Monthly Archives: September 2006

A fly in my siopao

In celebration of the one-year birthday of this piece, I am uploading it into this blog.

EXOTIC cuisine is not for the faint of heart. Or, for that matter, the weak of stomach.

But many individuals—self-styled sophisticates and self-proclaimed
gourmets—have always looked forward to their next culinary adventure, be it Mediterranean or Asian fusion. Fortunately or unfortunately, I am not one of them.

Just about the only culinary expertise that I can ever claim to have, aside
from eating, is the ability to discern the four basic types of beer. These are pale pilsen, which is marked by a pale flavor; dry, distinguished by a dry flavor; light, which has a light flavor; and, last but not least, free, which has an excellent taste that leaves a tingling sensation on the palate, a soothing effect on the throat, and a healthy, ruddy glow on the cheek. These characteristics make free beer one of the tastiest drinks of all time. However, unlike pale pilsen, dry, and light beer, free beer is not widely available, especially when you have friends who think that the world owes them a drink. (But then again, that’s another story best told as soon as one other booze buddy shares his Irish beer with me, gratis et amore.)

Although I am always on the lookout for free beer, I remain a meat and
potatoes kind of guy, always making sure that whatever I put in my mouth—at least for nutritional purposes—should be boiled, broiled, fried,
baked, or sauteed. This explains why sushi is not in my top ten list of favorite food, which, by the way, includes beer. After all, when you get down to it, beer is simply liquefied malt, hops, and barley. Nothing really exotic about that.

Which is not something I can say about my recent culinary adventure, to use the term loosely. While dining with my wife at a popular Chinese restaurant in the Greenhills shopping complex, I found a lifeless and fully cooked insect in my meal. I found a fly the size of a raisin
embedded in my Asado siopao.

Common sense told me not to put it in my mouth. Luckily, common sense prevailed.

Using my thumb and forefinger, I fished the very dead insect from flavorful chunks of meat for the viewing pleasure of my wife, the waiters, and other diners interested in what we were having for merienda.
When one customer saw that what I was holding up was not a piece of
sharksfin siomai, he looked thankful that he had gotten the beef brisket.
Unwilling to ruin anyone else’s appetite, my wife and I quietly summoned a waiter and asked for an explanation.

The response, delivered quite curtly by the manager, was slow in coming,
just like the beef wonton mami that my wife and I shared. Besides blaming their siopao supplier, the manager did not even offer to
make amends. In fact, she even had the temerity to ask us for payment,
saying that siopao was already excluded from the bill.

We promptly walked out without paying.

After all, on top of the slow service and the unexpected side dish, we felt
insulted when the establishment was unable to offer us some house tea.

The Manila Times
October 6, 2005


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The young and lazy drunkard’s guide to the MRT*

*The MRT discussed in the following article refers to the Metro Rail Transit, which is the best train system in the world. Or at least to masochists, MRT employees, and the government contractors who built the damn thing.
Traversing Epiphanio de los Santos Avenue—popularly known as EDSA, the site of the country’s two political upheavals—the train system allows its passengers to travel from north to south and vice-versa in discomfort, inconvenience, and inefficiency unparalleled since the rickshaw.
Thanks to poor planning, government indifference, and plain old engineering incompetence, the train’s stations, if not congested and poorly-maintained (North Avenue for instance where ticket lines reach the bottom of the station’s stairs especially during rush hour) are rarely maximized and ill-conceptualized (Santolan, for example, which is one of the most useless structures in the system, let alone the city. At any given time, it houses seven people, two of whom are passengers, four are employees, and last, a security guard always trying his best to stay awake.)

EVER since males allowed females to enjoy the same rights, members of the weaker gender have immediately seized the opportunity to tip the scales in their favor.

Besides moving out of the bedroom and into the boardroom, women have quickly grown to dominate men’s lives, waking them up in the morning so that they can get to work on time, disallowing them to drink beer at night, and—in a blatant disregard for the various UN human rights conventions—forbidding many to surf for porn.

However, among the various tools of gender oppression foisted on many young, hardworking, able-bodied Filipino men (many of whom are God’s gift to FHM), nothing compares to the policy of giving females, children, the disabled and the elderly the exclusive right to occupy the first front car of any MRT train.

This is nothing but patent discrimination.

Previously, the transport facility allowed everyone—the deaf, the drunk, and the demented, whether they had fake breasts or not—to squeeze their filthy bodies into a few inches of space that would suffocate a canned sardine.

However, that egalitarian arrangement has been lost.

Now, most Filipino male passengers are relegated to the other cars, forcing them to mingle with their fellow males, who generally find each other intolerable, even in environments free from heat, athlete’s foot, and sweaty armpits.

But young, lazy, carless, and able-bodied drunkards need not despair.

This space has compiled two very important tips to get around the discriminatory arrangement currently implemented at the MRT. These are, as follows:

1) Buy a cane, walk with a limp, and make a pained facial expression every time you move forward.

Since this country never had any respect for the disabled, anyone with a limp and a pained expression on his face can get away with virtually anything, including boarding a train car reserved exclusively for young, pretty women. Once you get through the turnstiles, simply hobble along towards the front of the station until you reach an area where they separate the lucky bitches from the unlucky bastards.

Once inside the car—which, according to some, smells more like a powder room than an actual passenger carrier—pretend that you deserve the privileged treatment. If you are unable to prevent yourself from ogling women, do so subtly. Never go around making suggestive assertions such as: “Hey babe. Want to check out my other cane?”

2) Purchase a baby doll, pretend its your newborn baby, and simply carry on.

Despite warnings made by Al Gore, Greenpeace, and others about global warming—which is brought about by increasing human consumption of goods and services—we have been trained, since we have been babies ourselves, to welcome and celebrate the birth of each single baby into this world.

(There are supposedly 10,000 of these little critters born each day**, not counting China where the saying “you’re one in a million” does not mean much. With a population of one billion, being one in a million only means that you share that distinction—whatever that might be—with 999 other individuals. What’s so special about that?)

Therefore, anyone seen lugging a baby earns pity points*** and is entitled to seating at the train’s special car to ensure the baby’s comfort. Just remember one thing: breastfeeding is still best for babies of up to two years.****

**I’m not actually sure about this.

***phrase originally coined by Larry David. Go get your DVDs of Curb Your Enthusiasm from your friendly DVD pirate to appreciate his genius.

****Since this was sourced from a radio commercial, its veracity cannot be confirmed as of this writing.

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Britain, Britain, Britain…

My friend Jing recently posted a picture of Kenny Craig, a renowned hypnotist at what may well be the best UK TV show since Monty Python, Little Britain. Visit his blog by clicking here or just by clicking on his name on the right part of this screen. He’s Gaddi Boy.

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Apologies for this sef-indulgent interruption

Just found out that my wife has her own entry at Wikipedia. Some person affiliated with her was also mentioned in what now appears to be the premier online encyclopedia. Duh.

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Published sometime in 2004 in the Philippines Free Press

A short story by Robert JA Basilio Jr.
2603 words

Ramon climbed the airconditioned bus and made a run for the nearest available seat, down at the end where the engine was. On the way, he almost stepped on a boy so small and thin he just didn’t see him at all, struggled past a guy with a knapsack so bulky that it blocked his way, and squeezed between two portly middle-aged women whose loud chatter about last night’s telenovela episode he apparently had interrupted.

“Sorry,” he curtly told one of the telenovela women, when he saw one frown
and the other smirk. Both women were dressed in the same uniform – a traditional government office ensemble of pink blouses and blue skirts. On better days, he thought, he wouldn’t let that kind of attitude go past him, whoever they were, man or woman, rich or poor, young or old.

But today, he did.

After all, two frumpy women were not worth his time.

Ramon then planted himself on the seat; head pushed back, left arm on window ledge, thighs tight on the cushion, grateful that he got a spot to sit down and take it easy.

He was all ready to lose himself in the somewhat improved state of his surroundings: the cool antiseptic air from the vent above and the muffled hum of the vehicles outside, both, he thought, could lull him to sleep.

After all, he was raring for some shut-eye, having pulled another all-nighter.

The person he was hired to follow around — a young moneyed businessman named Norman Yalung — placed less importance on sleep than he did.

Yalung had spent the past two nights mostly in an expensive karaoke bar in Pasay and a nearby motel, each night with a different female companion. He then went home for an hour in the wee hours at an exclusive Quezon City village.

Yalung, Ramon learned, had just been abandoned by his wife and kids about a month ago, apparently due to his nocturnal habits. But from the looks of it, Ramon could tell that Yalung was enjoying his new-found bachelorhood.

During the straight two-day surveillance, Ramon had gone back to his Sta.Mesa apartment at six o’clock in the morning, never having felt more exhausted than any time in his career as a private detective.

And just for today, he had decided to give up following Yalung around.

If the past two days were any indication, today was going to be no different from the others anyway. Same set of activities, but probably shorter hours.

And no leads at all regarding Yalung’s possible involvement with the criminal underworld that his client, Attorney Acebedo, had so stubbornly insisted on.

Next time he talked to the Acebedo, Ramon reminded himself, he would insist on extra compensation. After all, it was no joke following a sex-crazed night owl two days straight.

But thinking about all that can come later.

After all, he still had an hour to go — or even more, rush hour permitting — until Araneta Avenue, where he would get off the bus and take a jeep to Sta.

He closed his eyes and shut out the world.

Thank God, he said to himself, in a gesture of happy resignation, and drifted off to sleep.

There were a lot of many things he never liked to wake up to. A ringing phone was one of them.

Unfortunately, that early Thursday morning inside the bus, it was exactly
that which roused him from his deep sleep.

No less than his client, Attorney Acebedo was on the line, or at least that was what the caller ID function of his cellphone told him.

“I’ve been missing you a lot these days,” the attorney said, in his signature high-pitched voice that to him sounded irritating.

Sure you have, Ramon said to himself, thinking that this conversation, again, was one of those mind games that the lawyer played, to gain the upper hand in some mysterious contest which no one really kept track of.

Nevertheless, Ramon, despite his lethargy, was always ready to play, the result of having a quick mind whose default mode was either to take advantage or to take charge, a fringe benefit of having harmless — but usually educational — encounters with various small-time swindlers, pickpockets, and con-artists.

These were the very people he envied because they lived by their wits and their wits alone, scamming bets off unsuspecting passersby in loaded chess games, hawking fake gold jewelry pieces and using drops of calamansi to pass these off as authentic, defrauding anyone stupid enough to believe that the dinars and dollars their spouses earned abroad were worthy of their special inflated exchange rates.

All these years, Ramon had entertained the romantic notion that he was one of them; that, like many cheats and scam artists he secretly admired, he possessed a mind nimble enough to make a quick buck and a clean getaway, save for two exceptions.

The first was that he didn’t work for the money alone but mostly for the sheer satisfaction of seeing a case through and a job well done. The second was that his absolute loyalty was always reserved for clients.

This, incidentally, explained why he was still following Yalung around, despite the fact that he had been running into what he had already expected: a blank wall.

A few days into the case, his underground sources had already confirmed that Yalung had no connections whatsoever with a smuggling ring. An intimate connection with a circle of GROs perhaps but not to a criminal syndicate, however big or small.

But Acebedo refused to believe him.

And as such, even if he already knew he would turn up with nothing, the surveillance surely would continue for a couple more days.

Even though they were wrong most of the time, Ramon thought, clients were always right. Not only was this sound business policy, this was the best, and perhaps, only way to show how professional he was.

Unfortunately, his clients rarely returned the favor.

He never got accorded the professional courtesy and respect he expected and deserved. He got paid, sure, but every single time, his clients made sure that they got their money’s worth.

As such, while on the trail of errant husbands having affairs with worldly colegialas, wayward rich kids running away from home, he was also juggling his schedule to pick up a barong or two at the cleaners, deliver stuff to their offices, and sometimes, even buy some groceries. Never has such small errands been so crucial: he knew that he refused them at the expense of the case and therefore his job.

That early Thursday morning, cocooned inside in a comfortable bus, Ramon could give an update of Yalung¹s past two days, if his client so desired.

And update or no, he would make a pitch for bigger pay.

Unfortunately, Acebedo’s lawyerly and patronizing blather still emanated from the other end of the line.

“I’ve been practicing law for the past twenty years, Ramon, and may lightning strike me down if I’ve met a private detective better than you are,” he heard the lawyer telling him, extolling his patience, strength, and his other allegedly superlative qualities.

Ramon, still light-headed and lethargic, merely sighed, waiting for his turn to talk.

But he never got the chance.

This was because, from out of the blue, Acebedo invited him to lunch.

At first, he could not believe his ears.

Ramon stared blankly into space, reeling from the effects of interrupted sleep, trying his best to accustom himself with the ways of the world awake.

Here he was, shoulder and ear cradling his cellphone, thinking what on earth was the matter with the world today.

He pinched his nose with his right hand, held it, and sniffed. No client of his had ever invited him to a meal before. None, never.

But there was always the first time.

“Yes,” he told Acebedo over the phone. “Tell me when and where. Call or text.”

He listened closely and nodded. He pressed the end call button, sat up, and pulled at the front of his shirt, in the vague hope of straightening it out.

He looked forward to meeting Acebedo outside the office. Last time they met, he remembered, he was stiff and bossy. But this was because they were inside his office.

People, he thought, acted differently outside the workplace. They were kinder, less formal. Acebedo might just be one of those people. He might just be different from the rest.

About half an hour after their conversation, Ramon and the lawyer were already seated at the table in a virtually-empty restaurant.

“This place is crazy come lunchtime,” the lawyer told him. He looked at his cellphone, which, to Ramon, looked new. He was all ready to ask about it but decided against it at the last moment. It was awkward, he thought, especially with a person whom he had not been on familiar terms with.

But in any case, the lull in the conversation was cut short — fortunately – when the waiter handed both of them a menu.

Soon after, Ramon saw a part of Acebedo which he had never seen, telling him to get anything he wanted on the menu, cracking jokes about the legal profession.

Right after he was done telling him about how he handled the judge who preferred women over bribe money, the lawyer let off a substantial pause in
the conversation.

For Ramon, the pause was both awkward and unusual; awkward because he was waiting for him to finish and unusual because Acebedo was someone who stopped talking only when an actual judge told him to.

In any case, when Ramon was faced with that sudden silence, he experienced a heavy but nevertheless vague premonition that he had something more serious
to worry about.

“Ramon,” the lawyer finally said, in a tone which revealed a subtle urgency. “Can you pick up some papers from a client in Cubao and deliver them to me this afternoon? I would consider this a really big favor.”

It took a while before the request — such as it was — sank in. Pick up some papers in Cubao and deliver them at the office in Escolta.

This, he thought, was exactly what lunch was for. An errand. A plain and simple errand. He went to criminology school to become a messenger; a glorified messenger.

Of the many dilemmas Ramon always faced as a private detective, nothing ever came close to the sheer complexity of a small, tiny errand. An errand. It could make you or break you. While simply accepting it can endear you to clients (and sometimes, even to their respective families and colleagues), turning it down can transform your into an impersonal and mysterious entity who refused, for some flimsy reason, to get along. Reject something outright — say you had to go to the bank, for instance, or needed to visit a sick relative in the hospital — and you were automatically painting yourself in a corner, closing the door on future jobs.

While Ramon did his best to cover all his bases (making sure that the client’s wife went home safely, for instance, while staking out some mid-level executive in Makati, supposedly doing overtime), he never did get extra compensation, let alone gratitude for his efforts. Whatever it was he did that was outside the job, they were all part of it, ironically.

And these always made him think about the very essence of what he was doing.

What does it mean to be a private detective in Manila anyway?

In a city that was obsessed with cellphones and celebrities; a city that survived the onslaught of countless daily exposés detailing criminal activity and sexual aberrations of the rich, famous, and powerful, what does it mean to be someone who tracked down criminals and followed people around for some measly profit?

Absolutely nothing.

Either you were a security guard with a fancy name on a business card or a police cadet who didn’t make it to the academy. People like him, Ramon thought, were unseen, invisible, insignificant, same as the many others who pursued a trade or eked out a living no one really cared about. And if no one really cared about you or what you did, you were most likely to be taken for granted.

Which is exactly the treatment that he got from his clients.

You offer them professional services, you do your best to add to what they already know, and before you know it, you’re waiting on them hand and foot, giving them extras neither you or them deserved.

Unfortunately, as his days of unemployment grew longer, his jobs as a private detective grew fewer, he had learned to play the part. He really had no choice.

This was what Ramon had thought about when he saw his bus approach EDSA, where he had to get off and take the MRT if he wanted to pick up those papers in Cubao and arrive at Acebedo’s office on time.

After an excruciatingly slow FX ride to downtown Manila from Cubao, Ramon
found himself sitting across Acebedo inside his office, an inch-thick set of legal-sized documents on his lap.

The lawyer, a tall, heavyset man in his middle fifties, was slouched in his chair, barong sleeves folded, unnaturally silent, his lips locked in a tight frown. Acebedo was on the phone, staring blankly into space, one hand on the table, almost unaware that someone else was in the room.

Ramon noticed that he was slowly nodding his head, as if trying to convince the person at the other end of the line that he was in complete agreement with what he was saying.

Suddenly, the lawyer looked up at him and asked whether he had the documents
at hand. The question was quick, and straight to the point, without the pleasantries that usually marked their previous exchanges on the phone.

Ramon nodded, almost taken by surprise by this sudden curtness, and handed over the documents.

Acebedo, still on the phone, licked a forefinger, and opened the folder. The lawyer went through the pages, one by one, his eyes darting left to right, right to left, and then left to right again, in a nervous rhythm. After he asked the other line to wait, he coughed without even bothering to cover his mouth.

Acebedo leaned forward. “Is this all?” he asked.

“Yes,” Ramon said, in what he thought sounded like an unusually weak reply.

Although detectives like him did — and would willingly do — the dirtiest work imaginable as long as it involved a case, it didn’t mean that they were up for doing everything. No private eye worth his license would ever mind being caught up in a brawl, be arrested, nor have his reputation sullied, if only for the sake of a case or a client.

But this, Ramon thought, this certainly was not something that would push his worth up a notch higher in his client¹s eyes. Indeed, his wish for respect and recognition for what he was — a professional private detective — had remained just that: a wish.

Acebedo quickly shifted his attention to the documents again, muttering some
legal phrases to himself, as he skimmed through each page repeatedly. The lawyer nodded, closed the folder, and simpered.

Acebedo then looked straight into Ramon’s eyes, as if he was staring into nothing, into space.

“Please don’t forget to close the door,” the lawyer said.

Knowing that that was his cue, Ramon stood up, adjusted his pants, and walked out the door. He pulled the door shut, thinking that his clients were all the same. All the same.

Quezon City, Philippines
Jul 7, 2004

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Some guys have all the luck

Chingbee with one lucky bastard

The Book

Sometimes I forget that I agreed to spend my whole life with a very pretty and talented person by the name of Conchitina R. Cruz, who for some reason or other, agreed to marry me in May 2002. Just last month, her book of prose poems, Dark Hours, won the National Book Award for Poetry. Now here comes another distinction: Andy Brown, director of the creative writing program of the University of Exeter in reviewed her book. Click here to read.

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Dance we shall

Published approximately a year ago at the Manila Times opinion pages, this entry is being posted again since I have been remiss in updating this blog.

LIKE brewed coffee, slapstick comedy, and people who just turned thirty, poetry readings grow old quickly, especially during open mic night, when the half drunk, the broken hearted, and the functionally illiterate get together just to vent their every angst onstage.

Fortunately, even though some of the arts do not deserve the respect and
support that they get, not all cultural activities resemble mental torture.

Take contemporary dance and ballet, two similar yet distinct genres which I know absolutely nothing about.

However, thanks to my wife¹s extra-curricular activities, I was able to take a crash course of sorts in Philippine contemporary dance, with or without my consent.

To my good luck, it did not involve any back-breaking exercises that
threatened to damage my kneecaps, crack open my skull, or besmirch whatever is left of my reputation.

After all, just about the only thing I had to do was to wait and watch,
which were fairly easy, having been trained to do exactly the same thing at the office: I simply wait for work to arrive and I watch somebody do it.

Anyway, my wife was asked to read Order for Masks, a poem by Virginia Moreno for the dance production of Paul Morales, Myra Beltran, and others. (
is the only female in the all-male post-World War II literary group, the Ravens, which includes Manila Times columnist Elmer Ordoñez. Morales is the artistic director of Airdance and Beltran is founder and artistic director of Dance Forum.)

Since my wife’s reading was supposed to be synchronized with the dancers’ movements and the music, she had to rehearse with the whole production, including the light and sound personnel (who, by the way, quietly took care of a wayward electric fan during the last day’s performance).

Thus, for two whole days, I was exposed to the world of Philippine dance and its practitioners, many of whom were patient enough to tolerate my
existence, keloids and all.

Despite the short time alloted for the rehearsals, the  production entitled
Ars Poetica: Poetry and Dance was a success.

Running for two days during the past weekend, the show was held in
cooperation with Dance Forum, Air Dance, the National Commission on Culture and the Arts, and the NGO-GO National Network for the Feminists Centennial.

While the performances didn’t exactly draw a huge crowd, it nevertheless
managed to elicit interest, even from those who, like me, thought of dance primarily as a set of contortions performed during high school soireés to make a move on the babes.

As soon as the second number began, an interpretation of Merlinda Bobis’ poem Agta sa Sapa by dancers Vinia Pamplona, Nina Hayuma Habulan, and Proceso Gelladuga II, I was already taken, impressed that so much emotion could be expressed by graceful bodily movements.

And by the time the last number ended, I was swept away, previously unaware that non-verbal communication could be so rich in meaning.

When my wife and I went home after these performances, we expressed
amazement over the sheer simplicity and intensity of the genre; a genre that deserves a wider audience and more support, not just from the government but from the public as well. So next time you get the chance to see the likes of Beltran, Morales, et. al. onstage, grab it.

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