.

Ah, the names we name our kids...

In Black and White

I love leafing through resumes. It's amazing how life--and works in progress--can be summarized in tiny details: in commas and periods, in hyphens and dashes.

Just as there are different views, there, too, are varied resumes. There are cut-and-paste versions and there are those that command attention. There are resumes that spell determination and drive, there are that imply that their subjects are simply coasting along.

In my 8' x 5' corner of the (bureaucratic) world, a resume can be a source of boundless amusement. Consider these:

Place of birth: Neighbor's house

Color of eyes: Black and white

Distinguishing mark: Pimple on left face

Name of father: Dead
Name of mother: Dead again

Tragicomic

Picture a hardened policeman struggling with the typewriter keys--and the words--and you are sure to get a dose of comedy. True, the circumstances may be no laughing matter, but the way they are translated on paper can be an endless source of amusement.

This, taken from the police blotter, really had me rolling:

Case: Kasunduan

Kami Person # 1, may sapat na gulang, representative ng _____ Bus Lines, at Person # 2, may sapat na gulang, drayber, ay nagkasundo na ang nawalang pustiso ng ikalawang panig sa aksidente ay papalitan ng ___ Bus Lines at ako ay hindi na magsasampa ng kaso laban sa drayber at kumpanya. At ang unang panig ay nangangako na papalitan ang nasabing pustiso.

The English version?

Case: Confrontation (accidentally bumped from behind by ___ Bus Lines who at that time he was trying to overtake to said vehicle he was hit the rear bumber that causing the damage of vehicle)

At around 10:20 p.m. Person 1 and Person 2 confronted in this office and both parties agreed that the repair of the artificial teeth (pustiso) 3 pcs amounting to 2,400.00 will shoulder by the ___ Bus Lines as soon as possible due to that the artificial teeth is needed daily.

It's a ..... Cone!

Here's one from my sister's arsenal of true-to-life (political) sidelights:

Lawmaker A received an unusual Christmas gift from Lawmaker B: a package full of apa. Yes, ice cream cones. The wafery kind.

Thinking that the apa won't be missed, the staff consigned it to its natural fate: in their digestive systems, along with a gallon of Double Dutch Excellence.

Two days later, Lawmaker A came looking for the apa and, upon learning that it has since been digested, spent the entire day clucking his tongue in consternation.

The apa, it turned out, was far more expensive than five gallons of premium ice cream. After all, it came--not from Lawmaker B's turf, as the staff thought it did--but from a tiny, postcard-pretty village in France.

And Now for the News...

Bizarre things have been happening lately from where I blog. Last week, a teenager was found hanging from a pili tree. He was depressed, his family said, after his "textmate" didn't show up for the much-awaited "eyeball."

A day after, yet another teenager was electrocuted--at 2 a.m.--while trying to cart off a rooster. The rooster was equally fried to a crisp...

And then, on Saturday, the jail warden prnounced on local TV that they were closely guarding a prisoner. No, he wasn't a terrorist. Or a mass murderer. Or a druggie. But he had--the warden claims--a "bertud": an amulet. And so they were keeping an eye on the guy so he wouldn't "escape."

For all the "smalltown-ness" of it all, I like it here. It makes the news a lot more real, more personal. Weird though they may be.

Overheard

My sisters often tease me that I have supersonic ears. Either that, or I am simply chismosa. When a topic piques my curiosity, the thing about the walls having ears becomes an understatement. There are times when I find that nothing is more challenging than trying to worm my way between two heads drawn together in a whisper: I just have to know what's brewing.

Other times, my "radar" unintentionally tracks conversations--whether one-sided or two--that are way too weird,wacky or just plain out of whack. Here are some of them:

A: Pare, saan ka ngayon?

B: Wala lang, sa bahay lang.

A: Hindi ka nagta-trabaho?

B: Ba't naman ako magtatrabaho, eh wala naman akong pakakainin. Wala naman akong asawa.

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He (placating a distraught she): Okay naman yung movie ni Al Pacino, ah.

She (obviously pissed at having to sit through two hours of Sea of Love): Ano'ng okay? Mas okay pa sana kung si Fernando Poe. Pacino-Pacino, pwe. Niloloko nya ang taong-bayan.

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Girl (holding up a picture of their Dad): Kuya, ang pangit talaga ni Papa, no?

Boy: Oo nga, kaya lang wala na tayong magagawa, tatay natin sya eh. Buti na lang, hindi tayo nagmana sa kanya.

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He (sizing up the Jurassic Park poster): Totoo kayang "one million years in the making" yan?

She: Sus, maniwala ka dyan. E di patay na sana ang director no.


Oo nga naman...

The Name Game

Over lunch today, two friends who decided to go back to school were talking about assignments and computations. The conversation would have totally escaped me, until one mentioned a classmate named "Beautylynn." I almost choked on my okra. "Beautylynn?"

The name sent me searching my inbox for a forwarded email written by an expat. "A Rhose by Any Other Name," is a humorous take on the many inventive ways we Filipinos deal with the business of naming our kids. Some of the naming styles:

1. Door-bell names such as Ding, Ding-Dong, Ping, Ting-Ting

2. Repeating names such as Let-Let, Len-Len, Jun-Jun, Mai-Mai. The repeating names can be written as Let2, Len2, Jun2, Mai2 and so on...

3. Composite names such as Jejomar (for Jesus, Joseph and Mary) and Luzviminda (for Luzon, Visayas and Mindanao). Ha ha on this one! I know someone named Rofebar (for Ronando, Fernando and the fact that Ronando and Fernando passed the Bar exams on the year he was born). Or how about Jemelvic (for Jean, Rommel and Vic, the kid's aunt and uncles)

4. The concept of the randomly-inserted "h." As in Jhun, Jhimmy, Ghemma. I have cousins--unmistakably '70s kids--whose "groovy" parents made sure that their nicknames have the requisite, if useless "h": Yeyoh, Dhing, Rhey, Dhan...well, you know the drill...

5. A creative sense of humor creeping its way purposely into names. Examples are: Edgar Allan Pe, Washington Dy Sy, Magic Chiongson

6. Parents sticking to a theme (names that begin with the same letter, a whole line of fruits, desserts, etc.) Mortifying, but my folks are guilty of this. The names of the two elder daughters—Anna Carmencita (me, me me) and Emma Concepcion—are quite fine, considering that they were named for their patron saints. As for the other four, well, Dad and Ma must have spent many a sleepless night figuring our four-letter first names starting with a vowel and ten-letter middle names starting with the letter C.

Funny, too, how generations gravitate toward almost the same “generic” names. In confirmation rites last year, it struck me how just about grade-five pupil is invariably named Nicole Anne or Katrina Mae or Anna Mae or Princess Mae or Ruffa Mae or Christine Mae. One name is forever etched in my book: Khryztynn Lynn.

And now, Beautylynn.

The name game encompasses family pets as well. Because the dog was considered “part of the family,” the De Leons named their dog “Keempee.” As in Keempee de Leon. Somewhere in the neighborhood is a dog named “Kagata,” which, in Bicol, loosely translates to “go ahead and bite.”

And then there’s the dog formerly known as Berta, which now goes by the name of “Princess Mae.” The new name was given by Krystalla, the help whose original name is not Krystalla. In any case, Princess Mae’s owner was wondering why the dog wouldn’t do so much as lift an ear when she calls. Out of frustration, she yelled “Fren-theth Miii,” the way Krystalla says it.

What do you know, the darn dog did a doggie somersault!

Princess Mae, it turns out, is Frentheth Mi after all.