As the year comes to a close, we cherish our Thanksgiving tradition of attending Holy Mass and, during breakfast, sharing reflections on God’s abundant blessings throughout the year. With grateful hearts, we welcome the New Year, praying for joy, peace, and prosperity for all. Wishing everyone a blessed and Happy New Year!
Instant panic. In seconds, the quiet McStore turned into a hide-and-seek arena. We scrambled in and out of the store, frantically searching for our little adventurer.
“Check the deep fryer!” Rissa shouted.
‘Close Encounters of the Third Kind’ came rushing to mind.
We finally found him inside a nearby video arcade, his neck outstretched, watching older kids playing games. He was completely unbothered and oblivious to the terror we were having for lunch. We, in contrast, aged a decade in those ten minutes.
Forward 25 years, and the boy who wandered off is now the man who keeps us on course. Literally, like a compass. When we travel, Rissa and I willingly switch into what we call “bobo mode” because we know Andre (and happy-meal Nikkei) have it all figured out -directions, itineraries, logistics -you name it. But, much like those McDonald’s meals, I still paid.
His influence extends into our lighting design firm, Toespin. Previously, I would say he “works for me.” Now, I proudly say he “works with me.” Of course, he complains occasionally, frequently, but that’s ok.
Andre, the best golf coach I never asked for, introduced me to the game. Now, the fairway is our shared playground. Despite missed putts and lost balls, we’ve had more laughs than birdies. Joy doesn’t always come from perfect drives but from being together.
And, of course, his barista skills. The boy who once disappeared is now the man who fills our cups -both literally and figuratively.
Andre, as you turn 29, know this: the best is yet to come. Life rewards hard work, kindness, and faith, and you embody all of that.
Happy Birthday, son. Thank God for returning you to us all those years ago. You have led us ever since.
Now, give me a cortado, please, so I can raise a toast.
Cheers!
If you’ve been touched, amused, or entertained by this post, or it put a smile on your face, please favor me with a cup of coffee via GCash or PayPal. I will continue writing.
Hey!
I just finished reading all the comments on yesterday’s blog post and Rissa’s update. While you were busy commenting, liking, and loving, I was out early on the fairway with three of my best golf buddies: my twin brother Fred, my brother Gani, and my son-coach, Andre. We spent the morning driving, pitching, putting, and, of course, hunting down those elusive lost balls. Note: for those who don’t play the game, golf doubles as a treasure-hunt-kind of activity. Double the fun, double the time. Yep, wonder no more.
The day didn’t stop there. I attended an early evening mass as my thanksgiving offering and then capped it off with dinner alongside my lovely family. Was it a packed day? Sure. But busy? Not really. I had fun, and that’s what mattered.
Now, to those who took the time to send a like, a love, or a comment, here’s my heartfelt back-at-you. I read every single one of your comments, and as I did, I mentioned your name (or your handle) to God in prayer. I wasn’t just speed-scanning with my eyes. If you had been sitting beside me at my desk, you would’ve heard me softly -yet audibly -say your name. And if you liked or commented on both posts (FB and IG), guess what? You got prayed for multiple times!
My prayer? That God blesses you twice over for the wishes and prayers you sent my way. To the kind souls who prayed for me to hit birdies on the course -you know who you are -may you find yourself hitting birdies in your next game. I know, I know. You probably wished for a million dollars for me. Had you known, you might have wished for five million instead, right? And too bad you can’t wish for a new girlfriend for me -Rissa might have something to say about that. Or worse, something to hit me with (though thankfully, my golf bag is safely out of her reach).
But here’s the thing: God knows your heart better than I do -better than even you do. So, dacál á salámat (many thanks) to you for your kindness, humor, and prayers.
As I sit here with a warm cup of coffee in my hands, I raise it to all of you. You are all beautiful spirits, and I’m deeply grateful for every one of you.
Cheers!
If you’ve been touched, amused, or entertained by this post, or it put a smile on your face, please favor me with a cup of coffee via GCash or PayPal. I will continue writing.
Today seems as good a day as any to dig up some meaning in my life, inspired by the witty words of my good ol’ pal George Bernard Shaw: “Youth is wasted on the young, and wisdom is wasted on the old.”
The Youth:
Looking back, did I squander my youth’s potential on Electrical Engineering, basketball, and tennis? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Was working abroad for five years and backpacking solo across Europe a frivolous adventure? Not entirely. Losing my passport, all my money and everything I had to live on as a tourist in Spain wasn’t exactly part of the plan, but hey -it gave me stories to tell the grandkids (when I grow up).
The Old:
Today, I hit 65. By any standards, I’m officially the “old” in Georgie’s quote. And yet, wisdom -or something like it -led me to swap rackets for clubs and establish Toespin, my lighting design company. Sure, my physical energy now depends heavily on creaky knees and a thinning top, but I like to think I’ve still got it. At least, that’s what I tell myself on a good day.
Irony now measures itself in my iron clubs, whose distances mirror life -short and full of unintended curves. My shots might not follow a straight line, but who says life’s adventures should? These days, I try to live by a simple mantra: Carpe Diem. Seize the day, coffee cups, bunkers, and all.
So here’s to more misadventures and the wisdom to laugh at it all. Each day is an adventure waiting to unfold and a story waiting to be told.
God be praised.
Cheers to George.
60+5 senior cheers to me!
If you’ve been touched, amused, or entertained by this post, or it put a smile on your face, please favor me with a cup of coffee via GCash or PayPal. I will continue writing.
If someone hikes up a mountain and, upon reaching the summit, begins descending, they’re heading back -back to the base, back to where it all began. It’s a journey home.
Indulge my caffeine-fueled brain for a moment...�
My dear Inang lived for 27,814 days. Her halfway point, day 13,907, was December 31, 1964. I had just turned five years and 18 days old.
On that festive New Year’s Eve, nearly 60 years ago today, my beloved Inang was, in a way, starting her descent -her journey back home to the Holy Father. If her life leading up to December 31, 1964, was about climbing and living, everything after that was her graceful return. Her return to Him. Her goodbye journey.
Of course, there was no way for me to know this. I was just a little boy. I couldn’t read, couldn’t write, and certainly couldn’t sit (or squat around our 'dulang,' that low-level dining table) and sip coffee to reflect on life as I do now. No one told me she was leaving -returning -to where all good souls go.
Had I known, even as a child, I would have loved her more openly. I would have obeyed her without hesitation. I wouldn’t have laughed at her when she put on lipstick or sprayed her hair, wanting to look more beautiful for the dance with dear Tatang at the barrio Glorieta. I would have stayed by her side more often, listening to her stories of the Japanese occupation. I would have held her hand more tightly during her battles with asthma, whispered more words of love, and cherished every moment.
Today would have been her 98th birthday. Not a day passes without me thinking of her. I try to keep her memories alive, savoring the moments we shared. I pray my own old age never robs me of those precious memories -the ones that keep her gentle spirit close to me.
Oh, by the way, unless I live to be 130 years old, I too am on my way back. Every passing day gets me closer to my own journey's end. And I realize there are others dear to me on the same path.
I miss you, dearest Inang. I love you more than words can ever express.
This cup of coffee, I raise to you. Cheers to you, always.
Did you know that the world celebrated World Kindness Day just a few days ago? If you did, did you make an extra effort to be kind, kinder, or kindest that day? Or maybe you simply acknowledged the kindness of others -which is also a form of kindness. As for me, I missed it. Not because I was busy insulting, mocking, taunting, or cursing (I’m not that kind). I didn’t realize such a day existed. A laudable effort? Absolutely. But necessary? Hmm…
I mean, take Christmas, for one.
Kindness should be a daily habit, not just a tick in the calendar. While Christmas has bells, lights, carols, and nicely trimmed trees reminding us to be nice rather than naughty, its spirit should linger throughout the year. But, with life getting so busy, we all need a gentle nudge. If Christmas is kindness in full sparkle, World Kindness Day is its minimalist version.
For me, Christmas is deeply spiritual -a time to reflect on Someone far greater than ourselves: Jesus Christ. Its influence transcends seasons, inspiring ripples of kindness all year long. World Kindness Day, perhaps, is one such ripple -a gentle reminder of the power of goodwill.
I pray for a time when we don’t need days like No Cheating Day, No Stealing Day, or No Bwisit Day.
Here’s to a future where every day is Happy Coffee Day -served and sipped with a generous dose of kindness.
Cheers!
Visiting a cemetery can be life-changing, giving you an out-of-this-world perspective. Especially when you’re turning 65. Because, soon, you’ll be turning in your grave, instead. All that you have, all that you have done, you’ll soon trade for a nice plot, six feet under. Or a shiny jar that you don’t even get to choose.
Standing by the graves of Inang who died at 76, over 20 years ago, and of Tatang, who at 91, God called home just before Covid19 changed the world in ways none of us saw coming. I started searching through my mental archives for the last time I held their hands or hugged them. Or the last time I told them, "I love you" or "See you later" or "Bye, bye." I wanted to find those memories but couldn’t. They were not in my memory bank anymore. Maybe because there wasn’t an effort to hit a mental '⌘+S' when they happened. My excuse was that I never imagined they might be the last. And it saddened me. My remembrance of them would have been richer and more endearing, and no matter what level of amnesia I may have in the future, I would still be able to recall. Powerful memories, etched deeply in the soul, can endure through both time and illness.
But, mea culpa, I missed the chance to carpe diem.
Right there, I started to think of my own “last times” -the ones I’d want to savor today if they were the final ones to hold onto:
A round of golf with my buddies, sharing "Fore!", "Oh shoot," and "Oh dang" when a shot goes wayward. Or high-fives and fist bumps for each birdie and par;
The healthy banter exchange with my favorite daughter, Nikkei;
A cup of fresh-pulled coffee I share with my favorite son, Andre;
The nightly kiss with my bride Rissa, and saying, "Night, dear," before dozing off;
Holding the hands of those dear to me;
Taking a selfie, even if I rarely do;
Cheering for the Celtics;
Eating sinangag with tuyô and scrambled eggs for breakfast and ube to go with my espresso;
Running my last 5k;
Shaving my hair;
Making the Sign of the Cross.
Someday, all those little acts will be part of my lasts. And as much as I’d love to preserve every last detail, those memories won’t be for me to carry. They’ll belong to the people I leave behind, fragments of a life they shared with me, reminders of moments I hope they’ll look back on and smile.
Oh yeah. Life. As my good ol’ friend Charlie Brown once said, "In the book of life, the answers aren’t in the back."
I am sure that someday when I grow up, I will figure this one out. While I am still six feet above.
Over coffee, as usual.
Cheers!
"Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters." -Col 3:23
Lately, I’ve been training almost daily, working hard to improve my golf swing -and, in the process, up my game. My family is starting to raise eyebrows, suspecting I’m sandbagging my rounds -just so I don’t have to treat them to that seafood dinner if I ever play my best round. I am not fixing my game. I am training for the Olympics. This is for the glory of the country, people.
I’ve also been putting in extra effort at work. As a lighting designer, I’m committed to making my firm the absolute best in Asia, and on this side of the galaxy, and securing a legacy for future generations. My descendants will thank me when they’re basking in the glow of well-lit skyscrapers, churches, sports stadiums, and golf courses.
Like a possessed workhorse, I even find time to wash and wax the car and clean the house. Not just for the family, mind you. We’re expecting a visit from the Pope. Yep, the Pope. I want the place looking spotless when the Holy Father knocks on our door.
Okay, maybe not.
I am too old for the Olympics, my company is not in any competition -not for the longest drive, not for the best in anything. And the Pope -he doesn’t even know I exist.
So why am I putting myself through all this? It’s not just about pushing myself for personal gain or glory. It’s about going beyond my own limits and striving for something greater. Sure, I want to improve, to challenge myself, but ultimately, it’s not just me, or for me.
I play, I work, to offer my very best to Someone far more deserving. My efforts, my dedication -these are my offerings to my God and Savior, Jesus Christ. And in doing so, I find a deeper sense of purpose and fulfillment that transcends personal achievement -even when at times too many, I fail miserably.
Happy Sunday, champs!
Cheers!
Our Saturdate went the way of the unusual yesterday. Instead of the usual leisurely dine-in breakfast, we went for the Drive-Thru option at McDonald's because time wasn’t on our side. Induction ceremony and an extra-inspired homily by our parish priest had stretched our morning and eaten into our sit-down breakfast time.
(I’m not complaining, Lord. I’m just… mea culpa, Lord.
)
At the Drive-Thru, we rolled up to the speaker, rattled off our orders with a smile on my face (you never know), paid, and faster than the sunniest side-up, breakfast was served right through our car window. McFast.
As we cruised back home, I decided we might as well knock out some grocery shopping. Lucky for us, there’s an egg vendor conveniently located along the road to our village. We pulled off a little Drive-By maneuver. From where I was parked, I honked once to get their attention, and flashed an “X” with my fingers. And sure enough, faster than a scramble, a tray of extra-large eggs went through our car window! Talk about eggficiency!
Just as the smell of breakfast inside the car was making me even hungrier, we spotted a banana vendor near our village entrance. My wife said, “Bili tayo!” Lacatán for dessert after a McBrekkie? Why not! And so, we did a Drive-X, where X = pulling-up-the-street-to-buy-something-from-a-cart-pulling-street-vendor.
What was supposed to be the ordinary became the x-traordinary. Thanks to Drive Thru/By/X, my household was not deprived of a morning delight.
Cheers!
And so it begins.
The biggest zarzuela.
The grandest comedy show.
The colossal display of absurdity in the Philippines.
Election fever has again descended upon the nation like a pandemic, bringing a viral swarm of candidates filing for local and national posts. The cast features a motley crew of actors, ex-convicts, thieves, and con artists, swarming the COMELEC sites with the energy of a town fiesta.
One of the main attractions is the family dynasties. Whether running together or, at times, against each other, these shameless entities -those who have turned politics into a family business -proudly proclaim "public service" as their noble calling. Their sincerity only seems to match their ability to fatten their own pockets.
Yet, amidst all the melodrama, there’s one silver lining: This is the one time every few years when billions (perhaps even trillions) of pesos flood the economy faster than a Christmas bonus.
The printing industry -from tarpaulins to posters and t-shirts -gets its once-in-three-year surge. Even pedicabs can expect new trapal rain covers, featuring the smiling faces of 'public servants.' Meanwhile, sari-sari stores and street vendors will see an opportunity to replace their outdated 2022 'vote-for-me' shirts with the latest campaign gear. In this election season, everyone gets a slice of the action.
And let’s not forget the short-term voters, the ones trading three days’ worth of rice for three more years of corruption-laden governance. Their bellies, at least temporarily full, will have something to chew on -just like gravy on chickenjoy.
Of course, there are those whose intentions are pure and who truly seek to serve the people. But they seldom win. So yeah, there's that. May God bless them.
Now tell me, can your favorite K-drama serve up such rich content?
And so I remind myself:
You may want to sit back, grab some cheese-flavored popcorn, and enjoy the show.
But, if by any serious chance you’re not happy with this circus and worried about your children’s future, then please, drop the popcorn and do something for your country.
For starters -who will you vote for?
Cheers!
After a long night of delivering a lighting seminar to a group of architects, my buddies and I decided to unwind at a small speakeasy bar in Quezon City. Inside, a friendly bartender/waiter greeted us warmly and seemed a bit too eager to share his knowledge of drinks.
As he served us, he enthusiastically explained every ingredient in each cocktail, as if he were giving his own mini-seminar. By 11pm, the place had emptied out, and we were the only customers left. One of my buddies, who had clearly gotten comfortable with his spiked drink, was deep into a story. In the middle of his passionate rant (politics, of course), he suddenly froze.
"Ugh, what’s the word? It’s like…a pardon, a reprieve…you know, in politics!" He was biting his tongue as if trying to extract the elusive word.
Suddenly, from across the bar, the idle bartender -casually leaning against the wall near the door -confidently called out, "Forgiveness!"
The three of us turned our heads in unison -shocked, confused and amused. The bartender grinned, clearly pleased with his contribution. We exchanged awkward glances, silently agreeing not to encourage him, lest he take it as an invitation to join us.
Maybe idleness really is the devil’s playground. But tossing out suggestions from six meters away while we were mid-conversation? Not sinful, but not exactly bar etiquette 101 either, and definitely a loose definition of "speakeasy." To top it off, he was wrong! The word was “amnesty.” He lost the far side bet!
But in the spirit of non-violence (and because the cocktails were kicking in), we let it slide. We raised our glasses in an impromptu toast.
"To forgiveness!" I said with a wink.
Cheers!
Don’t judge a book by its cover -even if the cover is completely missing.
"You've gone bald!" she exclaimed.
The "you" in question was yours truly, and the "she" was someone I hadn’t seen since Mt. Pinatubo blew its top. Yep, that long.
Back in the day, I used to carry a comb like it was an essential survival tool, and I’d slather on the styling gel like I was prepping for a GQ shoot. As opposed to today, I’ve adopted a more minimalist approach. Hair care budget? Zero. Barbershop visits? Only in my dreams. Though I do miss the good ol’ "kwentong barbero" (barber shop tales). Might invite my barber over for coffee one of these days, just for the inspiration.
Anyway, my dear old friend only saw what was happening on the outside. What she didn’t see was that, over the past couple of decades, I’ve become quite the certified hotshot who started one of the country’s top lighting design firms. And, by the way, I can still run 5 km without needing an ambulance. She also missed an important fact: I can drive a golf ball 220 yards on a good -extraordinarily good -weekend.
She didn’t know what I’d been through or what I’d gained along the way. Can’t really blame her though. My scalp was shining like the bright glorious sun rising over Mt. Pulag. Hard to miss that, especially on a cloudy day.
But hey, she’s only human. I totally understand. I had my own human thoughts when I saw her that cloudy day, too. But I’m not telling.
That’s my little human secret.
Cheers!
Aren’t you glad the rain’s finally called it quits? Thunderstorms, too. For the first time in a week, I can see the sun’s rays muscling their way through the last remnants of typhoon clouds. Speaking of stormy weather, when the thunder’s booming and the rain’s crashing down with disastrous intent, communication in my household takes a serious hit.
Case in point…
I rose from my makeshift WFH office to grab a snack from the kitchen. Now, in this household, if you’re in the kitchen at the wrong time, you automatically become "it" when the question, “Who’s gonna do it?” comes up.
Sure enough, before I even set foot in the kitchen, my wife whispers, “Dear, paki-saing.” (Translation: Please cook rice.)
Our daughter’s locked in a high-stakes online meeting, so whispers and miming were the order of the day. Between the rain pounding like mad and my selective hearing, I mumbled, “What, dear?”
"Saing. Sa-ing."
With my ears still processing the queen’s command, I wander into the kitchen like a confused commoner -looking left, looking right, scratching my shiny head like that’s somehow going to help. Then I shuffle back to my wife and, as loud as a whisper allows, ask, “Lacatán or Latundán?”
Yep, blame it on the rain, we’re going bananas!
Down with thunderstorms and online meetings. It’s coffee time.
Rain. Thunder and lightning. Online meetings. Bananas. And coffee.
These are part of what makes life beautiful, even if the sweetness is equal parts bitter.
Silent cheers!
So, it’s your birthday! What gift do you want me to give you?
Now, before you answer, how about a little review? Remember that epic trip to Sapporo and Tokyo we just took? Yeah, I covered that. And let’s not forget Seoul, HK, Osaka, NYC, Chicago… oh, and also Sydney, Melbourne, and Queenstown. Seriously, I’ve bankrolled more trips than a travel agent.
So what could you possibly want as a gift?
It wasn’t that long ago that I moved heaven and earth, and maybe a few stars, to get you and your brother the best education. In this country, "best" means very, very expensive. It cost me a limb and an arm, not to mention a million strands of hair. Those were very difficult years for your mother and me, but it was very worth it because we love you so very much. Did I mention very already?
Do you want a party? You, my dearest daughter, I’ve always admired for being content and making the most of what you have. We, your parents, have taught you not to be materialistic. You love being simple and are so kind to others. You make us really proud.
But seriously, Nikkei, is there a present you’d like to receive today? You’ve grown to be wise in making decisions -like making your parents proud and happy, especially on your birthday. You’ve made us feel that you already have everything in life because of the love and care we always give you.
I’m not literally "counting the cost," but if you add it all up, that’s worth fifty more years of birthday gifts.
So spill it, sweetie -WHAT?
Happiest birthday, my favorite daughter!
You are a lovely, lovely gift from God and forever I will sing His praises for His goodness.
¡Te queremos mucho!
Thirty and counting.
Not my waistline – that’s probably not changing anytime soon. Not the number of strands remaining on my crown – I still have a bit more.
Thirty. That’s married life in years with my bride.
Thirty years ago, I made a decision to love, support, persevere, laugh, cry, and breathe with the one I vowed to before God and men – for richer or for poorer... well, you know the drill.
To my bride:
Not every moment was perfect. Not every dream came true. But life became more beautiful, and challenges became easier to face because you made the same decision. Two became one, a union that was, and still is strong.
Do we wish for thirty more? Let me ponder that over a cup of coffee.
But let it be known, 30 or more, 30 or less, the decision remains.
Happy anniversary, my Doe-a-dear. I love you plus 30!
Cheers!
Nikkei thought I must have paid someone to do it. Still, I’m tickled pink. My wife suggested I made it to the list of "revered authors," understandably because our 30th anniversary is coming up. Wink, wink.
Yep, dear readers, my book "Blah, Blah, Black Sip" just got another review.
I didn’t publish a book to earn accolades or face the ires of coffee connoisseurs who might debate the merits of a 3-in-1 vs. a shot of espresso. My intentions were simple and personal: to capture and immortalize the brilliantly dull moments of my life. This way, when I get older -like a lot older -I can reminisce about those times I might otherwise forget. It’s like a diary to look back on.
But like I said, I am thrilled that somebody I didn’t know read and appreciated my work. To those who have read my book and those who might pick it up in the future, I raise this cup to you.
If you fancy reading the review, here it is: https://anthonyshieh.wixsite.com/anthony.../blahblahblacksip
I’m reading and re-reading this with my second cup of Americano. Happy me. Yay!
Cheers!
Have you got a copy of my first book yet? No? Then you're missing out on a whole lot of nonsense -some practical and reasonable nonsense. And if you read it with a latte, cortado, or Irish coffee, the words magically transform into meaningful blah-blahs, faithful to the title.
I'm thrilled that some brave souls have posted reviews, potentially risking their careers in journalism. But hey, some of them are my friends, so there's that.
Don't worry, I'm already plotting my next masterpiece. I might dive into how the POGOs have twisted the hearts and minds of our government leaders, completely oblivious to their impact on Filipinos. And maybe I'll throw in some global warming conspiracy theories for good measure.
Side note: Yes, dawg. I do hope to publish another one. Hope might be foolish, but it's stubborn. So bake that into your brain.
But that will happen when all my stars align. For now, it’s Blah, Blah, Black Sip. Below are the stores where you can grab a copy for yourself (or your coffee buddy). Perfect Father's Day gift, don't you think?
For online orders:
https://central.com.ph/product/espinosa-blah-blah-black-sip/
- - -
Quezon Avenue
927 Phoenix Bldg., Quezon Ave.,�Quezon City�Hotline: (632) 8372 3550 loc. 31�Mobile: 09399166596 / 09638460736
CENTRAL BOOKS SM Megamall
SM Megamall, 5th Level Building A�Bgry. Wack Wack, Mandaluyong City�Hotline: (632) 8638 1088�Mobile: 09638460735
San Sebastian
G/F, 2114-A, San Sebastian Recoletos Inc.�CM Recto Ave, Quiapo, Manila�Hotline: (632) 8441 6734�Mobile: 09399166597 / 09637387269
CENTRAL BOOKS Lyceum Makati
Lyceum, 109 SDC Building Leviste St.�Brgy. Bel Air Makati City�Hotline: (632) 8567 4399�Mobile: 09088162716 / 09637387268
CENTRAL BOOKS Cebu
GV Building P. Del Rosario St.�Cebu City�Hotline: 383 0377�Mobile: 09985435645
CENTRAL BOOKS Davao
Space 7 City Triangle�Roxas Ave., Davao City�Hotline: 282 0364�Mobile: 09326376180
Finally! It’s out. My book is out.
BLAH, BLAH, BLACK SIP.
Sixty-four years in the making -give or take a few; countless cups of lattes, americanos, flat whites & cappuccinos; enough grammatical errors to make grammar nazis bite their elbow; and an insane amount of caffein in my brain. All these and more to self-publish a book for the first time.
I did all the editing. I wrote the intro. I spilled the coffee. I wrote the back cover copy. I wrote "About the Author." I did the all the layout including the front and back cover. I roped poor Andre to take the "About the Author" mandatory picture. I spilled more coffee. I chose the fonts. I paid the publishing house. Now, I get to promote the book.
In other words, and to make this post longer, this book is my movie. I wrote the script, I directed, I screenplayed, I produced, I acted, I reacted, I paid for the ticket and popcorn to watch it, and I watched it.
This book is a compilation of my brain farts when drinking coffee. I made previously posted stories funnier, sadder, longer, shorter, more interesting, less uninteresting, more dramatic, less amateurish. But let's be real, it's still pretty amateurish. Oh well -so deep.
If you haven’t noticed yet, I am inviting you to this insanity. Yes, grab a copy, and then grab your coffee! Join me in the wild ride of Blah, Blah, Black Sip. No promises, though. It’s a chance you have to take -a journey you’ll have to sip to believe!
- - - - - - - - - -
Copies will soon be hitting the shelves through my publisher's distribution outlets. But if you can't wait and want an advance copy, just drop me a line. It'll cost you less than a fancy latte at Starbucks – and it lasts longer, too!
Cheers!
I love because God first loved me. In my dear Inang, I witnessed that love -pure, unconditional. My children, too, embrace love, having seen it in their dear mommy. It's a love so genuine, so divine. Happy Heavenly Mother's Day, dear Inang. Happy Mother's Day, my Doe-a-dear. Te quiero mucho!
At sixty-four, we're quite the pair,
With laughter and love, beyond compare,
With coffee or tea, and sushi so fine,
Our days are aglow, like a sparkling wine.
I'm your Buck, and you're Doe-a-dear,
Together we'll laugh, without a fear,
The light of our love, the glow of our faith,
Cherish each moment, in life's embrace.
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When you’re sixty-four? Oh Doe-a-dear,
With each candle lit, and every prayer we share,
Our love shines bright, like a beacon in the air.
Though golf may call, with its greens so lush,
My love for you, will never hush,
More than a hole-in-one, birdie, or eagle in flight,
You're the light of my life, a guiding light.
So here's to us, at sixty-four,
With Beatles tunes, and so much more,
In the light of our love, and laughter so true,
Let’s twist and shout, I'm forever with you!
With each passing year, our love's light grows,
Brighter and warmer, like a radiant rose,
Together we'll journey, across the universe,
Or here, there and everywhere
Let's Ob-la-di, Ob-la-dance
To future together advance
Happy Birthday, my Doe-a-dear
Here’s to you, I raise a beer!
If I were to spruce up my resumé today, I’d put “A good conversation starter” as one of my top skills. Once entering an elevator, people were chanting, “23rd,”15th,” “11th,” and so on. I stepped in and said, “59.” The elevator lady looked at me with disgust and said, “No 59th floor here, sir!” I apologized and said, “Oh I’m sorry, I thought people were saying how old they are.”
Yesterday, it was my first time to play at the Royal Ace Golf Driving Range in the eastern part of sunny Quezon City. For some grand design miscalculations, the players have to drive the ball towards the steaming summer sun. I had to apply sunscreen to keep me from dying of skin cancer. Each ball I hit was swallowed by the sun’s glare. So I had to ask my tee girl, “Is there an option to adjust the sun’s intensity?” She only smiled. I could only read her face telling me, “No dumbo, we can’t dim that light.”
But the good conversational starter skill in me persisted, “Is the sun in the same location during the morning?” I asked, gesturing toward where the sun was setting. This time, she answered back, “No sir, it’s on the other side,” pointing innocently towards the east. Gotcha, girl!
You can count on me to break the ice with strangers or with those I’ve not seen since the Great Flood. As long as I’ve had my cup of coffee, I’m good for a corny anecdote.
Cheers!
If you’ve been touched, amused, or entertained by this post, or it put a smile on your face, please favor me with a cup of coffee via GCash or PayPal. I will continue writing.
Lent season had just begun, so I thought I should shift into a more inspiring reflection.
I have a heart condition –not the usual stuff that bitter songwriters put in their sad songs. My thing is a coronary stent inserted into my artery to keep blood flowing to the heart where there used to be a partial blockage. “Partial” here means substantially partial -80% blockage. Almost seven years have passed since then. Yet occasionally, I still experience episodes of missing heartbeats and thumping palpitations. Like a broken percussion instrument or a bass guitar gone haywire.
As I live with this illness, I refuse to surrender to despair. I run, I play, I exercise. I work, too. And every time my ticker misses a beat, I proclaim boldly that my God is bigger than any illness, more powerful than any challenge life may bring, and greater than the greatest. Instead of dwelling on the problem, like worrying about who would inherit my golf clubs if I died, I fix my gaze on His boundless power and promise of healing. As an old song goes, “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.”
Each skipped heartbeat, each palpitation becomes a poignant reminder of God’s grace and love. In faith through prayer, I affirm His power to bring complete healing. This shift in mindset transforms fear into hope, infusing me with courage and resilience. I cling to the comforting truth that God’s grace is more than sufficient for me. In my weakness, His strength shines way brighter than my forehead.
Now, I journey on with renewed faith, trusting that with every beat of my heart, I am being restored. Hey, that sounds like good material for a love song, don’t you think?
I am using this Lenten season as a time of reflection and renewal to deepen my connection with God and reaffirm my trust in His healing power. May you, too, have a blessed season of Lent.
Cheers!
PS. I’m apprenticing to be the assistant barista in our household. Today is my 4th day. Pls be patient with the latte art.
If you’ve been touched, amused, or entertained by this post, or it put a smile on your face, please favor me with a cup of coffee via GCash or PayPal. I will continue writing.
Puberty is defined by many as that equally delightful and unpleasant time when hormones, emotions, and pimples rage like there’s no adulthood. For me, the rage percentage was 10% hormones, 10% emotions, and 80% pimples. At its peak, it was -5%, -5%, and +110%, respectively. The core part of my adolescent identity spun around pimples. While my high school classmates were busy deciphering the intricacies of Algebra and Physics, I was busy conducting my own anatomic exploration -Pimples 101. Every morning, I’d wake up to a face that resembled the map of Andromeda with millions of glowing stars represented by zit breakouts. They overstayed their welcome on my face; I named them all, like astronomers naming stars and planets.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I was willing to try anything to banish those pesky pimples. Clearasil? Check! Calamansi? You bet! Lyna cream? Of course! Johnson’s baby powder? Sure! Nothing worked. Instead, they multiplied faster than I could name them.
By college time, amidst the backdrop of martial law in the Philippines (because apparently, even the abusive government couldn’t handle my acne uprising), the pimples finally retreated like a defeated dictator after a long and arduous battle. But those pimples weren’t going down without a fight. Sure, they left behind their battle scars, but I wear those marks with dignity. As I gaze into the mirror, I see not just the remnants of acne wars past, but a reminder of the resilience that got me through it all. Because let’s face it, all battles can be won face-to-face, especially if the problem is your face.
So here’s to surviving puberty’s epic battle of the blackheads vs. the whiteheads; to clear skin and the wisdom that comes from facing adversity face-on. And remember, no matter how bad it gets, just keep smiling -it’s harder for pimples to find a home on a happy face.
Cheers!
If you’ve been touched, amused, or entertained by this post, or it put a smile on your face, please favor me with a cup of coffee via GCash or PayPal. I will continue writing.
So there goes January. Doing a bit like February, gone fast and furious. That’s 8⅓ percent gone in the blink of an eye. Normally, this is when I’d be doing my self-assessment look-back -you know, checking which New Year’s resolutions survived the onslaught of the initial ups and downs of 2024. But I’ve learned my lesson -I decided to skip the resolution musical this time. No resolutions, no disappointments, right?
So what does that leave me with? Now is a perfect opportunity to take stock of the opening chunk of the year. It’s like a SONA (State of the Nation Address) without the lies. And false promises. And pork barrels. And fancy gowns.
Whether it’s personal improvement, business matters, family relations, or golf, I am well aware that repeating last year’s actions will likely result in identical outcomes. As a witty t-shirt might boldly proclaim, it’s a case of “Same Sh*t, Different Year.” So profound.
I am hopeful, though. This 2024 song hasn’t even hit the chorus yet. I haven’t gone off-key, either. I mean, I am good but I need to be better.
One thing’s for sure -January may be swift, but it’s given me some sort of a tune material to keep this song playing to my beat.
Here’s to progress, no matter how andante they come by, and to the 91⅔ percent of the year waiting to pull an ensemble on us!
Cheers!
If you’ve been touched, amused, or entertained by this post, or it put a smile on your face, please favor me with a cup of coffee via GCash or PayPal. I will continue writing.
Back in the days when we were in elementary school, the word “vacation” had a different meaning for us. It wasn’t about flying off to some faraway land, staying in fancy hotels, and doing a marathon of sightseeing and shopping. No, sir. Our version of a vacation was a trip to our aunts’ place in Olongapo City, a mere 25 kilometers and a swirling 40-minute bus ride away from our humble barrio in Dinalupihan, Bataan. This epic vacation usually happened during the summer months of March to April when school was out.
Our aunts -bless their heavenly hearts, owned a grocery store, and we, the little vacationers, were expected to be their delightful honorary helpers. Sure, they had a saleslady, and a designated go-fer, but a couple of extra pairs of little hands were always warmly welcomed.
The store itself was a mere 10-minute walk from our aunt’s house, nestled in the local city market. But the core of this story, the warehouse, was right there in the house. Most of the deliveries happened here, and this was where the real fun-in-a-vacation kicked in.
Back in the good old days when little dinosaurs were still domesticated, biscuit cans like Skyflakes, Fita, and La Pacita were not sealed like they are now. Also, those glass jars of pickles? Not tamper-proofed. I’m betting my bangs you can sense where this story is headed. Sanitize your dirty minds because, yes, you’re absolutely right.
Before these goodies were shipped off to the store for selling, we engaged in a little pre-shipping quality control. In simple English: we opened, plucked out some samples for ourselves, closed them back up, and gave the can or bottle a good shake to even out the space. Crafty, right? Use your imagination: cute 9-year-old twin boys, one holding a flashlight, the other skillfully opening a can, both sharing muffled giggles, as one keeps a watchful eye on the door. Yep, we were the inspirations for the Hardy Boys. We learned this fine art from our older brothers and a cousin, the true masters of mischief.
Now, in our golden years, we still fondly recall these little mischievous acts and share hearty laughs about them. After all, what’s a vacation without a sprinkle of adventure and a dash of mischief, right? We were so full of them.
Cheers to the good old days!
If you’ve been touched, amused, or entertained by this post, or it put a smile on your face, please favor me with a cup of coffee via GCash or PayPal. I will continue writing.
Early on a Saturday morning, as my family and I embarked on a visit to relatives, the idea of grabbing breakfast on the go led us to choose the drive-thru at a Jollibee store. The queue was quite long, and as we inched closer to the ordering window, the smell of Jolly Longganisaand Pancake meals transformed us from hunger to hungerest.
Finally reaching the first of two windows, we placed our order, paid, and eagerly awaited our Jolly feast in silent starvation. Little did we know, a visual feast was about to unfold before us.
Approaching the second window to claim our order, the drama began to roll. With a friendly wave, the Jollibee crew welcomed the car in front of us. But, to our collective surprise, the driver ignored the friendly gesture. Instead of pulling up to claim their Jollibee meals, the driver steered towards the golden arches of a McDonald’s store, conveniently located just in front of the Jollibee store. It was a moment of sheer confusion for the crew, and we couldn’t help but scratch our belly in disbelief.
The dumbfounded looks on the faces of the crew told me they had forgotten their lines for this one-act play. I leaned forward and casually assured them, “Don’t worry, they’ll be back after their fast-food tour of the area.”
As we savored our Jollibee breakfast treats in the car, we engaged in some serious discussions, pondering over what might have possibly gone awry. Was it a sudden change in taste preferences, an unexpected kick of Alzheimer’s, or perhaps the passengers were undercover drive-thru detectives on a hurried mission?
Regardless, it was a hilarious twist to our otherwise ordinary drive-thru experience, turning a routine breakfast run into an unexpected comedy sideshow – all for free!
Here’s to fast-food drive-thru lanes that offer accidental entertainment for appetizers. Juicilicious!
Cheers!
If you’ve been touched, amused, or entertained by this post, or it put a smile on your face, please favor me with a cup of coffee via GCash or PayPal. I will continue writing.
Strange and stranger things happen during eulogies. Words you hear can stir your emotions unexpectedly so, because, for me, I don’t claim to have been close to the person being eulogized. I couldn’t even recall an instance where we shared a common dining table to have a little chit-chat. But I nearly cried. Eyes welling up isn’t considered crying, is it? Tears must fall -that’s my definition.
In the silent atmosphere of the chapel. -although not without scattered suppressed giggles, the daughter’s narrative of witnessing her mother’s last breath shortly after whispering words of forgiveness and gratitude, echoed beyond the room into my undeparted soul.
Strange, ain’t it? In the absence of shared dinner, my being found a link to that human experience of grieving that cuts across the familiar and the typical.
Oh wait, there is something. Even if I’ve not spent any time with the departed worthy of a eulogy that makes people cry, I found her as someone who was of a kind spirit. Warm and gentle. Not much with words but just with her presence. I admire people like that. There you go. There’s the connection. Also, she was my nephew’s mother-in-law.
In the end, what began as a somewhat usual moment of almost crying during a eulogy turned into realizing the unseen threads that link us together. Like flowers in a wreath.
Well, coffee, too. Cheers!
If you’ve been touched, amused, or entertained by this post, or it put a smile on your face, please favor me with a cup of coffee via GCash or PayPal. I will continue writing.
Ahh, the New Year -a time for new beginnings, right? No, this post isn’t about resolutions for the new year. When the time is right and if I’ve resolved to cut procrastination, I might write something about resolutions. For this issue, let’s dive into a new beginning that I once dreamed would happen during its time -being a TV newscaster.
In the annals of auditions, mine for a newscaster role holds a special place -not for its success, but for its hilarious blunders. It happened during the time when my bangs were in a precarious wavy situation -half of them had decided to wave goodbye. Letting the bang-gones be bygones, I baldly walked into the audition room, cool on the outside, just a tad nervous within.
As I sat in front of the teleprompter, a mouthful came up -not words but saliva buildup. With each sentence, I struggled with the impending swallow, hoping to maintain my composure with a forced smile. I yakkity-yakked on, reading the news with an unintended dramatic flair, trying to cross Noli de Castro and Mike Enriquez with every syllable. Added a bit of Larry King, too -the hair, you know.
Now, my OOTD. While today’s newscasters don the classic black coat and tie combo, I opted for something more suitable for a beach party. Yes, you read that right. Hawaiian shirts and breaking news -what could go wrong?
What brought me to this memorable audition? A well-meaning friend who believed my dashing looks and English-American accent would kill it. In her eyes and ears, I was destined for the Best in Newscast Award, Summer Edition. I delivered the news with gusto, imagining CNN or BBC scouts lurking in the grandstand, ready to pirate me away for international stardom.
Sadly, the call from the global news giants never came. My dreams of acquiring a posh cockney accent were bloody stricken through. My friend, the talent scout, disappeared into the thin airwaves, leaving me with half a handful of bangs, a wardrobe malfunction, and the lingering taste of unsweetened saliva.
In the grand scheme of auditions, mine might not have been a success story, but it sure is a coffee tale to tell. Lesson learned? Sometimes, it’s the unexpected moments that make life truly entertaining, especially when you look back at them. I made them happen when I could. And who knows, maybe one day I’ll be the anchor of a news show for the elderly, Hawaiian shirt and all.
“Aloha viewers, before we start with the headlines -Please. Turn. Up. Your. Volume!”
Cheers!
If you’ve been touched, amused, or entertained by this post, or it put a smile on your face, please favor me with a cup of coffee via GCash or PayPal. I will continue writing.
