Wednesday, April 30, 2008

Turning Japanese





This was lunch today at Omakase, our neighborhood Japanese joint with budget-friendly prices that the children and I simply adore: Barbarian roll (raw salmon, unagi tempura, and takwan strips wrapped in nori and rolled, then sprinkled with arare outside); Dynamite roll (unagi rolled in nori and topped with baby bay scallops and sprinkled with ebiko); tofu furai with tonkatsu sauce. Yummmmm!

I took a Japanese friend over once and she said, "It seems to me that they add too many other things to jazz up the food in order to mask the lack of freshness in the ingredients, just like America. California roll came from the Americans. That was the start..." she then stuffed a whole piece of uni sushi in her mouth.

"Start of what?" I asked. "The Americanization of Japanese food!" she replied. "It's not really Japanese food anymore because our food is all about freshness, simplicity, and purity. Rice, seafood and nori--that's what sushi should be." In my mind, I thought whatevaaah! and promptly buried a slab of jazzed up, mayonnaise drowned, raw fish and rice in my mouth.

I was a bit miffed because, personally, I don't believe in critiquing food while at the table, well into the process of eating. When we eat, we should try to enjoy the food and the company--that's sacred to me. We can critique the meal all we want afterwards, but not during, unless, one is a food critic by profession, then he must earn his keep..

After we parted ways, I thought some more of what she had said. You know what? She was right. Filipino palates are quite jaded. Ours is a sawsawan culture; we douse our food with spice and sauce, be it patis, toyo, calamansi, suka, bagoong, bawang, and siling labuyo. Plus, almost all of our dishes have sugar in it. Why do you think Jollibee is such a hit? It's the sweetness that tickles the Pinoys' palate. Even our white bread is sweet, for heaven's sake. A Lyonnaise chef once said, "Everything in the Philippines tastes like dessert." He may not be far from the truth. Compared to the French, who have very delicate palates and who labor endlessly to get the seasoning of their dishes right on the money, we are the complete opposite. We are Baroque, even gaudy in our taste for food--we want the flavors overwhelming.

But so what? Kare kare without bagoong? Unthinkable! Lumpia without suka and crushed, raw garlic? Pathetic! Pancit without calamansi and toyo? Forget it!

Happy Duck


Guess what? I just got a text from my French examiner, Mademoiselle Nikki, and I passed! All the reading paid! Merci Beaucoup Alliance Francaise for the lessons and the heavenly quiche I crave every single day.
Yey, yey, and triple yey!!! I am a happy duck! Some butt shimmy, a bit of head banging, several grinds of the running man, and a few pats on the back. Well alright, that was just about par for my daily time allotment for giddiness. On to the morbid and the morose--the thesis...

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

BOO--Gotcha!

I had lunch last week with two dear friends who I have known for ages. The conversation veered toward the subject of middle age and its pitfalls. The name of Dr. Christiane Northrup was mentioned. Her second book, The Wisdom of Menopause, apparently has changed the lives of millions of women in the world.

I became curious so I looked it up and decided to buy a copy for myself for advance reading. I'm a girl scout in this sense, although my kids call it something else--paranoia! I like making use of that heads-up advantage to forearm myself against that much-dreaded period in a woman's life--menopause! I also find that not many women like to talk about it because, yes, I've been asking around for useful information and have gotten the cold shoulder if not utter shock at my straightforwardness.

Anyway, I went to Powerbooks and how does one find a needle in a haystack? I headed straight to customer service where a throng of customers was assembled. When it was my turn, the clerk asked, "Ano pong hanap nyo, ma'am?" And I answered, "The Wisdom of Menopause by Dr. Christiane Northrup." Of course, all heads snapped to my direction. Haaay, only in da Pilipins...

People stared. They always do. It's as if they have found that forbidden window into someone's intimate life, like BOO--gotcha! Try buying birth control pills in Mercury, you'll get the same reaction. Worse, what if it's a pregnancy test kit you need? Even if you were legitimately married, there's that uneasiness of being judged, of somebody else thinking: ooops! you mean you actually have sex? I think about all those poor boys who are scared shitless of crawling with their tails between their legs into Mercury to ask for condoms. Considering that they are being safe and careful and doing themselves and their partners a big service, they'll have to endure the embarrassment of procuring the most basic health implement in the world, which in other countries is considered commendable, not shameful. I wonder if things will get better when my son comes of age.

Anyway, here's some literature on Dr. Northrup's book and a link to her website, in case you're interested.

What would your life be like if you learned how to respect your body as though it were a precious creation—as valuable as a beloved friend? What if you no longer lived in fear of germs or cancer? What would happen if you truly trusted your body’s messages?

Noted author and visionary Dr. Christiane Northrup asks us to ponder these questions because she finds that lasting health and wholeness are only possible when we discover and practice behaviors associated with true health and wholeness. Dr. Northrup believes that the time to listen to our body’s wisdom is now!


“Once you engage your own inner wisdom, you can change or improve your habits of thought, your emotions, and your behaviors . . . and create a more positive and joyful life experience right away,” Dr. Northrup says. “This process, when engaged in regularly, heals both your present and your future.”

Dr. Northrup wrote her second New York Times bestseller, The Wisdom of Menopause: Creating Physical and Emotional Health and Healing During the Change (Bantam). In this breakthrough book, she unearths new revelations about menopause, refutes the stereotypic definition as a frenzy of hot flashes and hormonal mood swings, and instead proves that it is a powerful , hormonally supported opportunity to rejuvenate your body, mind, and spirit on all levels. Over 1 million copies of this gutsy work have been translated into 15 languages.


Parlez-vous Francais?

My most dreaded day finally came and, thankfully, went--the day when I had to sit for the French language proficiency exam required for graduate students. What a relief! And no, i didn't perish; I lived to tell. And no, it didn't take five hours as rumored; I finished it in an hour and a half with my dignity in tact. Whew!

The night before, I couldn't sleep because I imagined stacks of Flaubert texts, or maybe Proust, or Hugo, or even Alexandre Dumas, being served up to me cold and raw for translation into English by some strict French grammar police.

And so with barely five hours of sleep, I trudged over to the testing center and what do you know, my examiner was a petite, pretty, and pleasant Filipina professor, who insisted on being called, simply, Nikki. I was allowed to bring in a dictionary--duh! So I was in the woods but not comepletely lost. The latest edition Collin's French-English dictionary served as my compass and lifeline.

I was surprised to be handed over a mere two-page exam sheet and was I was leaping and bounding into the air with joy and gratitude (but of course, I didn't--couldn't!). All those acrobatics were performed in my brain for issues of propriety and poise.

There were three texts that had to be translated: An excerpt for Albert Camus' L'Etranger, a poem called Le Bonheur by Paul Fort, and finally another poem, Dejeuner du Matin by Jacques Prevert. I fell in love with this last poem and I'm posting the text here with my translation. I still don't know whether I passed or not but I stepped out of that room awestruck by this poem.

"Déjeuner du matin"
by Jacques Prévert

Il a mis le café Dans la tasse
Il a mis le lait Dans la tasse de café
Il a mis le sucre Dans le café au lait
Avec la petite cuiller Il a tourné
Il a bu le café au laitEt il a reposé la tasse
Il a allumé Une cigarette
Il a fait des ronds Avec la fumée
Il a mis les cendres Dans le cendrier
Sans me parler Sans me regarder
Il a mis Son chapeau sur sa tête
Il a mis son manteau de pluie
Parce qu'il pleuvait
Et il est parti
Sous la pluie
Sans une parole
Sans me regarder
Et moi j'ai pris
Ma tête dans ma main Et j'ai pleuré.
Translation:
"Having Breakfast"
He put the coffe in the cup
he put the milk in the cup with the coffee
he put the sugar in the coffee with milk
with a teaspoon he mixed it
he drank the coffee with milk and set down the cup
without talking to me.
He lit a cigarette
he blew smoke rings
he put the ashes on the ashtray
without talking to me
without looking at me
He stood up
he put his hat on his head
he put on his raincaot
because it was raining
and then he left
under the rain
without a word
without looking at me
And me, I took
my head in my hand and I cried.
Powerful but in a subtle way; emotion-packed but in a quiet way!

Saturday, April 26, 2008

Birthday Boy











We celebrated Bidi's birthday today with several of his closest friends. They swam, ate, played basketball, ate, swam again, and then ate, yet again. I had a blast watching them have good old fun away from their electronic toys. The highlight of the day was an encore performance of the Haka.

The Haka






The highlight of last night's send off party for Mr. Kay was the performance of the Haka as an ode to his heritage, by around 150 boys and men (the entire student body male population, plus the male teachers, and the maintenance and security staff). They were chanting, stomping, and grimacing, sending shivers down the audience's spine--truly spectacular!


The Haka is a traditional Maori war dance from New Zealand--a kind of war chant and challenge. It is now mostly performed by New Zealand's national rugby team, the All Blacks, in front of the opposing team before every match. The All Blacks version of the haka starts with the chant "Ka mate, ka mate "(It is death, it is death"), it is this haka, called Te Rauparaha's Haka (so named after its perceived traditional origins) that most people, particularly rugby union football fans, know as the Haka.


It is characterised by loud chanting, aggressive flailing of arms and stomping of feet, fierce looks and, in the end, an angry sticking out tongues. The All Blacks' version is said to have come from Te Rauparaha (1768-1849), chief of the Ngati Toa tribe and one of New Zealand's last great warrior chiefs. Te Rauparaha cut a swathe from the Waikato to the South Island where his followers killed both European settlers and southern Maori.


His haka is said to have actually originated during a time Te Rauparaha was fleeing from his enemies,. He hid in a sweet potato field one night and by morning awoke to be told by a hairy chief that his enemies had gone. He then performed his victorious haka. "Ka mate, ka mate"


The words of Te Rauparaha's haka (1810) used by the All Blacks:


Ka mate, ka mate

Ka ora, ka ora

Tenei te tangata puhuruhuru

Nana i tiki mai

whakawhiti te ra

Upane, upane

Upane kaupane

Whiti te ra.


These words are translated as:


It is death, it is death

It is life, it is life

This is the hairy man

Who caused the sun to shine again for me

Up the ladder, up the ladder Up to the top

The sun shines.


Please click on this You Tube link to experience the real Haka by the All Blacks. Pretty intimidating! If I were the opponent, I would hightail it home faster than you can say, "Haka."


Farewell, Mr. Kay



A great educator and a good man, Mr. Kay, who knows each and every one of the 320 students by name, leaves us after six years of taking excellent care of our children at school. Last night's send-off , a barrio fiesta themed party, elicited an outpouring of love and gratitude. Almost everyone was in tears: from the little children to the teachers, and the parents, including the maintenance and security staff, who are all losing a father figure--a most gentle, compassionate, and nurturing individual. He was a gift to our children and he shall be missed!


A few weeks ago, Pippi came up to me to say that a new headmaster had been chosen to replace Mr. Kay and she asked, "Mama, you think he'll love us as much as Mr. Kay loves us?" I posed the same question to her, "Why, you think Mr. Kay loves you?" She answered ever so confidently, "No, I don't think it; I know it." Imagine: to be completely assured of someone's affection and bask in it--this is his legacy to the children.

Thursday, April 24, 2008

Monsieur Batignole


At French class today, we watched an award-winning French film called Monsieur Batignole. It was about a French butcher, who, during World War II, found himself in the aide of Jewish children seeking sanctuary from German persecution.


It had subtitles, otherwise I wouldn't have made heads nor tails of it. Spoken French sounds nothing like the slooooow French we learn in class; in real life, well, in this case the movies, spoken French sounds like rapid fire from full auto high-powered weapons of mass destruction.


It was a wonderful movie: heart-warming and funny. But what struck me most was the politics of the husband-wife relationship of Mr. and Mrs. Batignole. The movie was a window into the dynamics of French family life--at once educational and amusing.

Quiche Me Quick



Just when I thought I was done with school, here I am again, sequestered in one of the Alliance Francaise classrooms, with pen to paper, and nose to board, grappling with my French. See, I didn't know I had to pass a language proficiency exam in order to earn my Master of Arts diploma. Too late to back out now; I've done the time, I might as well take this much-feared French manuscript translation, five-hour exam and be done with it. I don't even want to think of whether I pass or not. Let's save that for later, if I even survive the test proper.


So on Monday and Friday mornings for three hours each time, I sit in this classroom to parle, lire, et ecrire en Francais. Most of the time, the lessons zoom past my head, completely missing my brain so I just sit there, smile and pretend that I understand. I let time tick on faster by thinking of the heavenly spinach quiche that the Alliance Francaise cafe serves daily.


Let me tell you, this is the best quiche I've tried in Manila. I have this favorite cafe on the left bank at the Rue Des Ecoles, called Brasserie Balzar, where the quiche is to die for. Brasserie Balzar dates back to 1897, when chef patron Amedee Balzar opened its doors. It catered to a small yet select group of artists and literary personalities. It was only in 1990 that it became popular with the general population because immediately after Czech leader and Nobel Prize winner Vaclav Havel won the election, he visited Paris and requested Brasserie Balzar to be his first stop. The patrons of Balzar gave the teary-eyed Czech leader a standing ovation.


The Alliance Francaise cafe serves spinach, mushroom, or ham and cheese quiche. Please try it with a side of green salad and a glass of white wine. I promise, you won't regret it.



Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Strange Bedfellows



Mouse and Fifi completely at peace with the world. If only life could be so...

The Infinite Wisdom of Dr. Seuss




We are a generation raised on Dr. Seuss books and I don't think anybody truly outgrows them. The very distinctly twisted rationale, the rhyming verse, the offbeat sense of humor, the absurdity, the fantasy, and the unforgettable illustrations are testament to the author's genius.




My sister and one true friend, who lives abroad, sent me this and I thought of sharing it with you.

Real Pain

Maverick has left the country!

Entertaining with Ease






Is there such a thing as entertaining with ease? I used to think so. Back in the day, when I had as much enthusiasm as Rachel Ray on double doses of Prozac and as much energy as Carson Kressley on speed, I orchestrated parties and did everything from scratch. I made my own puff pastry, whipped up my own mayo, hand-kneaded my own dough for fresh pasta and shaped them with a hand-cranked machine. I made my own sorbet to serve between courses and baked elaborate layer cakes with piped borders. I fashioned my own table centerpieces with flowers from the Dangwa, fruits from Farmers, dried beans from grain sheds, or random leaves picked by the roadside. Yes, I was a martyr then.


I did enjoy it all, in spite of the fatigue that typically set in right about the time guests started filing in and I would be just stepping out of the shower, scrambling downstairs with only one earring on, and with the other shoe unfastened, still.


That was all good but Cruella de Ville, who was always present, never failed to unleash her satanic verses for all to hear. "Your roast is burnt and it's your fault; so and so makes paella better than you; you spend too much on decor; your cooking is always salty; you should keep in mind your guests' health..." And so one day, I just stopped.


Today, I entertain only when I absolutely must, and only when I am certain that Cruella won't show up. I mostly order in for food and enlist the help of a good florist. My best friend, MK, introduced me to Vanni, a florist par excellence who charges very reasonable fees--you'll be surprised. He makes me wonder if he's only in it because of his devotion to the art and the therapeutic benefits of arranging, or if indeed, there is money to be made. That's how little he asks for.


I have compiled a list of suppliers for uber Delicious party dishes; their's and Vanni's are the numbers that are on my speed dial. Along with the modern woman's hairdresser, manicurist, waxer, and dermatologist, these are the numbers that are worth their weight in gold. Like they say, "It takes a village"...to keep a middle-aged woman sane!


Last night's poetry reading party at MK's was a showcase of Vanni's genius and Bizu's outstanding cuisine.


Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Poetry Night






Last night, a group of a dozen or so women--yes, writers; but non-poets--gathered together for an evening of poetry reading. It all started as a hang-over, if you will, from a very moving poetry reading session by full-fledged poets at the Alliance Francaise. Heavily inspired, the same women who were at that Alliance soiree decided to stage one of their own, presided by one of Manila's most-awarded poets, Mr. Rayvi Sunico, himself.

The setting was the chinoise moderne house of one of our writers, MK, who is ever the gracious hostess, and who has elevated entertaining to an art; the delicious pica-pica buffet was set up by Bizu; and the floral arrangements were by our beloved Vanni. Of course, the artistic proceedings were fueled by good wine and a very potent home-made margarita granita--there's never a party without these elements, after all.

But the main character of that evening was the art of the written word. Poems by famous wordsmiths--from as early as the 9th century A.D. Japanese poets, to Ogden Nash, to Rainer Maria Rilke, to Maya Angelou, and to our very own Rayvi Sunico--blew everyone away. The power of such carefully crafted lines--sparing in words but bursting with images--deliver the insight straight into the soul of the listener.

I never really cared much for poetry, simply because I am ill-equipped to understand it. It seems to me--a collection of several images manipulated to produce the desired insight--such an intellectually sophisticated art form. But when I sit and clear my mind and really listen to a poem spoken with passion, I find that it moves me, taking me places inside myself I might have reached before but never really noticed.

Men Know All About Women's Fashion--Not!

I don’t know of any woman who would willingly surrender the task of choosing an outfit for a special occasion to a man, unless he were Mr. Armani or some other notable fashion designer with impeccable taste. Conversely, I doubt that any man, who is in the market for an automobile, would pass on the burden of such a choice to a woman. There exist no elaborate explanations for this phenomenon, no multi-faceted theorem, no scholarly philosophy; it simply is that—some things we don’t entrust to the opposite sex, period.

I was shopping at H and M in Hong Kong at the onset of spring and the spring line they had just debuted that week was a burst of sorbet colors: lime green, mango yellow, cantaloupe, cherry, and mandarin orange—so festive and enticing that I instantly got swept away in the spring shopping fever. Since shopping is an Olympic sport for us, women, I focused on the task at hand.
I was holding out a reasonably-priced, bright yellow, fitted cotton top, which had sent my pulse rate several beats higher at first sight (this is how women know an article of clothing is meant for us—we feel it, much like serendipity) and I was sizing it up as to whether it would fit me. Out of nowhere I heard a man’s voice say, “That’s way too small for you and the color, oh, not good with your skin.” Several female heads—those of shoppers who understood English, presumably—snapped to his direction, clearly in shock of his pronouncement.

Here’s the thing; when a man says something like that to a woman, he should expect to be decapitated with a blunt-edged sickle. He might as well have said, “Hey lady, you are obese.” So naturally, I took offense, thinking him presumptuous, brash, and uncouth. I probably should have kept my peace and walked away, but I, a mid-lifer performing an Olympic sport, who happened to have skipped breakfast, so the raging hormones, the empty stomach, and the rudely-interrupted shopping spree, was not at all inclined to let him off easily. I turned to him and asked to make sure, “Me? You’re talking to me?” He, a complete stranger, said, “Yes, you,” and unabashedly repeated while pointing to the shirt, “Tsk, tsk, too small—tooooo small.”
That was his death sentence! I closed in on him and took in his nerdy outfit of corduroy trousers and a random tee under a lumberjack plaid shirt—clearly some techie on a day off. In a sweet, sing-song tone but spewed from within a tense jaw and clenched teeth, I asked, “And who might you be? Tom Ford, Karl Lagerfeld, or Yohji Yamamoto, perhaps?” Of course, the sarcasm was lost on him because he simply answered with a clueless, “Huh?” To which I replied, “I didn’t think so,” and promptly walked away. The nerve!

Really, a man should never say to an ageing woman, who has yet to make peace with middle age spread, anything that might allude to her weight or to her fashion sense, unless he has a death wish.

I was still seething when I went to the fitting room. I then squeezed myself into the yellow shirt, the very object of that entire hullabaloo, which if I might add, was perfect with my skin color albeit a little too snug. But I wasn’t going to let him get away with assault on a middle-aged woman’s ego, which to my mind is punishable with stoning, so I wore that shirt out of the dressing room—tags and all—and searched for the smart aleck; let’s call him Mr. Rud Lee. I him found right where he originally was, still browsing in the very same rack of tops. Thankfully, there was a sales lady close by with whom I could make my point, so I said to her in a forceful voice, while parading in front of Mr. Rude Lee, “It fits perfectly, don’t you think?” She surely couldn’t have said anything to sabotage a sale so she agreed, if reluctantly. With arms on the waist, I faced him squarely and said, “SEE!”

The top now still hangs in my closet—tags and all—awaiting the shedding of a couple of pounds for that perfect fit that it deserves. But then, he’s not supposed to know that!

Another time, in a faraway land and a forgotten era, I greeted my New Year’s dinner date at the door wearing hot pants—which reads: really short pants in my generation for all you, youngsters—but paired with black cashmere tights (it was winter) as an attempt at decency and to camouflage the jiggles—he wasn’t supposed to know that! He took a step back the instant he saw me and I attributed the supposedly flattering reaction to the 10 extra minutes of primping I threw in for that special night. But then he said in a pseudo-mocking tone, “Wow, I can’t decide whether you wanna be Robin Hood or one of the Shoemaker’s elves in that get-up.”

I saw red! First of all, because he had the gall to diss my outfit when he, himself, was wearing a Christmas sweater with Rudolph and his red nose embroidered on the front! And second, because he used the word “get-up” which sounded too centennial an expression to even be funny. I felt like slamming the door on his face. But of course not, he was a clone of the young Steven Bauer when he appeared as Manolo on Scarface. What woman in her right mind would bail on him? He never called back though—dang those hot pants!

Last year, my 17-year-old nephew took his girlfriend to prom. She took pains in choosing the “right” dress for the occasion and after much deliberation, ended up with a wispy, periwinkle blue, chiffon, body-scheming, long dress by Max Azria. It was perfect for her as I saw photos and a video of them after the event. Every part of her glowed that night; she seemed to float on clouds as she walked, the dress swishing around her.

As a little social experiment, I asked my nephew, “What did your girlfriend wear to prom again? I don’t quite recall.” His answer was, “Oh, some kind of blue thing.” “That’s it?” I wasn’t quite satisfied so I needled him. “Describe it.” He then proceeded to describe it after several “ums…” “Well, it was blue, kind of like my bed sheet, you know, if like, you wrap it around yourself like I did when I was young. It was all the way down to the floor, and then it had no sleeves.” I wanted to whack him on the head with a throw pillow.

Remember Robert Redford’s character in Indecent Proposal when he had that now-famous, little black dress delivered to Demi Moore’s hotel suite? It looked like it was made especially for her when she wore it, right? Well, let’s not forget that she was the one who chose it; he saw her trying it on at the hotel shop. What about Mikhail Barishnikov as Petrovsky in Sex and the City, didn’t he buy that gorgeous Oscar de la Renta dress for Sarah Jessica Parker’s Carrie character? Again, she chose it! She had earlier showed him a photo of that dress saying that the dress IS poetry to her. What about Richard Gere giving all those outfits to Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman? All the credit for those exceptional clothing choices goes to the shop’s stylist who assisted her in shopping.

It is truly romantic, gallant, and heartwarming when a man surprises a woman with a dress or some other fashion item like shoes or handbags—a personal show of affection—whether or not he has excellent fashion sense. Also, it doesn’t follow that if he has good taste in men’s clothes he will be similarly tasteful in women’s’ fashion, which is an altogether different thing—much like nuclear disarmament: fickle and illogical.

Generous gestures from men bearing fashion items of their own picking are endearing, no doubt. But my guess is, if the item is not to the taste of the female recipient, she won’t give two shakes about doing a Jennifer Aniston as Rachel in Friends and exchanging it for a something else she really likes. There have been many horror stories about what popped out of men’s gift boxes for women, some even having grown into urban legends. There was that floral, shapeless muumuu that a friend got as pasalubong from his boyfriend who vacationed in Hawaii. There was that puke-green sequined, spaghetti strapped, body-hugging, micro mini that a cousin received from her fiancée, which she couldn’t be paid to wear—not even for a costume party. There was that somber graphite-gray, long-sleeved, high-necked, dress that another friend who loved figure-baring clothes got from her husband who was so proud to present her with her very first Armani black label dress. Her reaction was, “Who died?” The best thing for men to do in their gift-giving endeavors is to enlist the help of a sister, or a female friend.

Men and women must come to a truce if we must share the space and the air in this world. We will leave you, men, to your cars if you leave us to our fashion, thank you very much.

Saturday, April 19, 2008

A Triumph for Maverick







I had an earlier post on what was then Maverick's upcoming exhibit, Scandalosa. And it read: "Watch out for the art exhibit, Scandalosa, on Saturday, April 19, 2008 at Cafe SaGuijo on Guijo St., San Antonio Village, Makati.

Three female twenty-something artists decided to get together and lend a voice to their very own Millennial Generation (those born between 1980 and 2000). This privileged, gifted, and creative, yet at times confused and tragic generation has grown up amidst the money and luxury afforded by their dotcom billionaire environment, the chaos of the internet, globalization, the proliferation of mind-altering substances, the general acceptability of boozing, drugging and alternative styles of partying, and the brazen expression and brave exploration of their sexuality.

Although many millennial babies have made it very big in this world because of the options that weren't available to baby boomers and yuppies, there are sad stories to be told. The abundance of choices that confront them, the permissiveness of their society, the absence of old-school restraints have sent many spiralling into self-destruction.

These are the collateral damages of such a lifestyle; many, too painful to chronicle. All we have to do is look at Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan, Nicole Richie, Kirsten Dunst, Amy Winehouse, and Paris Hilton, plus in our very own backyard, the now infamous Gucci Gang.

These three artists: Tara Almario, showcasing Lomography (or Low Photography, an avant garde concept of photography using low lights and slow motion techniques); Francesca Ayala, showcasing abstract and realist paintings; and Kate Santos showcasing art installations of found objects; aim to show that amidst the plenty and the privilege their generation enjoys there must exist measures of accountability and responsibility; the defining theme of their work being

"You are only as good as what you did last night."

I am happy to report that it was, indeed, a run-away success. I guess Maverick's in-your-face paintings on drunkenness, drugging, bulimia, self-harm, and experimental sex; Tara's photography on dissimulated scenes of hard partying; and Kate's Bisyo Buffet of white washed tables showcasing mind-altering substances and party paraphernalia, resonated with the twenty-somethings who flocked to Saguijo last night.

I had a lot of misgivings when Maverick broached the idea and theme of the project, which multiplied exponentially when I had first glimpsed her paintings. Amoral and disturbing were the words I used to describe them to which she replied, "Exactly, I want the shock value. These issues shouldn't be swept under the carpet anymore." She was right and from last night's show of hands, many others probably think so too. She sold half of her paintings at opening night.

The exhibit is ongoing. Please drop in.

Garage Sale





This is what the garage looks like right now. All this clutter had been sitting inside our closets, untouched, for some years because I was occupied with other things (too lazy to bother with them). Imagine functioning amid all the baggage and the chaos. This is one of those "much too much" syndromes.

When we put them all out this morning I wondered how in heaven's name we were able to accumulate so much discards? Then the following thoughts raced through my mind: how much clothes can one justify in owning? How many pairs of shoes is a fair number to purchase? How many handbags, accessories, and toys will it take to make each of us happy?

Maverick says that beautiful clothing is art--worn art, and is, in fact, an investment. But then she also said that the children in Africa she had interacted with on two separate visits begged for the shirts off their backs because they had nothing, zero, in the way of clothing.

We unloaded them today and as I watched the buyers browse through Maverick's prom dresses, Kitty's football and basketball jerseys, the younger children's tiny clothes, I was flooded with memories that each article of clothing and footwear brought on. They tug at the heart but I convinced myself that memories live in the mind not in things. And so I let them go.

Friday, April 18, 2008

The Perfect Lunch


This is my idea of a perfect lunch: salad and a glass of chilled, dry, white wine. This was served by Cafe Caruso on Nicanor Garcia St., Makati: Insalata Mista and a glass of Pinot Grigio--perfect on a hot summer's day.

Durian Heaven




I am in durian heaven! My nephew from Davao, Uno, is visiting and had brought me a whole tub of durian. I am a happy duck! Everyone else in the family hates it because of what they claim is its offensive smell so I'm only allowed to eat it on the terrace, outside the house, in open air, so as not to contaminate their air indoors. Last night I was relegated to the terrace, alone with my tub of durian and the only thing on my mind as I gobbled it up was, "Yippee!" I don't have to share it with anyone.




Thursday, April 17, 2008

A Day at the American Embassy

I was dreading the the day I would have to return to the American Embassy to renew the Visa of one of the children. After the ordeal of renewing their passports at the Department of Foreign Affairs last February, you couldn't pay me to go anywhere near government offices or embassies--places that required queueing up for extended periods of time.

I lined up with my 12-year-old daughter at the DFA for seven hours, yes, seven, and not even under a roofed structure but out on the street under punishing heat. After four hours, we were finally let into the basketball court so we at least had a shade over our heads. Three more hours of snaking lines followed, which made it a total of seven hours with no breaks and no food (8 am to 3 pm). Quite pathetic!

When we discovered that my six-year old's U.S. visa had expired, I was inclined to cancel vacation plans just to avoid having to go through a similar experience at the American Embassy.

We all have been going to the Embassy and bringing home horror stories of varying intensities. But it was a pleasant surprise to have found it in its most orderly state in the years that I have been going there. All the guards were courteous, which was shocking in this land of power-tripping village guards. The lines were maintained as neat single files. There were no shout-outs and no irate personnel. There was a manageable number of applicants and enough powerful electric fans and benches to provide comfort to all. Rules and procedures were comprehensible and clear. And the embassy people happily provided assistance! It was the shortest time I had ever spent in there--just under two hours. Imagine that!

I know it wouldn't be very nice for me to say that the American Embassy has finally gotten its act together under Ambassador Kristie Kenney because it takes a woman to enforce good housekeeping. But I will anyway!

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

So Your Son Is Gay; So What?

I promised myself when I started this column that I would never touch on anything controversial; life itself is already too chaotic, so why even go there? No politics, no religion—never! And I’ve been quite successful in keeping within the boundaries of what I’m willing to write, if I may say so. Until now, that is, as I am compelled to talk about the “gay” issue. If an early piece on Bermuda shorts exposing the unsightliness of men’s knees brought me death threats, then I expect this to bring on a barrage of rotten tomatoes hurled my way.

We all claim that we are not homophobic, that we love gay people, that our society is not just tolerant of them but even nurturing. We sing them praises for their creativity and genius in their chosen fields, namely the arts—visual, applied, performed. We celebrate their artistic sensibility and their cutting-edge taste, which has brought universal acclaim to our humble country from the architecture, fashion, make-up, cinema, music, theater, painting, photography, etc., industries of the world. We embrace all that these people are for as long as they remain in the neat little boxes we have carved for them and as long as they don’t venture out of these well-defined roles, we feel safe and sleep well at night.

But everything changes the moment the issue of gayness is brought into our homes, when one of our very own children turn out gay. When this phenomenon enters our doorstep we, of the predominantly Catholic faith, turn quiet. We speak in hushed tones and lock our front doors in shame, hoping that nobody else notices, hoping that if we pretend it doesn’t exist, the issue would go away in time. Or worse, the supposed heads of our families—husbands and fathers—alienate these sons who agonize over this personal dilemma and barely manage to cough up the courage to come out, and punish them for deviant behavior in the most painful ways: emotional rejection, physical battery, withholding of financial support, ejection from the home, and disinheritance. Most of the time fathers with gay sons simply pretend otherwise, opting not speak about it openly and turning a blind eye and a deaf ear to their sons’ lives as a coping mechanism, so that they may endure what may otherwise be an extremely painful realization.

Having a son turn out gay is devastating; perhaps even more painful for a father because many say homosexuality hurts the same-sex parent more. They say it feels like some sort of betrayal. But there are the compassionate few—fathers who subjugate themselves to the wellbeing of their gay sons and do their best to accept all that they are—but they are the exceptions, and to my mind, truly heroes.

A friend of mine, a 50-year-old father had suspected his son of being gay from a very young age. So he tried hard to initiate him into the manliest of activities in an effort to thwart what he eventually was to become—a full fledged homosexual. At two years old he bought him robots and remote control (RC) toys, monster trucks, and real-looking assault weapons. The little boy pretended to like them; he didn’t want to hurt his father’s feelings because he saw the older man’s enthusiasm as he presented the items. But the moment he turned his back, the little boy threw them all under his bed and stole a Barbie doll from his sister’s room and played with it all day. My friend sent the son to karate and judo lessons when he got older but his classmates complained to the instructors that he kept trying to apply make-up and nail polish on them during breaks. When he reached adulthood he tried to set his son up with his friends’ daughters but the son ended up giving them make-overs. Finally, the son decided to out himself, preparing for a dramatic melt down from the father. Instead, what he heard from him was, “Well, I can now rest, that was all quite tiring, turning you into a man.” They remain good friends and although the son has moved abroad where he lives the life of a happy and successful hairdresser, he comes home once a year for Christmas and to cut his father’s hair.

What makes a man gay? There have been dozens of theories attempting to scientifically explain the root of homosexuality. Freud claims that the union of a distant father and an over-protective mother always produces a gay son, there is also the nature versus nurture theory, there is the theory on genetics, and countless others.

But I like to use this widely-used metaphor about homosexuality being like a cough—one cough sounds a lot like any other, but the causes my be many and varied. One might cough because he is in a dusty room, or because he has a cold, or because he has tuberculosis, or perhaps just because he wants to catch someone’s attention. It is definitely not a disease, but a symptom of something else.

A gentleman who wishes only to be identified as GTR says, “All homosexual activity may look the same on the surface, but the root causes differ wildly. Some men prefer other men because their sexual identity was screwed up by some trauma in their childhood. Some men become gay because they’re locked away with no female company and their sex drive overwhelms their natural inclinations. Some men take to other men to assert their power and dominance over them. And some men seek out other men because they are perverts who will do anything to get a new kick. None of these men are really homosexuals in the pure sense."

And then, GTR claims, there are men like him, who are sexually attracted to other men for reasons that aren’t really understood and don’t fit any of the categories above. He says that the only theory that seems to mesh with his own experience is the theory that a man is made gay in utero, possibly by his mother’s body rejecting the alien rush of testosterone being pumped into the embryo. As a result, a part of the male fetus’ brain that controls sexual attraction remains in a default female state, while all around it, other parts of the brain and body develop normally as male.

Males and females have a fundamental genetic difference—females have two X chromosomes, and males have an X and a Y. Still, after conception, it’s hard to tell male and female zygotes apart, except for that unseen chromosomal difference. Normally, the changes take shape at a key point in fetal development, when the brain is masculinized by sex hormones. The female brain is the default. The brain will stay on the female path as long as it is protected from exposure to hormones.

Dr. William Reiner, a psychiatrist and urologist with the University of Oklahoma, has evaluated a hundred of these cases. This “hormonal theory of homosexuality” holds that, just as exposure to circulating sex hormones determines whether a fetus will be male or female, such exposure must also influence sexual orientation. In other words, absence of male hormone exposure while in the mother’s womb may have something to do with attraction to males. Dr. Reiner’s findings represent a major breakthrough because it shows that whatever causes sexual orientation is strongly influenced by prenatal biology.

This alone should save parents of gay men a lot of stress and pain that comes with the blame game. Often, husbands and wives whose sons turn out gay waste a lot of time pointing the finger at each other, a phenomenon so human yet so self-defeating and useless. When tragedy strikes us, whether perceived or actual, we like to blame someone else in order to make sense of it. But this shows us clearly that there is no homosexuality gene that is passed on to the child from either the mother’s or the father’s side of the family. It also negates popular thinking that if you surround a boy with girlie things he will turn out gay. It is simply a biological phenomenon within a mother’s womb that absolutely no one has control over, least of all the son, himself, who turns out gay even before he is born into the world.

GTR says that this basic flaw in the architecture of the brain has a cascading effect throughout the whole structure of the brain itself and the psychology that grows from it. The brain struggles to accommodate the conflicting drives, trying to reconcile within itself a male identity and a contradictory male sexual attraction.

GTR continues by saying that, “Gay men are screwed up because they are screwed up. At the very core of their identity there is a basic contradiction, and although the brain finds ingenious ways to live with it, it’s always there, and we are incapable of finding a sense of ‘rightness’ in ourselves because of it. I’m yet to meet a gay man with a calm, sane, sensible relationship with himself. Society can endorse male homosexuality all it wants, but gay men will always have to live with, and be tortured by this deep, intrinsic sense of wrongness.”

Gay men will have to endure a conflicted life, marginalization, and never-ending challenges—all difficult, all painful. Shouldn’t we then, as parents, even if we don’t understand or condone their behavior and the world they move in, simply love them unconditionally? Shouldn’t we just say that how they develop sexually is only one part of who they are and that we are there for them regardless of how everything turns out? Couldn’t we just do that?

Writing Class

I have been attending a private writing class outside of the graduate studies program for the past five years. It is a small group of friends with varied personalities and persuasions--all fine writers--who have been brought together by this common passion.

I just came home from one of our bi-monthly sessions today and I feel like I have been beaten to a pulp--brought down to size by our writing teacher. I submitted a piece to be workshopped by the group about a delicate subject: a recent occurrence (a year and a half ago)that had impacted my life in serious way. Our teacher, also a good friend, is a world-class writer whom I highly respect. And so her reading of my piece is heavily weighted. She tore it to shreds: over-written, emotional, lengthy, were some of the words she used.

It was painful and crushing to the ego, but what twisted the dagger was the fact that this very same piece had been earlier submitted for workshop in a legimitate class in U.P. under an exceptional writer and professor, also a multi-Palanca awardee and had been extensively revised. I remember vividly what he said to the whole class two semesters ago when I submitted the final draft, "This is a gift. Coming up with a piece like this is what writing is all about." He gave me a 1.0 for it. That professor is now on a Fulbright Fellowship (study grant) abroad so there is no way I can come to him licking my wounds. I would love to visit with him and ask for advice on how to revise this same piece to this other writing teacher's liking.

From the very beginning this other teacher has been like a strict parent, who is impossible to please. In fact, of the 12 or so classes that I had taken in the graduate program, 4 of them were under her and she has never gave me a 1.0--the highest possible mark. In all the other 8 classes under 5 different professors I got straight 1.0's.

Still, I have only respect and affection for her because she has earned every right to be that way--she is brilliant. This time though, I know that if I change my piece I would be doing it a disservice. She is right, it is emotion-driven, but that is precisely the point! The structure of the piece is an internal monologue, of course it is going to be long-winded and circuitous--it's the path to the epiphany! If you were confused and conflicted about something, would you think logically in a straight line? The piece was made to approximate the workings of a confused mind. But I didn't argue my point; didn't want to appear smug. I didn't even consider telling her what my professor had said about the piece because not only will it undermine her authority; it is downright rude.

This is what it's all about, I guess, having to be brought back down to earth when you start levitating because of self-importance. What to do?

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Witchkins Cookbook Launch





Pippi and I attended the cookbook launch and cooking demo of her cooking instructor, Mel Martinez-Francisco. The title of her children's cookbook is Witchkins, beautifully illustrated and glossy-paged with easy-to-follow and deliriously delicious recipes.
Pippi has been inspired by Mel's classes. This early, I can tell that she has the knack for it. I took up intensive cooking classes for 6 months, thirteen years ago, and my Cordon Blue Chef instructor said that you can tell by a cook's hands whether he is gifted or not: cool, steady hands mean that one has culinary prowess; sweaty, clammy hands make a bad chef. Pippi is definitely sure-handed--every move, deliberate and precise! And her taste buds, boy, are they spot on! She makes the best carbonara; I swear to you! Cooking has become our "special time" since she started classes with Mel. A mere half hour of just the two of us sequestered in the kitchen brings her so much joy.

Witchkins is something you definitely want to pick up for your child or as a present to other budding, pint-sized chefs.
You might want to catch Mel Martinez-Francisco's next scheduled cookbook launch and cooking demo on Sunday, April 27 at 3 pm, at Fully Booked in Serendra, The Fort. It is a wonderful mother-daughter activity.