- Motto sa mga Walay Kwarta

Springsteen is inextricably tied to the summer months in my mind, and specifically the Fourth of July. And not just the obvious songs, the “subversive” songs such as “Independence Day” and “Born in the USA,” but the hopeful, optimistic songs like “Born to Run” and the purely joyous songs like “Sherry Darling.” He writes and sings about Americans in a way that speaks to me whatever my feelings may be about us at a given time.

Now ice cream is something else entirely; it is possibly the number one across-the-board harbinger of summer’s arrival. Food traditions vary from region to region and from family to family, but I doubt most any American could fail to come up with at least one summer memory that includes ice cream.

No one in my family made their own, but we never felt the least bit deprived—we had the Carnation Dairy and the Cloverdale Creamery. Cloverdale was way over in the Centerville district, so that was reserved for rare occasions, but Carnation was just a few miles from us, next to the Bank of America (this is the B of A that had the Goodwill bin behind it where Grandma did her shopping).

It was drive-up dairy; you could get milk, cottage cheese and assorted frozen goodies along with sundries such as batteries, gum and cigarettes without ever getting out of your car. My mom bought our tubs of ice cream at the grocery store, but the special occasion frozen treats came from Carnation: Fudgesicles, cherry vanilla ice cream, and 50/50 bars. 50/50 bars were vanilla ice cream enclosed in a layer of tangerine sherbet, not unlike a Creamsicle.

Those chilly snacks are a fond memory, but I'm afraid I don’t have memories of one specific Independence Day; in my head I see little snippets that all combine to create a sort of Fourth of July montage.  Here goes (I have no idea what music is appropriate to this particular montage- you choose).

My mom bought her hotdogs at a butcher shop; they were Miller’s hotdogs made in Oakland. From a taste and texture standpoint, they are similar to the dogs you get at Kasper’s or Caspar’s (the second one ripped off the first). They are meatier than a Nathan’s hotdog and not as greasy as a Hebrew National, and they snap when you bite them (sheep’s intestines or something like that is used for the casing). Yum!  No, really.

My aunt had an affair with Mr. Hellmann. I have no real proof of that but the quantity of mayonnaise she put in her potato salad and devilled eggs seems to indicate something untoward was going on. Never accept one of her eggs, ever.

My father stacked his charcoal in a pyramid and my uncle did not; it didn’t lead to blows, but my father rolled his eyes quite a bit and used the word “amateur” in a way that made it sound really nasty.

In 1976, the year of our bicentennial, one of my cousins thought he was the coolest thing in Toughskins because he was wearing one of those Uncle Sam hats. I said he looked more like Uncle gay Sam; he whined, and I was sent inside to think about it. (He looked like one of the Village People- I stand by this one.)

That same year, my brother and I thought we should be allowed to buy seventy-six fireworks (we knew two hundred was a complete pipe dream) as it was our patriotic duty. My mother said our patriotic duty was to calm down long enough to keep her from checking herself into the “Booby Hatch.” That led my brother to coin the ditty “We’re All Going to the Booby Hatch.” (It was sung to the tune of “Comin’ ‘Round the Mountain,” I think.)

Grandma Dot ate her watermelon with Wonder bread to sop up the juices. Yes, I descend from white trash (well, technically, Portuguese trash).

When I was about eight, I got a really nasty splinter from a redwood picnic table and my mom wanted to dig it out with a pair of cuticle scissors. I told her I would let her do it if she let me shout “Son-of-a-bitch” while she did. I never felt a thing.

After too much Carlo Rossi, my aunt started a sing-a-long and launched into “You’re a Grand Old Flag.” My brother and I joined in but we replaced the word flag with another word; we were sent inside to think about it. (Anyone who says they haven’t done the same at some point is either a liar or simply does not appreciate the classics.)

Some years we’d have a picnic at a local lake (a pond really) called Lake Elizabeth. My sister whose name is Elizabeth managed to convince a cousin that the lake had been named after her. I couldn’t believe how naïve she was in believing that since I knew that it was in fact named after Elizabeth Taylor. (Because in "A Place in the Sun" she and Montgomery Clift went to a lake (where he drowned poor Shelley Winters).) Duh.

One year we the spent the holiday with friends of my parents; their daughter, Jamie, was my age and I was required to be friends with her. She had just seen the musical “Annie” and sang “You’re Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile” over and over again to me. I told her that Annie must have been a bit retarded to be that cheerful all the time; she cried, I got sent indoors to think about it. (In retrospect, I realize it was Jamie who was bit retarded.)

At one of the Lake Elizabeth picnics, a bumble bee was determined to land on my mom and kept flying towards her. She started running all over the place, screeching, trying to escape the big mean bee, and sloshed the entire contents of her wine glass all over everyone. My aunt was mad that she wasted perfectly good wine over a potential bee sting.

Most summers I never ended up with much of a tan, what with all that time spent indoors, you know, thinking about it.

Have a fun holiday!

I think I'm gonna write about some reasons why my zest for going to school is lost. But I shall, first, think about the consequence of it. Many people, closely-related, would come and sympathize me for being such a slob. Yeah. The grounds are ultimately depressing like eating a non-sweet chocolate, or watching a religious slash hypocritical t.v. station. More or less, I have to take the overwhelming pieces of advice of my not-so-empathic(?) friends.

By the way, I'm at school right now. But lessons learned in the Net are much more tolerating and practical than those you fish out from your teachers. I mean, I'm not particular about what or how should a teacher delivers a lesson. It's more on how well he/she distinguishes my attention, yeah that's focus. But this is not being me as the attention-fisher type of student. Sadly, if not mostly, my teachers this semester start to bore me, in reasons that they can no longer trigger my academically-challenged mind to think. It's like I just have to go in class for attendance or listen 'til I get asleep. I once did in MST 6.

I dunno. I'm graduating, and I have to grip the determination harder. Otherwise, say hello to UP Mindanao again for the fifth time. Another thing is, I should be working on my thesis. But new insights don't appeal to me right now. And I won't write about crap since the compilation would be my only evidence as a writer, minus the chances of reading I received from you.

So what's at stake? I will blog it next time.

I can't go to school today; everyone might see my corn-sized pimple.

Looks like this drug doesn't go well with empty stomach at all. I felt less nauseous if I take it after eating something. Eat after taking the drug doesn't really help to ease this unformtable feeling. Oh well, at least this sympton goes away quite quickly.

Wouldn't you be amazed if someone comes along and complain to you about being broke? Then you'd ask, "What have you been spending?". And he'd answer, "That's what I'm trying to figure out".

But what if nobody believes that he's totally broke? As in for sure? That one says he's a self deluded man if he is.

How To Be Honest

Yes. I am.

How To Be Persecuted

I borrowed ten bucks from a friend, but instead of getting it, I received a whole crap of queries of why-why-why-why.

Here's some of his questions, as far as I could remember.

How many beers a week do you drink?

I never drink this week. Oopps. I had once but it was a treat.

How many cigarettes do you smoke?

A friend gave me ten sticks last night. And I bought one pack. But that was last week.

How much meat do you eat?

God! What is ten pesos per night!

How many new clothes have you bought in the last month?

Hmmm. I had two new t-shirts, an undershirt, and a boxer.

How many “gifts” have you just had to buy?

I never give gifts.

How many magazines or newspapers have you bought this month?

I'm not into that stuff.

How many CD’s?

Hello! I got USB.

How many snacks?

One banana cue. But I had it as someone's left over. Yuk.

How much candy do you eat a week?

Chocolates. Everyday.

How many TV dinners?

None.

How much fast food have you been eating?

Mcdo, chicken steak. But I don't count. And it's cheap, ya know!

How much did you spend on the lottery?

None. Isn't that illegal?

How much did your TV cost you?

I don't watch TV. You know I have none.

How much money do you give to your church?

Haven't I answered that I don't give out money?

How To Address Your Helpful Friend

So are these questions essential to you, before you could lend me a ten-peso coin? Darling, don't you dare ask me about the net income of my parents the moment I ask you for a higher amount just to fend this holy-shit tragedy of your hopeless-slash-civil friend.

I don't know if I simply do not want to be responsible for another life, or if I am actually incapable of it. Well, I know the first is true, I just don't know if the latter is as well. I do not want to have to spend the next fifteen to twenty years being responsible for keeping something else alive.

I have done that. I graduated high school and moved into a house--not a dorm, or an apartment, or some other situation conventional to my age. I moved into a house, and I was largely responsible for the house and for the cats who resided in it.

I cleaned litter boxes, trimmed claws, fed, bathed, medicated, administered fluids to them when they were sick and dehydrated, held one while he had seizures, held most of them while they died. I did that and I cannot say that I regret it entirely, but it was twenty years of my life in which I sometimes made choices and sacrifices based on several somebodies who licked their asses.

I told people repeatedly that I didn't want another pet, and they insisted once I got one I would change my mind. I said I was quite happy with my Plecostomus and my outdoor birds and squirrels. They balked. And I allowed myself to believe what they said because I really do enjoy being around animals, in particular cats.

But once one was in my house and it became real, I felt instantly like someone drowning. Yesterday, just thinking about what taking care of an animal for the entirety of its life involves made me nauseous.

So I took an Ativan this morning, a drug I hoped I no longer required. I have not chosen to take the cat back to the pet rescue which defies all reason. Instead, I am going to for the time being, go back on the medications that allow me to do the things normal people often do without a second thought.

I can always choose to take the cat back later if things do not improve (he's already a year old, another month won't make him less adoptable); but a part of me still has to ask: If a person requires drugs to cope with something as routine as caring for an animal, should that person be caring for an animal?

PS. I am less bitter and disdainful on meds, but I am also less humorous, so there's no telling what this blog will be like.

PPS. I probably shouldn't publish this, but I'm going to anyway because I found it to be a cathartic experience and if it helps just one person, it will have been worth exposing myself.  Isn't that the kind of crap pseudo-famous people say when they write a book?  Like them, I'm just doing it for the cash.

PPPS. Oh, that's right.

]]> http://mgabalakniloloy.wordpress.com/?p=92 Tue, 01 Jul 2008 14:47:58 +0000 balakniloloy http://mgabalakniloloy.wordpress.com/?p=92 How To Send A Letter To Your (Dead) Childhood Sweetheart

I am thinking that for a child, there’s no presence without flesh. But perhaps it is because I am no longer a child, I can know your presence though you are not here. These letters tonight are skeletons. Bones only. But the earth still stirs with dormant blooms. And my love still flows through the roots of the trees by your grave.

This morning, I lighted up a cigarette and had a puff. Then I remembered again, yelled to myself "NOOOO, it's not happening again", so I put it off. The bad thing is that I didn't actually throw it away, the remaining was sitting in the ashtray. Hence, when I got home after work today, I smoked the remaining cigarette.

I still had 5 packs plus 6 cigarettes left when yesterday started. When I went out yesterday, I gave my friend 4 packs. I gave the remaining ciggies to my colleague. Righ at this moment, I don't have any cigarettes with me now. However, it doesn't mean I wouldn't go crazy and drive to a shop to buy a pack. I can only hope it won't happen. After all, I don't have the urge to smoke at all now, it's more like a habbit. When I'm bored, I just wanna grab one and light it up.

How can you not see that I am offended by what you were telling me? Can you not for once see where I am coming from? I am trying very hard to keep my cool on seeing those photos because I do not want to fight with you and I know you will just deny it anyway so what's the use of harping about it? How can you ask me to say that when you know how I feel? You must be a sadist! Do you enjoy seeing me squirm? Does it give you satisfaction to know that you're hurting my feelings? Can't you lie to me and just answer yes to my question?

Do you even care? Can't we be normal even just for once?

]]> http://mgabalakniloloy.wordpress.com/?p=67 Tue, 17 Jun 2008 06:52:45 +0000 balakniloloy http://mgabalakniloloy.wordpress.com/?p=67 How To Describe Yourself

I’m not a good classmate.

I’d rather laugh at your silent yet gossip-provoking fart than to your greenest dry joke!

How To Become Seer (Enough)

There was one episode of my boring college life that a girl, sitting beside me, just farted (pretty sure of that) and I suddenly gagged at her utmost desire to do it in class. I gagged as if my whole spaghetti lunch might blow out of me, and our closeted teacher came flapping our classcards over and pounded me on the back, and when I settled down, he said, “It’s not so funny, so go out from this class before I humiliate you!”

How To Be Iconoclastic

I just said sorry without him knowing what really happened. What an insensitive teacher!

How To Quote Your Favorite Author

My healthy interest in farts came about after reading Garrison Keillor’s Lake Wobegon: Summer 1956 two years ago. I learned that there are ten kinds of farts- the silent but deadly, the slow leaks, the hissers, fizzers, poppers, croakers, bangers, cheek-flappers, tail-gunners, and cargo farts (the one that delivers a load; like a small dark of a fart such as an alien from outer space that might deliver to UP Mindanao, necessitating the evacuation of HH drivers, Ate Malou’s photocopy center… the one that could blow Chanci’s weird hairdo..lol) It really takes one time to ruin such campus icons.

How To Look Pathetic

And my classmates gathered around me, sensing, I mean hoping for something gory….perhaps for a hemorrhaging effect! Too bad, God didn’t bless them to have functional noses! All they got was pained expression from me. Then I was sent over the table with my teacher, talking about my homicidal behavior, and gave me a lecture about taking responsibility for my proper conduct.

How To Learn From Your Mistakes

And I realized that everything is matter of learning. “You didn’t mean to humiliate her, but you’re still responsible.” Whatever! Heaven knows, I meant it! That was an incredibly fascinating scene one couldn’t forget! Imagine, that was the worst fart I’ve ever smelled. It smells like a dead rat with rotten tomatoes and garlic as toppings. Lol.

How To Be Proud Of Yourself

And when I went home during a semestral break, I shared it to my mother. Unfortunately, she was disappointed and said, “What sort of UP student witness will you have if you go around talking like that?”

Then I answered, “Should I have lied and said I didn’t know what’s on my mind?”

She insisted, “You came from a catholic school. The bible says to avoid giving offense. And promise not to use that language again.”

How To Swear

I went out and waved and said, “Duh! I only use the word fart when one occurs!”

If my uncle had his way, I’d be sent to an institution for the sex-crazed. A dark stoned building surrounded by ten-foot fence, with steel mesh over the windows, and the hallways smell of piss and boys lie strapped to bunkbeds with thick leather straps- a place like Lolo died in, except for sex lunatics, and cure is to drunk them in ice water and zap them with electricity and give them ant-sex drugs and if necessary slice off their wieners so for the rest of their lives they have to pee sitting down, like girls.

He confronted me once.

And I said, I’d love to be there and be a girl, somehow.

And I went out, laughing.

You can pretend it’s the future if you want to. Nobody would give a rat’s furry behind what you tell yourself, what you need to believe. You can say this kind of stuff doesn’t exist yet, or that it’s really close, like tomorrow, but not today.

I tried it to get started; I just want it all recorded. I mean, I was an idiot who didn’t know anything but the word password.

It felt like I had this all full of the passionate fires of virtual idealism, but believe me, I just kinda stumbled to this one. Inside, there’s all this insidious shit with electronic invasion and everybody act like damn porpoise on some kind of perpetual cyberwave.

How To Find A Cool Channel

I enter the room/channel davaosex and everybody there has been funny about one thing in particular: GENDER.

How To Suit Yourself

It’s a little ironic, because they don’t submit to pronouns. Most of the usernames are like unisex clothes, which you can hardly buzz in who is who. And what they are up to there is amazing. Other chatters get really pissed. And of course, SEX is the room’s appetizer, like you need to anticipate someone’s intro with top or bottom? But that’s online. You can easily swing from one gender to another, talking about doubling your chances. Everybody, as a _newbie [my username], tells me about it, which is cool. Except knowing who does who and what sex they are kinda seems important to me- at least as a perspective. And in the public room, your_bliss goes “what’s gender?” and I start sputtering ‘coz “what’s gender” is a stupid question, but it’s not easy like I think. I mean, what kind of fool would ask you what gender is? It’s the only thing we know, goddamit!

How To Chat Sensibly

It’s the only thing we’re told from birth, _cute says. Yeah, common sense. Gender gets assigned at birth but we never choose, not like we choose our clothes, courses, toys, or lovers. Except the one thing that determines how we’ll all be treated the rest of our lives we don’t choose. Can’t argue with that one.

But I’m starting to burst now, you know, ‘coz of that gender thingie. So they made up this pronoun game that they ripped it off like they rip off so much other stuff.

How To Log-out, Unsatisfied

Funny thing is, I can’t remember as quickly as I used to, what they really are, I mean, geez, I start to sound like them.

I started to use electric blanket many weeks ago. Sometimes I just have it on at the beginning to warm the bed up.

Don’t pluck your eyebrows. You’re not joining a pageant. Never go to the market unless you look for a new pair of rubber shoes. But don’t look for Hello Kitty bags; you are on longer a kid.

But I don’t like Hello Kitty.

Never bring a basket unless you accompany your mother. Never let your younger sister ask you to do the dishes; scold her. You are older.Never sing Pussycat Doll’s songs before your friends. Don’t pout your lips. Pucker it if you are silent. Don’t sashay your walk. Be haughty. If you’re riding a carabao, don’t lap your leg in the other. Don’t point your toes. Flex it. Don’t wear tight shirts and pants when you go downtown. Your cousins will see and have talks about you.

Throw your flowered slippers. Get the black one. This is how you pull the rope. Be sure to grip it like a man. Don’t get scared if the pig follows after you. Just hold the rope until you reach the pigpen. Carry the rooster like you’re carressing your girl’s soft skin. When you’re with me at cockpits, shout your bet loud.

Talk with the elders. The old men. You will know how they courted their wives. You will get sure ways to chase your bird. Swim like a frog; swimming like a dog makes you a sissy. Always help your beautiful teachers at school. But don’t cut flowers. You can only shovel the soil. Don’t sketch Barbie and her clothes. Draw Superman. You will be good at it. Play spiders; ignore your fancy of white cats. Play basketball. Reject your neighbor’s invitation for skipping ropes.

Plant camote, cassava or Tanglad; but never plant sunflowers, rosal or morning glory.  Join with your uncles. Learn how they puff. Soon you will take cigarettes. Don’t stop when your aunts ask you to pluck their white hairs. Tell them you’re plowing your mother’s garden. Don’t say it’s your garden. Your aunts will praise your industry. Go to the ceiling. Sweep off the cobwebs. Don’t sweep the floor. Your sister can do it. During Sundays, lay down the trapal.

Try to carry a 50 kilo of unmilled rice. You will dry it under the sun. Bring it to the court. Make this a weekend habit. It forms your body early on. Girls admire boys with perfect built. Do you drink rhum? Good. It heightens your tolerance. Just don’t let your mother catch you. I have warned you not to be aggresive to girls. Some of them like gentle boys. A gentleman never tells his feelings. He shows.

A flower is a prerequisite to love. Chololate is a plus. When the sun shines, it is normal to feel the morning woods. It reminds you of becoming a man. If your tool needs wanking, find a safe place to imagine your girl. The way you imagine her is different from the way you think of her. Ask her things you want without embarrassment or hesitation. A man does his insidious desire without being caught by the woman he loves. This is how you pose before her. Don’t bend your knees. Don’t put your weight on one side.

Forget your habit of parting your hair. You shouldn’t be conscious. She might think you’re vain. If you happen to see your girl chasing someone, don’t hate her. A man never hurts a woman. Just go directly to boy who insults your pride. Deal him with a fight. Be sure your girl will never know. Don’t cry. Don’t ask for her help if the fight gets worse. And fight back if you get punches and bruises.

But what if he won’t punch or leave me bruises?

You mean to say you are really going to be the kind of man who the men won’t let hurt?

I just found a Chinese wall, a bathroom stall, a place everybody writes random stuff in no particular order: an electronic graffiti board. I use the “skim” program to grab anything new that’s popped onto the Net. It’s completely disorganized when it arrives on my lappy, then I arrange it like a collage. Some of the postings are like bulletin board, some more urgent, like the wall in a ghetto where you can see lines being drawn, rage, or sorrow vented. I’m gonna include them in this journal, along with everything else. It just appealed to me.

I got my sauce and walked through the men's department on the lookout for deeply discounted plaid (no luck) and saw the sign below. It struck me as funny. Maybe if I had an active bottom it wouldn't have.

◊

In unrelated news, I had one of those dreams in which the people in the dream do not look anything like themselves, but you know it's them anyway. In the dream, Joe Pesci was [horribly] cast in the role of my grandfather and kept talking about the problems with today's "yout". I haven't seen "My Cousin Vinnie" in ages so I cannot explain that.

Also in the dream was a one-time friend I have not seen in fifteen years, my half-sister who I have not seen in twenty-five years (more or less) and one of my readers who I have never seen. She was wearing a black skirt that I did not like, but in real life she doesn't wear skirts at all so I haven't a clue what that was about.

Anyway, in the dream, someone wanted me to vote for Jack Black for president and I told them I would if it would get him to stop making movies. And maybe Adam Sandler could run with him and I could kill to birds with one stone.

◊

I got into a argument, no that is too strong a word--a debate with someone over the environment. The person in question thinks global warming and anything even remotely environmental in nature is a bunch of crap. I asked a question that for some reason I have never asked before and I think it's a damn good one.

"Even if global warming has been exaggerated, what is so bad about recycling, reducing, and conserving? I mean, could not wasting resources, and preserving a few trees lead to some sort of calamity?" It's a perfectly apt question.

◊

I have a zit on the side of my nose where my glasses rest. It's annoying. I have to wear sunglasses when I am working outside, and dirt and sweat collect there and lead to a clogged pore or whatever. There's no solution to this one (although I did put a tiny bit of food powder (it has salicylic acid in it) on the pads of my glasses which might help).

◊

If you got invited to a cocktail party and the host made you diagram a sentence for each beverage you drank, would you tell people about it afterward like it was good idea or a really bad one? No, I am not having a party; I just like to write down ideas for eventual use.

◊

That's it.

Poza de aici

"Nu-ti dai niciodata inima cu totul; o imprumuti doar, din cand in cand. Daca nu ar fi asa, atunci cum ai putea sa ti-o iei inapoi fara sa ceri voie nimanui?"

Problema mea este ca, atunci cand imprumut un lucru, nu il cer niciodata inapoi, ci astept sa-mi fie inapoiat. Asa se face ca am bucatele din inima imprastiate prin locuri si oameni. Si sincer, chiar nu le vreau inapoi. E un fel de a ramane legata de ceva ce mi-a fost odata drag. Si cum am mai spus, independenta din mine iubeste nodurile. (Ma suspectez ;) )

I am descended from country people who woke up before sunrise and clambered out of bed and dressed in coveralls or print dresses (curtain-likes) that smelled of fragrant detergent soap and took their porcelain chamber pots to the outhouse and emptied it and washed their faces in cold water from a steel basin and made hot tsokolates and perfectly-baked bibingkas and said a prayer for their loved ones and the President of the Philippines, and then walked out to their work outdoors, rain or shine, raising carabaos, pigs, and chickens, and corn and hay.