Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

I played at a different venue this morning.  I was so desperate in finding a tennis court closer to home that I trolled the internet for tips.  Good thing I came across a tennis forum for pinoy enthusiasts.  The folks there were very helpful and they pointed me to a court that’s only a few minutes away from where I live.  I was hoping that they would give me a contact person who can meet me there and hold my hand while he introduces me to everyone, but I guess it’s too much to ask.

What I did however was get a cab after work and asked the driver to take me to that tennis court.  The driver didn’t know the place but I persuaded him to just go to the vicinity and we’d just ask people around that area.  The tennis court was a familiar place to the locals so I didn’t have to torture somebody to point me in the right direction when I got there.  I paid the cab and courageously strolled towards the tennis court.

There’s a short walk from the main street before you can actually enter the tennis courts (there were two courts).  I was slightly turned off because the walkway smelled of human feces.  But that didn’t deter me.  If the road to hell is paved with gold then surely this shit-smelling place should be a far cry from that place that promised hell-fire and brimstone.

The courts, when I got there, weren’t exactly to die for.  But hey, there’s a level surface, a workable net, some signs of chalk (for the lines), and that’s all there is to it.  The second court still showed the evidence of last nights rain but it’s alright.

I went to what resembled an office and asked the lady looking at me if there’s a trainer in the house that I can rent.  I had to show my pearly whites and act real friendly for fear that I’d be charged an arm and a leg.  The lady was real kind and called the attention of the house trainer (turns out the trained is her husband).  We agreed on the price and I asked him if we can play today.  He said it should be fine believing that nobody in their right mind would still want to play at 11 in the morning with the sun flexing its muscles.

I hurriedly went home, grabbed a few mouthfuls of food, got dressed and went back to the court.  It was nearing eleven and the sun was really making its presence felt.  But one should never count the resolve of tennis players to take advantage of the fair weather even if it meant getting baked in return. I was carrying my bag, wearing my short shorts (well if you compare it to ankle touching things that pass for shorts nowadays), anticipating a nice rally and there’s no court to be had.

The look the trainer gave me was apologetic.  And can you believe this guy?  He was playing as well!  But eventually each one of the regulars got exhausted and it’s finally my turn on the court.  It was a short one hour and the trainer made mincemeat of my game.  Gah.  If I were some junk metal, nobody would buy me with all the rust that my game showed. I was panting when we stopped after an hour, but I was happy.

oOo

One Step Closer To The Grave

After the game, I sat on a monobloc chair trying to catch my breath when the regular players who’ve switched to tong-its and started drinking called the trainer and demanded that I sit with them.  I was too polite to refuse.  One of the guys asked what I would be drinking and I suggested beer.

They were a bunch of merry old men.  Retirees I think.  Turns out they meet there every other day plus weekends.  Being the youngest in the group I had to do all that ‘po’ and ‘opo’.  I just hoped they weren’t offended.

It’s a cool thing listening to this retirees bantering with each other and I couldn’t help but think how my retirement would turn out once I get to be their age.  They clearly had affection for each other.  One said that the problem with one of their friend is that the guy always wanted him to be first in something so that when he’s given a discount (as he usually is for some reason), the friend gets to have the same discount too.

“Putangina kahit yata sa kamatayan pauunahin ako ng hayop na to para meron din siyang discount sa punerarya.”

That drew a lot of laughter.  Another guy when given his glass of scotch pushed it away jokingly and said

“Kunin nyo to! Hindi ako nakikpag-inuman sa mga mahihirap.”

More laughter ensued.  When all the laughter died down, out of the blue, one of the more mischievous looking guy said

“Maswerte nga ako eh.  Seventy two na ako pero andito pa din, nagte-tennis.”

It’s a beautiful thing to see old people so happy.  And it made me think of my Dad.

Last week my Dad was operated on.  Scared the shit out of me but I knew with his bullheadedness he’d most definitely pull through.  And he did.  Though his home now, I wish he’d have a group like this to share smokes and whiskey with.  Although he has his mahjong buddies, I wish he’d have more.  I think one could never have too many friends.

Don’t you?

If corn stories are to be believed, every man is born with a gaping hole. And according to legend, for every gaping hole there is somebody else, a woman (sometimes a man), who has the the perfect plug to fill that hole. Some would spend their whole lives looking for that perfect plug. Some would find it, some wouldn’t. The irony here is that some of those who were able to find their perfect plug don’t have any idea what to do with it. Or if they do, the plug won’t have anything to do with them. It’s actually pretty funny if you think of it in an Ice Age-y kind of way. Remember that crazy squirrel and his nut? Until it happens to you. The funniest joke ceases to be fun when you become the punchline.

It’s scenes like this however when points for conjecture can run rampant.  It’s not important where they’re from or what their real names are.  The more saucy question is, what the hell are they doing in that saccharine position at such an hour?  I would hazard a guess and say that the girl works for one of the nearby houses and the guy is a barangay tanod.  That should make perfect sense.  Most amo’s would frown at the thought of their chabukans being lovey-dovey with the neighborhood watch and I would think this thought should have already been expressed in not so subtle terms e.g., “Inday, bawal ang umibig dito, kapag nahuli kita, magbalot-balot ka na, baby.”  Or something to that effect.

But of course warnings such as that only serve to sweeten the pot, so Inday and Dodong get creative in order not to get caught and those mid-dawn episodes ensue.  My only wish is that I only get to see these two in their current position at the most– and not in some awkward scenario where they’re humping like domesticated rabbits about to be taken to a fur factory.   That, I think would be gross.

Imagine my surprise around two years ago when I noticed that one of our more cheerful sanitary personnel was heavy with child.  I asked her when she got married and she answered (with a toothy grin) that she will be married soon.  Apparently she will be married to one of her colleagues who obviously was the one who gave her the infection.  I had to shake my head as I pondered on the potential expenses that lie ahead of them.  Here I am, earning a rather decent salary and yet in terms of financial considerations I had serious doubts on my capability to properly provide for a potential offspring.  These two brave people’s willingness to go through marriage was surprising for me to say the least.  They eventually got married and I thought that was the end to that.  A couple of years passed and I again noticed that the familiar sanitary personnel is again heavy with child.  Because I seldom see her, I asked her again whether it’s her first child, she laughingly told me that it was to be her second child.  My calculator infested mind again went to work and again, I can only shake my head thinking of her financial burden.  Not that the child is a burden but you know what I mean.

The last encounter disturbed me enough that I had to talk it over with the SO.  Unfortunately or rather fortunately the SO and I share the same views towards this rather allergy inducing topic.  She also cannot fathom how these happy folks can go on with what it is that goes on with their life without seemingly worrying about their child’s and their future.  But perhaps we are just looking at the world in a completely different perspective.  Maybe we were to curious and afraid of the what-ifs that we fail to appreciate the present.

I am all for gushing over newborn babes and marital bliss, but I always thought that one goes into that sort of thing armed to the teeth with financial ammunition.  After all financial burden have been proven to break a marriage which is always not good for the offsprings of that union.  But as I look all around me, I see married security guards, drivers, cigarette vendors– people from all walks of life proudly and happily toting kids that if you really think about it they cannot afford to raise.

I don’t know, perhaps I’m overly cautious, or overly worried even, but I do believe that if a person has a hard time sustaining himself, he should be embracing bachelorhood with all his might.

But what do I know.

I had just concluded a bout with the unpleasantries associated with noontime nightmares—the kind that you wake up to with your heart beating double the time that it’s normally used to. I was still shaking the cobwebs off my mind when the unwanted intrusion of her smile added to my confusion.

She wasn’t smiling at anyone in particular. She was just smiling (as if sharing a secret joke with herself).

I wanted to ask her what she’s smiling about. But normal people don’t do that. Normal people just stay where they are and let the unasked questions eat them alive.

Despite being awake for sometime I can still feel some of the nightmares lingering at the back of my head. Perhaps they were too busy to notice that I have already gone downstairs after escaping from the steel bars of my bed. The same bed that they would have me imprisoned if they had their way.

I gently shook my head—my not-so-subtle way of letting my demons know that the fun is over and that they should just try harder next time if they wish to keep me chained to their noontime schemes.

The girl was still walking calmly, unaware of my turmoil. Her smile, a perpetually supine letter C etched across her face.

It didn’t bother her that I wasn’t the only one staring at her. The security guard of the building beside my apartment has joined my watch and was smiling himself.

It didn’t bother her that the jeepneys that passed her by would honk their horns at her in jest.

As I continued to struggle with my protracted nightmare, I also had to wrestle with the question, why. Why, despite the fact that she was totally naked and wearing only high heels, was she still placidly smiling?

I decided to go to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face.

In some twisted way, I have to side with those animal lovers. Have you ever seen a pig being slaughtered? The word slaughter– though evoking images of blood and gore– could not even begin to describe the bestiality with which pigs in provinces are butchered. The designated pig killer will take out a sharpened knife and approach the pig that’s held down by at least 4 people. He will then proceed to stab the pig in the neck, carefully ensuring that the knife goes in to the hilt. At this time, I am assuming that the image is now in your mind.

But that’s not yet it.  Have you ever heard a pig squealing when it’s hungry?  Multiply that by 10 and that’s how loud a pig squeals when it’s being killed.  The folks holding the pig will ensure that not a drop of that pig’s blood goes to waste (this is for dinuguan), so there’s usually a basin under the pig as the blood is slowly drained from its neck.  All the time the pig is squealing and struggling with all the life it has.  In some cases the pig will even shit itself.  Can you imagine the sheer brutality with which a pig’s life is ended?  I am telling you, you do not want to be a pig.

When I was younger, my father asked me to hold down a chicken as he cut it’s neck.  I had to hold the base of its wings and its legs to keep it from flying and deny us the fried chicken that was hidden from under its feathers.  I can feel the chicken’s energy ebbing as my father sliced the chicken’s neck.  I had to bite my lip to keep myself from crying and be branded a sissy by my older cousins who were watching.  At an early age I have been party to the taking away of a life—it may be a chicken’s life but it is life nevertheless.

This somewhat morbid entry is, believe it or not, a birthday entry.  The pig in a box is actually lechon, lovingly sent to me by the SO.  

Oh we view lechon as a treat alright, with its crunchy skin and savory flesh and then we block our minds from thinking of the “before”– of the process that brought forth the delectable meal that we are about to enjoy.

But on to joyous things.  Yesterday was my birthday.  Another birthday spent having breakfast, lunch, and dinner with the sweet significant other who gladly had a pig killed so we can have lechon.  I think birthdays are superfun.  People who would normally have nothing but disdain for you do their damnedest to be pleasant during the day and those who can’t fake it would gladly get out of your hair.  You usually have nothing but good vibes during the day.  But then again you can be a total jerk and always look at the darker side of things even if only good things were proferred to you.  I’m usually a jerk, but yesterday I decided to skip that part for a change.  I must say it was a blast. 

The SO also brought a cake from Mindanao.  If you know Margie’s then you know which province I am from. Margie’s sells cake at such exorbitant prices that they make Goldilocks or Red Ribbon seem pedestrian (perhaps they already are, but who gives?).  I am sorry to say this, and I am only expressing my opinion here, but Margie’s kicks Conti’s overrated ass (and I’m not referring to the price here) anytime. 

Strangely, despite my not having a birthday party this year, I think this is one of my birthdays that I’d remember for a long time.  It must be the time in the car before we arrived at my apartment from the airport when we were taking turns scooping gobs of chocolate cake with our bare hands and making a mess out of ourselves that made it so memorable.  Say cheeze.

I never stopped being a guy but you know when you’re involved with someone, and when I say involved, I mean way-up-shit-creek involved, you kinda take a lot of things for granted—like other girls. There’s not much discussion really when it comes to that area (I hope some girls feel the same way too with guys), you know it’s not possible to hook up with others when you’re already with someone– unless you’re an ass. How much more so when you’re married?

This is why in the office, they laugh at me when I say that those who’re already married have already given up their sex. They’re no longer male or female; a he or a she, they’ve become “it”– sexless. They could be trees for all I care. The thing is, they’ve already removed themselves from the dating equation so really– why bother with gender distinctions? Sorry married boys and girls, it’s not like I make these things up, beside, even if you’re already trees there’s still plenty of tree species to choose from, you could be mahogany with its black grains or the apitong with its red strains. Whatever.

Back to these fine ladies, they’re everywhere! When I visit the lung center for example, it’s rare that not one of these pretty young things would go up to me to ask for a light, bringing with them their scents and their sways and their lashes. I can only shake my head in amusement. Sometimes I wonder whether it would be a good idea to be an ass sometimes. My largely logical brain however, won’t hear none of it. Too much hassle, too much drama in exchange for a few days and a few grunts is not a very good deal. With a final expulsion of smoke, I head back to earth and resume my leaden persona.

Although I’m still not officially an it, I’m still closer to wood than the several pounds of flesh that people make me out to be, no thanks to the SO.

Apparently the idea wasn’t that original. Hundreds of people felt the same way. And that almost derailed my most organized homecoming in the history of my homecoming.

My flight time was 5:10 in the morning. I woke up at 2:00 AM but decided to take a quick nap thinking that it was way too early. I ended up waking at 3:30 in a panic. I had to drive to park and fly at a frenetic speed and had myself brought to the airport immediately. The long queu outside the entrance had my bile rising from my stomach. I was resigned to missing my flight as there’s no way I was gonna make it inside within 30 minutes given the queu’s length.

A quick check with a guard however revealed that they have a special entrance for those passengers whose flights are leaving within the hour. I thankfully rushed to that entrance and easily got in, gave my ticket at the counter and was proudly waving my boarding pass to the lady manning mabuhay airport lounge for a quick meal. She was saying something to me but I wasn’t really listening. I just got in and got myself a bowl of porridge and a coke. I felt relieved as I know they will be announcing the boarding time in the lounge. I was gonna go for a second helping when the boarding call came, except that instead of the usual boarding call, I was specially mentioned! Darn, that was what the lounge lady was telling me! My flight was already boarding when I came in, and I was being publicly announced as the final remaining passenger! Gah!

I had to make a run for it to the boarding gate, gave my boarding pass, entered the plane and purposely looked down to evade the burning looks of the passengers. I instantly fell asleep the moment I buckled my seat belt. Sometime during the flight somebody was nudging me for the food but I waived the person away wanting none of what he had to offer. Go away, I’m cuddling with a playboy bunny, no time for your thirdworld snack. Heh!

I got out of the airport feeling refreshed and savoring the sweet, unpolluted provincial air. I was hoping that my ‘sundo’ was already waiting for me. But there was none. I was secretly hoping for the whole brass band but I guess that was too much to hope for. So I waited, and waited, and waited. Of course after almost 30 minutes I suddenly realized I did not tell anyone that I was arriving that morning. Argh. Can you say senile?

Oh well, I had to wake up a lot of people and beg them to pick me up. So much for a dramatic homecoming.

I just arrived from a baptismal– if you can call it that. It was more of a comedy of errors actually.

In one instance, as the priest was about to baptize a child, he asked the mother;

“Name?”

“Beverly.”

“I thought your child’s a boy?”

“Oh, i thought you were asking for mine,” came the embarassed reply.

Doh.

In another, the priest was starting to wet the infants head as part of the ceremony, the mother quickly whisked her child away, startling the priest.

“What’s wrong?” The surprised priest asked.

“My son has a fever.”

Double doh.

I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud. Goodness, of course, only in the Philippines.

I could have easily said no but dang that corporate culture talk. We’re supposed to be game and always up for it! Up for what? Oh, you know, embarassing yourself and stuff like that.

“Theres really no escaping it,” I was told, “because even the boss of all bosses, the capo di tuti capi, is performing.”

“But, but, that guy likes to embarass himself!” I tried to protest.

“Shut up!” “Your bonus depends on it.”

“Oh, okay, why didn’t you say so earlier?”

Moron.