…

I almost killed the former parish priest. I was working here in the office (or chatting Brent) when news of two days old came to me from the mouth of Randy (operator) that our former parish priest died the other night. I gasped in surprise and related the sad news to Brent to pray immediately for his soul. Ok, he said. In my eagerness to get more prayers for Father B. M’bo, I also relayed the news to another friend online:

I just learned that our former parish priest, Father B. M’bo, died the other night.

It was a good thing that my ninang, working in the other side of the building in the travel agency, was too shocked to believe anything and had Randy call the parish office for truth.

The truth is, it was the father of father B. who died the other night.

Mortified, all I could do to rectify the mistake was

omg sorry he’s still alive.

Sigh. Blame it all on the language.

Laminated

Any superpower that requires touching (as in physical touch) is a curse.

When he was a kid, he discovered that he could bring the dead back to life – by the touch of his hand. When he was also a kid, he also discovered that by the same touch of his hand, that which he resurrected, dies. That’s the catch. Or so, a part of it. If a minute passes without him “retouching” the resurrected creature, something (or someone) dies in its place. Every. Minute.

So one day, his long lost childhood friend-slash-crush got murdered. To cut through the mushy details, he resurrected her (in order to ask her how she died) but decided not to re-kill her. Thus, the whole point of the series.

What a very stupid power, I thought. The costs outweigh the benefits by miles. No, wait, it’s not even a power, it’s a curse! It’s modified Mida’s Touch, only it got ten times worse. Who would torture oneself by allowing one to get closer, attached, and fall in love with someone you would never truly own? How very badly conceived this story is. Even Rogue couldn’t handle her power. Or perhaps, I am just not a fan of tragedy.

How he could live knowing that every minute, someone dies because of his desire? It is something that should be unbearable. Is love worth it? I mean, love that would never truly unite two souls, especially in carnal union? The impossibility of such thing is what perhaps makes this series a hit. A hit. And I would not even watch a full episode of it. I am not a fan of tragedies, espesially those which do not get realized in the end but all through out the plot… a dragging tragedy. They put a heavy feeling in my gut.

I would not want a relationship which closest situation to a communion is being wrapped in plastic, juxtaposed together, in an awkward attempt at kissing. Heck, the person is even supposed to be dead. Move on.

The series, by the way, is Pushing Daisies. Watch it. Or not.

My Lola Cooks Better than Your Lola!

 

 

 

If anything, the point being driven by the title is why “mother” is replaced by “lola”. It’s been a year and a half since we left our lola’s mansion, which plays host to a number supernatural creatures like a kapre, seven dwendes, and an engkantada named Nita. That’s according to the people living in it, and who lived in it. But one among other things that I miss besides those super creatures (the thrill) and the dog I left behind, is my lola’s cooking. I have long been craving for that perfect lutong bahay which I only get to taste now in Little Quiapo (restaurant here in BF), like nilagang baka, sinigang, etc. Along with memories of that house was ate Glo’s adobo, which is the best I ever tasted. I could not replicate its flavor, the rightness. Not even mother. ^ ^

 

It is unfortunate that this generation’s parents never learnt how to cook. By “generation” I mean at least these “corporate babies” whose parents worked in offices, and had helpers to cook for them, or in my case, a lola. Most of my “titas” (“tita” by virtue of friendship with mom) don’t know how to cook, but a really great upside of that is that they know the best places where to eat good food. Yep, they would know, and that is the trump card of their generation. That is why about a year and a half ago, when we moved in this new house, all we could eat was something edible you find after using a can opener. Perhaps the most organic substance we ate was something out of an eggshell.

 

Times have improved though. Mom, although eccentric in her cooking preferences, is slowly starting to learn the conventional way of cooking. We (my siblings and I) get nervous whenever she announces through text message (we are usually out, like school and work) the dinner she cooked for the night: “there’s chicken curry cooked in gata,” or, “there’s beef stroganoff and mushroom sauce” – only to find something like tapa in rice noodles and gravy. You get the point. But whatever happens, my brother is adamant about not letting her cook pasta, of all things. If there is anyone who thought of inventing carbonara with hotdogs and Cheez Whiz, it’s my dear mother. We try to temper her trying to be artistic with cooking. ^ ^

 

*after tasting* what is in this sauce?! (Migo sniggers) ang weird ‘no?

 

Some things which are decent though are her tinola (mistaken once by Nikki as sinigang) and others. ^ ^

 

Well, things are getting, have gotten better, really, and her cooking are starting to resemble that of lola’s by a fraction… I was only aroused to write something because my mom called, saying she would be home late and asked me to cook something for my brother and I. (She trusts I cook better).

 

 

 

 

The Starbucks Experience

And I thought I knew something about coffee. And I called myself a “coffee drinker”! What a shame. I attended a seminar on coffee by Starbucks, and had a taste of what real coffee is. You know, Sumatra, Kenya, and Colombia. (Like I knew those beans way before this!).

I hid my naivete with refinement in smelling the coffee (with my hand covering the cup; that’s the way coffee connoisseurs do it), sipping the coffee (which was supposed to be very slurpy, according to the coffee master), and eating the food with poise (apparently, there is a food match for every coffee blend).

If there is something to be proud of about coffee drinking, well, it’s that I don’t drink instant coffee. Brewed is the way to go. I was very happy to get a free bag of Sumatra beans, so I had it ground in Starbucks on my way home. But I felt more stupid as I asked the person in the bar to grind my beans.

Can I have these ground please?

Okay sir. How would you like it ground?

Er, I don’t know. Normal?

What type of coffee maker are you going to use?

I don’t know.

Okay, so, normal grind lang.

Yes, please.

I shall say good morning to Sumatra tomorow, then.

I knew it.

What? Wasn’t it good that I had no hard feelings about erasing my entries? It was, after all, mine. No attachments. No emotional investments. No big deal.

Unless of course one spends free time reading my entries, which are, I think boring.

Gago! Ba’t mo binura blog mo?!

*grin*

(expletive)ng to!

*grin*

Sayang yung mga sinulat mo!

*grin*

Parang gago ‘to, ang dami na kaya non!

… SO?

By the way, I was touched by your effort to comment on my blog, mourning Pitasyo’s death in the guise of curses and insults. Haha. I did know it was you. I could recognize your lines even if it were written in Chinese. Haha.

So bakit mo nga binura blog mo?

*grin*

 

Some Interesting Facts of Life

My kitten, Giant, who still suckles her mother’s udder, indiscriminately went inside my cabinet — and gave birth inside.

She was, a few months ago, I believe, molested or raped as a kitten when she went outside the house at the time when a couple of top cats were trying –again– to impregnate her mother, Meow-Meow. Luckily, I sent most of my clothes to the laundry, and she was inside the shoe rack inside my cabinet. So, no harm done.

This morning, I awoke with laughter to see Giant attempting to kidnap Voltron (Meow-Meow’s little cub, that little kooshball of a kitten hiding under my bed) and forcing him to suckle her own nipples! I thought Giant must be stupid (“she must have given birth somewhere and forgot where it was, and now she thinks Voltron is her kitten!”).

This afternoon, I came home to see Giant hyperventilating inside my cabinet, with one kitten she just excreted, and much weirder still, Meow-Meow, helping to deliver the babies! She was helping to break the umbilical cord, and was licking off the biological wrapper that encased the newborns. Wow, it’s like a pride of lions helping to raise their little cubs.

But here is the weirdest part. Interdependence. Or a little too much of it. Lion, the sister of Giant, was attempting to suckle her sister’s udder! And Meow-Meow, kidnapped some of Giant’s litter and took them in a box with Voltron, and is nursing them there.

Anyway, here is the genealogy of the cats.

 

 And you thought cats had nine lives, eh?

Barrera — died in combat.

#1, #2, #3 — lost, died of colds.

Tiger — Died of colds

Meng-Meng — Died of food poisoning. I fed solid food.

A, B, C, — carried away under the car

Meow — ate a frog, died of poison (after hallucinating noisily  under my bed. Died in my hands, 3am)

White-White — most likely murdered by topcats, being a male.

nameless three — premature birth (we could assume animal abortion). Meow-Meow labored for three days, and gave birth once a day to a dead kitten. Their corpses were eaten by Puppy (who recently died). On the fourth day, Voltron was born.

 

SO, that’s about it. Have a nice day!

Ginoo,

Nalulungkot ako sa pagkasukdusukdulang kawalan mo ng urbanidad. Nagpasya akong huwag nang banggitin ang pangalan mo sapagkat iyon ang dahilan kung bakit kinailangan kong burahin ang mga naisulat.

Nabasa ko ang comment mo. At para sa iyong kapakanan, hindi ko ito ipapakita sa publiko.

Nag-abala ka pang gumawa ng dalawang bagong e-mail address upang ikubli ang iyong katauhan, at ang masaklap pa ay ginamit mo ang pangalan ng isang mabuting kaibigan. Huwag nang mandamay ng ibang tao sa sariling kababuyan.

Kilala kita, oo. Huwag ka nalang sana magugulat kung malamig ang ihip ng hangin sa Lunes. Ito naman, sa dinami-dami ng lugar, doon ka pa sa Netopia Dapitan nag-internet. Pasensya na, dami fans ko doon. Ops, mayroon ka yatang hindi alam. Tsk, tsk.

 

PS

Alangya ka! Hindi ako nagsusulat sa Tagalog pero pinadugo mo ang ilong ko!

quod scripsi, scripsi…

…and what I have erased, I have erased. Funny how six months’ entries vanish in four seconds. Pontius Pilate, when he said those lines, clearly emphasised the importance of author-sovereignty (as opposed to text-sovereignty, and reader-sovereignty).

Torn between fidelity to the Truth of my experience (and all the innocence therein) spilled within the digital pages of this material, and some friendship, pop! went anger displaced upon the poor Pitasyo. Thus his death. A chipped sculpture diminishes, if not takes away, its value. An entry is significantly a part of me.

What I have written, I have written.