Remains of the Day

My phone rang at 6:00 p.m.

It was Roman, my friend and one of my ex-business partners.

I winced and debated about taking the call or not. The last time I had spoken to Roman, he was still going on about the non-existent division of final profits from our unfortunate business venture that shut down two years ago. An unpleasantness  beyond remedy that I had already decided to bury in the past, but which he seemed determined to keep alive.

I bit the bullet and pressed Answer. I heard the discordant noise of what seemed like a child singing, so I thought he'd just butt-dialed me when his voice, full of his trademark happy grin, came on.

"Asan ka?"

"Ha?" I yelled over the din of what was clearly a videoke in the background.

"Asan ka? Punta ka dito."

"Bakit?"

"Birthday ko."


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It should be abundantly clear to anyone who's read this blog that I am hopeless when it comes to significant dates like birthdays and anniversaries. My success as a producer would be impossible were it not for the existence of PMs and PAs to constantly remind me of meetings and bookings and other schedules.

And of course, I have friends like Roman who thoughtfully remind me of their birthdays, like an annual tradition.



"Deretso lang ito, sa Intramuros golf club. Andito rin si Kiko, hintayin ka namin."


Kiko is another mutual friend. Roman's lieutenant, and another business partner in the failed venture.

I normally bail on birthday celebrations - particularly ones that feature live, tuneless singing as the primary entertainment - but it is a testament to how highly I value Roman's friendship that I managed to drag myself out of bed. Sure, it took three hours later, and fifteen minutes more debating whether to drive or take a cab to Intramuros.

Laziness won out, as usual, and another ten minutes were spent waiting for a cab.


And then it was off to see old friends.


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The undeniable sound of a live band - not a videoke machine, as I had surmised - was the only sign of life in the darkened fortress called the Intramuros Golf Club. I fumbled my way along the unlit, abandoned back entrance and eventually emerged at the roofdeck, awash in stage lights. 


"Asan si Major?" I asked the maitre d'.

"Who, sir?"

"Major Roman, the celebrant."

"Oh, si Colonel? This way, sir."


So it's Colonel, now. It really HAD been a long time.



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Roman was in his cups, but looking precisely the same. The unflappable smile, the boyish bonhomie was still there.

He bounced his 9-year old son off his lap as he got up to hug me.

"Is that your kid?" I asked, incredulously. "Grabe, ang laki na!"


My colleagues' children have had, of late, the annoying habit of turning into adolescents and worse, teenagers.

I've burned them into children in the CD-RW of my brain, but overwrites are as insistent and annoying as prompts for system updates.



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Bottles of San Mig Light instantly appeared and I leaned over.


"Halos one year na 'ko di umiinom!" I yelled at Roman over the din of the band.

"Bakit?"

"Sumakit tagiliran ko, eh. Yoko malaman. Para surprise."


Roman just grinned and, ever hospitable, had his minions produce a bottle of white wine, and graciously poured me a glass.

Kiko, still the irrepressible party boy - if getting a little thick in the middle - was the de facto Master of Ceremonies, alternating between plying everyone with drinks and harassing the female band singers.

It seemed just like old times - with the conspicuous absence of my ex-bff, Vincent.



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"Any news from Vincent?" I inquired as I tentatively sipped my first taste of alcohol.

"Ayun, nasa Vegas pa din."

"His press releases on FB say he's in Spain," I snickered. "Nice to see he hasn't changed."

"May bago siyang lover," Roman grinned. "Purong Pinoy."


I am perplexed. Then I figure the white guy he had been with shortly after his flight to exile was ancient history.


"Why is he with a brown boy when he could be swindling the locals instead?"

Roman grinned wider.

"Lahat ng credit card, nakapangalan sa boyfriend."


I'd forgotten that Pinoys are even easier to grift - especially when they're star-struck and madly in love.

And Vincent is an unchangeable aspect of nature, just like gravity, and just as irresistible. He sucks people in, and then they fall hard.

Nevertheless, I find myself slightly missing him, on this night so reminiscent of countless other nights when we'd drink ourselves stupid while lackeys and toadies of all stripes attended to us like kings. The promise of easy, casual sexual adventures ever-present in the air, the arrogance of our handsome youth, the oyster that was the world.


I blame the wine, then one of Roman's boys pours me a second glass as I try to recall the moment when I turned into the immovable object to Vincent's irresistible force.



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"Speaking of swindling," I segued into the inevitable. "How are our Chinese friends?"


Roman made a face.


"They stole P200,000.00 from us."

"Did the bank verify?"



Roman swigged his drink and poured out another.

"Sarado na yung account."


I'd long accepted my share of P200,000.00 as a very small price to pay for not choosing business partners more wisely, but it had rubbed Roman like a pebble in his shoe and he had been bruising for two years now.


"Nakita ko nga yung isang mokong sa taxi one time. Kinawayan pa ako."

"Why didn't you just shoot him on the spot? You do control Chinatown, after all."


Roman grinned.


I always did say "Kung hindi mo kayang ibaon sa limot, ibaon mo na lang sa lupa."



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But I'd long gotten over the bitter truth that the Chinese partners in our doomed enterprise had swindled us out of profit. Roman is a trusting guy - well, we all were - but the fact that Vincent was the most vocal proponent of that consortium should've rung alarm bells like Balangiga.

Because trusting Vincent with money is like trusting a fox with chicks. And he has a head for business the same way a mudfish has an aptitude for applied chemistry.

Nevertheless, even Vincent, shifty as he is, got shafted in the end, so I guess there's always a bigger crook.

We should've just burned the place down when we had the chance.

Still - it no longer really bugs me the way it did. We were stupid, the Chinese confirmed a stereotype and got the better of us, end of story.

I'd still dance on their graves, though. It's one of the few things that keep me alive.


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Kiko came over and whispered that the band was about to end its final set. But Roman was just getting started, and decreed that he would just pay the band for an extension.

Kiko scampered off to take care of matters, and the music switched to 80s hits as the band broke for dinner.

Roman and I both grinned like idiots as Seona Dancing's "More To Lose" came on.

"Kapanahunan!"

He grinned even more.


"So, kumusta naman si Colonel?" he asked.


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We used to cry
About the day when one of us might fall
Weak and blindly
Into another's arms
Demands all gained from jealousies
Would flow like water, drowning us
But leaving us with just another
Lover's false alarm


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I have too many Colonels in my life. Maybe I'm impressed by rank too much. Or conflating it with accomplishment, which I in turn conflate with worthiness.

Then again, I am the son of a military man, and grew up thinking we were the Von fucking Trapps.

Must be them goddamned daddy issues.


I shrug.


"Why don't you ask him? We never talk anymore."


Roman looked deep in thought, and for a moment seemed about to disclose a confidence to me. But I'd long learned not to ask too many questions, especially if there was a clear and present danger I wouldn't like the answers.

The moment passed.


"Tell him to go talk to General Trias," he finally said.


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A thousand tortured lives have fallen
Wounded, dying, cut down by the
Questions that we'd sharpened 
Just to save our losing days

We thought with nothing more to lose
We'd tear our hearts with jagged truths 
And everything we'd hung to for so long
Just slipped away


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But the wine had gone to my head by that time.

Used to be we'd drink people under the table. I remember the infamous Jagermeister launch, open bar. The first and last time I touched that German abomination. The first time I blacked out due to alcohol, the first time I had to leave my car behind out of sheer full-on plasteredness.

From the few flashbacks I recall, the night ended with me being asked by Vincent not to puke in his mom's brand-new car as he brought me home, where I would hug the downstairs toilet bowl praying for death to come.

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of EDSA, Roman and Kiko, in a haze of digestif-induced mania, were peppering the pre-dawn air with semi-automatics.

Clearly, one of the few times Vincent was the lesser evil.


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And now it's over
Both of us through
And I feel older


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But now, years later, two glasses of wine and I am undone.

Vincent in exile. No more private club to call our own little playground.

At least Roman's career seems to have recovered. Colonel Roman, now. He's a good guy and a decent man, and deserves it.

Some other officers arrive at the party - senior ones, from the way Roman greets them - and I take the opportunity to sneak off to the restroom.

And from there, tipsy with memories, I slip away into the night.


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And now we're moving to new beginnings
But as we move we look once behind
To see what we might find of
Lost loves and old thoughts 
Of our nights of winnings
That lunge, tear and grasp
At lost wanting minds

last post for the year.

I hated you 2013.

The Bare Bones of Andrew Good Fate.

I'm not big on Philippine history and national heroes, but for some reason I felt like observing Andres Bonifacio's 150th birth anniversary by watching San Andres B. A new opera boasting of a pedigreed line-up, from librettist and National Artist for Literature Virgilio Almario; Prof. Chino Toledo, composer and musical director; and esteemed director Floy Quintos.


In his production notes, Quintos candidly states that San Andres B. 

"is not opera in the classical mode, nor is it a pop or rock opera. Rather, in Chino Toledo's words: it is a new new opera."

"Toledo's score captures the conflict, the struggle, the dilemma with unrelentingly jagged and edgy musical lines," he added.

Well. 

I thought it was a jangly mess. The music was unmelodious, the libretto unmemorable, and there were no outstanding set pieces that, imho, immortalized what the opus was trying to say. And as a casting aside, the guy portraying Emilio Jacinto had more physical presence and stronger vocals than the one playing the eponymous lead.


Sorry, Floy. Then again: 

"In the local art scene, it is time for something unfamiliar, disturbing, strange. It is time to hear something new. I told the singers na ang dream ko for San Andres B. is, well, remember how Stravinsky's 'Rite of Spring' was first greeted by the audience during its premiere? Riots. Hisses. Boos and bravos! Ganun ang gusto ko mangyari,' he said."

But it's an ill wind that blows nobody good. Because I could barely make heads nor tails of what was going on in Bonifacio's life from the goings-on onstage, in between the orchestra often drowning out the singers and me nodding off like a peasant (horrors!) at the opera, I promptly researched the next day on the life of Gat Andres de Castro Bonifacio. The man who, for some people, should rightfully be regarded as the First President of the Philippine Republic.


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From what little I can recall from school, I remember Bonifacio was the Great Plebeian hero, who ultimately got the short shrift and was murdered on the orders of a treacherous, power-hungry Emilio Aguinaldo. Even as a child I could not comprehend the injustice of a cold-blooded, calculating turncoat becoming President of the Republic. But since then, local history has abundantly shown that any son of a bitch (or simply a bitch, ain't it so, Madame?) can sit and lay waste to the land from the throne of Malacañang.


And if it is the victors who truly write history, then the story of Bonifacio is truly Filipino, and truly one of woe.

Unlike his illustrado counterpart Rizal, Bonifacio was a true picture of the Filipino masses. Even his life story reads like a telenovela. Born of a working-class father and a mestiza mother, young Andres had to stop schooling when his parents both died from illness. He supported his younger siblings by making canes and paper fans,as well as posters for business firms.

Bereft of further formal education, he was largely self-taught. He avoided ignorance by becoming a voracious reader, devouring anything from Victor Hugo's Les Miserablés, to his own countryman Rizal's Noli and Fili. Doubtless these novels influenced his later political and social leanings.

When he grew older, Bonifacio became a bodeguero, while acting on the side in moro-moro plays. Continuing the theme of a storied life, he was married twice: first to a woman who contracted leprosy and died. And then the second time, to Gregoria de Jesus, who bore him a son, Andres, who soon died of smallpox in infancy. This was after their house burned down during Holy Week of 1896, of course.

Needless to say, the etymology of the name "Bonifacio" is "good fate."

Bonifacio joined Rizal's short-lived La Liga Filipina, an organization which called for political reforms in the Spanish colonial government. The league was disbanded after just one meeting due to Rizal's arrest and deportation to Dapitan. On the day of Rizal's arrest - 7 July  1892 - Bonifacio and others founded the Katipunan. 

The Kataas-taasan Kagalang-galangan Katipunan was a secret society with links to Freemasonry, that advocated armed struggle against Spanish colonial rule. The Katipunan was composed largely of lower and middle class men, but later opened its membership to include women, as well. It was within this society that Bonifacio formed a lasting friendship with Emilio Jacinto, who would become his adviser and confidante.

Even after founding the KKK, Bonifacio continued working simultaneously with La Liga Filipina, which eventually fractured along socio-economic lines as much as ideological ones. The more conservative, wealthier members opted to support the Cuerpo des Compromisarios - political reformists located in Spain. "Radicals" from La Liga, like Bonifacio, were subsumed into the KKK.

The KKK grew so rapidly, from 300 members in January of 1896, to 30,000 by August, that it was inevitable that the Spaniards would eventually learn of the existence of the secret, seditious society. It's sad to note that it was a disgruntled Katipunero, Teodoro Patiño, who confessed to a Fr. Mariano Gil about the existence of the secret, sacrilegious Freemason-like society. 

Bonifacio wanted to launch an armed revolt as soon as possible, but Aguinaldo demurred, citing a lack of available firearms. The decision was made to consult Rizal in Dapitan, who also advised against a premature revolution and recommended more preparation.

But events soon overtook everyone, as history happens, and the Spaniards cracked down on hundreds of Filipinos - Katipunan members and innocent non-members alike. Bonifacio, Jacinto, and Guillermo Masangkay disguised themselves as sailors and boarded a ship where Rizal was being held, awaiting to sail to Cuba, where he had agreed to work as a doctor for the Spanish colonial forces in exchange for his release from Dapitan.

Bonifacio and company had wanted to rescue Rizal so he could join the revolution, but Rizal rejected their offer. Eventually, he, too would be arrested, tried and executed.•

After eluding a massive manhunt, Bonifacio called for a massing at Caloocan, where the Philippine uprising was to be launched. The "Cry of Balintawak/Pugad-Lawin" opened with a symbolic gesture of the tearing of community tax certificates: the infamous cedulas. Bonifacio reorganized the KKK into a de facto revolutionary government, with himself as President and Commander-in-Chief.


The rest, as they say, is history. But what's far more interesting to me are the footnotes, rather than the Big Picture.


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There's Bonifacio's little-known National Anthem: a hymn he commissioned from Julio Nakpil entitled Marangal Na Dalit Ng Katagalugan.** Aguinaldo later rejected it in favor of an anthem he in turn had commissioned: the Marcha Nacional Filipina, which was to become the basis of the Lupang Hinirang we know today.

Then there was the infamous fracturing of the Katipunan chapters. The Magdalo, headed by Aguinaldo's cousin Baldomero Aguinaldo, and the Magdiwang, headed by Mariano Alvarez,the uncle of Bonifacio's wife, Gregoria. In time the friction between the nepotistic factions would result in a chasm that would eventually engulf Bonifacio.

There were also the shady elections at the Tejeros Convention, assembled to determine once and for all who was in charge of the fledgling Philippine government. While Bonifacio received the second highest number of votes next to Aguinaldo, the suggestion to proclaim him as Vice-President of the Biak-Na-Bato Republic was ignored, and elections proceeded. Instead, he was nominated Director of the Interior, a move contested by eternal malcontent Daniel Tirona on the grounds that Bonifacio was not a lawyer and thus could not hold that office.

So fraudulent were these elections, so marred with whispers of cheating that Bonifacio declared them null and void in his Acta de Tejeros. His rejection of the election results and his accusations of treason against its hastily-inducted President (for negotiating with the Spaniards) led to Aguinaldo promptly consolidating his power and ordering the arrest of Bonifacio.

Leading us, of course, to the infamous trial of the Bonifacio brothers, a mockery of justice resulting in their execution (some say legal murder). Prompting Mabini to declare it as criminal and the "assassination …the first victory of personal ambition over true patriotism." (Interestingly, one of Bonifacio's supposed murderers was Gen. Lazaro Macapagal, grandfather to Gloria Arroyo.)


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In San Andres B., the Greek chorus repeatedly warns Andres that "Mahirap maging bayani."

They predict the future, with its treachery, disappointments, and Bonifacio's own ignoble end. And when they ask if he is willing to accept these as the price of freedom, he immediately, defiantly proclaims "Yes!"


Nothing seems to have changed much since then, from where I stand.


Which kind of makes you wonder if our heroes only die in vain. Or whether the Filipino - in his great unwillingness and/or inability to learn from history - is truly worth dying for.


And then, there's this: Police, soldiers dismantle parts of photo exhibit about Bonifacio.



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Footnotes from Wikipedia:

* José Rizal is generally considered the National hero, but Bonifacio has been suggested as a more worthy candidate on the grounds of having started the Philippine Revolution. Teodoro Agoncillo writes that Rizal is a "United States-sponsored hero" who was promoted as the greatest Filipino hero during the American colonial period of the Philippines - after Aguinaldo lost the Philippine-American War. The United States promoted Rizal, who was taken to represent peaceful political advocacy, instead of more radical figures whose ideas could inspire resistance against American rule. Specifically, Rizal was selected over Bonifacio who was viewed as "too radical" and Apolinario Mabini who was "unregenerate."

** The term Tagalog historically refers to an ethnic group, their language, and script. While historians have thus tended to view Bonifacio's concept of the Philippine nation as restricted to the Tagalog regions of Luzon, as compared to Aguinaldo's view of Luzon, Visayas, and Mindanao (comprising the modern Philippines), Guerrero writes that Bonifacio and the Katipunan in fact already had an all-encompassing view. The Kartilya defines "tagalog" as " all those born in this archipelago; therefore, though Visayan, Ilocano, Pampango, etc. they are all Tagalogs."

Matter of Fact

In a previous post, we discussed the power of brevity in six-word short fiction stories.


I had no idea that such a short time later, I would be so moved with this - one that, unfortunately, is all too real :

                                             "Patay Na Si Mommy At Daddy."

From here.

The Last Dance

The Malate of our generation gained fame as a bohemian district dotted by edgy dance clubs, quirky cafés, and novelty restaurants. Its Renaissance in the early 90s was heralded by establishments diverse and colorful: Blue Cafe, Joy, Pepe N' Pilar, Batavia, and Sala, among others. 

Among these, Joy, the gay dance club, had the most meteoric rise, blazing bright and beautiful before it inevitably burned itself out. From the shimmering trail it left behind rose the next wave : Bath*, Acquario, and yes, BED. Red Banana emerged and, for a time, ruled. But when the WPD blundered through its doors one time too many, it self-immolated.

From its ashes, O-Bar took flight, and reigned on the corner of Orosa and Nakpil for seven years until it, too, just very recently abandoned Malate for Greenhills pastures.


And now BED has followed suit.


Last Saturday, BED - the last remaining vestige of the Malate renaissance - played its music one final time.



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BED stood loud and proud as a Malate landmark for a good decade, a record that surpasses those of its predecessors Joy and Subway, and, to a somewhat lesser extent, Mr. Piggy's. 

The party fever generated by Joy could not be sustained by the short-lived pretender Bath, and BED quickly ascended the throne, eventually ruling the Malate gay club scene with a velvet fist. Anyone who was anyone had to be there, to see and be seen the same way we all did in oh-so-tony Giraffe or Venezia, ABGs and later on, down to Orange and eventually, Emba, Government, and wherever it is nowadays that the half-breed kids and aspiring models pose and preen.

But while these other clubs shared Makati and Taguig airspace, BED was singularly Malate, standing alone, its lofty position unchallenged. Expats, tourists, celebrities, social climbers of all stripes and various hangers-on shared the same smoke-filled air of BED, sipping their cocktails and swigging their beer, the occasional waft of amyl nitrate in the air mixing with the distinctive smell of the fog machine.

Joy may have started the party, but BED pumped up the volume and rocked the house. And that house party raged and raved for ten long years.



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The death knell for BED Malate came as a surprise to many; my only surprise was that the owners were able to keep such open, common Malate knowledge secret for so long.

One of BED's principals stated in his FB page that the crowds simply dwindled over the years. This much is true, although the presence of cheaper alternatives such as O-Bar Malate and Che'lu surely siphoned off a good chunk of BED's clientele.

But there was no denying that times were a-changing. At its zenith, the door policy in BED was a formidable thing, as daunting as the long lines snaking a path to its hallowed portals. A serpentine, testosterone-fueled procession of young men, offering themselves to worship at BED's altar. Even with a steep door charge, people were flocking to BED on the weekends. It was, quite simply, Party Ground Zero.

But after its last (and, as it turns out, final) renovation, the writing revealed itself on the wall. BED never looked so good. From the hottest gay disco in town, BED had transformed itself into a super club comparable to what the best in the region had to offer. The owners seemed to have spared no expense in turning BED from a local clubbing legend to an international phenomenon.

And yet sometimes, if you build it, they will not come.



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There was a lot of talk and movement in Malate even before BED made the announcement. Malate being Malate, there was advance knowledge of the looming void, and as naturally as the muscled hustlers hanging around the Orosa-Nakpil intersection eye drunken Malate habitués, certain sectors were hungry to fill the black hole BED would leave behind.

But some voids cannot be filled; not because they are unique and irreplaceable, but because they are products of their place and time. 

Now, clearly, inexorably, that time has passed.

And soon, so shall the place.



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There is talk of a loose consortium formed by at least three of the remaining gay establishments left in the Orosa strip. And that this Trinity was hoping to take over the newly-renovated space where BED used to be, and convert it into a multi-level, multi-establishment venue: shades of the old Streetlife in Glorietta, or the various dance clubs and videoke bars that sit cheek by jowl in Soi 2, Silom Road, Bangkok - otherwise known as the DJ Station alley.

However, there appears to be an unforeseen development: one that the Three perhaps hadn't anticipated. If rumors are true, the owner of the property vacated by BED may not be keen on renting out the place to anyone at this point. Apparently, no matter how grand our schemes are, there's someone whose plans are even bigger.



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If you've found yourself in the Malate district anytime lately, you'd have noticed the proliferation of mid-level buildings: gray, characterless concrete monoliths reaching for the sky. Along Orosa itself, the beautiful white architectural marvel with graceful, sloping curves that used to be Acquario - as well as the lovely structure that used to be its sister establishment, Raj - have both fallen into a gaping hole in the ground where a mid-rise condo will eventually flip a middle finger to bohemia.

That middle finger is Progress.

And as surely as the backhoes claw empty spaces into the earth, Progress will reduce the Malate we know into Nothing, before rebuilding it into Something Else.

Buildings! Condos! As high as the dubious ground beneath water-logged Manila will allow them to rise. Ave, Ave Avida!

And for this brand-spanking new district of middling condos and multi-purpose, anonymous buildings to rise, something else must first fall.

As all the once-mighty do.



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The formidable owner of the section of Orosa where BED - and before, Komiks, The Rainbow Project, Pride Xchange, and other establishments once clustered - has been famously known to remark that "It doesn't matter to me whether someone rents out the place or not. My price, take it or leave it."

It is truly marvelous to be so rich that one could simply shrug one's shoulders and let prime property stay idle. But rich men do not become - nor remain - rich by sitting on non-performing assets.

The current conjecture is that the reason the Trinity's plans may yet go up in smoke is because the owner may very well be planning to sell the property to any of the big realtors gobbling up the city, one old neighborhood at a time.

One big cash-out, no more headaches about the turnover of tenants who cannot rekindle the faded magic of Malate.

One simply cannot blame the man.



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And when one gleaming, cookie-cutter condo rises, like a cancer made of concrete, others shall quickly follow.

It isn't far-fetched to presume that the strip on the other side of the street - the famous line-up once headlined by Café Caribana (then the short-lived lesbian bar Ladida), Pepe N' Pilar, Joy, Café Breton, and Batavia - will also fall to Progress' irresistible march.

Already, one by one the lights are going out. O-Bar has extinguished its presence from the area. And half in its place, Midz rages, rages valiantly against the dying of the light. Che'lu stands impassive, a poker player holding its cards close to its chest. Beside it, the nameless Korean videoke/resto seems to be clueless about the neighborhood's impending demise.

And as-yet unconfirmed rumors say that Dados, that refreshingly anachronistic throwback to the old Malate watering holes, has closed its sentimental doors for good.**

There is something sadly poetic about establishments that come alive only at night being swallowed by the darkness one by one.

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Whatever the ultimate fate of Malate - particularly the "gay nexus" of Orosa and Nakpil - BED will always stand as a glittering disco ball point in time. A time when we were young and beautiful, and our eyes sparkled with all the possibilities of youth. When life was full of fun and laughter, full of music and dancing.

BED was a beacon, summoning the scattered members of the LGTB community from the dark. Beckoning them to come one, come all, to dance in the spotlight and embrace the nightlife. To flirt, to grind, to cruise and be cruised; to live in wild abandon, if only for the night, all cares thrown to the winds as we celebrated to a different drumbeat.

There will come a time - soon, some insiders say - when Malate will no longer be recognizable to those of us who were fortunate to have witnessed the glories of its ever-changing face. The charming cafes and defiant old mansions of the elite that used to reside in the once-exclusive district will soon all give way to the new lords of progress.

When the last café made of antique wood and decorated with memorabilia probably more suited to a Segunda Mano bazaar is demolished under Progress' heel, then the Malate we knew and loved will pass into myth. 

And then, like the fabled Coco Banana, a new generation will only know it as legend.



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To BED - the last gasp of the Malate renaissance.


Thank you for the music.


And now, a moment of silence for the late, great Malate.


Where the band plays on, not knowing - or caring - that the music has died.







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*And MINT, of course, how could I forget? Thanks, JM!

**Good news. Reports of Dados' death were exaggerated. They merely shut down for a few days for renovations. Fight the good fight, then.

Prayer For The Dying

On the last day of February, 19 people lost their lives in a hot-air balloon accident while floating high above Luxor, the burial grounds of Egypt's Pharaohs.

A tourist on another balloon managed to catch the doomed balloon's final moments, as it rose closer to the sun before bursting into flames and plummeting to the ground below.

This isn't an exercise in morbidity or gawking. If you care to watch the video, you can hear a woman in the other balloon weeping softly. More importantly, you can hear men calmly reciting prayers in Arabic.


A helpful translation I found online:


Bismillah : By the name of God
La Ilaha Illah Lah : There is no god but God
La hawla wa la qoata illa billah : There is no power nor ability except from God


What's the point of all this?


It's the strange and curious thing that I, an avowed agnostic, without understanding the words of the man's prayer for the dying, was nonetheless moved by it. That compassion for our fellow human beings, especially as we helplessly watch them meet their fates, transcends language, creed, and race.

As should all important things in life.

Family

We just wrapped up our annual family Kris Kringle revelations - a goofy, rambunctious family tradition that we've managed to observe over the years despite the extended family wrangling and the general drifting apart  of once-close relatives.

I don't think of myself as an overly-sentimental man, but maybe because I'm getting on, I suppose I'm beginning to see family in a different light.

It's easy to take them for granted, especially when one is busy chasing one's ambitions.

But at the end of the day, being surrounded by material possessions - the trophies of success - one finds oneself still empty and unsatisfied.

And yet, one funny, laughter-filled day with my parents, brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces, and my favorite dog somehow makes me happier than any flashy sports car or new addition to my various hoards of beautiful things.

I don't spend a whole lot of time with the folks nor my siblings, for various reasons. And I realize my reasons, at the end of the day, have little value.


Work is important. But family even more so.


I think that shall be my first resolution and epiphany for this new year.


I wonder what yours will be.


While you think about it, a good and prosperous 2013 to you and yours.

And may you cherish things of real value.

Like family.

Memento Mori

Père Lachaise, Paris, 2011

"There will come a time when all of us are dead. All of us. There will come a time when there are no human beings remaining to remember that anyone ever existed or that our species ever did anything. There will be no one left to remember Aristotle or Cleopatra, let alone you. Everything that we did and built and wrote and thought and discovered will be forgotten and all of this will have been for naught. Maybe that time is coming soon and maybe it is millions of years away, but even if we survive the collapse of our sun, we will not survive forever. There was time before organisms experienced consciousness, and there will be time after. And if the inevitability of human oblivion worries you, I encourage you to ignore it. God knows that’s what everyone else does."

Hazel Grace Lancaster, The Fault In Our Stars

I recall reading somewhere that we die three times.

First, our actual physical death. 

The second, when everyone we ever knew have all died, too. 

And the third, final death is when our name is uttered for the very last time.

People share a natural fear of mortality, but where we differ lies in the reasons why we fear annihilation. Some of us simply fear the unknown; Death, of course, being the greatest of these. 

Others fear being forgotten; indeed, the thought of no one ever knowing or remembering you once existed is terrifying. To experience and be experienced : that's what make us alive. And therefore to be forgotten - to spend an entire lifetime on this earth without anyone even knowing or remembering you existed - is a particular kind of annihilation. 

That is why people who have been reduced to vegetative states or have suffered some sort of damage that prevents them from knowing, sensing, and experiencing the infinite stimuli that make up existence are considered dead - brain-dead, anyway. For without the "consciousness" of existence - the knowing that one is alive - then one may truly just as well be dead.

To be forgotten is to be reduced to nothingness.



On this Day of Remembrance, I must remind myself that.

The Lunch Report

It was to be a short Sunday lunch celebrating a very special birthday. And although I had been informed well ahead of time, true to form I got the time wrong and was proffering regrets to the celebrant.

And wisely, he was having none of it.

"It's Sunday. There's no traffic. Everyone will be here. Kaya mo pang humabol."

Out of a sense of worn duty and out of excuses, I swiftly got ready and flew my little car out to the cozy little venue, which, as promised, was easy to find.

It had been raining when I left and so I swept into the restaurant in a dark overcoat, beret, and sunglasses, feeling for all intents and purposes like Maleficent about to bestow unwanted blessings upon the beige-and-pastel-draped customers dining therein. 


The difference was I was invited to this particular feast.

I recognized D's silhouette immediately, even with his back turned to me as he laid waste to the buffet spread along with another silhouette I quickly identified : his new gal pal whatshername.

Carole.

The usher, however, informed me that our party was seated upstairs, and so that's where I went first.

Never fear, rudeboy c'est la!

------------------------


The eternally-youthful James was the first familiar face I saw, and he beamed like a supernova upon seeing me. His long-term lover, Joey, was seated across, engrossed in his iPad.

"So," I asked. "When will you become Chief Justice, so that we might finally disregard the law with impunity?"

The self-effacing James giggled; embarrassed, as usual, with any reference to how well he's done in government. 

"No, really, how've you been?" I pressed.

"Well, heto," he relented. "I'm having a difficult time going up and down the stairs na."

"Eh? I thought you still played badminton and tennis ?"

"Yes, but you know...bumabata tayo," he smiled, with a resigned look on his face.

"Well, seeing as how you're in the hallowed halls of justice, you should just have muscular convicts bear you into your chambers on a golden litter while you wear an off-shoulder toga like Louie Cruz and nibble on grapes."

"The Chief Justice will say 'Remove him at once!" he grinned.

"Eh, it's not like the Judiciary is a bastion of decency."

"Well, it's not as bad as the Senate."

"Kaya nga. So think about it, James. You. In a toga. On a litter borne by muscle men. Nibbling grapes as you condemn plagiarizing Senators to a gladiatorial combat to the death with disgruntled bloggers."

"After all," I finished "What are we in powdered form?" 

I sipped some water as I watched James' eyes twinkle.

I'm not the devil's advocate for nothing.

Fabulous.

--------------------------


Tita Tita, the most colorful and glamorous aunt I've ever known and den mother to us all, shortly made her regal appearance, with her ever-loving consort Tito Charlie at her side. Any remaining negative feelings I had about being at this gathering instantly dissipated in the presence of her radiance.

She seemed pleasantly surprised to see me, confirming my suspicions that I'd been making myself socially scarce one time too many. Birthday Boy and Gal Pal still hadn't returned from the buffet table downstairs, and so Tita Tita held court in the meantime.

"You're looking good!" she gushed as we made our beso-besos. "You seem to be maturing well."

M-maturing?

She was quick as ever and instantly read the panicked look that swept my face, for she followed up her remark by hinting that I seemed to have made peace with certain chronic issues that had plagued my relationships.


Oh. 


That maturing.

"We must sit down and have wine sometime, tita," I replied. "LOTS of wine."

I learned that she had been sick of late and was saddened to hear of it. She had always been an energetic, vibrant woman, and while nothing about her - sitting at the table, laughing in dulcet tones and carrying on - seemed feeble or infirm, I still felt the unwelcome reminder that time, after a certain point, was not going to be on anyone's side.

Alas, even the most famous of queens 

cannot stem time nor tide.

------------------------


The Birthday Boy and Gal Pal presently appeared, laden with the remains of dead animals on fine china. His giggling gaggle of young adult nieces were gathered on the left side of the long table, while the antediluvians like ourselves were relegated to fossilize on the right.

D. is a good five years older than I and yet, thanks to good genes, looks nothing like his age. He smiled widely upon seeing that his nagging had made sure I made it it to his fete. A smile so wide it revealed the presence of braces which, in all the long time we had known each other, I'd never seen him wear.

I did a spit-take at what was probably just one of his many birthday gifts to himself, the other being his upcoming trip to the U.S.

Tita Tita beat me to the punch. "Are you wearing BRACES?" she asked incredulously.

"They're for therapeutic purposes," he grinned sheepishly.

I merely made the Frynotsureif.jpg face and decided, out of politesse if not disgust at this blatant expression of vanity, to excuse myself from the table and partake of the feast.

You probably think this meme is about you.

-------------------------


I invited James to come along with me and get some food. He agreed but sighed again about the unwelcome onset of his arthritis.

I looked askance at him until Tita Tita chimed in that "Ay, your Tito's also having a hard time na rin navigating the stairs."

Upon our return, D., never one to be outdone, shared with us his complaints of plantar fasciitis.

"Don't your feet hurt when you walk?" he asked me, not so much out of concern for my well-being, but more of fishing for sympathy and some company in misery.

"I don't wear heels, so, no," came my reply, which had Joey dissolving into a hysterical snickering fit so bad I waited for bulalo to shoot out of his nose.

"Surely you must have some kind of joint issues," came Gal Pal to D.'s rescue.

"Oh, we've had joint issues, I assure you," I thought to myself. "Just not the kind you're thinking of."

But for conversation's sake, I had to admit that the index finger of my left hand would never again bend at the middle knuckle after I seemed to have broken it against a wall. It's a strange injury; had I really broken it, the finger would've swelled. But there was never any swelling - just a finger that's basically frozen in place at the middle joint.

Now if only I had broken the middle finger, instead.

I got a bone to pick with you.

--------------------------


I hate casual revelations like these that verify that my friends - and by extension, I - are getting on in terms of age. Like any young man, I believed myself not only immortal, but eternally youthful, as well.

Time, of course, has other ideas, and marches steadfastly on. If only it didn't march all over my face.

On the other hand, James, like D., looks nothing like his age, and he's a good five years older than D. Again, a lucky mixture of genetics and a good disposition must work wonders, for his lover Joey - who had been an insanely jealous and petulant young man ten years James' junior - can look older than he does, depending on the light and the current mood of the day. James, in contrast, is as baby-faced as ever.

Of course I, being a ray of sunshine and a bundle of rainbows and joy, don't look like a baby.

I look like a fetus.

That old black magic, that fetal attraction.

------------------------

And speaking of fetuses...

Lisa - whom I had last seen years and years back - was also there, with...what's this ? A five-year-old baby girl? And no spouse in sight, either. When did this happen? Who is that child? What sorcery is this?


"My daughter."


Sooooooooooo.

Many.

Quezzzzzzzzzzzzzz-tions.


My eyebrows reached so high my eyeballs basically popped out of my head and rolled downstairs toward the buffet table. 

Lisa just smiled and said "Didn't D. tell you anything about where she came from?"

"I already know where babies come from," I replied as I fished my eyeballs out of the ginataan. " My question is: where did this particular magical girl come from? And don't answer 'From my womb.'"

Lisa laughed that girly Assumptionista laugh of hers and waved me off.

"Ay, I'll just make kuwento next time," as she spirited Magical Girl away to the restroom.

And then some primal part of my lizard brain reminded me that at one point, Lisa had been Wiccan, and supposedly had such potential that she once recited an incantation and lightning promptly struck their backyard.

And like a wise man, I stepped away from this strange brew.

N-Nani desu ka?! Nanoha?!?

----------------------


Speaking of restroom. As I was admiring the restaurant's inner courtyard (adjacent to the restrooms) and wondering what interior decorating ideas - if not pieces of the decor itself- I could steal, Lu came by, en route to the loo. 

Lu to the loo.

When she emerged, I was still inspecting the courtyard. Lu smiled and I asked her if she was accompanying D. to the States. 


"I wanted to, but no, my passport's at the embassy, eh." 

"Say what?" 

"My passport's at the embassy." 

"So you are going?" 

"To Canada." 

"Oh. For how long?" 

"Forever."



Jaw. Drop.



"I'm moving to Canada, moving in with my parents." she smiled sweetly. "That's my retirement."

---------------------------


And fuck me for expecting people to stay forever. 

I'd known Lu for as long as I'd known D. She had been his Girl Friday, then his best friend and business partner, and for the longest time I thought she was deeply in love with him. But despite what 9gag might tell you, friendzones are more cruel to women than men. And through the years I had witnessed Lu enter and leave relationships with none ever blossoming into something permanent.

The only one that ever endured was the professional and platonic relationship she had with D.

I had been hoping the two would just marry and be done with it, even if he was gay and she was now technically incapable of bearing children thanks to an emergency hysterectomy some years back.

Even though I had seen Lu less and even less over the years, the news of her leaving still saddened me.

My anchors are unmooring.

Or maybe that's because I need no more anchors, being forever ensnared in the Sargasso of my indecisions.

No stranger tides. No tides at all.

---------------------------


The reservation was only good for an hour as the venue seemed to be much in demand. But of course, being Filipino we showed no intentions of leaving even a half-hour after the official end of our little gathering.

I saw the maitre d' whispering to Lu, and being pretty sure it wasn't sweet nothings going into her ear, I got up and started the round of picture takings.

The rest of the party got the cue and after group permutations that would put wedding entourages to shame, we were ready to leave.

Despite myself, I wished we could've stayed together longer.

But that's how I am these late days with my friends.

Our meetings are few and over too soon.



Besides, I had my mother's birthday celebration to catch, and that was a world away.


Far, far away.

Are we there yet?