Thursday, November 30, 2006
Survival Gear
My father was happy when he found out that my mother had pulled us out of soccer class and had us join the Girl and Boy Scouts instead. We had been taking soccer classes for two years but my father didn’t think it was a worthwhile endeavor. We needed to learn some survival skills. This is why our summers were spent at the country club, and later on at the YMCA, taking swimming lessons under our muscular teacher, James.
“Brit…bluh…brit…bluh,” he would say in a strong Visayan accent as he taught us to breathe, inhale, and blow bubbles into the water. My brother Ramses and I ended up as competitive swimmers throughout college and, when Ramses came home one day with six gold medals from his swim meet, my father expressed his joy by saying, “if only you did as well in your academics.” Such were the standards of our youth, and in the same light, at sixth grade, Papa decided to enroll us in yet another class to hone our survival skills: typing.
He took us to the heart of Manila, to Ermita Street which was back then the country’s famous red light district. It was an old building with an even older elevator, the kind that closed with the collapsible lattice steel gate and a dark old man with a greasy toupee guarding the elevator buttons. It was called Liwanag Typing School, and our teacher was the daughter of Mr. Liwanag himself who owned the school, Miss Liwanag. She was a tiny shapely lady who looked like a Malay version of Betty Boop. She had a fake American accent which sounded very rehearsed. Later on during the course of the class she said that she was about to move to the States to marry an American man.
I was twelve, and my brother was thirteen, and we had no intention of taking this class seriously. We typed our practice sheets, learned about pica and elite types of typewriters, and the basics of stenography, but our progress was too slow as we were more interested in the snack breaks we had away from our parent’s guidance, where we would sip on cold bottles of Coca Cola and munch on MSG-laden chips, both of which were deathly forbidden in our household.
Miss Liwanag was so frustrated at our lack of focus that she became exasperated one day and just sighed, saying “Why can’t you be more like Anne Marie?” pointing at our only classmate, an older Chinese girl who typed her sheets one after the other with much diligence.
By the time the summer ended, Miss Liwanag had left the school and we were left to learn typing on our own. The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog over and over and over, and I became a great typist, challenging myself by typing sentences with my eyes closed.
In high school, I would spend after-school hours waiting for my mother to finish her day at the Central Bank by playing with their office’s brand new IBM computer. This was the eighties, when computers were so scarce and valuable that nobody ever used them. Mama would hand me the newspaper and have me type an article she chose just to practice my typing.
In the end, typing did become a great survival skill. In college I had the only electric typewriter in my dormitory and I would write my articles for the Philippine Star on them, pretending I was some starving writer creating bestseller novels with a cigarette in my mouth.
In the modern world, however, typing has become clearly underrated. Kids these days can hardly spell beyond the gibberish language of text messaging, where words and numbers are combined into a cyber-shorthand like, “wr r u? r u cumn or wut? we r w8ng 4 u.” While the rest of the girls in my time spent their weekends getting manicures and trying on make up, we swam until we were out of breath, typed until our fingers were sore, and learned how to shine shoes the old-fashioned way, hearing over and over again Papa’s stories of his days as a shoe-shine boy. He never had the luxury of swimming or typing classes. During his time, shining shoes was what he needed to do to survive.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Harsh the Mellow
"You totally harshed my mellow!" she wrote on a damp piece of green paper I ripped out from a "Man with a van" ad on a lamp post on St. John's Place. The letter was written both in frustration and surrender, it was a lost cause at midnight on a city street with a parking dilemma.
I met my colleague at Bogota on Fifth Avenue to celebrate her entry into the world of legal alcohol consumption. She ordered a plate of patacon, which was a "cake" of squished tostones (green plantains) with skirt steak, roast chicken and white cheese on top, and a side of salsa and guacamole. I had just come from a heavy pre-Thanksgiving dinner at Peter Luger's (NY's best steakhouse) so I was stuffed, so instead I ordered a round of the frozen margaritas I really like from this restaurant. After the usual office gossip, Miss A arrived with her delightful North Carolina bubbliness, had a few straight margaritas and urged us to get in her car so we could check out the bar she's been raving about in Cobble Hill. Then the plot thickened.
She let us into the car and then lifted the hood to connect the battery to the car to get it started. "These damn mechanics don't know a thing about German cars!" she exclaimed as the radio and the three-tone beeping of the seatbelt indicator went on.
I think it was called a Volkswagen Cabriolet. At least that’s what it said on the trunk when I got outside the car to see exactly what the problem was. It was a faded red color, almost turning pink, the kind of sun damage you get from years and years of use. I knew she had a convertible, but when you hear “convertible” you usually think of sports cars and not a weary top-down with the rips on the leather repaired with hand-sewn twine. I was almost scared to get in, but after two drinks and a plan for the rest of the evening, I was, like, what the heck?
When I shut the door closed it reminded me of an ex-girlfriend’s father’s 1976 Mitusbishi Galant. If you’ve ever been in a car from the seventies to the early eighties, you would know what I’m talking about. It was obvious that plastic and rubber were scarce commodities in those times, and car doors were made of solid steel, nuts, bolts and hinges designed to keep that passageway shut. Therefore the doors did not close gently, they did not give off the sound of rubber meeting rubber but instead of metal against metal, and very heavy metal at that. When the Beetle’s door closed, it gave off a solid bang and reminded my of uncles’ cars and taxi cabs from my early childhood. Except that in front of us, apparently parking us in, was a shiny BMW, whose driver thoughtlessly squeezed into a parking spot fit just big enough for the Mini Cooper behind us.
“Oh it’s a little tight,” she mumbled, squinting her eyes as she turned the little wheel several times to the right. “Pardon me, but we might have to make a 49-degree turn here,” she announced calmly like an airplane pilot announcing the presence of some turbulence, as she made several little turns to the left. “I think we’re stuck,” I concluded, way before the show was over, noticing that after several forward-and-backward movements, the car was only a few inches from where it started. “Fuckin’ ass!” Miss A yelled as she hit the Beamer’s bumper in the front, and the Mini’s bumper in the back, “This dickhead!”
Stephanie and I looked at each other and I said, “Ummm….I think this is the part where we get shot.” Miss A stepped out of the car for a wide-angle view of the three-car conundrum, and then proceeded to say, “Do you think I can get onto the curb?” It was such a pivotal moment that turned a desperate situation into a hilarious one.
“I’m going to write him a note! I need a piece of paper…”
“Are you serious? What are you gonna say? ‘Dear Sir…’”
“There ain’t gonna be a ‘dear-sir-dear-sir’! It’s gonna be, like, ‘Fucking asswipe…’”
I laughed, and Stephanie laughed as she decided it was time to take some photos. At first I handed Miss A a menu from Sushi Tatsu, but then I found the green sheet on the post, and she wrote her very emotional note on it.
Hey Asswipe-
You parked me in, man, and I can’t get out!
This is so not cool!
It totally harshed my mellow!
I am so angry!
Bye!
She stuck her note on the windshield and slapped the wet and deteriorating restaurant menu on his (of course we shall assume the driver is male) window in fury. She posed for a few more pictures, lit a cigarette, and then walked in a Mars-Attacks-Martian-woman way back to Fifth and declared, “This calls for another round!”
Monday, November 20, 2006
Imperfect Combinations
A co-worker brought a bag of Oreos to work, and I tried to find a pint of milk in the premises to dip the cookies in. Disappointed and unwilling to make the trek to the next-door grocery store to get some milk, I filled a glass with water and proceeded to dunk the Oreos in water to soften them, and quickly put them in my mouth to melt.
My colleagues made gagging noises, as if I had just swallowed a spoonful of feces. "It's just water!" I chortled, saying that it's not like it's tomato juice or chicken soup. Which got me to thinking, what are the odd couplings of food that you've seen?
When I was eight, my brother poured some Knorr Seasoning on his banana and thought it was the best thing since sliced bread (where does this expression come from, anyway? was sliced bread actually a turning point in technology?). My co-workers think it's odd that I sprinkle salt on my green apple, and eat my corn chips soaked in vinegar. But then I think that's all just cultural.
Have you ever combined two different kinds of food and watched your spectators' horror? Tell me about it.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Wawaweewa! It's sexy time!
If you want to laugh, go and catch the movie Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan at a theater near you. It is a mock-umentary of sorts, and is so hilariously funny in its political incorectness that it is borderline criminal. Maybe worse than it's Jewish star's anti-semitic, homophobic, sexist, and painfully honest character, are the Americans' real reactions to his pranks. It's the most insightful stupid comedy I've ever seen.
Aling Rosing's Wood-Stove-Slow-Cooked Beef Stew
In the Summer we grill ribs, fish, steaks, corn and mushrooms on the Weber. In the Fall and Winter, we light the wood stove to keep the house warm and then cook stews on a pot placed on top of it. This weekend we attempted to make beef stew, and to quote Borat, it was a "Gret Sugzezzz!!"
3 lbs beef cubes for stewing
2 beef soup bones
1 onion, chopped
1 big potato, cubed
4 small carrots, cut in half
1 can whole peeled tomatoes (Muir Glen is our favorite)
1 can tomato paste
1 Knorr beef cube
On a stove, sautee onions with some salt. Add beef and cook until water has evaporated. Add canned tomatoes, crushing them with your hands. Add about 2 tablespoons of tomato paste. Add soup bones into the mixture. Move pot to wood stove (or move contents to a slow cooker) and slow-cook for about 5 hours. Add potatoes and carrots and simmer until tender. Remove soup bones before serving. Yum!
P.S. We realized that if we had added some liver spread, fish sauce, some chick peas and green peas, we would have had ourselves a great pot of kaldereta (a festive Filipino stew), but that's something Aling Rosing will attempt at a later date.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Tostado
Today's nostalgia took me to Vinzon's hall in UPD where I would gobble up a quick "dinner" of local college fare -- squid balls, fish balls and kikiam. All of which, of course, were mostly flour, flavoring, and the ubiquitous flavor enhancer, MSG (no, that doesn't stand for Madison Square Garden).
I liked them crispy on the outside and piping hot on the inside. They would bob up and down as they deep-fried in sinful coconut oil heated by a kerosene burner. Part of the flavor, I believe, was due to the fumes of the gas stove, the oil lamp or candle, and the aluminum pan held steady by the steel wire.
The balls would inflate quickly as soon as they touched the hot oil. If you took them too soon (using a bamboo bbq skewer), they would quickly deflate when exposed to air, leaving a sorry shriveled mess resembling wet old socks. If you got them just right, they would be lightly browned and be perfect for dipping into my choice of sauce: spicy vinegar first and hot sweet sauce with ground up chili peppers afterwards.
I would blow lightly on them so as not to burn my mouth, and as I took my eager bite, the vinegar would burst into my mouth from the crispy balls interior, leaving me squealing in delight, but quietly as I did not want to grab any attention to myself and my sacred meal. Stuffing my face for the equivalent of an American quarter never felt so good.
These are the simple joys that I miss, thrust into a world without any entertaining street food. Any Asian nation has great street food. Why should America be stuck with hotdogs and honey roasted peanuts when there are green mangoes, santol, pineapples, chicken heads, chicken feet, innards, embryonated duck eggs, and stinky skewered squid and fish?
The tragedy of America is also its redeeming factor. We are the superpower of the world, the economic giant of the universe. We have a strong workforce made of people who are worked to the bone, live relatively well through the rush, but have no time to smell the flowers, or, a delectable treat across the street.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Conversation with a mafia man
"Doc, ya know we godda problem..."
"What's that?"
"My problem is that I like yous. And you know what I do with people I don't like?"
"What?"
"I chop them up into little pieces. And I'm not liking the other people here as much."
"Ummm...okay..."
"Doc, you know what a good friend is?"
"Umm..what?"
"A good friend is someone who will help you out at three a.m. if you need to get rid of some stuff...if ya know what I mean...all you need is a meat grinder and a saws-all..."
"Okay..."
"That's why I keep telling my wife to keep her mouth shut. When I finally get tired of her, she'd better be careful. Or else she's just gonna end up in a bag."
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Four Years
Four years ago, on the 26th of October, I sat through a short eighteen-hour flight from Manila to New York, with nothing but a dream in tow. On the plane, I sat beside an elderly Chinese woman who asked me to help her fill out her immigration entry forms. Her gratitude wasn't enough to let me know, though, that I had accidentally smeared pen ink on my face and was walking around the plane with a black blot on my nose. Every time I got up to stretch, people would stare at me and then look away when I returned their gazes. I remember thinking, "Maybe I look good right now, despite the long flight."
Little did I know that the moment I walked into the bathroom I would be horrified at the sight of my nose, which was smeared solid black on one side and smaller smears on the other. The airline hand soap wasn't able to wash it out completely. I had already abraded the skin with paper towels during several attempts. I just prayed my receiving party would not laugh at my sight.
It was a nice fall day in October, and I walked out of the airport at 3pm on a Saturday, to be met by throngs of Indian families who were waiting for their relatives. In the middle of the crowd was this tiny woman in a black coat, waving her hands at me. She didn't laugh, instead she hailed a cab for me and asked my how my flight went. She would, years later, tell me how funny my ink-smeared nose was and how smelly her company at the waiting area was.
As we hauled my luggage up the three flights of stairs, a crisp smell of indoor dwelling met my (still stained) nose. It was a mixture of wood, cold, old building interior, and the fall air. It's definitely hard to describe, but every year at this season I smell it, and it brings me back to my beginnings in New York.
Where has the time gone? I remember the largest long-stem roses in a vase waiting for me, the sheets you put on your bed to greet me. I remember that it took me a while to figure out the workings of your shower faucet, but I figured it out eventually. I recall being fascinated by laundromats, grocery stores, and the decadence of pet ownership in the United States.
Most of all, I remember the magic, the passion, and the lessons of building my life with you. Hope it has been a great ride for you as it has been for me.
Happy anniversary.
Monday, November 06, 2006
RelinqWish's New Look
I had gotten tired of my old and uncool generic Blogger template which everyone and their mother seemed to have, so I went to work on something new. There are a number of Blogger "Skins" out there which are pretty cool, but I wanted to make my own, and not be bothered by complex layouts. Firdamatic helped me out by generating a basic css/xml code I could use with a banner I made.
Of course, I was not spared from coding, decoding and tiny annoying corrections I had to test over and over. But as much as it is cumbersome, I love this kind of work that keeps me up at night. It's like solving a logic problem!
Oooppsss...dork talking. Anyway, enjoy the new look of RelinqWish. Hopefully it will inspire me to write more. Sigh.
