The Great Tikky Rescue, But Tikky…

Taking a break from my so-far futile attempts to figure out AI tools that promise “coding without coding” (duh!), I decided to tackle something less brain-melting in the kitchen. This 50-year-old brain can only take so much. The ’50’ explanation: there were times I didn’t use it, so I deducted those moments from 65. There -you do the math. And as for that kitchen duty? It’s dishwashing.

There I was, elbow-deep in bubbles, scrubbing away, when something small, scaly, and uninvited wiggled into my soapy battlesink. Meet Tikky, the baby lizard -no bigger than my pinky. But Tikky, distressed maybe, looked as valiant as a gator. He wasn’t there for a quick swim. Instead, he was trying to leapfrog from the sink but his wet skin prevented him from springing up and out of the mess.

With my hands all soapy and foamy, I had to call for assistance.

“Andre!” I bellowed.

Sensing the urgency in my tone, he came running -Andre, not Tikky. In five seconds flat, I fired off a quick synopsis of my little friend Tikky’s dire situation. Andre grabbed a small plastic spatula so Tikky could hop on without getting squished. After several tries, Andre and Tikky finally succeeded -his dignity still intact. Andre’s. And Tikky’s, too. Tikky was now onboard his plastic chariot.

Then…

Enter Nikkei. Fresh from an online meeting and blissfully oblivious to the rescue effort we’d been mounting, she stepped in to grab a cup. Aboard the vehicle, Tikky jumped off. And just as he landed, Nikkei stepped in. And on -Tikky. All her weight, all her mighty step. On poor Tikky. A minute ago, a valiant little gator. But Tikky, now squished like a…

WAIT. HOLD UP. That last paragraph is pure fiction, inspired by real movies. What really happened was this:

Nikkei was never around. Tikky had, in fact, landed safely on the counter and scurried off under the stove. He’s alive. Somewhere. I hope.

We were heroes. Tikky was lucky. ButTikky may not know it. And that’s okay.

That was one good adventure break from learning AI.

Cheers!

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Judgments and Reflections

One morning after church, my wife and I were driving through a neighboring village. Cruising at a grandmother’s speed, I spotted a man tending to his front garden. “Look at that man,” I remarked to Rissa. “His legs are bowed.” A few meters down the road, my spy lens caught a woman with an asymmetrical bulge around her neck. “Must be goiter,” I told my lovely passenger the diagnosis.

Shortly after, just before the next turn, I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. Adjusting its angle, I saw an aging, bald man with visible liver spots and sagging eye bags staring back at me. At that moment, I realized my own imperfections. I was a badass. Baddest!

I didn’t know what came over me as I am not typically that judgmental. Though I am in some ways, that was unforgivable. Maybe it was a misplaced defense mechanism -a revenge in the name of all the bald people in the world who are always the laughingstock in any discussion: family gatherings, online political posts, newspaper editorials, medical dissertations, and even homilies. Like if you can’t think of anything funny or there’s a lull in a conversation, there’s a fallback. Make fun of the bald guy. It always works. You can’t miss us. We are like a knight in shining…, well, without the armor.

But revenge isn’t mine. It’s the Lord’s, says the Bible in Romans 12:19.

Mea culpa, Lord. I leave judgment to You.

The next day, driving down the same street. I saw the same garden again -it was so well-manicured. It can only be done masterfully by one who had great skills. I failed to see that the other day.

I didn’t see the lady anymore before the turn, but now I recall that she was all smiles. Like there was genuine joy written on her face. That, too, I failed to notice.

So here’s to all who may not look perfect in the eyes of others, you are perfect in the eyes of those who love you.
Cheers!

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Losing Andre, Finding Andre

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!

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Thanks and Fore-Ward

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!

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Breaking 65!

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!

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I Am The Ice-Breaker!

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!

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The Pimple Years

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!

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The 2024 Psalm

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!

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Vacation Mischief

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!

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Drive-Thru Show

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!

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A Wake Awakening

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!

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My Unforgettable Newscaster Audition

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!

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Traditions: A Family Thanksgiving

As the year gracefully folds its way to a grand finale, my family and I gather our laughter, gratitude, and appetites for our time-honored tradition –our annual year-end thanksgiving. It’s all about giving thanks, breaking bread together, and celebrating the journey we’ve navigated as a family.

It all begins with a humble trip to hear the early morning Mass -the centerpiece of this tradition. Just like the uncountable twinkling lights of the church retablo, there wasn’t enough time to count all the blessings of the passing year.

After Mass, our pilgrimage continues to a chosen breakfast place, where we share not just a meal but a buffet of gratitude. This tradition, a brainchild of mine, is where we take turns expressing our thanks for the myriad blessings of the past year, starting from the boldest to the baldest. NY resolutions can wait.

It’s not just about the grand achievements or milestones; it’s about acknowledging the everyday miracles, the laughter, even the tears and disappointments, and the unwavering support that binds us as a family.

Each heartfelt ‘Thank You, Lord’ becomes a mosaic, painting a picture of our collective journey throughout the year. This simple act of acknowledging our blessings becomes the glue that binds us stronger and more resilient as a family.

We’re not just content with thanking the heavens at the breakfast table; we’ve added another spread to our tradition platter –the daily rosary. As the clock strikes 8 pm, our family and the families of my brothers and sister converge online for a daily rosary prayer. What started as a pandemic-induced practice in early 2020 has blossomed into a tradition that has endured for nearly four years. It’s a virtual gathering of hearts (sometimes of chismis, too), a ritual that transcends the physical distance that separates us. My prayer is to carry this tradition into the golden (or platinum) years, where wrinkles outnumber strands of hair, and the family tree expands with new shoots.

On the professional front, the year brought forth new projects and clients that shine a promising light for the future. The conference calls may have been -yawn -endless, but so were the opportunities –a fair trade, I’d say.

Amidst the laughter, Rissa, the ilaw ng aking tahanan, beams with contentment. The keeper of our traditions, she orchestrates the clutter into a melody of love and order. Andre and Nikkei, each with their own list of joys, remind us that life, much like a K-Pop concert or a birdie in golf, is a celebration to be cherished.

As the year threw some health challenges our way (mostly mine🥹) I found solace in a truth that transcends the physical –the unwavering belief that God’s strength surpasses any ailment. Each setback became a stepping stone, a reminder that resilience is not just a word but a testament to the incredible power of faith.

So here’s to traditions that echo with laughter, to triumphs big and small, to family bonds that weather every storm, and to a new year that promises more adventures, more love, and more reasons to be thankful.

Happy New Year cheers to you, dear reader, and to the unpredictable, delightful journey that is life!

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Someday at Christmas

You’ve probably come across Stevie Wonder’s “Someday at Christmas” on the airwaves at some point. I certainly have. But upon discovering a rendition by a choir, I thought differently good about it and decided to take a fresh and different perspective on the song.

I should mention that it was written not by Stevie but by Ron Miller and Bryan Wells, and though released in 1967, it remains timeless and relevant to this day and age. It sends a message of optimism and makes you dream and hope for a peaceful world.

Someday at Christmas there’ll be no wars
When we have learned what Christmas is for
When we have found what life’s really worth
There’ll be peace on earth

We celebrate Christmas every year -from September ’til the next September, no end Noel. But amid the bright lights and sweet puto-bungbong, I ask between bites, “Where is the love?”

Someday at Christmas we’ll see a land
With no hungry children, no empty hand
One happy morning people will share
Our world where people care

Yet, we keep on dreaming. I guess having Christmas every year keeps the dream and the hope alive. We find joy in giving and receiving gifts, albeit fleeting.

Someday all our dreams will come to be
Someday in a world where men are free
Maybe not in time for you and me
But someday at Christmastime

This song has been my prayer -that the dreams the lyrics sing about will be realized by those after me. When world peace becomes as easy as hitting the high notes of this beautiful song while eating delicious puto-bungbong.

Maligaya at mapayapang Pasko sa inyong lahat!

Happy birthday cheers to You, Lord Jesus!

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Wanderlust Legacy

One of the valuable experiences I’ve provided my children, which I unfortunately missed out on during my own childhood, is the opportunity to travel. Although my overseas adventures began late (after college), exploring various places has significantly broadened my perspective.

In particular, Andre, my son, has absorbed numerous lessons through our family travels. Even during their homeschooling days in elementary school, my wife and I made a conscious effort to set aside funds for regular travel, allowing our children to learn firsthand about different cultures and places.

As Andre progressed to college, his dream of visiting Europe and the Vatican City was fulfilled when he attended Focolare’s Genfest in Budapest. This experience ignited his passion for global exploration, and he eagerly looks forward to future travels. Since then, he has continued to cultivate a fascination for traveling the world.

The knowledge gained during his travels has become the driving force behind his valuable role as the COO (Child of the Owner) to the family business. I take immense pride in my son -my comrade in business and on the golf course, and the official family coffee barista.

Happy birthday, Andre! May your light continue to illuminate the lives of others, powered by your generosity with your time and resources.

Break 80 soon (with me)! Cheers!

you

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Spices of My Life

We love our bread. We love our butter. But most of all, we love spices.

Every time we travel or come across an ad on social media introducing new spices, we buy them. We have one for every kind of meal served on the table -from just enough zing to the strongest kick that can knock the daylight out of your throat!

Adobo is adobest, sisig is sumisigaw, chichawrong becomes chicharight, and every supper is super!

Spicy. Yup, for the past 64 years, if there are two-and-a-half syllable words that best describe the life I’ve had, spicy should be one of them.

For four years, I walked to and from high school, a kilometer-and-a-half away. Not every day, though. Sometimes, I’d ride behind the tricycle driver for a discounted fare when it’s raining or when in a hurry. I graduated with honors, and yes, with a new pair of trendy, bulky Glenmore shoes. Spicy.

I finished a five-year engineering course in four-and-a-half without a watch. I had the clock tower of Manila City Hall to thank for keeping me on time. During exams, I always positioned myself near the window so I can take a glance at the City Hall clock to know how much time I had left. Spicy.

I worked abroad for five-and-a-half years. During those years, I got to travel to Europe (backpacking) and Asia. Lost my passport, my money, and everything I had to live on in Spain. Spicy.

I got married at 34, shaved my head at 50 accepting the inevitable. Spicy.

The rest of my life you can read about in this blog.

Today is my birthday. I still have to break a 100 in golf! I’ve got something to look forward to. Spicy.

Cheers!

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Dream Unfulfilled

Today would have been our dear Inang’s 97th birthday. She’s been gone from our sight more than 20 years ago already. Back then, when we bought Christmas gifts for loved ones, it was also a time to get a birthday gift for our beloved mother.

While she and our dear Tatang were still alive, I dreamed of gifting them with a trip abroad. Unfortunately, the dream outlived their life and remained a dream, never to be fulfilled. At that time, I had limited resources, earning just enough for my growing family. And when there was enough for a bigger family vacation abroad, it was too late.

Dear, Inang. My heart is content even if there is an unfulfilled desire that remains. My faith tells me there is no place here on earth or in the entire universe that can compare with the visions you see and the beauty of where you are now.

Happy birthday! You know the drill. Mention our names to God face-to-face so that we may be blessed all the days of our lives here on Earth.

Cheers to you!

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Remember the Times of Your Life

Amazing how a little, even innocent gesture can go a long way for a long time.

I was doing my usual run around our village one late afternoon when kids of all ages loiter on the playground and in the streets. There was this eight-to-tenish boy with a basketball who I run into with his troop almost every time. But there was this one time that made my day.

Walking towards me in the opposite direction of my run, he greeted me with a wave and a smile, “Hi, Kuya!” Kuya literally means older brother in Tagalog but is lately used to address a security guard, a resto server, a garbage collector, a driver, a mayor, a king, etc.

I had all of those options to choose which of the categories I belong to in the mind of the little lad. I chose big brother. Then I waved and smiled back, “Hi buddy,” and went on with my run. I chose to be happy. The smile stayed ’til the next lap.

This old brain of mine is hard-wired to remember things and events that made me feel good. Like the time when I beat my uncle for the first time in chess; someone slipped a sweet greeting card into my notebook in high school even if never got to find out who did it; my wedding day (or else); my funny first airplane ride. The list is long.

On my deathbed, if someone asked me about good memories, these and the chubby kid of my ‘hood, I will surely recall.

Hey kid! Cheers!

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My Old Man and Me. Two Ordinary People.

A day before my board exams for Electrical Engineering, my dear Tatang came from the province to show support. My study group had been busting our tailbones daily to prepare for the exams. But on the eve of the exams, we were told by our wise-cracking professors to take it easy. Chill is the word we use these days. But those were the days, my friend.

My old man and I went to see Ordinary People -a drama. I must have chosen it because Tatang would have gone for a non-stop action movie like Die Hard or MI or FF over a heavy drama flick featuring a non-stop yackety-yakking. Why I chose that movie? I don’t know. Maybe because it won the Oscar’s Best Picture that year or the math and engineering formulas residing in my head at that time may have poisoned my simple decision-making abilities.

That was 42 stone-age years ago. I wanted to re-watch it to see how good or bad it really was and to find out how much torment my old man was willing to suffer if only to be with me that day.

So I re-watch it. Just recently. My conclusion -it is a good movie. And my father suffered much because there is absolutely no way he would have appreciated it. I just hope that he slept through it after finishing his popcorn and soda.

I also wanted to see it again to see how much I was loved by my dear Dada. The bus ride from Bataan; multiplied by 120 minutes of heavy drama stuff right before your eyes; plus checking on your sonny boy’s sanity before a big day; equals unqualified love.

We were ordinary people sans the drama, significant to each other. We were happier than those characters in the movie.

Happy Father’s day, Tatang. I love you and I miss you. 

Cheers to you!

PS. I’m playing golf now so please watch over me.

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A Heat Wave Story

Our eight-year-old aircon suffered a heat stroke due to the heat wave that’s raging across the metro for the past weeks now. I replaced it with a more fancy, nano-technology type that monitors your cholesterol and uric acid levels. Funny how the air temp can change the moods of people around you. There is peace in the household now. 

But I’ve got to get rid of the old one. I searched the online marketplace for anyone interested in buying an old and busted friend. Several responded to my ad but only one made a bid. He won. An hour and a vroom-vroom later, he came.

I went out expecting a truck or at least a car. After all, a tonner-and-a-half split-type aircon weighs a ton and a half. And sizeable. You gotta have space for the outdoor unit -which contains the compressor, the fan, and several trapped dead birds; the indoor unit -thru which cold air comes out (sometimes); and, a 6-meter insulated copper tubing. But instead of a car or a truck, he rode in on his motorbike -a measly 75ish cc rugged beast.

“How are you going to fit all these in there?” I asked while showing him all the items.

“She’s carried a lot bigger items than these,” he proudly retorted.

“What, like a house and lot?” I joked. He paused for a few seconds without looking at me to show the level of regard he had for my joke, sighed deeply, then continued with his packing. I gave him an ‘A’ for his creativity and perseverance in doing business but a ‘D’ in pun exchange. There’s no pleasing everyone, I guess. Not even in the junk business.

A few minutes, a roll of packing tape and another pair of vroom-vroom later, he was gone. Goodbye, friend. You’ve served us well. I’m happy. The deal made me a thousand bucks richer.

To cooler days ahead, cheers!

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