Food reviews are complicated.

How do you even begin to describe the taste, let alone the texture, of substances that we willingly — most of the time at least — put in our mouths?

Is the meat tough, like substandard bubble gum dispensed by a machine older than your pimply-faced teenager? Was that glass of green tea refreshing, like ice-cold beer consumed on a warm evening, preferably in the company of a smart and pretty female?

I barely have an idea.

Besides always eating on the run — supposedly bad for your health — I generally subsist on what are now considered as relief goods.

I am not kidding.

Twice a day for the past few months or so, it’s been pork and beans and meat loaf for me.

Fortunately, my nutritional deficits are covered in one way or the other by multivitamins and the occasional fruit, usually locally-grown bananas. (However cheap and tasty, imported fruit incurs more carbon emissions since these have to be transported at long distances.)

Just about the only domestic privilege I enjoy, food-wise, is coffee, thanks to a machine that keeps on brewing, virtually maintenance-free, six years after it produced its first cup.

Without my dependable Braun coffeemaker, my daily food fare would have shamed displaced refugees, disaster victims, and domestic airline passengers.

As far as I’m concerned, any meal served with china and silver is already cuisine. It can be a hot, smoky carinderia along a dusty highway but if the plates are ceramic and the utensils gleam at the smallest sliver of light, that’s fine dining for me.

Which now explains why I find it difficult to write food reviews.

With my unbelievably low standards, how can readers trust my taste?

Take this establishment I agreed to visit three weeks ago with three co-workers — Jayme Gatbonton, who later wrote the food review; Analyn Perez, who took pictures; and Jonathan Perez, who smiled and ate (and vice-versa) even though I continued to talk to him with my mouth full.

No question about it: the food was great.

The poultry could have been a little tender though — the flesh struggled with spoon and fork inside the small battleground of a bowl.

But the fight was worth it.

Every bite was a winner, allowing sweet, salty, and spicy flavors to slowly come together in the palate, an experience that anyone used to fast food fare would do well to savor.

And so, on that Friday evening, savor I did, knowing that it might take more than a month before I could get my dose of fine dining again.

It was, I am not afraid to admit, an altogether pleasant experience — good food taken with good company.

Had alcohol been served after the delicious yogurt dessert, it would have been perfect.

After all, man — especially this one — does not live on good food alone.

But then again, that’s a completely different story altogether, best told after work in the company of like-minded tipplers.

Anyone up for a drink later?

No profession is more affiliated with alcohol consumption than journalism.

Around the world, at least once weekly, hard-hitting, news-addicted reporters take a swig or two with their colleagues, swapping gossip, double-checking sources, exchanging possible leads.

But these rituals of journalistic one-upmanship are child’s play compared to what I — a pseudo-deadline-beater — did a month ago.

That being said, covering the bacchanalia that is the Oktoberfest is still dirty work. But, hey, somebody’s got to do it.

Tough assignment

A day before Ondoy submerged three-fourths of Metro Manila, I attended San Miguel Beer Inc.’s (SMBI) Oktoberfest launch, an event that featured free beer and fantastic babes.

My demanding editors assigned me to the event, unaware that I would grapple with moral and journalistic dilemmas never before encountered ever since I ate a third serving of osso bucco during a briefing a few months back.

Sure enough, upon arriving, my hosts asked me a question that blurred the line between reporter and subject, witness and participant, observer and — uhm — observations.

They asked me for the kind of beer I preferred — pale pilsen, light, draft, or their special Oktoberfest brew. I paused significantly, massaged my chin with my fingers, and tried to show the impassive, neutral, and completely objective posture of someone who practiced journalism seriously.

“Do I have to pay for it?” I asked, adding that under no circumstances was I ever going to abuse their hospitality. If I did, it would mean a memo from our HR officer, known for producing official documents faster than you can say, “Deviation!”

When I got the assurance that I was their guest, I ordered a succession of three light beers — one for me, myself, and I. It was more than enough to last me for the night.

After all, this year’s Oktoberfest uncovered a whole lot of subjects that were vested with public interest and therefore were of great value to scribblers such as myself.

Why, for instance, were there so many good-looking, shapely Brazilian women at the launch? Where did they stay while in Manila? And most importantly, what are their cellphone numbers?

Sadly, these questions remain unanswered.

I was already too overwhelmed by my coverage, which consisted of drinking free beer while on the job. Moreover, the whole night had another setback. The hard, backbreaking overtime work I rendered would remain unpaid.

But then again, who’s complaining?

Eye candy overload

No one ever lost money selling a good idea. But then again, a good idea means different things to different people.

For the average Filipino male, a whole set of good ideas — in fact, the very definition of a good life itself — is based on the availability of cold beer and encounters with hot women, the closer and more intimate, the better.

This probably explains why, to this day, San Miguel Brewery Inc. (SMBI) — San Miguel Corp.’s beer subsidiary — continues to organize Oktoberfest.



Besides allowing it to sell more of its flagship product, the event also celebrates camaraderie and friendship, among the most cherished Filipino values, along with bayanihan and tax evasion.

To this end, the company set aside anywhere from one to two million pesos, perhaps even more, for the event’s launch, hoping to boost product sales and earnings further.

These funds will prove to be well-spent.

With Christmas just around the corner, money allotted for promotions without a doubt will bring in billions more in profit, which already rose four percent to P4.862 during January to June this year compared to the same period last year.

Not bad for a company whose parent, San Miguel Corp., is twenty-four percent owned by coconut farmers.

But that’s another story.

Hours before the launch, organizers took over the Coyiuto parking lot along San Miguel Avenue — just across the company’s headquarters — and covered the premises with one huge white tent, useful in keeping out the rain and keeping in the cold air from the air-conditioning.

Inside, booths sold every kind of dish that could be served both as individual meals and as pulutan — pizza, chicken, and yes, tokneneng (deep friend hardboiled eggs covered in flour) — you name it, they had it.

Interspersed between these concessions were various forms of entertainment usually found in a fair — a kissing booth, a circus hammer bell ringer, and a stall for fans who wanted to have their pictures taken alongside San Miguel Beer basketball players and celebrities such as Michael V., one of the event’s hosts.

Unfortunately, these offerings failed to see any considerable action, much like the volunteers of the Bayani Fernando for President movement.

The audience — mainly young males — was preoccupied with drinking beer and gawking at dozens of pretty women found offstage and on.

On the floor, waitresses wore cowboy-themed outfits. Not only did they have Stetson hats on, they also wore denim skirts or shorts cut a foot or so above the knee, displaying their lower body advantages.

Sharing their space on the floor were the so-called Octobabes — a dozen or so tall and lovely Brazilians wearing red and white cheerleaders’ uniforms.

Although quiet — perhaps due to the language barrier more than anything else — they were a fantastic bunch, always gracious to have their pictures taken with anyone who looks halfway decent enough to keep their hands to themselves.

Onstage, a group of young women competed for the audience’s attention.

Known as the Poi Dancers, the females wore what looked like filmy nightgowns that deliberately emphasized their curves.

In short, the whole night was marked with an oversupply of eye candy. Healthy, supple female skin up for display was enough to fill a decade’s worth of FHM issues.

Everywhere you looked, a pretty face, a set of spectacular thighs, or delicious cleavage blocked your view.

These sights — rarely seen outside the Playboy Mansion and certain establishments in Metro Manila — caused males to break out into cold sweat.

They took long pulls on their beers, trying their best to ward off nervous tics. On top of the fact that alcohol, if consumed in just the right amounts, enhances conversation, especially with attractive members of the opposite sex with whom they wanted to have some action.

Dirty dancing

By ten in the evening, the males in attendance had another reason to reach for their favorite alcoholic beverage. They presumably needed to cool off after the Mocha Girls, the Philippines’ hottest girl group, raised temperatures once more.

Once onstage, they shook their booties in a series of numbers that would have given porn stars a run for their money. One Mocha Girl performed a split and proceeded to assume various positions, thrusting her pelvis in a way that showed that her other talents were best seen — and perhaps even experienced first hand — in a more intimate setting.

But the torrid numbers didn’t end there.

The group was paired off with male audience members in a risqué game led off by Mocha Uson, the group’s head.

Wearing nothing but black hot pants and a matching top, Mocha opened her legs wide, climbed on top of her partner — a lucky fellow by the name of Dennis — and sat on his lap.

Instantly, the crowd fell silent.

All forms of activity — gawking, flirting, drinking, burping, keeping trembling hands off the Brazilians — were reduced to the bare minimum, thanks to the action onstage. The atmosphere was ripe for a scandal, the kind that was featured on websites that kept men and their equipment up all night.

With digital and video cameras trained on the pair, Mocha then pressed forward, giving instructions to the lucky bastard.

She wanted him to plant a wet one right on her kisser and portions of her upper body advantages, large parts of which were exposed.

But for some reason, Dennis refused, to the crowd’s chagrin. He said something about his girlfriend being stricter than his parents.

However, that didn’t stop the fun.

Michael V. facilitated games involving helmet-wearing contestants who tried to pop the most number of balloons with their boxing gloves while jumping on a trampoline.

Continuous balloon-popping action helped the audience sublimate their emotions, which were heightened by the previous activity.

Fortunately, by that time, they had already consumed enough beer to let their hair down, satisfied that despite the global crisis — which cut Philippine exports and Filipinos’ jobs abroad — everything was going to be alright.

All these, thanks to a company which continues to make a product that always does the country proud.

To Alecks Pabico, who wouldn’t mind my jokes

Next to feigning sickness and alien abduction, the death of a family member or a friend is one of the better excuses to avoid going to the office.

This was exactly the reason why I was able to skip work for two days, however short and temporary.

I told my supervisors that a friend died and I was in quiet mourning (i.e., comforting my similarly-bereaved friends while drinking vodka at the wake on the sly).

In doing so, I accidentally stumbled upon one of life’s most well-kept secrets: to avoid work, have someone you know die.

But that’s not as easy as it sounds.

And in the case of Alecks Pabico, the very first Philippine Collegian editor I served, I would rather be a bundy clock boy and HR’s BFF than have him beat deadlines somewhere else.

Alecks was so loved that hours after he died on Wednesday last week, funeral arrangements were already being prepared by an ad hoc committee composed of his friends — an ADB consultant, a UP law professor, a litigator, and myself, a drunkard.

Although I fail to remember having to volunteer for such a responsibility, I took to the mission with much aplomb since it involved free alcoholic drinks upon its successful completion.

Moreover, it was my only way of paying tribute to Alecks, one of the gentlest, funniest people I have known (and I say that as someone who excoriates the living, the dead, and other half-dead entities whose only contributions to this planet are hot air and carbon emissions).

My task at Aleck’s wake, while easy, was both a curse and a privilege.

It helped me get in touch with other friends I haven’t seen in decades but it also emphasized that the instant reunion was brought about by Alecks’ demise — an eventuality that he was prepared to face even before he knew his time was up.

About a week before he died, he delivered a speech during a benefit concert held in his honor.

Alecks pretended to stumble on the stage, much to the horror of the audience. He then chuckled, poking fun at the audience’s worst fears.

During his remarks — which I missed by an hour — he also made light of his condition, just about the same attitude he exuded the last time he and I made contact.

Sadly, it was only through Facebook (though we did see each other in August when Collegian alumni held a separate dinner in his honor).

Two weeks before the benefit concert, he uploaded an image of the concert ticket and wrote a status message that said: “Look at what friends from UP Samasa are plotting, but with my consent, of course. To those whom I count as friends, hope you support the effort. Thanks!”

I was the first to reply and did so in jest. “What about your enemies? What will they do? :),” I said.

Alecks was nonplussed.

“Hmmmm, how about asking yourself that question? :-P”

Hours later, in the same status thread, he gave me a gentle reminder, something which I will never forget.

““Enemies” invoke a lot of negative energy. Dwelling on the negative only serves to defeat the event’s very purpose, which is to send positive, healing vibrations.”

So I said: “OK, smart Alecks. I’ll send you good vibes. :)”

Apparently, my online gesture wasn’t enough.

Goodbye, my friend.

Too bad we weren’t able to see each other one final time.

In any case, I’ll always remember you, Alecks — inside and outside Facebook.

Just promise to go easy on updating your status messsages.

———————
Contributions for the family of Alecks Pabico are still accepted at http://onelove.chipin.com. All funds will be allotted for his family, wife Mira, daughters Marlee and Kaya, and son Giles.

And it’s not just for crewmembers of the USS Enterprise.

It’s also for every budget-conscious entity looking for decent living space within the areas near, beside, and/or adjacent to the University of the Philippines.

The task might not be as difficult as resisting the Borg but the challenges remain formidable enough to shock a starship captain into attention.

To stake your claim on a clean, well-lighted place that has a fully-functioning flush toilet within the UP/Teachers’/Sikatuna Village area, one must have the charm of James Tiberius Kirk, the fortitude of Jean-Luc Picard, and the balls of Kathryn Janeway.

Wily landlords, devious property managers, and suspicious building superintendents are all out there, offering monthly rents that would spark outrage among the Ferengi.

High prices are, of course, part of the overall strategy, a gambit designed to separate the insane from the desperate, the tightwad locals from the moneyed Koreans, many of whom have taken over pocket neighborhoods within the area. But that’s another story.

If you’re an apartment hunter looking for long-term yet temporary refuge within the area, it can’t hurt to have a little good luck and good karma on your side.

However, depending on them too often may result in consequences that can severely distort your time, space, and rent continuum.

More than five years ago, my wife and I found – and immediately took – a one-floor, two-bedroom affair within Teachers’ Village.

Situated within a gated compound, the unit sported new dark green tiles and a fresh coat of paint that was on the creepy shade of yellow.

Rent was reasonable for two adults and a fat cat. The fact that the owner’s son’s family lived right beside us left us with no doubt that we made the right choice.

But that was until we received the electric bill a month after.

It was huge.

We entertained the notion that our cat may have taken liberties with our airconditioner since he wanted to replicate winter weather to which he was accustomed.

An electrician my in-laws hired to check on our cables – and our power consumption – disabused us of our cat’s guilt.

He discovered that the compound’s water pump was directly wired into our apartment’s electric connection.

Our meter went full throttle everytime anyone staying within the six-unit complex peed or pooped.

As soon as we collected and secured evidence – colored photo print outs of our electric meter – we stormed into the landlord’s office, demanding reduced rent and an explanation.

We got the former, never really having cared about the latter.

Although the dispute was settled amicably, my wife and I decided to leave after the six-month contract expired.

Only after two big moves within one year were we able to find a place that suited us perfectly.

But then again, I may be speaking too soon.

After all, we might decide to move again and venture into places where no one among the three of us has gone before.

They got lucky.

On Tuesday morning of August 4, Pricella O. Gealon and Elizabeth S. Tundag were able to book reservations and fly to Manila on the same day.

By 8:30 in the evening, the pair was already bound for the Philippine capital, somewhat pleased with themselves after getting good prices for their tickets.

But they weren't exactly in the mood to relish their good luck.

The pair – volunteers of the National Movement for Free Elections (Namfrel) in Cebu during the 1986 snap elections – looked forward to paying their last respects to the late president Corazon C. Aquino.

"She was my idol," Tundag told GMANews.TV during the wee hours of Wednesday in Manila. "She set out to do what she promised to do when she became president."

An hour after take-off, Gealon and Tundag were already at the Ninoy Aquino airport, waiting for a taxi to bring them to the Manila Cathedral.

After a short stop at a nearby apostolate office – where they dropped off their overnight bags – they were able to join thousands who lined up to get a glimpse of the late president during the last day of her wake.

But the flight, the traffic, and the long wait during their departure and arrival took their toll.

At about one in the morning, after enduring cold winds and intermittent rainshowers, the two women decided to leave the queue.

No one could exactly blame them.

They were wet, exhausted, and were nowhere near the cathedral entrance.

At that time, the queue snaked around the block where the church stood, extending anywhere between three to five kilometers from the entrance, depending on various estimates.

The line even became longer at two in the morning, reaching the back of the Bureau of Immigration (BI) building, which was still at a distance from the cathedral.

By this time, both Gealon and Tundag were already seeking refuge at the Palacio del Gobernador, a nearby building.

While sitting at the building’s lobby steps, they tried various strategies to stay up the whole night, if only to keep vigil during the last day of Tita Cory's wake.

Besides watching the continuous stream of people who stayed in line with a mix of envy and amusement, the two women also listened to stories exchanged between the building's security guard and various other visitors.

There was a teacher who complained about the snooty family ahead of her in line. "I even spoke to them in English," she said.

Or the middle-aged woman who was torn between heading back home on her own since she lost her companions (and, for some reason, her cellphone signal).

For their part, Gealon and Tundag swapped stories during the time they accompanied Cory Aquino in her presidential campaign in Cebu more than 20 years ago.

"When I saw her for the first time, I immediately got the impression that she was very close to God," she said.

And even though they failed to get their last look at Cory, they will never forget the day they decided to go on a sudden, unplanned trip to Manila one gloomy day in August.

“We’ve already seen her in person,” they said. “It's enough that we came over to attend her burial and pray for her.”

Facebook is the new Friendster.

That’s what I told a friend of mine.

Or more accurately, that’s what I posted on his wall when he said that people who didn’t share our respect for both the Filipino and English languages — such as it was — were all set to invade and conquer our favorite social networking site.

Since he was an old fart who had a lot of time on his hands — which in turn, indicates the kind of company I keep — he was relentless.

“Friends, the end is near,” he said, continuing our discussion thread by posting on my wall. “Last night I was at a burger joint on Timog and heard two of these youngsters (from different tables) talk about Facebook. We’re finished.”

By youngsters, he was obviously referring to people younger than himself, which just about covered more than half of the Philippine population.

According to my friend — who is pushing 40 but has the mind and body of a healthy senior citizen — these young ones were about to lay siege on the Facebook community by mangling both languages through atrocious spelling and inelegant turns of phrase.

But I’m not bothered.

Practically no one among my 150++ friends on Facebook can be accused of befouling both languages, save for myself.

This explains why I remain choosy about whom I pick as friends in the said Web site, a decision that has benefits and drawbacks.

Since my Facebook friends are relatively literate, articulate, and open-minded individuals, I have no need to explain myself whenever the comments I post on respective statuses, notes, pictures, and whatnot may be considered risqué.

They’re my friends, for crying out loud.

If they disallow and/or discourage me from airing my opinions, however biased (i.e., GMANews.TV is the world’s greatest Web site of all time) then they deserve being deleted from my A-list.

So far, none of my real friends on Facebook have been eager to curb my enthusiasm.

Nevertheless, I admit having to “unfriend” some of my so-called virtual “friends,” especially those whom I have never met at all. (Why I chose to become their Facebook friends in the first place is a mystery, even to myself. Blame it on alcohol, Internet addiction, and plain stupidity.)

This, of course, has qualified me to become a world-class Facebook snob, according to my real friends.

But snob or not, I still am entitled to living the kind of life that I like, a right guaranteed under various international conventions to which this country is a signatory.

This right includes hanging out with people who share the same values and attitudes as I do.

Which explains why I recently looked up two college buddies whom I haven’t heard from in more than a decade.

Using Facebook’s private messaging tool, the three of us exchanged contact details and agreed to meet for dinner just to catch up on each other’s lives.

Details of the reunion — date, time, and place — was decided in just one afternoon, all thanks to the wonders of social media.

Since then, my college buddies and I have been able to organize a get-together on the fly, filling up my fair share of gimmicks and salvaging what remains of my social life.

Thanks, Facebook. You’ve got a friend in me, virtual and otherwise.

qw

It wasn’t easy.

Not for regular Filipino males such as myself who place very little premium on physical appearance and cleanliness.

But it had to be done. And quickly.

Yes, ladies and lesbians, gays and gentlemen, trannies, tramps, and tarts, butches, bitc*es, and bastards, I had a facial.

I’m not exactly proud of it.

Allowing a stranger to smear mud, oil, and fruit extracts on your face is a decision that doesn’t come naturally to most men. Or at least not to me it doesn’t.

Sure, it’s clean. It’s probably even healthy.

But even in an age when metrosexuals and fashionistas reign supreme, I remain skeptical whether men should get regular facials at all.

Whatever happened to good old soap and water?

Have they gone the way of the pager, the 56k dial-up connection, and — with all due respect to communists — communism?

Apparently, they have, at least for some males excluding myself.

An informal poll I undertook via text messaging indicated that some of my friends use facial cleansers, others use astringents, and, as expected, a few had regular facials.

It’s still soap and water for me.

They remain my weapons of choice in the daily struggle against stubborn dirt and noxious body odor, a never-ending war in which I occasionally lose.

Despite their easy availability, I know well enough that sometimes soap and water may be insufficient or inappropriate in certain instances.

Which explains why the only time I agreed to get a facial was a few hours before I got married. This was seven years and seventy-seven pimples ago.

I did it for my bride, the occasion, and our guests, some of whom I have never had the misfortune of meeting again. But that’s another story.

My latest decision to get a facial involved no such grand event.

One day, while at the office, a female co-worker lunged at me without any explanation at all.

With nothing but her bare hands and a maniacal smile on her face, she attacked my left cheek and tried to pierce what she correctly diagnosed as a whitehead, also known as a non-inflamed pore blocked with sebum, according to Wikipedia.

“Hold still,” she told me, her right palm pushing my nose up, threatening to deform it.
“I’m good at this.”

Seconds later, she pressed her thumbs together in an effort to remove the offensive pore.

She failed. The stubborn sebum stayed secure, subcutaneously speaking.

It didn’t take long for me to get the message.

So the next day, I decided to go the whole hog.

I went for the facial after I got a haircut.

The process took more than an hour.

Eyes closed, I lay prostrate on a reclined barber’s chair while a clear, hollow tube the size of a pencil sucked away at the accumulated facial dirt of the past seven years.

It wasn’t an easy job for Facial Vacuum Guy, who said that his harvest of my facial debris was his most bountiful in recent memory.

Nor was it a walk in the park for me.

All throughout the procedure, my legs fell asleep, my butt turned numb, and my back incurred so much pain that I wished for a paracetamol overdose.

But then again, who was I to complain?

These vexations were just the price of male vanity.

When in Rome, ape the locals.

Or go native.

Or at least try to act like you know your way around.

This is not difficult, especially for Filipino tourists visiting the Eternal City for the very first time. Filipinos, after all, are to cultural adaptation as the Chinese are to producing pirated DVDs. And just like illegally-copied video discs, the said Filipino trait remains unfettered by regional restrictions.

But then again, this trait — as far as Rome goes — appears to be irrelevant.
Romans are still likely to be irritated whenever strangers interrupt their routines by asking them for directions.

Just like sharp-tongued New Yorkers, Romans have perhaps nurtured a dislike for tourists, simply because their city has too many of them, Filipinos or otherwise.

Besides clogging buses and trains, these visitors delay pedestrian traffic by reading street signs, studying maps, and posing for pictures.

How does it feel like to live in a city absolutely swamped with visiting foreigners?

I barely have an idea. I live in a city notorious for being the Philippines' squatter capital and I'm pretty sure that that's not a top tourist attraction.

What I do know is that for the first half of 2006, approximately six million people visited Rome. The Philippines — which is 60 times larger than Rome — only had 2.8 million visitors during the same year.

So what does this mean?

There is a shortage of Romans patient enough to give directions to the next bus stop while there is a surplus of Filipinos — at least 30 to a tourist — all too willing to answer any questions under the sun, proud of their abilities to communicate using broken

English, complemented by various hand and facial gestures.

This discrepancy posed a problem for my wife and I when we were about to leave Rome and the bus we needed to catch was running late.

If we missed the bus to the train station, it might take awhile before we could board a train to the airport. A later train to the airport might mean a delayed connection to Paris, compromising the last stop of our European adventure.

We had become so desperate that we considered taking a cab. The idea was quickly dismissed when I learned that it might cost me an arm, a leg, and my other organs, unsavory and otherwise.

Why was the bus late?

I didn't know but I was tasked to find out.

Armed with my poor English speaking skills and my atrocious Italian, I ambled to the station attendant and asked when was the bus arriving.

She answered me in broken English and then she shooed me off.

Was this racism?

Were my questions being dismissed outright because I wasn't white? Was I making a fool of myself because I didn't know how to speak their language properly? Was I being treated unfairly because I was overweight and therefore used more soap than thin people?

I didn't know.

But I found out soon enough.

As I sat beside my wife in the waiting area, I saw various other tourists — some of whom spoke in English — getting the same treatment that I got. They asked the same set of questions that I asked but they were summarily dismissed, like appeals of lawyers with losing court cases.

Not long after, the bus arrived, making us consider the incident with some measure of fondness. (We did catch the plane to Paris, after all).

My wife and I loved Rome — we still do — despite having stayed for less than a week. And no bus station attendant, no matter how ill-tempered, was about to ruin that memory for us.

(This was written after a trip to Europe in 2007. It was finished more than a year later when a temporary alcohol shortage prompted me to do something else on a Saturday night.)

For those unaccustomed to the intricacies of Quezon City traffic, C.P. Garcia is the fastest route to Loyola Heights, Marikina City, Antipolo, and even to the famed C-5.

But that's in theory.

Since the four-lane thoroughfare has become everyone's little secret shortcut, C. P. Garcia has been transmogrified into the street that traffic regulations forgot. (Then again, that could be EDSA but I
digress.)

During rush hour, C. P. Garcia is thoroughly inhospitable, a mish-mash of flashy SUVs, dilapidated trucks, overloaded tricycles, and motorcycles carrying everything from oven-hot pizzas to day-old babies.

The holiday season only made it worse.

Any vehicle that dared enter C. P. Garcia during rush hour immediately fell prey to a kind of mechanical catatonia, in which anything with at least two wheels were absolutely incapable of forward movement.

One morning, while on an errand to buy beer, I avoided C. P. Garcia with the stealth of an errant Ninong on the run from a long-lost inaanak.

Instead of taking the avenue on the way to Cubao—where I was headed to buy party provisions—I took Commonwealth Avenue from UP, where I had earlier dropped off my wife.

All I had to do was to make a U-turn at the nearest slot, make another U-turn at the intersection of Commonwealth and Quezon Circle, bringing me to the Philcoa area. Once I made a right on Masaya Street, I would be able to reach Kalayaan Avenue, which would then bring me straight to Aurora Boulevard.

But on that fateful day, my short trip to Cubao seemed like the road to perdition.

As I approached Masaya, I hit the signal light, indicating that I was going to make a right.

My intentions were casually ignored by a bus that cut me off.

It cruised right by, confident that its sheer size and heft allowed it to flout road courtesy.

I stopped and immediately made a left, thankful that the brakes worked, allowing me to avoid a collision.

Besides saving my life, the strategic move helped me fulfill the important role of providing joy and goodwill to my wife's beer-drinking buddies that night.

But that would come much later.

When I veered away from the uncouth six-wheeled behemoth, I struggled to keep my cool.

After all, it was holiday season, a time when road rage and murderous intent is muted because spending Christmas in a funeral home is not a fate wished on even your worst enemies. (The arrangement sits well with undertakers working overtime though.)

But I absolutely blew my top when another bus immediately came barreling down on my left, intending to invade the lane I had already occupied halfway.

There I was, avoiding a bus-driving jerk on my right, and here was another bus, on my left, driven by a similar Neanderthal, threatening to plow into an old, rickety Toyota.

What was I to do?

I went absolutely postal.

It ticked me off, got my goat, made me fly off the handle, and countless other idioms that pop up whenever I type in the word "angry"
in my laptop's thesaurus software application.

I swerved to the left—immediately blocking the bus' path—got off the car, and showed everyone else why I was the best argument for tighter gun control, and to a lesser degree, legalized abortion. (I'm not a gun owner, never will be.)

I went up to the bus, pointed to the driver, and asked him to step out of his vehicle. Although apologetic, he refused to open his doors and his companions—a bunch of conductors and ticket inspectors—gave me a look that said: "Would somebody please give this man his medication?"

Now, what good did that outburst do?

Absolutely nothing.

By the time I simmered down and eased the car out of the bus' way, I was too far off to take a right at Masaya.

I was forced to enter C. P. Garcia, the very same road I had planned to avoid minutes before.

As I sat there in traffic, looking at the congestion brought about by the holidays, I said to myself: "Bah, humbug."

No records indicate whether Imelda Marcos has visited Daslu, the world's most luxurious store, located in Sao Paolo.

But then again, who knows?

The woman with the famous footwear fetish may have already gone on a secret Brazilian shopping expedition when she was powerful enough to commandeer jumbo jets at a snap of a finger.

In any case, easy access to planes wouldn't have mattered that much to Daslu's visitors, including imeldific individuals.

For all its offerings—three car dealerships, a yacht broker, and yes, haute couture for men and women—Daslu doesn't have its own private airport.

Or at least not just yet.

Its high-flying clients don't seem to mind.

After all, they can always touch down on the five-storey building's helipad, safe from Sao Paolo's notorious carjackers, known for stealing autos at gunpoint, even in broad daylight. Customers who still prefer to go by car can do so as long as they pass muster at not just one but two of the compound's gates, designed to keep out the have-nots and the hoi polloi.

Indeed, security and privacy are just a few of the many things that set Daslu apart from regular luxury establishments around the world.

Take Daslu's second floor, where the women's section is located: It doesn't have a fitting room. Female clients can just strip off their garments and try on dresses in any corner since no males—whether customers or employees—are allowed on the floor.

"It's natural for Brazilians. You aren't ashamed if men aren't around," said Eliana Tranchesi, Daslu's owner, as quoted by Dana Thomas in her book entitled Deluxe: How Luxury Lost its Luster (Penguin Books, 2007).

Established in 1958, Daslu began in the living room of Lucia Piva de Albuquerque, Tranchesi's mother, who sold clothes and accessories she brought from abroad since Brazil at that time was closed to imports.

Its origins explain its name: Daslu is Portuguese for in Lu's house.

Even though advertisement was only through word of mouth, the store would become immensely popular, later occupying a whole stretch of 23 houses—either rented or owned—in the posh neighborhood where it began.

When parked limousines of the rich and famous began to clog the streets and upset the neighbors, management decided to move to an area just a few blocks away from its old location.

Some fifty years later, Daslu has certainly outgrown its origins.

Besides featuring a Japanese restaurant (considered as the city's best), Daslu also has a champagne bar, a hairdresser, a bank, a pharmacy, a stationery store, a wedding chapel, and a ballroom, among others.

Of course, it also has men's and children's departments on the third and fourth floors.

By far, the store is famous for its Dasluzettes—female shopping assistants from Brazil's rich families who offer personalized services to each of the store's 70,000 clients.

"The salesgirls live the life the customers live," Tranchesi was quoted by the book as saying. "So they understand."

While Daslu may very well represent the ultimate in luxury shopping, it also stands out as an exception in an industry as bloodthirsty as any.

Or at least it does in Thomas' view.

Other luxury brands always intend to make a quick buck off its customers, even fooling them as to the provenance of their items, including handbags to which she devotes a chapter. ("Brands that deny outright that their bags are made in China make their bags in China, not in Italy, not in France, not in the United Kingdom," Thomas says.) But not Daslu.

The store established by Tranchesi's mother knows and cares about its customers because they are guests, first and foremost.

"Chances are, you'll run into [Tranchesi] while you are shopping, and she'll ask you how the kids are, help you pick out a few things, or assist in fittings," Thomas says of the daughter of Daslu's founder.

As expected, the personal touch of Daslu is not left unrewarded.

"When you go to Daslu, it's not to buy a new pair of shoes. It's to see your friends," said one customer whose husband owns a local Mercedes dealership. "You can't find this service anywhere in the world."

So who says money can't buy happiness?

Not Daslu customers obviously.

Very few remain aware of the Thursday Institute for Transformative Ideas, a small group of self-proclaimed experts, many of whom prefer to drink in Quezon City, because its members live there.

Like most Filipinos, members of the Thursday Institute—overworked males with few useful skills such as myself—offer solutions to the country's urgent problems without being asked. The enthusiasm with which they propose ideas is usually proportional to the amount of alcohol they've consumed so far.

Which is to say that the idea being discussed gets crazier with every gulp of beer (i.e., capital punishment for traffic violators, a proposal seriously considered on the fifth round of drinks.)

Perhaps the most hotly-debated topic in recent memory involved public transportation, a favorite subject next to Maureen Larrazabal and plasma TVs.

The group recently discussed the pros and cons of putting up a bus rapid transit system along EDSA, the country's main thoroughfare.

Establishing a segregated—and possibly even elevated—lane along EDSA to be serviced by an extended bus would do wonders for commuters. It was exactly the same system implemented in Bogotá, Colombia, one member said, with the conviction of someone who has never been to South America.

The concept was later lost in the haze of idle chatter and inebriation. After all, they knew very little about what they were talking about.

But then again, ignorance never got in the way of their enjoyment.

This explains why every Thursday, the institute named after the fourth working day of the week has kept on meeting at the same watering hole for the past three years.

Stormy weather, political instability, and professional responsibility has not diminished their commitment to drink, pontificate, and indulge in one-upmanship in the establishment that has become their second home.

Thanks to their regular patronage, the watering hole—located along Maginhawa St. in UP Village—has informally named a dish in the group's honor.

Dubbed the Thursday special, the dish consists of tenderloin tips fried with garlic and served on a hot plate. It is so tasty that you can have it any day of the week.

Unfortunately, for the past few weeks, the institute's weekly meetings have been postponed indefinitely.

The establishment has been shuttered by the Quezon City local government, citing what appear to be reasons of very little consequence.

A few months earlier, when the restaurant encountered difficulty in securing a liquor license, no one took it seriously. The restaurant's patrons—both sober and otherwise—thought it was just a wrinkle easily ironed out by a combination of charm and chutzpah.

They were wrong.

In September, the establishment—together with a row of three similar restaurants beside it—was served with a closure order.

To this day, the order remains in effect.

Besides depriving its owners of a fair return on their investment, the order also substantially reduces our chances of getting cold beers, a nice table, and tasty pulutan during Thursday nights, an injustice any way you look at it.

Which is something I hope to experience before I kick the bucket. After all, besides being famous for the variety of its couscous, Tunisia figures prominently in a famous jazz composition written by trumpeter Dizzy Gillespie. A Night in Tunisia has been performed by Ella Fitzgerald, the Manhattan Transfer, Miles Davis, and Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers, among others.

For jazz listeners such as myself, this is a good enough reason as any to visit the northernmost African country. With nearly half of its land composed of the Sahara desert, it would be nice to find out whether the stars aglow in Tunisia's heavens would be bright enough to guide me through the desert sand.

But taking a trip to the African continent just because of a song smacks of idle fantasy, especially for someone struggling with rent payments every month.

With the costs of living surging at a near 17-year high, supposedly hard-working Filipinos such as myself should explore alternatives to keep themselves entertained without compromising their budgets.

And about a month ago, I did just that.

Accompanied by two friends, I visited Ten-02, a Quezon City jazz bar where I hoped the haunting, repetitive melody would be sung.

I got lucky.

Jazz vocalist Skarlet belted out her own version of the Gillespie original. Not only was it her tribute to other artists who helped make the tune a jazz standard, it was also an occasion to indulge an inebriated member of the audience who requested the song to be sung. Accompanying her on the piano that night was Joel Galang whose fingers danced on the keyboards, all without the benefit of a musical score sheet.

Everytime I shouted out a request—Ella Fitzgerald's Shiny Stockings, for instance—Joel would play the first few chords, impressing the small audience with the diverse array of the tunes he already knew.

Later on, having nursed too many beers, I introduced myself to the pianist, telling him that I swear by music played by Oscar Peterson when he got older and Miles Davis when he was younger.

Joel admitted to being an apostle of Bill Evans (whose Mother of Earl is one of my favorites) and Keith Jarrett, a pianist whose style remains too heavy for me to appreciate.

Fortunately, my public display of naivete wasn't the highlight of the evening. When Skarlet finally went offstage and helped with the drinks—she is also the restaurant's owner and manager—Marcy Estrella and Monet Rivera took over to ensure that the night continued to be magical.

Holding microphone and harmonica with his both hands, Marcy performed his take on Sergio Mendes' Bridges. He was joined by Monet on vocals whose rendition was as intense as Marcy's.

Together, the duet made music in the way that it should be heard, making time stop and the moment last.

It was just too bad the night had to end.

From the Anal Retentive Department. The Manhattan Transfer's version of the said song—featured in their 1985 Vocalese Album—is entitled Another Night in Tunisia. While still faithful to the original melody, the group's acapella rendition featured additional lyrics and vocals by Jon Hendricks. Now in his nineties, Hendricks is, among others, famous for translating Antonio Carlos Jobim's songs into English and providing his own rendition.