My Sister's Wedding

Me, my wife, and my sister. They look pretty much alike, so I'm often mistaken as the in-law.

Ilocos, The Beautiful

The Bangui windmills

All you (n)ever wanted to know - about my hair

I know it is an unflattering subject, but the choice isn't something from out of the blue. I had my haircut a few hours ago [ I, actually, never got to finish this article two weeks ago.], and while seated at the barber's chair, some memories came rushing back with each snip of the scissors.

The most recent: the other day my seatmate Krisna noted that while she is a few years younger than I, her age could be mistaken for mine. Streaks of white have kept sprouting on her crown. It was also the other day that scientists studying the cause of skin cancer announced that they fortuitously stumbled on the reason for graying of hair.

And so, as I sat on the barber's chair, resisting sleep, my thoughts wandered like movie flashbacks. The first images I saw were those of my friends, three in particular. In deference, I will not disclose their names. Let's just say that they are among the unlucky ones who, at a young age, said goodbye to their crowning glories (At the very least, they still have some glory left on the sides). Yes, I have three balding friends. I bet no one can top that - their number, not their heads.

As my barber (a she) kept trimming my hair, I also counted the many hairstyles I have had. Except for perm, I guess I've tried a lot - long, short, shaved, and hints of color.

As kids, my brother and I always sported the same cut - the Army cut, and it was always done on Sundays and by a specific barber. While Mother would be at the market buying our week-long food supply, Father would drive us to Anko's Barbershop, in our Army jeep, to have our Army cuts. We would wait for hours for our turn on Anko's chair for he was an epitome of exactitude, a fine example of impeccable grooming. From the moment he puts on the barber's cape until it comes off, everything is executed with careful precision. Customer satisfaction came above all else.

There were no long queues in his barbershop since patrons who lived nearby perhaps opted to check from time to time if there's no one on Anko's chair. Occasionally, there would be those who, like us, would wait. Ilocano comics, hanged on plastic strings like curtains for Anko's shop windows, would be on stand-by for those who wait.

The first time I tried to be adventurous with my hair, but with catastrophic results, was in high school. "Spike" was in vogue, and gay parloristas at every street corner can give you the cut at any or no cost. The style was understandably unpopular with my old man, so when I arrived home with spikes as hard as nails, he threw a steal ashtray at me in his fury. My reflexes did not betray me: I was able to shield with my right hand the flying ashtray before it hit my face. A scar is all that remains of that incident, enough to well up the guilt of Father as the fad caught on with the youth. In an instant, guys, even girls, started sporting short, heavily gelled hair, enough to kill a lizard overwhelmed by gravity.

Two gun-totting years of ROTC kept my hairstyles in college uneventful. Later on, with Father in Ilocos and me in Los Banos, I was free to try anything that caught my fancy. Even when I taught at UP, I could sit among my students and not be mistaken as the teacher. Then time came when grunge took its foothold on my generation, and I started to have lesser visits to the barber. When I resigned from UP and applied for a job in a private firm in a far-flung area in Bulacan near the site of Biak-na-Bato, my hair was long enough to touch my shoulders. The people of the company, who I later became friends with, confessed that they referred to me as the applicant needing a grass cutter. Grass cutters were mainstays in our company since talahib always threatened to take over the company premises.

My long hair days were almost cut short when I was invited to speak at the graduation rites of my former schools, both elementary and high school. I hesitated to trim everything away so I had it cut near the jaw line. Still, this did not prevent the President of the university that managed the high school from commenting, "You should be an example to the graduates," while staring straight at myhair with razor-sharp eyes. His words hit me, but the students who smilingly identified with my long hair were enough to soothe my bruised ego. For one moment, I felt like Eddie Vedder in BarongTagalog.

I experimented with color but only during Christmastime. One Christmas, I had my short hair dyed white. I thought I would make me look older but it didn't, on the contrary. Then in a company party at my third job, I had orange hair. During the Christmas break of that year, my niece and nephew were so amused that they pleaded to be carried or had me seated so they could touch my hair. It was rather fun to see Father and Mother having no violent reactions. Probably, they felt it was better seeing an orange-haired alien in their house than a son sporting a tattoo or any body piercing.

Of late, my haircuts have become appropriate for my age. Well, sort of. Occasionally, I have my hair gelled and finger-styled going to all directions like most Japanese do. When I get bored, I would head to the nearest shop and have a very short crop. With the birth of my son, there are now two hairstyles to decide upon. Later on, I'll let Eonas find his own groove. For now, it will be Army cut until I say so.

Taste It, Stick It, Lick It (Not naughty as it seems)

Not often does a newborn come, so when opportunity knocks, we savour the moment - a burst of smile, the first walk, even a terrible cry. Lucky if you have a camera nearby, you'll have a lasting memento. Without a camera, you'll probably have to wait for the next child. Newborns come in a flash. They grow so fast, suddenly they're no longer newborns. Huwag ka dapat kukurap baka di mo matikman ang sarap (Don't blink lest you won't have a taste of the moment).

This happened exactly when I unwittingly captured a very tender moment of my child half asleep on the bosom of his mom. That moment is now forever enshrined in my digital archive. I had 60 copies of the picture printed as a postcard. At this time, 15 remain.

I sent out the first batch of postcards by bringing them directly to the post office. Although almost every street corner in Japan has a big red post box, I intentionally wanted to see the reaction of the lady at the counter. As I expected, the lady exclaimed, Kawaii sou (How cute!), as I prepared to leave.

Having gotten the reaction I wanted and savoured the moment as well, I sent out the second batch by sticking them directly into the slot of a post office box. Of course, I also stuck a 70-yen stamp, the value for an international postcard, wherever in the world you're sending - Afghanistan or Zimbabwe.

Sure, there was a third batch and something I must tell. On closer inspection, I noticed that one of the slots of the post box was labeled EXPRESS, INTERNATIONAL MAIL; the other was labeled LETTERS and POSTCARDS. I had postcards going international and a huge problem.

At that instant, I felt confused and even began to doubt whether the second batch reached their destinations, having simply dropped them in the POSTCARDS slot. I felt lucky however since there was a Japanese about to mail her letters. That luck returned to dilemma when, with the typical Japanese sideways head tilt, the Japanese said, gomenasai, yuubinkyoku ni ikimasu (Sorry, better go to the post office).

At the post office, I was greeted not by the same lady but by a seemingly grumpy old man. I handed him the postcards, then he started weighing them one at a time. What for, I asked. There is a weight limit for postcards and three exceeded the limit. I had to pay additional postage, one thing I could have avoided entirely had I not been fussy and simply dropped the cards in any of the slots.

Thinking back I wondered how some of the cards weighed more than the others. Was it the paper? Was it the length of message I wrote on the card? Ahh, it was the glue! I used glue to stick the stamps on the cards. The heavy cards could have had their stamps stuck last and the glue has not dried up.

I still have 15 postcards left and I know exactly what to do with them - drop them in the box after licking and sticking a 70-yen stamp. I can almost taste the stamps.

Thoroughly Yours

WRIIIIIITTTTTTTTEEEEE!!!!!

That was the blaring cry from an e-mail I received while I was on a trip to the Philippines last week. It wasn't because I did not reply to an e-mail or anything; rather, it was a reminder that I haven't posted anything new in my e-journal. It said - (Your) last post was on June 8. Today is June 23. I'm waiting for a new article!!!

It delighted me to know that a post of mine is anticipated. I had fears in the past that no one reads what I labor to write. Or if anyone does, some may view it at as self-gratuitous and self-congratulatory. Well, these people can't be faulted, for indeed, a lot of people write to satisfy themselves, to advance a cause or to simply while their time. Writing is an outlet of one's creative or destructive thoughts, a vent for one's inner chaos or calm. What would the songs of Dylan and Cobain be if not products of triumphs and turmoil. To this day, their musings are the subject of books that pore over their lyrical ruminations.

Going back to the e-mail, my friend further challenged me saying, “Scott Fitzgerald worked for 8 hours a day and Hemingway wasted his time playing and drinking around. ” Although the references to Fitzgerald and Hemingway are flattering, they are quite far-off. These men are titans of the written word. I am but a Goliath in my mother's world.

On closer look, my friend might have been giving me a wake-up call. Does he think I can better my work? Or does he simply want me to write more often? Certainly, the writers around today fall under two categories. On the one hand are those who are highly prolific, a book of theirs never leaves the bookstands. Their works are the stuff movies are often based on. Stephen King, John Grisham, I can name a lot more. On the other hand, there are also writers whom we wait for years to come out with a book. Are they of lesser caliber? Do they suffer from writer's block more frequent than the rest? Or are they more thorough with their work?

Whatever the reasons, that one writer takes longer than another to launch a book adds to what makes a writer unique. It eventually bears an imprint on his work; it distinguishes a well-thought out book from a mass consumption work. What comes out after a long or a short wait tells much on what the writer has been through. A book or whatever literary work is like a babe in the womb. It is shaped by what its author breathed, ate, heard, and felt during the months of conception. And like all deliveries, the labor process can be quick and fast or long and hard. But in the end, a babe, a book is there to behold.

Will it be a bestseller? Will it be a beautiful baby? Who knows? The birth is a reward in itself.

And as for you, my friend, I will try to come out with something more often. But rest assured I would remain thoroughly yours.

The Morning News

TV is becoming stronger than ever thanks to reality shows. But the best reality shows thus far are the news. They are about events that happen unscripted, unpremeditated if you will. Who gets the most viewers depends on whose network presents the latest and juiciest news in a truthful but appealing way.

Many may agree that the best time to watch the news is in the morning. It is when you get to know what happened in other parts of the world, or even perhaps in your neighborhood while you were asleep. What is seen on the screen may even determine one's mood for the rest of the day.

Why not in the evening? For the workingman, we know that after putting in a whole day's work he would prefer to watch something more entertaining like a soccer game. Watching the news about a worsening state of world affairs would only add more weight to an already tired and heavy day.

When the World Trade Center was attacked early morning of September 11, it was seen on Japan TV on the late night news. Imagine how many viewers on this side of the world, me included, who fought hard to get a good sleep. From then on, I always shunned the news channels at night.

Nonetheless, when primetime is devoid of any good shows, the late night news is always an option. And if by chance most of the news are good, you might even find yourself smiling even in your sleep.

Loving the news perhaps grows with age. When I was younger, I always hated the news since my father had the TV all for himself just to watch it. Now that I'm in my father's age as when I was born, I too am beginning to love the news.

On some days the news can be quite shocking. Occasionally, they can give you the ouch. On most days the news suck. Other days they are awesome.

This morning was one of the better days. News on a unanimous vote (yes, including France) on an American and British resolution to end the formal occupation of Iraq on June 30 and transfer of "full sovereignty" to an interim Iraqi government was like a breath of fresh air. What made the news doubly cheery was the fact that it was passed at a time when a Filipino was at the helm of the UN Security Council in the person of Lauro L. Baja Jr.

Wouldn't it be nice to have more mornings like these, when news are as welcoming like the dawning of a brand new day?

Eonas' Ninangs and Ninongs

In case I forget, I have to write them down.

Ninangs: Zara, Maries, Noreen, Toya, Odang, Mia
Ninongs: Lennon, Bong, Dave, Glenn, Jojo, Joel