The Absence of Maps

I arrived from school one afternoon and found my stand-in grandmother pedaling her sewing machine, piecing together random fabrics to make a quilt. My 8 or 9-year-old mind could not establish the connection between "Singer" and "sewing" and thought that maybe for some people, like my stand-in grandmother, the annoying clang-clang of the machine's wheel was music to their ears.

We called my stand-in grandmother "Nanay". She took on the responsibility of raising my mom (her niece) when my mom's mother went to the States. She was never married and never had children. I assumed that her vitiligo made it impossible for her to find a mate. She had white patches all over her body as if the melanin got confused whether she was Asian or Caucasian and it decided to give her the best of both worlds, except that she ended up looking like a freak. I always thought of her patches as continents--her skin a map--but I never mentioned it to her because she might not like the idea of me naming a patch of albino skin as some secret paradise island.

The rest of the neighborhood also called her "Nanay" because she was a retired nurse who became the midwife to all of the baranggay's pregnant women. This irony was last seen in the Star Cinema movie A Love Story. Nanay, however, didn't have her own Aga Mulach.

As soon as I entered her room I collapsed on the floor together with my big backpack filled with thick textbooks which could have been thinner and lighter if it weren't for the large elementary font. My teacher referred to those books as our future. Each day, I carried my future on my back, quite certain that the only future in store for me was a trip to the chiropractor.

I tried to look pained to get some sympathy in the form of Jellyace or Mallows, but a heavy bag could not compete with the troubles of war that Nanay had to endure as a little girl. She was also stingy. Either way, it was a lose-lose situation.

"We are going to write a letter," she told me that afternoon I arrived from school. A grimace from me. I was looking forward to cartoons on our black and white TV especially when rumors went around at school alleging that the Smurfs were blue! I had to see it for myself and letter writing would ruin the investigation I had planned.

We always wrote to her sister, my real grandmother, who lived in Chicago. Lola Chila, name derived from Kastila (Spanish), seemed to answer our letters in dollar cheques and this encouraged Nanay to write more often than she should. When Nanay ran out of sad stories to write, she turned to me.

Nanay put aside the unfinished quilt and converted the ugly sewing machine into a table. She took a couple of onion skin paper and told me to sit on her lap so that we could begin writing. Onion skin paper was invented for old, stingy, single women who went to great lengths to save on postage stamps. There was no clear use for it other than to reduce the weight of an already seemingly weightless mail. You'd think that with all the dollars her sister sends her she could at least buy some scented stationery but Nanay valued every centavo that not even Hello Kitty could sway her. She'd even use onion skin envelopes if they were available, or onion skin stamps for that matter.

"What am I going to write to her?" I asked Nanay although this question was just a formality since she'd do most of the writing anyway. I sat on her lap, she folded the paper in half, took my small hand, put the pen in my hand and began writing using my hand as if it were a large deformed pen. I don't know how she got away with it, saying to her sister that I wrote the letter when the handwriting looked a lot like hers only chunkier. I did not even dictate to her what I wanted to write and she did not even bother to choose words that a third-grader might use. The situation transcended any acceptable form of ghost-writing.

Towards the end of the letter she asked me if there was anything I wanted from Lola Chila. "Toys! Lego! Tonka trucks! Matchbox! GI Joes!" I exclaimed, finally feeling that I was part of this activity and not just a dummy. She hesitated for a bit and as she led my hand on the paper, I got confused because she spelled 'toys' as 'B-O-O-K-S'. My hand wanted to write a comma after 'books' but she already lifted my hand to a new paragraph. As early as 8, I already knew I had to fight for press freedom.

We ended with "I miss you" and "hope to see you again soon". I haven't met my Lola Chila. She left way before I was conceived. Still, we closed with those words and Nanay moved my hand to sign my name. Looking back at it, the letters that "I" sent to my Lola Chila when I was a kid were 50% Nanay's perception of me, and 50% fiction.

The only thing I looked forward to the letter writing was the mailing process. I liked lick-sealing the envelopes and the stamps. I liked dropping the envelopes at the post office mailbox. I liked our trip to the post office that ended with a quick snack of puto-cheese at the Central Market plus a take-home pack of pinipig. If I behaved, the pinipig would be the cold variety produced by Magnolia Ice Cream.

When we got home, I heard the only clang-clang sound that pleased my ears, one that came from a sorbetero. I asked Nanay if she could give me 50 cents so that I can grab a cone of the most delicious treat that came from a cart loaded with dry ice, salt, and a creamy blend of skimmed milk, sugar and traces of amoeba. She called it dirty ice cream but for me, dirty was a small price to pay for something so delectable.

She did not give me the measly 50 cents. I pleaded, negotiated, begged, cried, wailed. The fainter the bell sounded, the louder I cried, hoping that if Nanay wasn't about to give in, at least the ice cream man would hear an interested customer and turn back while I continued to convince her. She held her ground and I eventually accepted that she was the most inconsiderate stingy spinster in the city. I entertained the thought of her dognapping a hundred and one dalmatians but that might be a bit over the top.

Several months passed. After mailing yet another letter, Nanay flopped on the sofa as soon as we got home. She did not get up since. Her diabetes got worse in the following months. I wasn't at the hospital when she died but the people who were there said that she kept on asking for me and my brother during her last few hours.

Aside from the modest savings account, her quilts were the only possessions she passed on to us. Months following her death, I'd play with the sewing machine trying to recreate the clang-clang sound that I associated with Nanay. It wasn't music but I somehow found it comforting.

When I was 8, I regarded Nanay as a difficult person. But now, her ways seem sensible and fair. She had been difficult for the right reasons. Her guidance played a big part in shaping my mom into a strong-willed and independent woman. Her strictness towards me made me self-reliant instead of a whiny spoiled brat. She provided the map for our growth as a family and had she lived longer, I'm positive that she would've continued to guide us to the right path.

Nanay has moved on and there's no question as to where she is now. Her patches as white as an angel's wings; her destination etched like a map on her skin.

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Nan's Song by Robbie Williams

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Dusk

It's exactly 6PM as I write this. I've pressed the play button on my walkman phone and it's now playing Paul Weller's "You Do Something To Me" off the playlist I entitled 'Dusk'. 'Dusk' was previously known as '6PM' but since I rearranged the tracks and added more to the list, I decided to rename it. And what's this fascination with this time of day? 6PM is not just a playlist, it's a realm of memories.

How I came up with a 6PM playlist was easy. I remember as a kid, I'd often walk home at dusk, because any minute later would mean an angry grandma. I'd pass by sari-sari stores or houses with men out on their front yard drinking Gold Eagle Beer or Tanduay Rum (you can tell by these drinks what kind of neighborhood I grew up in), and they'd always have a radio on. This was pre-videoke. What amazed me was the kind of songs these radio stations played. At 6PM, it was always classic slow rock and power ballads like those from bands like Styx or songs like Caravan. Jukebox music right in your own home. Since then, when dusk comes, I'd always crave for songs that have a distinct guitar riff or a lonely bar room feel with an affected lounge singer. A bit bluesy but not quite, more like dreamy. To give you a better idea, here's a portion of my playlist:

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Or better yet, here's a close enough clip of what I mean (the song is in the list too). It's a scene from Y Tu Mama Tambien, just before the threesome did the nasty. The song is called Si No Te Hubieras Ido by Marco Antonio Solis.



It was dusk when I met my first lover. We were both 15 and in love and nobody knew about it. It was a summer affair in which I learned how to drink beer, smoke, and dance. I didn't flip out when it ended. I considered it as my initiation to a mysterious world and I passed with remarkable colors, that I never knew existed. I remember writing an uplifting short story when we ended our relationship. I also remember that it was when I started to write about people without using pronouns.

It was dusk when Ryan, my best bud in high school, and I would go to Capitol Lagoon and talk the night through because none of us wanted to be home. We'd exchange mythologies of the doomed love affair of the two golden statues that marked each side of the Lagoon's pool. The lovers are so close yet forever parted because some artist thought it would be dramatic if the female statue would eternally wait for her hero.

It was one of those talks when I first came out. It was also the last of those talks. Years later, I'd disproved my own mythologies about those statues and instead thought of them as a haunting metaphor for all my relationships--whether it be family, friends, or lovers, we'd always be parted by bodies of water.

It was dusk when I'd drive the long highways of Davao and find myself in different cities in an hour. Aimless driving, aimless thoughts. I remember that the goal was to chase the horizon until it was time to go back. With only a good soundtrack on board, I'd make my way through towns that shrunk smaller and smaller with each mile away from the city. Seeing those towns, I thought I didn't want to go back to my life. Simple living meant simple problems. But then the tape runs out, the last stick of cigarette evaporates, and perhaps the last can of beer turns into burp, and I'd snap out of it, drive back home and try to catch Frasier on cable.

It's that lazy guitar riff that brings back a thousand memories. It doesn't matter now if it was happy or sad. It's just memory. Neither a positive or a negative. And the songs, they are notes that mark the sunset--the very moment when we stop to think: what have I learned today?

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On Middlemen: Somewhere in the Middle

Vince and Stuart were dancing to "Spanish Eyes" when Stuart said, "Fancy staying the night?". Vince thought it was expensive knowing that they were in a posh hotel but he decided that they might as well try 'threes' again. Stuart smiled and whispered "cut out the middleman." They then made their way out the crowded ballroom, past the hotel lobby until they reached the grand staircase. Then, they both went up to the hotel room.

The UK version of QaF (special thanks to my mom who sent me the complete 10-episode series) made up for what it lacked in length with heartfelt performance and touching moments. If the scene above seems vague, let's just say that two's a company and three's a crowd, thus, "cutting out the middleman". I've given enough spoilers so that's the farthest I can go. (UK:US, Vince:Michael, Stuart:Brian)

I went through all that trouble to arrive to this point: I'm currently a middleman, the straight kind anyway.

I've officially gotten involved into trading various products and commodities like Liquified Natural Gas, Crude Oil, LPG, MAzut100, Cement, what-have-yous. When my mom first introduced me to this world I was as confused as Ashley Simpson doing the hoedown.

Then we started communicating with my aunt from the US and it turns out that she is also into trading. I couldn't help it, obviously. I know that my boss is always looking for products and I have an aunt who's always looking for buyers. Like pieces of a puzzle falling into place, really.

Eventually, well, more like a day later, I found myself e-mailing people from all parts of the earth and sending information that I only have a vague understanding of. I never knew, for example, that ASWP meant "any safe world port" or that LOI stood for "letter of intent". I'm learning at least two new acronyms a day and so far, most of the alphabet is now covered. My illusion of trading, that it's as simple as buying chocnut from a sari-sari store, started to fade into a more serious reality--the right information in the wrong hands could be very dangerous.

Before all these though, I was already aware that some people think that middlemen are not necessary in any kind of business. Back in college, I had this classmate who felt strongly against job placement agencies that he decided to put up his own Security Guard Agency to help protect the common gardo versoza. He said, that unlike other 'parasite' middlemen, he'll make sure that his agency will not take advantage of the job-seekers. I wonder if he stuck to his strictly 5% cut up to this day.

I sympathize with him in that view, but I also understand that a lot of people won't trust a service worker, especially a security guard, unless he's from a certified agent.

I don't know. As a middleman, I can't say that I am a parasite. Okay, in trading, a middleman gets paid in ridiculously high amounts of moolah but my aunt's contacts wouldn't have known about my boss if I didn't give the extra effort to mention to her that "hey, my boss does oil too". I see it as being the right person at the right time with the right amount of conscience--said amount leaning towards negligible. And don't tell me you would naively say you'll settle for a hundred dollars when they're waving a six-figure commission in front of you.

It's an easy job, this trading thing. You sit in front of a computer, send and receive emails, act as a channel of communication. My aunt says that I can retire early if any one of these deals gets closed. But my boss was quick to say that there will be a lot of inquiries and only one out of a hundred will get signed. I'm 'channeling' three products as of the moment. So far so good, and if not, then there are still 97 chances to go.

Oh, and if you still can't take Vince and Stuart out of your mind and wondered all this time what they did after they went up to the hotel room, highlight for spoilers: they only slept. If you know QaF and want to watch the scene, follow this link, otherwise, don't bother.

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Moda

My mom, being a true blue Ilonggo, fancies the word "moda" which means "fashionable", "fad", or "the in style". When we moved to Davao, she didn't care much about Bisaya and when she's around my Bisaya-speaking friends, she'd start off talking in bad Tagalog, and give in to her Ilonggo roots by the time she got to her second sentence. And everytime she'd say "moda" my friends would secretly laugh because "moda" is Bisaya G-speak for "mother".

Like most Filipino mothers now, my mom is proudly OFW, and like most OFWs my mom has a story to tell. What I will tell you though, is the day we baked a cake.

I was probably around 8 or 10 years old, when my mom decided to try her baking skills. And why not? She bought new measuring cups and she borrowed my auntie's oven (or was it an improvised double broiler, I cannot remember). It was the perfect time to bring out the rusting mixer from the cabinet and use it once and for all.

She measured each ingredient carefully. She tried to look like an expert baker but when she turned on the mixer, jolted and said "Ay, kalbo!", I knew that she was a noob and she was hanging on to that recipe book for dear life. My role was to lick all excesses from the bowl and the spatula. This served two purposes, one, it helped for a quick wash, and two, the official taste test.

The taste test was sumptuous. But to carry that same taste after the fire test was a whole new ballgame. My mom panicked when, after three hours, the top half of the cake still wasn't done. We've already used up all our toothpicks and have graduated to using forks to see if the cake was ready. We stopped pricking when we officially made the supposedly flat spongy surface looking like a moon replica.

Finally, we made it. We made an edible pair of leather boots. The cake came out overdone on the bottom part. Only 20% of the cake was cake. The rest was, as I've mentioned, edible leather boots. The texture was so tough but I devoured it as if I was Hannibal Lecter on a face buffet. I seriously loved it. It was the most delicious chocolatey goodness I have ever tasted.

What I'm saying is, my mom is different than most moms. She can't bake, but she passes on recipes for a better life. Her hands may be hard on dough but her touch is as soft and warm as freshly baked bread. We only see her once a year but her voice is always loud and clear as if she has never left our side. She hasn't read us too many bedtime stories but when we chat she'd tell the most intriguing real life anecdotes that can put my blog out of business if she decides to blog herself.

My moda. She's different but I wouldn't want a different moda. I love you mom, happy Mother's Day.

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Dad's Somewhere Out There

On my 9th birthday, my Dad woke me up early in the morning and told me to fix my ears on the radio. He left for work and the whole morning I waited patiently by the radio like a good boyscout. Just before noon, the DJ announced my name on the air and greeted me a Happy Birthday (greetings from your Dad) then a dedicated song followed. It was the theme from An American Tail. I didn't have a party since we didn't have money for parties. But that was one of the most memorable birthdays ever.

Ever heard of the expression "speaking of the devil"? Well, I posted my last entry, and today, I got an email from my Dad. I guess I spoke too soon. But in the spirit of fair journalism, here's what my dad said:

Ja, how are you, son? I got your mail and thank you for that.
I misssed you so much Ja. I just want you to know how much I love you. I know how hard it is to be away from your home but that's how life is. Be patient and always trust to God your everyday life and be friendly especially that you're a stranger to that place. Avoid getting into trouble ha.
I tried to call you on the number that you gave me but I can't get through. And also give me Josh's number too so I can call him.
Ja, I'm getting too old and weak. The only thing I'm asking Lord is to see and be with you before I totally close my eyes. I hope and pray we can spend time together and share every moment that we haven't did before. God knows how much I love and care for you, son.
Take good care of yourself always and be happy with what you have for now.
May the good Lord always guide my sons and protect them from any harm and danger.
See you next mail son, I love you as always.
Love,
Daddy

Okay, so I don't know what happened. I've never known my Dad to be religious but now he seems to be speaking in tongues. People change, I guess, but then again, he's in the US and Lord knows what other uppers they have there aside from 7UP. I'm just kidding. I know he's sincere about this. My Dad can really get mushy and it creeps me out.

Maybe he's exaggerating a bit when he said he's getting "too old and weak". First of all, 55 is not really too old. And second of all, if you still manage to pop out some jizz and get a woman pregnant at that age, you're not exactly weak.

And apparently when he said "always guide my sons," he was actually referring to the five of his sons. And I only know my three other brothers. I can imagine his latest 3-year-old kid growing up and getting traumatized when he finds out later on that there were others that came before him.

My dad gives me good material. I just might consider a career in stand-up comedy.

So that's it. I spoke too soon. My bad. Dad actually made a decent reply. Now, please excuse me while I walk outside and listen to this
Somewhere Out There

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WB, Dad, Tyler's Been Looking for You

As if disconnected from YM and signing back again, my dad, whom I haven't seen since New Year 2000, suddenly emails me again after a five-month silence. Everytime my dad comes into view, I could only think of this passage from Fight Club, and boy, isn't Tyler Durden right?!

"This is the first generation of men raised by women. Me, I knew my dad for
about six years, but I don't remember anything. My dad, he starts a new family
in a new town for about every six years. This isn't so much like a family as
it's like he sets up a franchise."

[My dad, in a nutshell. Welcome back, dad. Tyler's been looking for you.]

Exactly a week before graduating from high school, our Christian Living teacher thought it would be nice to write a letter to our parents. Since my mom was in Hong Kong at that time, I had to write one for my dad. I didn't see the point because my dad did not live with us anymore. But I wrote the letter anyway thinking it would be only for God to read. The next day, I was surprised to see my dad at our class' year-end retreat. And when we were instructed to read to our parents the letter we wrote, I knew I was in deep trouble. I only made it past the second sentence, after that, I broke down. My dad ended up reading the letter by himself. I almost felt ashamed I wrote it. He explained to me his side of the story and after that, for the first time in my troubled teen life, everything was clear. Nothing changed between me and my dad after that letter except that I have found respect for him and finally understood his actions. A year later I moved from Bacolod to Davao without him knowing. And three years more, my dad flew to the US without me knowing.

December 31, 1999. I was standing on the vacant lot beside my dad's duplex in a low-class housing community, observing that in the city outskirts, the stars seemed brighter. My dad found me in the dark, and before I could throw the cigarette I was holding, he asked for a light. He puffed and told me to quit smoking already (insert laugh track here). He thanked me for buying two cases of San Miguel Beer. We talked for a bit. He apologized for not being the ideal father for me and my brother. I thought it was the alcohol talking but I told him everything was cool anyway. He hugged me and just like a good TV moment, my two younger half brothers came running toward us and said that we're counting down to the new year in a few minutes. After three days, I flew back to Davao and didn't have the chance to see my father again.

For the past few years my dad has been emailing once in a while, mostly to greet us during birthdays or holidays. He would call once in a while, mostly to give Western Union details, and each telephone conversation would always end with "thank you" and "I love you"-- heartfelt, believe it or not.

But five months ago he stopped communicating with us. And in his recent email he said that he just got his internet connection back, but that does not explain why he hasn't called. I wrote him back and told him that what his almost-thirty-year-old son wanted from him, more than anything, was a father-figure (in terms he would understand, of course). It was quite a long email, a feeling of deja vu while I was writing it. I told him that I am now based in Qatar. I told him updates about my brother. I told him to give me a call, Western Union or no Western Union.

His reply was two lines long with three periods and a question mark. My mention of Qatar did not even seem to matter to him. I gave up analyzing his reply and decided to look on the bright side. At least he's still alive. [I heard his franchise has gone global.]

Basically this entry explains why I love Fight Club. Or maybe I'm just saying that I'm glad I finally heard from my dad. Whichever the reason, I'm still closing this post with another passage from Chuck Palahniuk's debut novel:

The mechanic says, "If you're male and you're Christian and living in America,
your father is your model for God. And if you never know your father, if your
father bails out or dies or is never at home, what do you belive about God?"

I found out that this doesn't apply to American males alone. Whatever, at least He's still alive.

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Eulogy on Valentine's Day

I've been to the stage where I'm always invited to children's parties. Then debut celebrations. More recently I had quite a number of baptismal invitations. It's a sign of growth. But news of death from family and peers is one invitation you don't want to receive.

Manang Pat
Her family is by far the most tragic: A schizo mom, abandoned by their father, siblings scattered all over the country without a clear-cut future while she devoted her life to serving the better side of the family. She never had a boyfriend, never fancied fashion, remained religious and decided to stay single and celebate. Yes, the forty-year-old virgin isn't just a movie, although Manang Pat represented the female kind. She passed away a day before Valentine's Day which was a metaphor on its own because her heart gave up on her. She died of a broken heart.

She was my cousin. We lived in one house but we're not that close. But she watched over me and my brother during a very crucial stage in our lives. My mom went to work abroad, and my grandmother was bedridden. Manang Pat would cook our meals, wash our clothes and clean our rooms. She never complained and most of all she never asked for anything in return. It was a natural act for her. Most of all she wasn't bitter about it.

Yongyong
In highschool I was a bit of a loner and I hung out with the rebels, the outcasts. That's why when I stepped into college I decided to change my image. I got involved. I started to hang out with big groups. And I met Charisse and the rest of the gang. Yongyong was one of them. Yongyong reminded me of myself when I was in highschool. Shy type, quiet and private. I don't know much about him because I spent most of my time enjoying the new environment. One thing I do remember about him is that he always appeared so innocent. He would smile at whatever. He could've invented the smiley. Charisse would always sexually harass him, and in public too, and he would just laugh.

After a rough year of PT and failing, I left Riverside College. I didn't hear much from Yong after that. And I only got two major news about him, one, that he was in a terrible condition, and two, that he died a day before Valentine's Day.

Life is short. In another time I would've cried. But with the world we're in right now, death becomes an escape. They're probably one of the lucky few who got the most out of life and said farewell before the world fell into pieces.

Take care guys and have a safe journey. And yes, follow the light. OUT.

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A Very BD Day

Not even the butterfly effect could explain why BD became the theme of the day.

My mom turned 50 yesterday. She called me up from Hong Kong and asked if she should give away the antique vase she bought as a raffle prize for their school's Valentine's gathering. I said that children don't care for antiques, although I wished I had kept my mouth shut.

At the end of the day she decided to keep it for herself as a personal gift. I wonder if the vase is at least 50 years old. Like my mom it certainly stood the test of time. I wish she could retire early and just enjoy traveling around the world and perhaps find more antique vases. But that remains a wish for now unless a genie suddenly comes out of that vase. I greeted her a happy birthday and she told me that she was on her way to the store to buy some chocolates. Since she's keeping the vase, she's giving away sweets instead.

In the meantime, five hours behind, I was waiting for Blood Diamond to start. I wasn't so sure I was going to like this movie. On its fifth minute I was hooked. There was so much going on in the movie, all things imaginable in a spectacular film. Action, heist, passion, family, romance, drama, love, and a more recent crowd favorite, gore. Each time there were scenes of bloody mutilation and genocide I feel sorry for the kids in the theatre. There were a dozen kids below ten years old when I watched and I can't believe their parents allowed them to watch such violence with caramel popcorn and blue slush.

The movie was terrific and moving and surprisingly, Leo didn't sound like his whiny self at all. He pulled it off quite well and I'm starting to feel nervous for my early Oscar favorite Ryan Gosling for Half Nelson.

Still thirsty for more, I decided to watch one more film, this time, Brian De Palma's Black Dahlia. I don't know if he's going for film noir. Chinatown and L.A. Confidential did a good job in this 50s Hollywood crime drama genre. Black Dahlia did not come close to the two greats. It was entertaining, but for the most part, the film seemed like an homage to 50s filmmaking rather than a film set in the 50s. Often I find myself noticing how great the set was or how authentic the costume was or how carefully the sequence was shot to mimic 50s style framing and staging. In LA Confidential you don't see these things because you are lost in the story and instead of seeing the era, you are feeling the era. Complete with detective narrator and wipe transitions, Black Dahlia never fails to remind the audience that the film is old. Black Dahlia was a grand scale costume party with supposedly heavyweight actors looking uncomfortable at best in their vintage Hollywood skin.

Our dear censors also made their presence felt. They cut out all the love scenes even the once that had narration which leaves the audience two steps behind the murder trail because of missing information. No wonder this world is perceived as violent, people here feed violence and gore to children but they hide the love and passion.

When I got out of the theatre, my mom called again. She said my brother in the Philippines tried to withdraw some money from an ATM but the machine did not dispense any cash yet his money was gone. Tough luck.

It's my mom's birth day, I watched Blood Diamond and Black Dahlia, and my brother had a bad day. It's a very BD day for the family in three parts of the world. OUT.

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Nostalgia on the Second Month Part Two

I was already reminiscing when my mom caught me on YM. She told me to expect my cousin Roni online. Wow, I thought, I ordered for a plate of nostalgia and the gods gave me a bucket.

I haven't heard from Roni for quite some time now. She (and her family) is one of the best relatives that I have.

In no time I found myself chatting with my cuz. We exchanged blasts from the past as if we haven't seen each other for decades (which is, by the way, true). I told her that my greatest influence for my chosen career was her family and their video shop biz White House.

I remember spending summers or Christmases at their house when I was not more than ten or twelve. One Christmas they let me taste wine. It was my first time and boy was it a classy selection, Dom Pérignon! Back then I would envy my cousins' rather rich lifestyle. I also wanted to have a house with a lawn so I can also raise a golden labrador. I also wanted to have a swimming pool so I can swim all day long, heck, all week if I wanted to. Most of all, I wanted to have a brand new Betamax Player and a color television so I can borrow movies for free and watch to my heart's content.

My early exposure to movies probably stirred my imagination and I owe it all to Roni and Mylo who bumped the Looney Tunes for Zapped! But it wasn't just the movies. They also introduced me to fiction. Thanks to them I discovered the Choose Your Own Adventure series. The pocket books blew me away because of their unique structure, you get to decide which path in the story to take thus giving you control of the turn of events because after all, it's your own adventure. Soon after, I bought my own CYOA books and found out that even with the freedom to choose I still found it limiting. And that's how I was inspired to really write. I think.

I miss my cuz and I miss the innocence of our youth (I can remember though we were little devils really!) In any case, I'm glad that even if I haven't seen her for ages I can still feel the warmth. It must be because Roni, Mylo and I just clicked. Or it could be because of a special bond.

Until now I still wish to own a house with a pool and a lawn where I can teach my golden retriever new tricks. And every Christmas or New Year, family and relatives will all get together as our parents did when we were small and this time, we will not just taste the Dom Pérignon but we will get drunk on it.

I can still taste the wine. It was my first. Bitter but sweet, a kiss from an angel. I can still taste it on my lips. OUT.

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Shabu-shabu, the fattening kind

My visit to Hong Kong this year is more pleasant. The last time I was here my mom and I used to fight and argue about almost anything and I showed my rebel side by smoking in front of her. But that was a good couple of years ago and while the buildings here remain the same, I have changed. I quit smoking and after coming out to my mom she has understood me better. So now we're just enjoying our time together, like pigging out on buffet hot pot or shabu-shabu and snapping greeting card worthy poses at the Christmas displays in Central. I love my mom and tis the season to be merry. I Can't wait to be back...and do some serious shopping.

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