throwback thursday #01

The good old 70's... when the Philippines was under Martial Law
and photographs taken with actual film looked like filtered digital Instagram photos.
My older sister looks so adorably cute (she's always been the prettier one
as you can see), and I, as with almost all photos up to this day, look drunk.

flip & hebe

I am re-posting a birthday treat from my long-time buddy and my spirit animal, Benny, whose most evident trait I  recently discovered, is that of a liar:

FLIP and HEBE

by benny

Bebsy is this beautiful chick I met during my formative years living in Manila.  It’s not what you think.  She is an old buddy who remains constant in my life tho we live in different cities, different countries.  We have this unorthodox kinship, as she provides me every now and then bits of wisdom (she’s 3 years older therefore she thinks she’s some Jedi Master) and entertainment with hilarious anecdotes of her sit-com of a life. 

I quoted her many twisted and perverse views on social issues, and re-posted her own warped versions of world history which in my estimation has received the most number of comments on my blog. 

In the middle of our recent discussion about the ongoing case of Oscar Pistorius, Bebsy designated me as key eulogy speaker at her funeral service.  (She has this habit of jumping from one topic to another mid-conversation, saying something completely off topic sans warning nor smooth transition,  expecting you to keep up and respond.)

Mean, wicked people, for the most part, live long evil lives, unless of course you’re Hitler or Osama Bin Laden.  Although Bebsy believes 45 is when she kicks the bucket, considering the true nature of the way her bizarre evil mind works and the hedonistic life she led in her mid to late 20s (to which I have been a witness of) this woman will outlive us all. 

I am going off the cuff today and dedicate an entire blog post to Bebsy, my emblematic life travelling companion, and show you, my readers, how our pure platonic and almost dysfunctional relationship, that is of a heterosexual male and a heterosexual half-female (a part of her brain is all-dude) works.   I mean, I do adore her and all, but it’s not something I tell her cos she gets all emotional and shit.

See, it’s her birthday today. I will try to be non-revealing and eulogize my buddy, one who I believe is the lovechild produced from of an orgy amongst Naomi Campbell (her mouth!), Larry David  and Sylvia Plath with Lena Dunham watching on the sideline.

1.     In our younger years, Bebsy and I had a dream of getting our own travel show aptly called Flip & Hebe (Filipino and Hebrew).  Genius, right? Picture Lonely Planet’s Ian Wright as a duo.   Somewhere in my apartment is a notebook detailing episodes of lost cities & cultures we’d visit and document.  We would have killed.  It was a bloody brilliant concept.  It is important that this is the first thing I mention in my eulogy.  Her death notwithstanding, I have not given up on that dream.

2.    Bebsy and I met at a bar owned by her first boyfriend.  My buddies and I frequented that bar, located near the International School where I had worked.  She would come in to occasionally hang out or help wait tables.

She never gives this historical fact to anyone.  She’s long obliterated the memory of that Ex and she thinks that giving the story that we met at a bar makes her cheap and desperate.  (her views always are off base)

My buddy Alejandro pined for her longingly.  Like most regulars at the bar, he was a foreigner. A native Honduran living in Manila.  After 3 shots of whisky he would romanticize Bebsy’s exotic beauty and hounded her to no end to run away with him to Lisbon and raise a family.  She shone in the tender light of his gruff adoration, but she always responded with a funny comeback.  She never took him seriously, never thought of herself as the beautiful and sensuous woman Alejandro saw her for.  Unbeknownst to her, she was his first love.  She broke the poor guy's heart.  It’s my all-time favorite memory of Ironmike's.

3.     On top of our travel show, a mutual love for the same music and mutual hatred for the same politicos, Bebsy and I bonded over books.  We shared a collection of Maugham, Camus and Salinger.  We both identified with Holden Caulfield and upped one another with Catcher in the Rye quotes.  Man, we sounded like pretentious assholes.

When she broke up with the Ex, she wrote me a beautifully written account of the bitter break-up.  I couldn't care less what happened, but through that email I discovered her flair for writing.  In my otherwise drab life that year I got excited.  Like a parent who suddenly discovers that his child has an innate ability to fly.  Not quite, but close.  

I continue to encourage her to write.  I made her set up a blog.  What is penned on extra rice, please does not even scratch the surface of her gift.  She is just too lazy to write and hone her craft. (Genius of a blog title, I may add, because it was MY idea; it's her perennial request over a Filipino meal.)

Our friendship flourished because of many hours talking about existential and absurdist bullshit over mojitos, exotic meals and many email exchanges over the years;  some were filled with great life secrets and regrets, most of the time with profanity-induced nonsense.  She is honest and raw with the written word.  You see her true self when she speaks through her pen.  

4.     Bebsy’s potentially intimidating confidence, (one part Zen-stillness, another part her large, bored-looking, judgemental eyes) is undercut by her warm sweet sincere smile, a discrepancy that can be disconcerting.

She looks like an evil bitch at first glance.  It’s her height not very common for Filipinos, that protruding mouth, her face that looks like she’s criticizing you and letting you know she’d rather be some place else, when all she’s doing really is recalling what she ate for breakfast that’s making her stomach upset. 

The secret to her social success is that she’s genuinely interested – not in all subjects, but certainly in all people.  She enjoys listening to people’s stories, always asking questions without false enthusiasm and nosiness.  She finds valuable lessons in people's experiences.  She does not fake it.  That’s how charming she can be and why people generally get smitten with her. 

My girlfriend Holly was initially not impressed with Bebsy when I’d talk about my life in Manila.  “I don’t trust that one.  She’s up to no good.” 

Ten minutes into their first meeting, the 2 were deconstructing ‘Talented Mr. Ripley’ and cackling in laughter while sharing travel experiences to Sorrento, Italy.  Holly understands my connection with Bebsy, and until most recently actually appreciates it.

5.     In a social setting, I always have a looming dark cloud over my head and Bebsy is little miss sunshine personified.  I am the freak at a party, finding solace in the corner and people watching with my warm beer.  She was my social crutch and my secret weapon to a lot of party obligations in the 90’s.  I can never articulate her brand of humour.  It's dark, self-deprecating most of the time, affiliative yet aggressive especially around close friends.   She finds comedy in any situation, and I have to honestly say, that is one of her greatest traits. 

I am astounded with the infinite supply of trivial information she keeps in her head.  It's annoying.  She has vast knowledge of films, books, music, theatre, history and different cultures that it makes me thrilled when she has the occasional mental blackout.   She speaks in movie quotes and bursts into song even at the most inappropriate times.

6.     Ironically, when she's affectionate towards someone, she could be mean-spirited, overly critical and potty-mouthed.   This is her tender self to her treasured lot: people whom she holds dear in her life, those she lovingly calls Ass, Nerd, Douche, Idiot and Bastard; the very few people who understand her bordering-on-psycho yet comical way of showing how she cares and loves.

With our little group of 2, she monopolizes conversations.  I give her a story of my terrible bout with stomach flu, she would cut me off and text a photo of a spot on her neck.  

“Im glad you’re better.  But check out that mole.  You think it’s cancerous?”

I give slightly more of a free pass to her, since she is constantly surrounded with loud, demanding people in her life, seeking her attention and service 24/7.  

On the phone I listen to her complain or talk about whatever mundane issue she needs to get off her chest, compelling me to robotically say “Uh-huh” or “no kidding” while focusing intently on a game on tv.  

On video chat,  as I seek her advise about a fight with Holly, she gazes at me with the most sympathetic look of concern, meanwhile off camera, she’s texting a friend about a recent episode of Dexter or Breaking Bad.

  

That’s how we roll. We are aware how we bullshit each other with our listening skills, but the fact is, a simple nod or "uh-huh" is enough for us both.

7.     At the risk of sounding like a wuss, Bebsy scares me when she’s angry.  She is quiet. She is never confrontational.  She gets intensely mad when she feels abused and disrespected and when this happens, she walks away.  Disappears.  A massive character flaw, I'd always say.  She has her own way of dealing with anger which involves her being isolated and alone.  

We've had our share of dare-I-say 'girly fights' and with me, she has always managed to verbalize what upsets her.  What I did wrong.  What I should've done.  What big dick I was.  She is relentless.  Guilty or not, I still feel at fault and find myself having a great need to apologize.  Seeing her hurt is the last thing anybody would want.  That’s her genius.  And I hate her for it. 

8.     We are not a mushy duo. I’ve seen Bebsy cry many times. But she makes it look so comical  that it's hard to take her seriously. In most cases, I would shake her, turn her inside out and make her realize she’s wasting both our times. Then I’d feel a need to give her a good smack in the head.  Seriously.  

One time tho she let out a soft, silent sob.  One that she didn’t want me to see.  That was very painful and heartbreaking to watch.  I was bewildered and saddened by the bad hand life has dealt her during that difficult time, and when I saw her that vulnerable right before my eyes, my inherent reaction was to say nothing, just be present and hold her hand.

That’s the thing about Bebsy.  One moment you want to wring her neck or smack her in the head, the next moment you want to take care of her and reassure her that you’ll never leave her side.

9.     She sends text messages about almost everything:  photos of her injured body parts, questions she can easily Google but too lazy to do on her own.  She sends messages so confusing they are actually meant for someone else. 

I complained about this manic texting once, and when she stopped, I found myself strangely missing it, missing her. Because her family and her very close circle of friends are all geographically out of her reach, it's her way of protecting the linkage.  In her mind these random texts are her way of saying ‘I’m thinking of you. I'm making an effort to keep this relationship going. I value your response. So respond, Godammit.”  

She complains about sending expensive international texts but has no problem calling me in Madrid from her cellular phone in Toronto to read a whole David Sedaris essay she thought was so funny.  (FYI Nothing is funny at 3am when you’re doing your damnest to adjust to local time by sleeping soundly. So I don't think it was unreasonable for me to be un-amused. Sweet Jesus.) 

10.    She is never big-headed about her real remarkable talents (she's cunning & smart, puts the CakeBoss to shame &  has the voice of an angel), but very arrogant about the ones she clearly does not possess.

I’m very intuitive, she boasts.  No, she’s not.  

I know what people are thinking.  No, she doesn’t.  

I’m a wiz at Math.  Algebra, yes, she proved that one time, but Basic Arithmetic, hell no. Tell her your birth year, ask what your age is, her response,"Fuck.... Math."

I am a great basketball player.  No one can prove this.  No one has seen her play, not even Hans Smit, her own university phys ed teacher.  (She bribed him with hard-to-find imported smokes so she didn’t have to go through a whole trimester of gym!)

11.     She is the sweetest and kindest friend any man can ever have.  That, I can attest to.  She is thoughtful, selfless, loyal and trust worthy.  She's like a big kid, really.  She remembers birthdays and knows her friends’ mothers’ first names.  She has this unique calming personality that makes everybody feel comfortable around her, making  people she's just met feel like they're long lost friends.   

She genuinely cares.  Her kindness is beyond compare.   She would take a bullet for people she loves the way she would do for her own children.  The truth is, no one is like her.

  

Bebsy is the only person I can truthfully talk to and be myself without a shred of shame.  We share our failures and victories, I confide in her the secrets of my heart, and with each other, we are transparent. With her, I can stand in the honest truth of who I am, without any tinge of judgment from her, and that is the gift she continually gives me in life. The great gift anyone can get by simply being her friend.

It’s pretty cool that I have a buddy like that who just happens to be a chick, you know?

Happy birthday B.  

Love ya pal.

Ben

our last photo tog in an NYC cab

empty chairs & empty tables

Death was some sort of a background music that threaded through my weekend.

It started on Friday morning when a friend and I had a psychological discussion about his fear of dying.  I have known about this for some time now but it was only during our talk that I understood how painfully consuming it could be for him.

Later that day I received the horrible news about the death of a friend back in Manila.  A gunman killed him outside his home.  It was painful and difficult to accept that I will never see him again.  I am still processing his death, crestfallen for the beautiful wife he left behind.

How can someone be so petrified of dying when it’s the death of people you love and care for that seems to be more frightening and agonizing?

My friend Mar and I saw Les Miserables on Saturday night.  I’ve read the book, seen 2 movie versions and experienced the musicale 3 times.  I know the story, the characters and Cameron Macintosh’s lyrics.  Almost everyone dies in the end.  No surprise there.

But when Eponine, the universal symbol of unrequited love, dies in Marius’ arms and in her last breath manages to utter that she is finally happy, sleeping in his arms at last.. How sad is that?  Is death a better alternative to a life of misery and despair? 

On Sunday night on Downton Abbey, Lady Sybil dies due to childbirth complications. I did not see that coming.  (Apologies for the spoiler to readers who have not started Season 3.) Why Downton creator Julian Fellows opted to kill off this beautiful character whose heart is full of love and kindness is a mystery to me.  And because I ridiculously involve myself with tv characters and plots, I grieved for her poor mother.

I was in 5^th grade when I was diagnosed with first stage Leukemia.  True story.  While my parents made heroic efforts to hide this from me, it was my sister, who casually told me while eating a bag of potato chips, that I was sick and was going to die soon. A normal 10 year old would most likely burst in tears and panic. I, however, did not get scared.  

I went to my room and I picked out my favorite dress. A lacey number with flowery prints.  I put it on, combed my hair and positioned myself on top of my bed.  I put my hands together over my belly and closed my eyes.  I pretended I was in a coffin and practiced being dead.

It seems macabre for a 10 year old.  I don’t know why I reacted the way I did.  I remember it with fondness, though, like a Wes Anderson movie.  But it is how I feel about death even to this day.  I am not terrified of it.  Maybe because deep down I believe in afterlife and I get to be the daughter of Remington Steele in my next life, the way I daydreamed as a kid every time I witnessed my parents fight.  Maybe death in my head was the portal to peace and happiness. Or  maybe because when I die I honestly think I’ll be able to fly, be a ghost and scare all those people who were mean to me.

Perhaps the way I am with relationships and airports is the same way I am with my own life.  I would rather be the one leaving.

Bones

The wonder car I learned how to drive stick with.  The beetle that carried wonderful memories from my highschool and university years. My joy. My life. My youth.  

Rest in peace, Bones.




     

youngblood Y2K

It takes a lot of courage to post this, but because of the 5 people in my life who held my hand, rolled their eyes and literally shook my being to enlightenment during those pitiful formative years of my adult life, I am posting this here in my little universe.... (since it has apparently been published anyway..)

To my Popie, Marc, Aloy, Liezl and Tinee... some parts were a blur but I am posting this in its original form as an homage to your support and saintly patience, so pardon the run-on sentences and minor  syntax errors.  
(I said MINOR ERRORS!!! Stop editing my work, Marc dela Cruz!!)

And without a shadow of a doubt, I can incontrovertibly say,  yes, I have moved on!! HA! :-)  

Good luck finding this blog..

I love you to pieces.

5 January 2000

This, I swear:  This is going to be my last piece about AG.  In the past 2 years we’ve been ‘together’, I have vented feelings of bliss, confusion and desolation on paper. I have been doing this as a coping mechanism, with the hope that reading it will eventually make me realize how idiotic and pathetic I've been for allowing myself to be in this predicament.

I finally decided to have the much anticipated ‘talk’ with him 2 days before the New Millennium rang.  I had to seize my opportunity, as I knew it was going to take another whole month before this break materializes.  Our meetings are always based on his terms, never mine.  I have practiced my lines for weeks- in the shower, when alone in the car, as I lay awake in the middle of a God-forsaken hour in the night- and there was no way I was going to let this opportunity pass.

AG and I met at work.  He was a tall, fetching British man and despite his mumbled and oftentimes inaudible speech, we instantly became friends.  We shared the same love for movies, travel and self-deprecating humour.

A deeper relationship eventually ensued after months of going out.  This dragged on without any ‘strings attached’ because of the convenience it brought us and the ‘secret’ aspect of it all had its exciting attributes.  We were both single, however, he was still my boss’ boss, and there were corporate ethics to be respected.

Things were going great.  The mind games we played were exhilarating.  Our repartees during business meetings were exciting and arousing.  

That, until my emotions took over.  It hit me one day that I did not have a clue how he really felt for me.  Our physical attraction to each other was incredible, but beyond that, I was clueless.  This has been going on far too long.  Where is this headed?  I was too anxious to ask.

I conjured up so many thoughts in my head – perhaps I had to give him time, because after all, he is a man, and any talks about the 'future' will scare him off.  I convinced myself that he truly cared for me and that his intentions were all pure.  I held on to these illusions and gave in every time he asked me out.  But my ‘not knowing where I stand’ was beginning to drive me off the wall.

I just had to prove to my concerned friends and more importantly to myself, that he did care.  I needed to assure myself that there's a little bit of self-respect left in me, that I can be smart enough to realize if I am being taken advantage of.  That this was more than just what it was, otherwise, I would have to end this clandestine affair.

For months I’ve attempted to talk to him about the definition of our relationship, but I was too petrified with the possible aftermath.  I just didn’t want to look uncool.  That was the plain simple truth.  BUT, having my great plan of self-reinvention in place, I went for the kill.  I had to be honest.

I assumed my position in my favorite spot in his posh pad – atop the kitchen counter – to soften the mood, lighten the atmosphere- as he opened a bottle of Chianti.  That was a comfortable place for us both, where we usually talk about work, our family lives and personal movie critiques.  Of course I knew he was expecting a night of hot wild sex.  We already had a little too much to drink prior to that moment… but I was still sober enough to say.. “We have to talk.” 

He was stunned.  Looked petrified, even.  But compare this to my 2 year agony because of this undefined set-up, it should be a walk in the park for him.

“AG, I like you…. I mean I like you “like-you” like you… but I can’t do this anymore..”

So okay, it wasn’t the best opening speech that was integral for my life’s happiness.  It was, in fact, downright pathetic.  But hey, I was being human.  And honest.  I stammered, half regretting that I shouldn’t have said what I said.  But I had a mantra in my head...“What we do in our lives echoes in eternity..” as Commander Maximus addresses his men before the gory yet beautiful battle scene in The Gladiator. The significance of that line escapes me, but I felt I was at war and there was no turning back. So I over-dramatize.

I knew what I wanted to say.  Practice makes perfect, you see.  But for some odd reason, I found myself at loss for words.  Pouring your heart out to someone you are unbelievably attracted to and in the same way very intimidated by can be too overwhelming.

But in the feat of self-love and the determination to move on, I continued my piece.  I just want to be honest with how I felt.  That was the main objective.  As for the negative outcome, well,…. I’m blessed with good health, financial means to buy good food and very supportive friends, I’ll live.

Stemming from my introduction which obviously lacked confidence, wit and by goodness grace and elan, I told him I liked him too much to continue having meaningless sex with him. But not in those words, heavens, no.  What I said was “…what I have with you, is far meaningless…to me..” (I know, I know.  Tragic, right?)  I should’ve stopped right there, headed out the door, and let the earth open up and eat me alive. Alive!

But no! I was on a roll!  That’s who I am.  When nervous, I unleash this verbal gobbledygook.  So, more words were spoken by this Joan of Arc, this goddess of unrequited love, this idiot who was eventually going to regret everything spewing out of her big mouth, causing more humiliation and pain.

I went on saying that if he just needed a fast roll in the hay, I was not the person to call.  You can get any girl you want, AG. But please, not me.  I care too much. I said like an actress reading Shakespeare.  I wanted to die immediately after I heard myself say those words.

Oh he got the drift.  He was not daft.

He did not say much after my Oscar-winning, boner-destroying speech, although I was too lost in my own thoughts to remember how he reacted to my soliloquy.

He did say he liked me too (being nice, of course) although it wasn’t necessary for us to be thinking of our future.  It’s amazing how he can present to me his feelings in one straight concise sentence, whilst I had to depend on hours of preparation and the use of hand gestures to convey a single thought.

He said that he was being unfair and he was sorry.  I got it the first time.  It was loud and clear.  I was being rejected.

The night ended with an agreement that we really should start hanging out the way real friends should.  Dinner, movie and coffee, ending with a peck on the cheek and an affectionate hug. (Riiiiight, like that will happen.)

I do not remember the feeling of bitterness when I left.  I was hurt and sad, of course, but I did not feel empty and angry.  Remarkably, I knew the difference.  I didn’t care if I looked like a love pariah to him.  Initially my intention to break our ties was to consequently earn his respect.  Even that didn’t matter to me anymore.  My friend Aloy was right.  One can never go wrong by being honest with how you feel.  I put myself out there, showed unbelievable courage. I stuck with my objective, and that I achieved.  I went through the ‘talk’ for myself.  I was honest, and it felt damn good.  Liberating, even.

The weekend went on and I felt surprisingly okay.  I welcomed the New Year in my family’s farm in Cebu, as he partied with his friends in a secluded island South of where I was.  Despite my vow to seriously cut linkage, we exchanged text messages the second the clock struck 12.

He called me a few days after, we shared each other’s New Years resolutions, our own views about the bombings in Manila, and a promise to keep in touch.  I honestly did not think of it as a sweet gesture.  I knew in my heart that it was his mindless effort to prove that he was not, in fact, an asshole.  I just need to write this down to remind myself: HE WAS JUST BEING NICE.  Nothing more to it.

The AG saga ends here.  I’m ending it here.

I saw him in Giraffe with his British friends last weekend.  I did not make an effort to say hello.  I actually made sure he did not see me.  I did spend a few minutes watching him enjoy the night.  I was not crazy stalking, no.  I just watched him in awe and wonder.

This was the man I wanted.  He had me wrapped around his little finger the past 2 years of my life, despite my best friends’ unabashed collective disapproval. 

I cannot say if I was ever in love with AG.  Surprising as it may seem, despite the experiences I’ve had with men I was allegedly “in love” with, I honestly still don’t know how that feels.

That night in Giraffe I was silently taking in my loss. 

He truly meant the world to me.  A very corny thing to write but it’s simple and true.  But I meant nothing to him.  I was simply a sideline in his life.  A convenient body when he needed someone to boost his ego and morale.  He was just being nice.  I finally accepted my defeat.

I left Giraffe with my bestfriend Popie’s arm around me, silently hoping the new century will bring me the happiness I deserve.




Strength and honour! -Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of the North, The Gladiator