EDSA

I wasn't at EDSA in 1986.  It was more a matter of close but not quite; of being so near and yet so far.  I was 18, and home was an aunt's house in Little Baguio.  For some reason, Tita N worshipped Marcos and imposed a semi-martial law ban things un-Marcos.  My inkling then of the storm brewing at EDSA were Joe Taruc excitedly announcing to one and all that JPE and FVR have bolted Malacanang, the helicopters circling the periphery and the three boxes of sardines that Tita N, in a fit of panic-buying, stacked on the stairway.

Secretly, Second Sister and I rejoiced with the EDSA crowd.  (Back home in Sorsogon, we had lightning rallies and secret meetings that, to teenagers, proved much too exciting to pass up.  We learned the songs of the generation, swooned over Elmer Mercado, and flashed the L sign.) We stayed glued to the TV screen, savoring FVR's monumental leap, the palpable euphoria as as Cory announced the flight of the Marcoses and the country's first few gulps of post-FM air.

(Of course Tita N's fear of a hungry, deprived Manila came to pass, and for the better part of two months, we had to think up every possible use for the cans upon cans of sardines.)

A lot has changed since 1986.  EDSA is a lot more difficult to navigate--literally and otherwise.  People Power, I believe, has been reduced to trivial proportions, its meaning lost in the face of politics and politicking.  EDSA Dos and EDSA Tres have shown how fickle we are.

I still get high on the memories of 25 years ago, though, as I'm sure many of us who came of age then still do. EDSA was a defining point in our collective once-upon-a-time, a reminder of what we are capable of as a people.  Even if sometimes, remembering EDSA comes with the nasal assault of sardines.

Here Comes the Sun

After days and days of relentless rain, the sun finally shone on my little pocket of the universe. For weeks, it's been nothing but dark skies, driving rain and dampness and dourness all around.  It was as if a humongous faucet had been left open, and we were but a few inches more of rainfall away from national disaster proportions.

Now the sun is up, and everywhere I turn, it's drying-up time.  In yards and on streets are things that can be dried or aired out.  There are rice grains and cacao seeds, laundry, cushions and mattresses, stuffed toys.  My neighbor is up on the roof, sunning himself.  The neighborhood brats--er kids--are out, enjoying the new year's first major sunlight.

I welcome the sun as well.  The rainy days have not been good for my resolve to fit into my old jeans.  Almost a month of finding comfort in (comfort) food and I am already way off my target :p

2011

It's 3 a.m., and I am enjoying the lull. The last of the fireworks has since fizzled, and I am almost sure the dogs are thanking their gods. In a few hours, I would have to deal with the "Tia, Tio maki-New Year" crowd which will no doubt make the rounds of the village. It's a tradition that can be exasperating, but tradition nonetheless.

In keeping with tradition, I spent the better part of yesterday rushing and cleaning.  I don't know, but there's something about leave-takings that always makes me want to empty out the Zonrox. It actually feels good to disinfect, never mind if it stings.

And so, smelling faintly of disinfectant, I greet 2011 with a cup of coffee, a prayer of gratitude for family and friends, and the wish to streamline and be more organized this year. Bob Dylan and I have one common friend: Chaos.

I really, really hope I can break the connection this year :p

Happy New Year!

They called me "Fountain." No, make that "Pawn-teyn." It was New Year's Eve, and the neighborhood brats heard me asking for the darn fireworks. The nickname stuck, and for the better part of my awkward teen years, I was known as Pawn-teyn on the street where I grew up.

I didn't complain, of course.  Why would I, when I had it a lot better than Bibi Ilay, Toto Maloto and Ella Botelya?  Despite the frequent name-calling and the occasional cat fights over turfs and visiting cousins, we grew up as friends.  Friends who shouted "siato" during siestas, played "iloy-iloyan" under the full moon and trooped together to Mrs. Amador for the komiks.

As I spend yet another year away from Molave Street, I remember the neighborhood boys and girls, some of whom I still meet.  I remember friends as well: friends far, near and in-between who remain friends nonetheless.  Who knows, I might just light a fountain for you guys!

And a happy 2011 to you, too!

Candy Candy

This is yet another blast-from-the-past post :p

The change-your-profile-pic-into-a-cartoon-character campaign over at Facebook has certainly brought back happy memories of growing up in what I thought to be a big, big world.

It was the late '70s, and so that we could wise up to the ways of the world, our parents would pack us off to Manila every school break. There were aircon PNR coaches then, and the 12-hour night trip past rice fields and coconut plantations shimmering in the moonlight was a cinch. The Paco Station--our final destination--would be teeming with people, an indication that we have arrived in the big city.

Of course, Manila wasn't as sweltering then. Depending on arrangements, we would be shunted from Makati to San Juan to Quezon City, getting our fill of pop culture. We'd take afternoon strolls to Cash N' Carry, Unimart, or COD, see a movie at the Coronet and ride the Ferris Wheel at the Fiesta Carnival. Most days, though, we would just bond with a coterie of cousins in front of the TV screen.

And so it was that I learned to wash the dishes courtesy of Kulit Bulilit and Imee Marcos (!), sat through endless screenings of LVN black-and-whites and gushed over the younger and slimmer Sharon Cuneta. But what I really looked forward to--other than Voltes V, Mazinger Z and Ronron the Flower Angel--was Candy Candy.

Candy Candy defined my big city summers. The midday walks to Dairy Queen or UniMart would be made to the tune of the Candy Candy Theme. And my first cartoon heartbreak was over Anthony!

Over time, I outgrew TV and realized I liked summers in Sorsogon more. I could have outgrown Candy Candy, too. Except the theme song is sticking to me like the amorseko of those carefree summers.

Blast From the Past

To me, nothing spells childhood summers more than this ice shaver. It was my going-on-sixth-grade summer when this thingamajig became the rage in our kitchen. You see, except for my dad, all of us weren't Bobby Flay clones. In short, we thrived on instants.

Blue Teddy made our protracted summers super easy. We only had to raid Ma's mini grocery for a can of fruit cocktail and Frisian Girl, grab ice cubes from the fridge, crank the handle and presto: halo-halo! And then, it would be off to the corner sari-sari store for a peek at the (contraband) komiks-for-rent or to the streets for a game of "football" or siato.

Thirty or so years later, Blue Teddy still works. The blades are as sharp as ever, and the eyes still roll, much like Tita T's, when she is about to spew some hush-hush family chismis. The daughter has somehow staked her claim on the shaver and has since resurrected it from the kitchen cupboard.

A blast from the past, the thingamajig may be. But it looks like it'll still be around for very, very long.

Internet Cafe-ing

My Wednesday-afternoon-at-the-internet-cafe ritual started innocently enough.  Between chatting up a storm with parents-turned-yayas and spending quiet me-time at the museum, I took the road frequently traveled by Counter Strikers and took up a corner at the internet cafe.  Considering my addictions (coffee, Farmville and eavesdropping), I was naturally hooked: life does have a way of happening at the internet cafe.

Today, my wandering ears zeroed in on this girl who was giving her (I presume) husband a running and tiresome documentary of their financial whatnots.  The husband couldn't probably get a word in, because for the better part of an hour, it was just her talking about budgets and expenses and the high cost of living.  And how his remittance would be most welcome. blah blah blah.

A group of college kids came in and drowned out the girl's protracted soliloquy.  They're talking Counter Strike, terrorism and weapons of  mass destruction here.  Before I could morph into the Goddess of Strife, however, they run out of internet-cafe cash and leave, plotting, perhaps, their next terror attack.

I am now left to eavesdrop on the guy who is chatting away in hopes of coming up with the perfect Super Lotto combination.  He has 30 minutes, he says, before he has to stand in line at the lotto outlet.

Alas, I had to leave before he could spew out the "perfect" numbers.