Added new link

For so long, I’ve been meaning to add the link to Mr. Leslie Bocobo’s blog, especially his blog has a link to mine. And now I’ve done it. One good link deserves another, I always say.

Feel free to wreck our old car

Which is exactly the thought that came to mind when someone else’s car plowed into the right rear door of our 12-year-old Toyota, leaving a dent the size of a small barangay.

Fortunately, no one was hurt.

Save for the financial injuries that would be sustained later by the guilty party, no human, animal, or plant life was harmed by the incident.

Although I did lose sleep. Literally.

After all, the incident took place at six in the morning and I was roused from bed by our excitable landlady who lived two doors away.

According to her, the minute she heard a crash, she was already at our door, knocking relentlessly, with the urgency of someone demanding rent from difficult tenants.

Her persistence paid off.

As soon as I answered the door, I promptly told her that our rent was current and that my wife and I preferred to deal with matters domestic once we were wide awake.

But when she told me what happened, I became as sober as a priest performing extreme unction.

I immediately rushed to the scene, right across the street, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and a cheap, loud shirt that said, “Ask me about homeopathy.”

Upon my arrival, I was accosted by a guy much like myself, only older, more useful to society, and had better taste in clothes.

He pulled on his cigarette as he extended a hand in greeting. I then heard him mutter an apology and say something about how his son caused the whole trouble in the first place.

He pointed to a boy barely in his teens with a weak smile on his face.

Turns out that the boy that morning was given the keys to the family car. And while waiting for the designated driver to bring him to school, he turned on the ignition, fiddled with the wheel, and pretended that he was either Michael Knight or Michael Schumacher.

The boy’s illusions were shattered the moment he crashed his right front fender into our car, which had undergone a general checkup the previous month. (To ensure that it ran like a dream, we had to go through a financial nightmare.) Unwilling to be worked up by the whole situation, I immediately demanded a settlement, one that was in my favor.

Besides telling the father to have the whole door repaired, I demanded that some dings in the car’s exterior should also be fixed and repainted as well, as consolation and payment for our inconvenience.

I knew I was pushing it.

But there is such a thing as good luck.

The father was only too happy to comply with my requests since he happened to run a specialty automotive shop in the area.

Right after we both examined the extent of the damage, I gave him the keys and we began to talk about the difficult art of maintaining an automobile.

It was the beginning of a mutually-beneficial relationship, based on trust and goodwill.

Once the door is fixed, I’ll be asking him to give me an estimate for the car’s paint job.

No harm in requesting a deep discount.

Toilet Training

There are two ways of doing just about anything in this world: You can either do it yourself or you can hire someone else to do it for you.

The same principle applies to fixing toilets: You either get a wrench or call the plumber.

Weaker beings – those afraid of pain, daunted by physical labor, and threatened by sewage – are expected to pursue the latter option, especially when faced with faulty toilets.

This is not unnatural.

After all, the possibility of encountering sewage brings out the worst in humankind. Whether in amounts both big and small, in forms both raw and processed, no one wants to see it, smell it, touch it, let alone find themselves tasting it, accidentally or otherwise.

Which probably explains why the toilet – despite its usefulness – has always been kept out of sight in most buildings and establishments. Very few individuals are comfortable with being reminded of what these facilities represent.

For better or for worse, I consider myself one of them. Thanks to a voracious appetite, a weak stomach, and a superhuman resistance to constipation, I remain awed by a technological marvel that swallows virtually anything that can fit in its receptacle. And as someone who has used restrooms in more than 15 cities around the world, I have become familiar with all sorts of knobs, buttons, and yes, pedals used for flushing toilets.

In Kuala Lumpur, I almost took a shower while testing a handheld bidet that could have been better used as a water cannon against protesters in Mendiola.

Just last year, I nearly fell into Parisian sewers, courtesy of a slippery squat toilet 10 times the size of my ass. And twice in my life, I have been caught using the facilities, so to speak, while the plane I was on was busy making a rough landing at Ninoy Aquino International.

All these experiences, I believe, were sufficient to prepare myself for fixing a faulty toilet on our apartment’s first floor.

The problem seemed simple enough.

All I had to do was to stop water from coming into the tank once it was filled to the brim. However, complex issues came into play. The mechanism, already old and rusted, needed replacement.

To do so required taking the whole thing apart, a plan that involved using tools, many of which were either misplaced or left unreturned by well-meaning friends.

In short, I had to abandon the project altogether and shut off the water flow to the tank.

Now, instead of pushing a handle to flush, you had to turn on the faucet, and wait for facial hair to grow until the pail was full of water.

Not that I actually bother to do that.

There was still a perfectly functioning restroom on the second floor.

While I now have to run up the stairs every time I need to go, huffing and puffing to beat the deadline, I at least have the convenience of a flush toilet. On top of the fact that I need the exercise anyway.

———————

Shown are toilets and urinals, as the case may be, at (from left clockwise) the Malpensa Airport in Milan; the Villa Melzi in Bellagio, Italy; the Il Papiro store in Florence, Italy; the Pearl Continental Hotel in Bhurban, Pakistan; and the Corcoran Museum in Washington, DC. These pictures just go to show you that I’ve got a world-traveled class.

Driving Miss Crazy

Despite occasionally making fools of themselves in public, husbands fulfill various functions which are beneficial and important to society.

Besides carrying unwieldy appliances, moving heavy furniture, and opening tightly-sealed containers, husbands are useful for taking out the trash—dry or wet, plastic or paper—rain or shine, given proper training and motivation.

But of the many duties husbands perform, nothing compares to the task of driving their wives to their destinations, whether for business or pleasure.

As a skill, manipulating a four-wheeled vehicle through the city’s chaotic streets is difficult enough.

However, as an errand, driving your spouse—who is usually running late for an important appointment—requires the patience of a saint, the willpower of a workaholic, and the luck of a lotto winner.

This has been my lot for the past year or so, especially since my wife has refused to take driving lessons.

Although I continue to beat deadlines, I have also become my wife’s part-time driver, bringing her to various functions all across the city as the need arises.

God knows it remains a thankless chore, like washing dishes, fixing the plumbing, and cleaning out the cat’s litter box (all of which I have also managed to do).

But then again, I’m not complaining.

For services rendered, I have been generously paid with regular lip action, the occasional shake in the sheets, and vows of undying love.

Recently however, I have begun to doubt whether I have received just compensation.

Just a few weeks ago, my wife—a US government scholar—was invited to a party thrown by the American Ambassador to the Philippines.

Upon receiving the invitation, she conveniently forgot that she was married—an error which I hoped was accidental. I saw that she had faxed back a form confirming her attendance, which also indicated that she would be driven by someone identified as Robert.

It was an oversight I conveniently ignored, to my great dismay.

As the event drew near, I sent my blazer—the only one I owned—to the cleaners so that I could make a good impression on the diplomats.

After all, drinking free beer while wearing semi-formal attire doesn’t look half as bad as getting drunk with a T-shirt on as you feast on appetizers.

It turns out that I would neither have the occasion to wear the blazer nor drink beer, let alone any cold beverage. Nor would I have the opportunity to rub elbows with consular officials.

On the day of the party, my wife told me that she would go to the event unaccompanied—a euphemism which meant that her bitter half would be left behind.

Despite having resented her decision, the part-time driver brought her to the embassy, finding very little consolation in avoiding reckless bus drivers, wayward traffic enforcers, and posters of Bayani Fernando.

I wore a T-shirt and shorts, thinking if I was going to wait for two hours in the car I might as well be comfortable.

———————

Photo above taken in Boracay during our first visit in 2006. Ms. Crazy never wanted to drive, then and now.

Heart attack

OF the countless risks which can cause heart attacks—alcohol, tobacco,cheeseburgers, and relatives—none can prove more potent, and perhaps even more devastating, than entertainment news.

You got that right: celebrity gossip can kill you, especially if taken in large, unregulated amounts.

Compared to arteries clogged by bad cholesterol, liver damage wrought by beer, and lung cancer brought about by smoking, none can make your ticker go into cardiac arrest faster than a juicy sex scandal involving a starlet.

And if the piece of information includes graphic evidence accessible online, the news—and the vicarious thrills it brings to males such as myself—is likely to cause anyone to kick the bucket.

This explains why like all pleasures in life, I take Chika Minute in moderation. And thrice or so a day at GMA’s 24 Oras seems the perfect dosage.

Unlike regular males of my age (old), income (low), and temperament (grumpy), I remain genetically predisposed to having a heart attack.

Various doctors have warned me that I am at risk for a seizure because my paternal grandfather died of it before he turned forty (which, in hindsight, was good because Delfin Sr. never had to endure an intransigent grandson, let alone contend with a stubborn son).

Despite going to the gym twice weekly and cutting down on my food consumption, I always try to keep excitement at bay.

For instance, before logging onto Philippine Entertainment Portal (http://www.pep.ph) or tuning into GMA Network, I take a deep breath, preparing myself for the best—and the worst—the colorful world of showbusiness has to offer.

If the day’s events are unusually rife with controversy, with accusations and counter-accusations filling the airwaves, I make an effort to hang out at the water dispenser to drink my fill of the soothing liquid.

But sometimes, in the face of great adversity, cold water and deep breaths remain ineffective to combat tension.

Take the showbiz highlight of last Friday.

During the early evening of that day, the Philippines’ leading broadcast network said that it already had signed up Heart Evangelista, allowing her to join the company’s stable of artists.

There I was, beating a deadline for the Philippines’ leading news website—GMANews.TV, what else?—when a picture of Heart Evangelista
flashed on the office’s TV screen and a voice-over announced to one and all that she was a newly-minted member of the Kapuso network.

When I heard this news, I nearly fell off my chair and almost suffered a minor stroke.

Fortunately, the water dispenser was just a few meters away from my desk, enabling me to get a refill of cold water—the calming effects of which I so desperately needed.

For more than five years, I had kept track of Heart’s career, ever since I saw her face in an ad for a cellphone company. And years later, when she did that soap commercial in which she bared more skin than usual, I was smitten. I still am.

Since Ms. Evangelista is a Kapuso like myself, I am now looking forward to seeing her around in the GMA Network Center. And by that time, I hope that I would no longer need a cold glass of water.

———————

Photo taken from Heart Evangelista’s friendster account, discovered through the wonders of Google.

Great—and unmet—expectations

A book review of P. J. O’Rourke on the Wealth of Nations

P. J. O’Rourke reads Adam Smith so you don’t have to.

Or so says the blurb—printed in boldface—on the front inner flap of his latest opus.

Entitled “On The Wealth Of Nations,” the work is the American journalist’s take on Smith’s classic as part of Atlantic Monthly Press’s Books That Changed The World series.

The offer is just too good to be passed up, both for fans and first-time readers of America’s funniest Republican.

Besides allowing readers to experience the dense, wry prose of the famous Scottish economist, On the Wealth of Nations also promises to showcase O’Rourke’s biting wit once more.

Considered as America’s funniest republican, O’Rourke has conjured highly original one-liners while avoiding wayward missiles in Iraq, periodic gunfire in Lebanon, and corrupt policemen in the Philippines (his piece about Edsa I is included in Holidays in Hell, one of his very best books, next to All the Trouble in the World and Give War A Chance).

As Rolling Stone magazine’s foreign affairs desk chief, he was also the most well-traveled conservative commentator, giving his readers something to laugh about every time he submitted dispatches from abroad.

Sad to say, his latest work falls below expectations.

Like his previous two books—The CEO of the Sofa and Peace Kills—On The Wealth Of Nations arguably shows that being something of a television celebrity—through his regular appearances at HBO’s Real Time with Bill Maher—may have blunted his edgy, no-holds barred, take-no-prisoners writing style.

This is not helped by the fact that O’Rourke in On The Wealth of Nations is “all over the place,” according to one discerning Facebook user, noting the author’s awkward attempt to establish a unifying theme to hold the book together.

Instead of dishing out outrageous, racy, and funny diatribes, O’Rourke simply quotes liberally from Smith and then provides weak insight that does not befit someone of his stature.

Originally printed in a shorter and different form in a UK publication, the book also includes an Adam Smith Philosophical Dictionary, as compiled by O’Rourke, his literary nod to Voltaire and Ambrose Bierce whose The Devil’s Dictionary remains cited to this day.

In an entry called “Homeless, an alternative view on the,” he quotes Smith as saying “The beggar who suns himself by the side of the highway, possesses that security which kings are fighting for.”

While the material—900 pages long in two volumes—may have cramped his style, the O’Rourke faithful, myself included, can still take refuge that the work is not totally devoid of humor.

“At my house I see a Made in China label on everything but the kids and the dogs,” O’Rourke says in Chapter 8. “And I’m not sure about the kids. They have brown eyes and small noses.”

Here’s hoping that his next book would prove to be funnier than his British Airways commercial (which, by the way, is available on YouTube.)

——————

Picture of the book is taken from the Cato Institute, whose members include O’ Rourke.

From my notebooks

06 December 2007 en route to Manila from Amsterdam—

Listening to Trinje Oosterhuis’ rendition of Burt Bacharach’s The Look of Love on the console of this KLM flight…Burt Bacharach’s songs really make me feel sentimental despite the kids of varying ages on the plane, some crying, some whining, some fucking stealing chocolates and biscuits, depriving passengers such as myself.

———————

Shown are two shots of my old notebook, opened on the page containing the item I just uploaded. The left pic was taken on my desk while the right one was taken while notebook was on top of my bedside table/drawer. Note the ubiquitous iPod, the—gadzooks—rosary from Rome, and the Lamy fountain pen acquired in Singapore.

New blog at new job

Title above explains it all.

Log in to comment

Apologies to individuals who wish to comment but I’ve been pummeled by spam these past few days so reactions to my blog entries need to be registered with WordPress.Com. Sorry. It’s a tough call, limiting the freedom of speech etc. but that’s the life for someone whose blog gets visited by well…ten people, including myself. Hehe.

Flickr loves me

OR to be more precise, Flickr Pro loves me.
As it should.
I just spent money on the company which runs its website, an amount more than my monthly allotments for beer and books, items which happen to be my top priorities, next to rent, cat food, and pulutan.
In a fit of sentimentality and perhaps, inebriation, I took out my credit card and used it to pay for a one-year upgrade of my account at Flickr.com, the online photo storage and photo sharing website.
Besides entitling me to upload as many photos as I want—free users are limited to only 100 megabytes a month—the upgrade also allows premium members such as myself to put notes on my photos, enabling me to make fun of my friends’ pictures.
It was a privilege I immediately indulged.
After all, it may take awhile before I saw my friends again and crack jokes at their expense.
Just this Thursday, after working at a business newspaper for nearly two and a half years, I closed what would most likely be the last few pages in my career as a newspaperman. (Although archaic, the term, I think, best suits my job description because not only have I closed pages for various sections for the past two years, I have also written and edited newspaper stories, including but not limited to editorials.)
In any case, the decision to leave the paper I worked for was not easy.
Despite the unusual hours, the unimpressive salaries, and the undisguised public contempt for journalists, working for a newspaper had always been—and will always be—my dream job.
Although the profession, like all jobs, came with perfectly legitimate privileges, perhaps the best fringe benefit that I enjoyed for the past two years was meeting, hanging out, and eventually drinking with this fantastic group of people, all employees of BusinessMirror.
Every time I stayed longer than usual at the office, I would get invited to and participate in the many drinking sessions led by a number of people—not identified here for obvious reasons—who welcomed me as if I was their long-lost best friend.
Although I’m moving onto a new media job, I will definitely miss the people at BusinessMirror, both rank and file and managers who have made my stay at the paper more enjoyable than I thought it would be.
Which now brings me to why I paid an arm and a leg—and a few appendages—for my Flickr account upgrade: I just want my friends to access photos of our last times together, inside a mid-end Makati bar, enjoying another night out. I want them to remember the times when we went out, grabbed a beer or two or more, and simply relished the times when we were all together, under one newspaper called BusinessMirror.
Thank you, Rey and Rita Abarquez, Sean Basilio Castro (hope we’re not related), Nonie Reyes, Claudio Basibas, Eric Losloso, Jimbo Albano, Ruben Cruz Jr., Norberto Rea, Angel Fuellas, Roy Domingo, Diosa Panganiban, Mary Louise Francisco, Jesse Edep, Dominic Menor, Maui Daton, Renie Salvador, Dexter Tiratira, Ed and Maricel Davad. Thank you for allowing me to have a good time for the past two years. I am not good at goodbyes but hear this—I am going to miss all of you (or in other words inuman na).

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More pictures of my BusinessMirror despedida can be found here.