High School

The stroll down memory lane started with a 23-year-old photograph. There we were, a lot, lot younger, hair harking back to 1984. The art-paper hearts pinned on some of the girls tell two things: 1) that the picture was taken on Valentine’s Day and 2) that the girls with hearts were gangmates. High-school berks, if you will.

Bagets was the hottest thing then, and one of us was (probably) still mourning the death of Alfie Anido. We went to Saturday afternoon movies in groups, “dedicated” songs to one another on the radio and wrote silly dedications in autograph books. We counted crushes, exchanged girly secrets and gossiped well into the night. And yes, there were X-rated Betamax tapes that we watched on the sly.

High school meant cramming for oral recitation in Miss Loilo’s Florante at Laura, surreptitiously reading komiks in science class, devising just about every kodigo imaginable. It meant FLAMES and Grosby shoes and Sharon and Gabby, Snooky and Albert. It meant swapping Mills and Boon, Barbara Cartland and Harold Robbins, playing jolens in the schoolyard, taking Tuseran even when there was no cough.

Alas, immaturity doesn’t last forever. A month after the picture was taken, we sang “Farewell” and “High School Life” (and “Dignity of Labor”) and hit the road, in search of our own destinies. Some stayed, some left, some returned, some went to the great beyond. All of us changed.

If we were to take that picture again, there would be empty seats and blank spaces. Almost half of the class has joined the great Pinoy diaspora, finding jobs and building families in foreign shores. The ‘80s hair has gone from siete to shaggy to permed to rebonded, from down there to up here to gone forever. Mills and Boon has taken a backseat to the love stories of our lives, more real and much more intriguing.

The boys and girls on the picture could very well be our clones, our own little boys and girls. And we could very well be our own parents, torn between holding on and letting go; realizing that it is best to give them roots and wings.


Twenty-three years later, we are doctors and engineers, lawyers and writers, teachers and scholars. We have gone from reading about life to living it, sometimes writing about it. We are players in the game of life. And yet, we are still connected. We have e-mail and blogs, reunions and chats. We laugh about old times and new times, we jokingly match each others’ children, we make plans for 2009.

We are connected by memories of the way we were 23 years ago. And open still to the possibility of future connections.

Out-of-fashion Phone

“This is your cellphone?” J asked incredulously. “But Ate, it’s so out of fashion.” The way he said it, I could just as well have committed the gravest fashion faux pas. Like wearing plaid with paisley. Or checks with stripes.

Better an old, trusty cellphone than a trendy gadget that almost always has no load, I thought to myself as J sauntered off to yet one of his of-the-moment pursuits,fingers happily keying in on his latest Motorola. And this is the same person who asked for a five-peso load just minutes ago!

You have to truly give it to J and his kind for thinking that the world judges them by their cellphones. They mark the passage of the seasons with uploads and trade-ins, with textmates and multiple SIM cards. In the in-between times when they are short of cash, their phones get temporary repose in Lhuillier or Tambunting or Ana Aspe.

I have my reasons for holding on to my old Nokia. For one, it has Kurt Perez on the display. (This is a marker of sorts of the heady, breezy days when I was pregnant with Gianna and I was just so gaga over Kurt and Starstruck Kids.) Besides I don’t like models that practically scream to be stolen.

In the not-too-distant past when the 3310 was the biggest thing, Swiper the Fox made off with mine. I never thought that a single gadget would change my life, but the blasted phone did. Initially, anyway. For a moment, I thought I had lost all traces of “me”. As if a giant hand pushed the erase button and left me friendless and totally empty. Precious, irreplaceable numbers were in there, my best friend’s especially, who had just moved to the States. It took a while for me to re-establish ties: I had just moved back home then, and most of the numbers on my book were those of friends from Manila and beyond.

And this is why I don’t get crazy shopping for the latest, the sleekest and the most compact. It’s like a take on the old friends, old shoes analogy: In this case, old phones, like old shoes and old friends, are the most comfortable. And harder to swipe.

So yes J, this is my cellphone, and unless it dies out on me, or it conveniently disappears, I am sticking to it. In fashion or out.

The World According to Tumblebugs

Welcome to my latest distraction.

For almost three months now, I have been drawn into the colorful world of Wildfire Studios' Tumblebugs. It is a simple enough concept: you free these adorable bugs from the clutches of the Black Bug Empire. With cool tools such as ballistuc bugs, star bugs, power ups and rewinds, you go through 12 levels of play. How difficult each level is depends on your dexterity. If you have fingers that are meant for clicking the mouse, if you have unquestionable eye-and-hand coordination, you just might be the person to save the bugs from the crafty Black Bug, his equally evil apprentice Igor, their power crystals and their underground lair.

Like other digital diversions (believe me, I have a lot; they span the range from solitaire to Pacman to Mario and Luigi to Hercules to Zuma) Tumblebugs does provide a welcome break from the daily drone. There is a "lesson" somewhere at the end of each hurdle (you complete at least five before you move on to the next level), a funny, if cynical take on an otherwise bug-eat-bug world.

Here are snippets of the wisdom (?) of Tumblebugs:

1. Always remember you’re unique. Just like everybody else.
2. A photographic memory is no use if it’s never developed.
3. Never mess up an apology with an excuse.
4. Never try to teach a pig to sing. It wastes your time, and it bothers the pig.
5. Buy low, sell high.
6. Confidence is the feeling you have before you understand the situation.
7. Politicians and diapers should both be changed regularly, and for the same reason.
8. Bills travel through the mail at twice the speed of cheques.
9. How long a minute is depends on which side of the bathroom door you’re on.
10. Ambition is a poor excuse for not having the good sense to be lazy.
11. Sometimes, speed is the way to win (especially later on).
12. Never test the depth of the water with both feet.
13. Eagles may soar, but weasels don’t get sucked into jet engines.
14. Genetics explain why you look like your father, and if you don’t why you should.
15. Never argue with an idiot. They drag you down to their level then beat you with experience
16. Never use a long word when a diminutive one will do.
17. Some days you are the bug, some days you are the windshield.
18. Don’t worry about what people think; they don’t do it very often.
19. A likely impossibility is always preferable to an unconvincing possibility.
20. Money will not buy happiness, but it will let you buy happiness in nice places.
21. A bit of hard work never killed anyone, but why risk it?
22. Everything takes longer than you think it will.
23. The glass is either half full, half empty, or twice as big as it needs to be.
24. Diplomacy is the art of saying "good doggie" while looking for a bigger stick.
25. Everything your mother ever warned you about is true.
26. The only substitute for good manners is fast reflexes.
27. If at first you don't succeed, destroy all evidence that you tried.
28. When all else fails, play dead.


Not that they come highly recommended, but they do make for a few laughs...

Waiting

I am staring at the screen, mind going blank, trying to shut off “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” I might as well sound like Bonnie Tyler, except I can’t sing. So here I am, sounding more and more like Inday Badiday, waiting for Congestril and Cefalin to take effect.

This gets me to thinking: how many hours in our lifetimes do we spend waiting? And just what do we wait for? Right now, for example, I am waiting for relief from this pesky cough. I am tapping my fingers, wishing that the internet connection would speed up. In between trying to write and trying to connect, I have a game of Tumblebugs going, the better to fend off mental block and the persistent ticking of the clock.

Three weeks ago, I was waiting for a plane that never landed. Despite the oppressive heat all over the country, it was pouring in Legazpi. It was impossible to land just yet, Cebu Pacific said, so we were advised to wait, wait and wait. Cupfuls of coffee later, we were told that we would know for sure at around 11. To ward off the time, we crossed over to the Parks and Wildlife, took a few pictures and waited out the rain. The plane did arrive, but without Weird Sister—who, after hours of waiting in line, was told that Cebu Pacific just had to accommodate this senatoriable and party.

Come to think of it, I have been spending most of my life in transit, in lobbies and waiting rooms, in lines and in coffee shops. Waiting for lab results, standing in line at the counter, in the polling precinct, for a particularly good movie. Waiting for my number to be called, for inspiration to hit, for the clouds to clear. Waiting for the last hour to finish a project, to get married, to have a baby.

Not that I mind waiting. There are so many things, so many distractions that make the wait worth it. Or bearable anyway. There are crossword puzzles and sudoku, games that I make up along the way, conversations with myself, with my ghosts, with real people. There are wonderful discoveries, belated joys, side trips.

The really happy man, they say, is one who enjoys the scenery while on a detour. I don’t profess to be the happiest person in the universe, but I do enjoy forks in the road. Life is so much better that way. In the end, it is the journey—and not the destination—that matters.

Good Morning!

It's a great morning. The streets are empty, the stars are flashing their dying light and the air has none of that kerosene smell.

Never mind if my eyes are beady from getting up this early. This is my quiet hour, when the rest of the world is sleeping and I am me, stripped of the wrinkles of the workplace and the nagging of the biological clock.

Mornings like this remind me of the days when Roxas Boulevard was a clean, peaceful stretch and Manila Bay was clear and unpolluted. PNR trains were safe then, and I would wake up at dawn, sweeping past acres and acres of coconut trees, heading for the city or heading home.

Even home is different now. There's traffic, Jollibee and other unmistakable signs of change. There are lots of unfamiliar faces and unfamiliar names. The streets are no longer safe at night.

On mornings like this, though, clutching a paper bagful of hot pan de sal close to my chest and taking in draughts of pure semi-urban air, I am home.

Hope you are, too.

Bad Movies, Good Memories

I love the movies. I love sitting in the darkness, staring up at the screen, losing myself in the story. I have seen a lot of movies, some of which are worthy of a Siskel-and-Ebert thumbs up, others of a basket of rotten tomatoes. My stock of great movie memories, though, has nothing to do with rave reviews and award- winning plots. They are more of in-front-of-the screen takes.

Growing up, my earliest viewing fare were double features that were a month or two behind Manila screenings. In those pre-MTRCB days, movie theater owners didn't lose sleep over choosing which movie to show with what. It was bad for business to play two popular movies in one screening, that much I understood. And thus started my first practical lesson in the Duality Principle.

Thanks to the "double with" movie runs, I learned to tell the good from the bad, the great from the so-so. This did me a lot of good in my film criticism class. I also saw "censored" movies way before I was legally supposed to. Contrary to what prudists think, movies such as Burlesque Queen did not turn my sisters and me into promiscuous, immoral "citizens." (Burlesque Queen was shown along with The Sound of Music, and our chaperone had to make a big show of covering our eyes whenever Vilma Santos appeared in skimpy stuff.)

Over time, I realized that the terrible movies had much more recall than the popular ones they were shown along with. I can no longer remember the general-patronage movie that served as my passport to the for-adults-only A Danish Love Affair. Or to the definitely-not-for-kids Lies My Father Told Me. What I do remember is that my sisters and I had a great laugh over the "mature" scenes and the dialogue (She: "Are you finished?" He: "Not yet." She: "Go on.")

Others that are in my roll of Bad Movies, Good Memories are:

Burnt Offerings, a "thriller" about a family who had the unfortunate lot to buy a haunted house. Weird Sister, who escaped to the canteen, thought it was safe to step back into the theater because there were no more screaming and yelling. When she reached the topmost step, she turned to the screen in time to see this scary face whispering: "I've been waiting for you." Needless to say, we picked Weird Sister up from the bottom of the "balcony" stairs, where she tumbled along with a giant bag of Chippy.

The Exit, another of Tony Ferrer's Agent X44 (?) movies whose storyline I don't remember anymore. I do remember the title because it was the first movie shown in the "newest" moviehouse in town.

Scanners, a mind-over-matter thingie that had heads bursting and people twitching and dying. It could have been scary, but a schoolmate screamed her head off before a gory scene could take flight. She had the whole moviehouse laughing.

Digby, the Biggest Dog in the the World. Long before there was Clifford, there was Digby. I don't know why he got so bigger than big, but I do recall watching on a Sunday and the moviehouse reeking of packed lunch.


Ang Texas at ang Labuyo. My sisters and I must have seen all the Niño Muhlach movies, that is when Niño Muhlach was still cute. This one is particularly memorable because we watched it along with our cousins on the night of Lolo's funeral (It was a Monday, and since movies changed on Tuesdays, we just had to watch.) We were so many (Ma says we were 72 then, give or take a few babies) we had the whole balcony to ourselves.


100 Ways to Die. This one is downright horrible and takes the cake for being so low-budget (the bulk of the budget must have gone to Lorenzo Lamas, ha ha. Now why do I hear "Body Rock?"). My college friends and I watched it nonetheless, if only to bond.


Pido Dida. Mortifying, but (blush, blush) yes, I watched Kris Aquino's first movie. My friends and I did it on a lark, and because we didn't want to risk being caught watching, we chose one of the ugliest theaters in downtown Manila. Not only was the theater ugly: it stank! We had a great laugh at ourselves and the lengths we had to go to.

Fortunately (or unfortunately), my thing with bad movies ended with Pido Dida. I didn't want to cough up precious cash for something that cable TV would screen free. When I first moved back home (and terribly missed my one-movie-a-week routine), I decided to give the last surviving moviehouse another try. Mission Impossible II was screening, and I showed up really late so that I would miss the other movie.

Alas, Jomils had already gone to seed. It was impossible to make out what Tom Cruise was saying, and the screen had so many unsightly gashes and stitches. Fifteen minutes before "the end," they turned off the "blower," and we had to fend off sweat, mosquitoes, the smell of leftovers and a cat. A month or two later, the theater finally said goodbye to the movies, hello to fellowships and prayer meetings.

A dramatic turn-around, if there ever was one.

Happy Birthday, Ta Car!

Can't believe it's been 21 years since our first ride together. G Liner--was it? On our first day in journalism class? I don't exactly recall if we became fast friends right then. But I do remember other rides: the one we took after wading in Espana's legendary floodwaters; the other when we barely made it in time for curfew after "escaping" from the initiation. And I do remember you being a constant, comfortable presence in the two years that Professor Kiko was preparing us for the "real" writing world.

As fate would have it, our rides didn't end in UST. We took the same route--almost anyway. From 4C5 to Mr. & Ms. to Sunday Globe to Kaibigan to Psicom. "Inseparable" could have been our song. We were together in most of life's crazier moments. Cheering for the office basketball team (we actually did that in leggings, sweat socks, shoulder pads. pompoms and all?), getting lost in the jungles of Cubao and showing up really late for an interview, just coasting along. Remember the era of the horrendous brownouts? We were so bored we often escaped to National Bookstore. When we had accumulated an outrageous number of books to last us a lifetime, we tried to learn to play mah jongg. (Too bad the mah jongg case split open, huh? To this day, whenever I see a set, I remember you, Berna, Andeng and me picking up the blasted mah jongg tiles along Quezon Av amid jeers of pong, chao and todas from the tambays.)

We rallied, took to the streets, battled it out in court, we "cocooned" and raved over Faith Popcorn. We learned together: to cook (your Dad's adobo is still the best, though), to fight, to play badminton. We learned the easy way and the hard way: I was just as heartbroken when you and Papa M called it quits. And when you told me you didn't like the person I was going out with, I listened. I figured you'd be there to coach me through the heartache anyway. And you did.

In the in-between years that we have not seen (and heard from) each other, you have been a constant presence in my stories. I'd often tell new friends how it is with you, Berna and me: we don't have to be there physically to reinforce our friendship. We don't have to play starring roles in each others' weddings (ewww! ceremonies, ceremonies...). And we don't have to be in the same country to bond.

You are now 40. And I will soon be. We have pap smears and memory lapses, backaches and pains in the butt, minor physical discomforts here and there. We have seen a lot, and only few things have the ability to shock us. There will be more roads to travel, more trips to take, more journeys to make. Whether separately or together, I know that they will be good. Just as I know that we will always be best friends.

Happy Birthday, Tita Car!!! Mwaahh!!!