Home Alone

When I was a kid, my all-time favorite movie (after Hercules) was Home Alone. 1 or 2, I didn't really care. My favorite part of either movie was always that sliver of time right after Kevin's parents (Jon and Kate's big screen predecessors) would lose him and right before the bumbling baddies would arrive. The part when the possibilities of total freedom would dawn on Kevin and he would, predictably, seize the opportunity and give in to his id. How I envied him.

As I surveyed our home this morning, I felt like all my childhood Kevin McCallister fantasies finally came true. True, it's a decade or so late, but what the hell. No grandma - went to Florida. No uncle - went to Cali. No neat freak mom - went to LA. No help always dithering about - went on their day off.

And because after the age of 10 my emotional quotient plateaued, I, predictably, seized the opportunity and gave in to my id. As another pleasure-seeking-principle-guided-fictional-kid would put it, I "let the wild rumpus start."

First thing I did: Ate on my bed. Let the kitten into my room. Left the dirty dishes on the sink - without washing them. It felt nothing short of liberating, and I was just getting started.

Watched porn without the headphones on. Sang along to Kings of Leon at the top of my lungs. Drank milk from the carton. Drank juice from the carton. Walked around naked. Checked myself out at every mirror available. Turned the TV up really loud so I could watch it from another room. Inhaled bags and bags of chips (which I shall pay for tomorrow at the gym). Masticated a chicken leg a la Cro-Magnon man.

But just as I was getting ready to play lead air-guitar to the tune of Aerosmith's "Janie's Got A Gun" in front of the big living room mirror, I was wrought with a sudden, foreign urge to do dishes. The thought of piles of plates all soiled with pasta sauce and chicken bones inexplicably sent my skin crawling. Possessed by a higher power, I trudged to the sink, began dutifully rinsing kitchenware, and in one fell swoop turned into my mother.

In the movies, there always comes a time when Kevin McCallister gets tired of living in hedonism. I just wish that time hadn't come so quickly for me. Elbow-deep in suds, I couldn't help but wish that this day had come earlier. Years and years earlier when reason was still prone to weeks-long vacations. Maybe then I could have really made a mess of being home alone.

When Parents Become People

The One with the Boobies.

That was the Friends episode I was watching last night. I usually find it the most difficult to relate with Joey, but on this episode his plight struck close to home. Upon realizing that his dad was having an affair with Ronnie the pet mortician (leave it to sitcoms to create the best jobs ever), Joey vented his frustrations to his friends. This prompted Rachel to express empathy by asking one of the more profound questions on the show (next to "How you doin?" of course):

"Why can't parents just stay parents? Why do they have to become people?"

We all think of our parents relative to ourselves. We intimately know their history from the time we were old enough to remember until the present, and we basically form an image - a summary even - of them based on this. Dad is good at sports, is patient and loves the Beatles. Mom likes fashion, can't cook and is short-tempered.

I've remembered most things about my parents since I was three. I know the different looks they've sported. My dad loved his army pants which my mom and sister loathed. When they succeeded in smuggling it away from home and gave it to charity, my dad begrudgingly acquiesced to their demands of a more buttoned-down style. I remember my mom's hair, cut like a boy's, but now hanging just below chin-length. I remember the different jobs they've worked, from my dad's car shop to his garments distribution; from my mom's jewelry business to her real estate sales. I remember all the fights they've had from the most cost-efficient way of squeezing out toothpaste to money to money to money.

But whenever I look at their album pictures, when they were a much younger couple (I was born some 13 years into their marriage), I can't help but wonder if they were different, perhaps happier then. I knew my dad had a little fruit business back then, but how did that sit with my mom? I knew my parents were both basically heartthrobs, so did they guard each other jealously or have they always been this relaxed about each others' fidelity? Have they always been loyal at all?

Parents have always been people before becoming parents. They've had entire selves before we were born. But I guess, with the pressure of raising children properly, they feel the need to project an image of good role models their children can believe in. Therefore, we know about our parents only the things they allow us to know.

The more we offspring get our hands dirty with life, the more we wonder about our parents. The more we realize, as our lives grow in complication, that our parents' lives pre-us must have been replete with as many gory details as ours.

I can't help but think about my parents' lives B.C. (before children) and even their lives W.C. (with children). It's so delicious to feed the curiosity about the secrets they've been keeping from my sister and I, to wonder about the possibility of pregnancies out of wedlock, of affairs kept hush-hush, of initial squabbles with in-laws. It's in these times of wonder that I wish I could just walk up to my parents and ask. But Dad's passed far too early, and Mom's failed to gain my confidence and my friendship. As it is, any information I've gathered, have been slipped my way by chance.

And the more information I've gathered, the more I wish I hadn't been told. Thing is, I've always known life can get so much gorier and dirtier than pregnancies, affairs and squabbles. But I just never thought of putting my parents in those extreme situations. They did their job well, I guess.

After all the little things I've learned, I'd rather not know any more. I'm quite content letting my parents be parents, not people.

It's funny that when people want things to matter to you - animals or trees, for example - they say "what if that were a person?" But sometimes, the more ideas become enfleshed as true people, the more difficult it is to appreciate them as such.

Politicians: Clever and Subtle!

I was innocently munching on a particularly succulent cauliflower in front of the TV during dinner. It was TV Patrol time and I was half-minding the advertisements and half-wondering how the hell Karen Davila keeps her hair stone-still while gabbing away (honestly, though, how do ye do it, woman?!).

I was sitting perfectly content, when a barrage of the most subtle and intelligent advertisements ever in the history of humankind assaulted my defenseless eyes and ears. It was ever so difficult to figure out what the cleverly-produced gems were trying to tell me. I mean, public figures hugging children, harping on about their love for the poor, professing their oneness with the poor, grating my ears with their messages of Obama-esque hope, listing in bullet form (for easier comprehension) all their accomplishments? And a few months before election time? Color me puzzled, but I just really wonder what they could be telling me.

Campaign period has yet to start but we have begun to witness the rise of political ads in television. In print, however, I know for a fact that all 24356 Belmontes (Vincent, Kit and Joy, to name a few) have been papering Quezon City with their perfectly-conyo faces since a couple of months ago. Supposedly, there are rules stating that candidates for election can only begin campaigning once campaign season has officially begun. Logical enough, no? But our politicians, ever clever at worming their way above and around our laws, have resulted to putting up advertisements of themselves and passing them off as "personal advertisements" or "personal messages" and not "political campaigns." See, by spawning random posters and videos of themselves, without directly saying "vote for me," they cannot be held accountable for breaking the "no campaigning till campaign season" rule, because they can claim that technically these ads are not for campaign purposes. But we all know that's a load of bull and so do they.

No one believes that these politicians are shelling out millions to have their freshly-Beloed faces on TV during primtime just for kicks. We all know there's an agenda - a political one, at that.

I therefore propose that any public figure who appears on any advertisement (political or not) pre-campaign season be disqualified from the elections. If not to level the playing field with those politicians who have meager finances, then at least just to spare us a few months of the most ass-clench-worthy taglines (Seriously, Secretary Puno, "pag maganda ang PUNO maganda ang bunga"?!)

I also propose that we withold our votes from anyone who appears in these advertisements. Firstly because their douchebaggery is flimsy and transparent. They don't even respect us enough to fools us properly, with actual subtlety. Secondly because anyone with money enough to appear on TV is quite likely from the same vein of leadership as most of our previous and current politicians. We all know how well they've been working out for us. And thirdly because investing in mega-million advertisements is proof of IQ deficiency. Everyone knows you can just buy votes directly, why spend your time and money making adverts when you'll be drowned out by everyone else's taglines anyway? Stupidity in epic quantities.

And in case I haven't convinced you to detest these advertisements yet, let us run through several of them in excruciating detail.

Senator Mar Roxas













For the second batch of "Padyak" ads, Sen. Roxas listens to the problems of normal Filipinos in a wet market.

Problem number 1: Every single one of the people the good senator encounters has his face arranged to say "PITY ME." Eyes bugged out, eyebrows raised and knotted together, and lips a-pouting. I dunno about you but I really don't think Filipinos ever look like that willingly, not even when they're talking about their problems. We're a happy people, we talk about our problems with a shy grin, a shrug of the shoulder, sometimes even a slight bounce.

Problem number 2: The senator fails to inspire confidence when he raises his head in what the swelling music indicates as triumph and tells the people "randam ko kayo . . . lalaban tayo." Maybe it's the fact that he did not list down any of his accomplishments or plans or maybe it's his degree in Poker Face Wielding from The Lady Gaga School of Facial Expression, but nothing about his demeanor comes off as compelling or reassuring.

Problem number 3: Ad suffers from Huggingrandomchildfromnowehereritis. In desperate need of Keepitreal Ointment or Cheezitoff Capsules.

All in all, this, I feel, is the most contrived and awkward ad. I suggest that the senator ask his fiancee Korina Sanchez for tips on how to arrange his face to even just appear engaged and sympathetic. She's the best at it.

See for yourself here.

Secretary Ronaldo Puno













It's a testament to the poor production of this advertisement that I had to google Secretary Puno's first name. For his debut in Philippine TV, the DILG Secretary chose to highlight an accomplishment of the Department of Interior of Loal Government: the creation of Women and Children Protection Desks in 100% of all police precincts.

Problem number 1: Although Secretary Puno is more convincing than Senator Roxas as he cuddles in arms length the random child running from one corner of the screen, everything is but ruined when his tagline is stated in the background. Pag maganda ang puno maganda ang bunga. Seriously? Whoever came up with this needs to be castrated and put in public display for prodding with sticks.

Problem number 2: Secretary, are you sure you want to be wearing yellow right now? Those are veeeeeery big shoes to fill. Not to mention, you might be calling upon yourself a world of stark contrasts.

Problem number 3: Mentioning ONE achievement of the DILG, should not merit your saying "Marami nang pagbabago ang naidulot ng DILG . . ." I'm nitpicking, I know, but still. . .

Problem number 4: This is probably just my beef. But I loathe Santino and his good-boy-po-ako face/voice/everything. Playing a couple of lines of "May Bukas Pa" in the background wins you no points. From me at least.

See for yourself here.

Senator Manny Villar













To be fair, I have very little to moan about when it comes to this ad. Senator Villar lists down the numerous ways he's helped people (although a bit vaguely) and establishes a real connection with our impoverished brothers (he hails from a small shanty in Tondo). I guess my only problem with his advertisement, apart from the fact that it looks 98% like a political campaign (the previous two looked 95% like political campaigns), is that it just doesn't sit well with me how he keeps pointing out that he came from a meager background, and yet whispers abound about his land-grabbing. I've heard from numerous people that he now owns vast lands in Muntinlupa near Ayala Alabang. And though I know these are just rumors, when it comes to Filipino politicians, most people feel that where there's smoke, there's usually fire.

Kudos though, for the patronizing and indulgent rapping which irritates only very slightly. Although after "mali na namaaan" I half expect the singers to continue with "PCSO." Hehe.

See for yourself here.

Makati Mayor Jejomar Binay

This advertisement to me feels like the most deliberate political campaign among the four. And while this bothers me quite a bit, I must admit that this is quite an effective advertisement. Mayor Binay tells us of how prosperous Makati is - 100% free education, medical services, benefits for the elderly. With all this good news, however, I just wonder just how accurate these statistics are. And very much like my issue withe Senator Villar, I just don't know how convinced I am by this ad when it's juxtaposed with my mother and grandmother's dinner commentary on how corrupt Mayor Binay's wife is.

See for yourself here.

NB: This isn't exactly the TV ad, but it's very very close.

MTV Cribs

MTV needs to make a reality show with just babies. They could call it MTV Cribs. Again.

Seriously though, I visited CRIBS (Create Responsive Infants By Sharing) yesterday, as in the NGO for abandoned children and all the silent tension and unspoken drama among the crawlers (babies of the crawling age) was as palpable as any reality TV show. You could see it in their eyes as they looked blankly at one another, drool trickling from slack mouths, down their chins as pressures mounted and emotions ran rampant. Kinda like "The Hills," really. Just real and with protagonists you don't wanna bludgeon with a remote control.

There were seven crawlers in the nursery. 5 boys and 2 girls. Already a recipe for a pre-naptime disaster. At first, none of them wanted to have anything to do with me. They avoided me like the plague, instincts for slef-preservation on red alert, screaming THIS HUMONGOUS BOOBYHEAD WILL DROP YOU DOWNSIES IF YOU LET HIM GIVE YOU UPSIES.

So I focused my attention on one little sheep who strayed from the flock. A little girl named Joana, and cruelly called "Kagandahan" by the nanny-in-charge. She just stared at me with her big, unblinking eyes as I tried to win her over with tickles and silly faces. This girl was not ticklish at all. Either that or she has been paying too much attention to Lady Gaga and was giving me her best p-p-p-poker face.

Interestingly enough, the minute I started holding her hand, she jumped towards me and flung her arms around my neck. Babies are warm and cuddly. They smell like warm milk. That is all.

I was finding myself made into a personal chair for little Joana. She tried sitting on my lap, on my knee, beside me, before settling on just lying down across my lap.

Just before Joana could start purring, though, trouble found her, in the form of Jan - the only other girl, and who, for all intents and purposes, was the nursery's Queen Babee. She was sitting on the lone rocker situated in the middle of the room, where she could keep an eye on every inch of her vast dominion. Her eyes sharply followed every little movement, and where her face turned and her eyes narrowed, drool fell.

She and Joana, apparently were always jealous of one another and seeing Joana, her mere subject, treated like royalty, lying on her own "throne" made her shake in terrible fury. She unleashed a fearsome howl such as only infants can, and the basis of her sovereignty was no mystery to me anymore.

I inched myself and Joana towards Jan so I could rock her gently on her chair and hopefully pacify her. It worked. Her face relieved itself from contortion and she watched me with eyes like wet beads. She was an adorable little thing, all curly hair and watchful eyes. She stared at me bored, like she was willing me to bring the swaying of her rocking chair to the next level. I froze.

I slapped myself mentally for not figuring out how to make an infant laugh. She's barely a year old. She doesn't need a witticism riddled with allusions to make her smile. Peek-a-frickin-boo, man! I did, and my liege was pleased. I quickly graduated to making stupid faces, the likes of which would send hardcore clowns back to their 34-man cars. Yes, I was that funny, or at least, based on how Jan was laughing, I was that funny.

But alas, her highness was capricious, and just as I was executing a funny face I'd been formulating in my head, she averted her gaze and stared at the ceiling. Electric fans were now trumping my carefully-planned funny faces. Children do wonders for the ego.

It was just me and Joana again for a while, but then as quickly as she had looked away, Jan turned her head our way, drool flecking in the air. Another baby was making his way into her court. Gary. He came with gifts from the exotic lands he reached in his travels to the right side of the nursery: a little duck wagon and a red toy train. He lumbered towards Jan and sat down beside her rocker. He was sliding the wagon up the rocker's legs, but Jan was no longer interested. She'd seen it all before, and decided to let her gazes lay on anywhere and anyone on her dominion but Gary. Poor Womeo.

I'd stayed in the nursery for two hours (visiting hours are only from 2-4 as the kids need to rest) and the entire time, there was one crawler whom I had noticed circling the general population, but never settling in with them. He was always just watching. Dan. If Jan was the queen, Joana the threat to the throne, Gary the conquistador, and me the jester cum lazyboy, then Dan was the vagabond. He had a roguish quality about him, walking alone, little chest puffed forward, smouldering in his little diapers. He came near us once, to take poor Gary's duck wagon. He had a silent authorty about him. No protests were made and he went on his way, walking backwards, smiling like the cat that got the canary (or in this case, the canary yellow duck wagon).

So what will Jan do about the growing threat to her throne that is Joana? Will Jan ever give Gary more than a passing glance? And what about the mysterious Dan? Was taking Gary's wagon a sign of things to come?

I'm not sure. Babies are fickle, and are thus, the best storymakers and characters. I can find out, though. I'd love to go back there. Kidding around with the babies for a couple of hours is an afternoon well spent. Better than watching TV for sure. You can't make this kind of drama up. Everything else pales in comparison and is just.

Infantile.

-o-0-o-

Please do not treat this as part of the little narrative above. I'm quite proud of myself for resisting the urge to proselytize in that narrative, but I'd just like to say: Visit CRIBS. Go for the drama, if you want. Go for the free hugs. Go for no particular reason. Just go. I have a feeling playmates mean more to kids than they ever let on :)

Lost Mournings

I attempted this blog entry thrice. With each attempt, I found myself backspacing entire paragraphs into nonbeing even before they were completed. The contrived sentimentality was palpable. My stuffy sentences would have done nothing to convince anyone, even myself.

I had suffered two losses a couple of weeks earlier. I watched as our Dalmatian slowly degenerated, growing weaker by the day, until all he could do was wag his tail at my or my sister's voice. On the very last day, at the vet's clinic, he could barely manage breaths. Funny how hospitals sometimes are more of places to die, than places to heal. I also waited for Manang to return from her vacation. She never did. And while she did not die, she is not with us either - a loss for all intents and purposes.

It was for them that the three failed blog entries were supposed to be. Those were to be eulogies of sorts. I'd lived with them both for six years, ever since Dad died. They had been comforts to me in this house which has steadily grown bare of joy for six years. But the grief over losing them did not come to me in powerful waves. I could not bring myself to bawl over in tears like my sister or bitch ruefully like my mom. My grief came in whispers of sentimentality.

I'd read somewhere that when we grieve, we mourn not for those whom we lose, but for ourselves and the losses we suffer. There is a selfish aspect to mourning, and glass-half-emptyists would point out that mourning a loved one is barely a leap away from regretting the loss of a trusty pencil. But we of the silver-linings know better. Mourning is not simply a statement of loss, but a statement of value. We mourn because we realize that people possess characters that enrich our lives.

And therein lies the poverty of my grief, and the failure of my attempts at eulogy. I could not realize fully how losing Manang and the dog made my life any less rich. What is a dog's death, but one less mouth to feed? What is a lost cook, when a new one is serving you hot sinigang? I admit that while Manang was around, I stood up for her whenever the momster was mouthing off. I'd consoled her when the momster got too harsh. But what is her friendship worth now that she's gone and replaced? So what if they had been comforts to me? They have been replaced with ease.

I can't help but feel like Dorian Gray right now. He grieved nobody, either. When lovers laid their lives at his feet, he merely stepped over their prone bodies. His soul was a pity and at the moment, mine might be too. This is something I must mourn, while I have the chance. And the lucidity to muster contrition.

When we grieve, we mourn not for those whom we lose, but for ourselves and the losses we suffer. But sometimes, we mourn for ourselves. When there is no suffering from losses.