SO SEW ME!

I was getting bored with our logo and thought it needed a little, well, chutzpah. So I asked JR Agra to spruce it up a bit. I wanted something festive but not Araneta Center Christmas tree festive. When I asked him about it last week, he said, tinatahi niya pa. And lo and behold, literal pala. Well, not exactly.



He first did it in black but I asked if maybe we could do a gold, but somber gold. Like the color of cigar. Sabi niya mahal daw special color. Etchos.

Does this mean we're, uhm, threading a different path at Swank? (Kinakaya mo 'yung pun?) Anyway, it's already up. And I think its lovely. Its flighty and crafty and fun in a quiet, Christmas morning way.

Thanks J.

LAST WEEK IN HIGHLIGHTS

MONDAY began with thoughts of going to Bangkal. The point: look for accent chair and a low coffeetable. But since Bangkal proved too far for carless fag, had brilliant idea of just going to Swapmeet in Kamuning which is five minutes away from apartment. First, I was distracted by this lonesome Batibot chair. “P800,” the guy in the stall said. “Narra pa ‘yan.” It’s like instinct to them, I think, saying this or that wood is narra as soon as they spot a tinge of reluctance in your face. It’s like those people who in a snap would tell you, “I’m happy!” As if you asked.

“Mahal naman,” I said. “P500 na lang.”

“P750.”

“P600,” even as I was distracted by a handsome cleaning guy in the stall across (although Batibot vendor looks cute, too).

“P800 talaga.”

“P400.”

I thought I could confuse him with our little Pugo-and-Tugo routine but he wouldn’t give in. I told him I’ll look around for awhile first and get back to him. Anyway, having not found accent chair within my budget—and the pickings were really not that love-at-first-sight-inducing—I went home with a small white steel sidetable with a missing screw, its top a mosaic of mirror pieces (P500), and a wooden stool with ladder-like legs. “P1950s pa ‘yan, the old man told me, “ginagamit namin tuntungan pero kung kursunada mo, sige, P550 na lang.” His son, a lean handsome young man, turned away from us as if I’m taking a family heirloom and it would break his heart. “Magagalit ka ba?” I asked the boy. Turns out I was just imagining things and he walked me out of Swapmeet carrying the stool. “Kasama ka?” I asked as we were walking.

“Hindi, hatid lang kita sa labas.”

I found low table, too, but didn’t have car so had it reserved first. It’s an old speaker. Sort of like Joe de Venecia. Param-pam!

Anyway, from then ‘til last Saturday the dispatsadora kept texting me to ask when will I pick the thing up. At first, I was convinced to just forget about it but then the next night she texted, “Sir, kala ko pa naman po may binta po me ngayon.” So naawa naman me.

The next day when I still couldn’t find time to go back there, she texted that her boss was there and wants to meet me, what time can I show up. I told her I have office and won’t be off ‘til around 8pm. At 7, she texted me that her boss was asking where I am. Nainis na me, and texted, ‘Ate, bibili lang ako ng lamesa, bakit ko pa kailangan ma-meet ‘yung boss mo?” Then out of nowhere, the next day, she texted me this: “Sir, ‘lam u po kahawig u po pinsan me.”

That’s it, I told myself, suko na aq.

TUESDAY I was so in love with the sky that I was raving about it. The next couple of days would be dark and gloomy. Nausog?

Black or white? It's the battle of the coiffures.

WEDNESDAY was surprised to find out I will be joining the boss to attend Tita Midz's 79th birthday bash. I was wearing the shirt from a few posts ago, and didn't at all worry about being underdressed. My boss was. She told me to buy a blazer. Or have one always on hand. Anyway, it wasn't a formal event although it was uber shushal. It was at Whitespace which was owned by the Siguion-Reynas, Margarita catered (seabass, lechon, lamb, etc), Romy Vitug was doing the video coverage, hon! And I sat in the same table as the nag-iisang Celeste Legaspi. We made beso. And when she heard I was introducing myself to her husband Nonoy...'Oh you don't know Jerome? He's a friend of sila Ige,' referring to his son and the Gallardo siblings. We see each other in Ronnies gigs but we're not friends. Not YET. I do have a crush on Ige. And now I've already met the parents, all he needs to do is, well, win my heart.

But not 'til his mom apologizes to me. I wanted to have a photo taken with her that night, and I already advised a photographer. But when I saw Celeste walking out, I asked, 'Are you leaving na?' She said no, not yet. And I never saw her again. Ige, your mom is a liar. A liar whose rendition of Rolando Tinio's Tagalized La Vie En Rose sends me running to the garden with arms wide open.

Tita Midz was wearing baro't saya that night, walked around with a cane wrapped in red and white stripes, and was followed by a female aide also wearing a baro't saya but less colorful, and with no cane. Jinggoy smells like an old man but his car looks like new money. Lucy looks pretty. Gretchen was, well, I wrote about Gretch here. And Richard, Richard! I don't care what his politics are or if some people think he can be an asshole, but there is no one in Philippine showbiz, not even Piolo Pascual, who looks nearly as handsome as Goma. Dude, I die.

Anyway, after three glasses of double scotch on the rocks, everything seemed to have halted when midnight struck and just as I was getting settled for the ride home in my boss's car, just beginning to enjoy the effects of the alcohol, she told me we will have to pass by Arlington for the wake of Roderick Paulate's mom. Arrived home at 3.3oam.

Manuel's previous show (at Pablo) looked only slightly different from the ongoing show at Finale which has condoms on knobs, glory holes, plywood with etchings that look like cum splashes.

THURSDAY Home and running the images of the show Carlo and I just attended at Finale, Manuel Ocampo’s Macho Art, I couldn’t help but wonder, Is Conceptual Art just philosophical ideas/concepts that fell short of achieving beauty? It’s a question that’s been prancing about in my mind for quite awhile, but was only able to put it out there, at least to select friends, just last night. “You don’t have to answer,” followed my question. But answer they did. “’Di lang falling short,” said Kiki, a bestselling author. “Oogly.”

"Sa totoo lang nakakasawa na si Manuel," said another writer.

"Dapat siguro kinuwento na lang niya no?" an artist-friend offered. Well, kinuwento nga ni Manuel, kay Carlo, the highly specific inspirations for the works.

Pero kinabog sila lahat nung newspaper editor.

"Conceptualism an oxymoron. How could concept be an end in itself. It’s a means to an end. Concept is idea. How could an idea, however beautiful, be art eh art is first and foremost materiality. Matter and form (concept, idea) make up art. More the former kasi the artist must make something out of nothing. 'Yang conceptualism the ultimate romantic conceit ‘artist as creator artist as formalist artist as god.' In short, arrogant idiocy."

"I am tempted to say Amen," say ko.

"The problem is that ultra-acdemicism, like art studies, taking over. Read the prs of magnet, finale et al. Curators taking over. Kaya puro ideas inuunahan da art work. Pag hifalutin the idea ok ang show. Nakalimutan na cardinal rule of any art--show, don’t tell."

So shut up na me.

IS IT HERE YET?

Two of my favorite things come together for December. Bob and Esquire. Exciting.

I'M IN LOVE!

Absolutely adorable.

My essay on the Pacman style at http://www.theswankstyle.blogspot.com.

TODAY

Pale blue pinstriped shirt with tailored indigo shorts and maroon laceups on a gloomy day outside after dreaming of my father (who would turn out to be Patrick Swayze) struggling to save Tom Cruise from a bout with an LPG on fire. Shirt, Brooks Brothers, P50.

THE NOVEMBER ISSUE

Cover stars: a mother-and-child from San Pedro, Laguna, and Charice who, incidentally, was born in San Pedro, Laguna.

This is my first issue at YES! I came on board mid-August and worked on the October issue but my name debuts on the staffbox this month. I wrote the Charice story, and contributed reports to the 28-page Ondoy special.

The profile on Charice almost wrote itself. Her Oprah moments, especially that Hollywood-style airport scene—which YES! is so privileged to hear, and tell the public, for the very first time—is so exciting and magical that it would be best told using the kid’s own words.

I was not a Charice fan. I always thought there are thousands of other kids in this singing-contest country that could easily outbelt her, or surpass the power and refinement of her voice (and I really hate success stories like hers being slanted by lazy media editors as another flag-waving occasion for Pinoys who are always so boo-hoo kawawa). But you can’t argue with success, or with the universe conspiring to make you a big star, or with Oprah realigning your planets by pressing the right phone numbers.

And the girl can be endearing. Eager to please in a way that is not at all cringe-inducing. At her Tagaytay home, she breaks out into song at every chance not because she wanted to entertain you but because she lives her everyday like a movie musical—and I’m not trying to be cheesy here. She just really belts out into song, sometimes with dance, in the middle of conversations, shoot-setups, changing clothes, you’re tempted to ask what upper is she on (and may we have some?). Sometimes she even accompanies herself with a guitar. She won the entire YES! team over with her simplicity and joie de vivre (Joie de vivre daw o!). She told us about her singing contest days, animatedly showing us how she would juggle a microphone while singing “Ako Ang Nagwagi,” while she partakes of her late lunch of rice, nilagang baka and Purefoods hotdog--under a crystal chandelier and surrounded by heavy Italian-style furniture.

And then there’s Ondoy, whose story we had to work extra fast for to make it to the ever-so-close deadline. It was Andrew Paredes who put the feature together after everyone in the staff had logged in their interviews. I was tasked to talk to the ABS-CBN boys, with a special mandate to "Get ECHO’S story.” It took a week of making kulit through text messages, to him and his road manager Mariness, before I finally convinced manager and Jericho to sit down with me. It took almost the same amount of time and effort to get Gerald Anderson to talk about his Ondoy experience—he didn’t feel comfortable about everyone calling him a hero, and he was then on leave from work. When I was at ASAP that Sunday to meet Jericho, I hesitantly asked one of the makeup artists to talk to Mr Anderson. I was hesitant because I knew he really didn’t want to talk about the subject, and he has never spoken to anyone about it whether in print or on TV. And I hear he’s a bit of a snob/suplado. I was introduced to the guy—he was wearing a jaundice-alert yellow Bench Ninoy tee and black skinny jeans—and he offered his hand and politely smiled. I very endearingly (at least from my point of view I was endearing) spoke of my agenda. And he very endearingly declined. Initially. And then he said maybe I could just go to the story conference of his new movie the following day because there will also be other press people there and they would sure ask him to talk about that fateful stormy Saturday.

Ya gotta love those legs. Jericho braving the current at Loyola Grand Villas.

I sat down with Jericho, that day sporting a high-volume updo, in a corner inside the dressing room he shared with Piolo and Vhong whose rowdiness never took away from my interviewee’s intense concentration. I asked him to take me back to that day and he did and I never had to ask a follow-up question. He spoke of the experience from start to finish complete with realization, his hands gesticulating to stress a point, his puppy dog eyes distracting me from getting that point. It was his first time to talk about the experience in print, and at the time I’m writing this, it looks like it was the only print interview he said yes to. Ahem, ahem.

Mr Anderson with equally cute friend Ali in the QC village where he lives

And then there was Mr. Anderson who, for whatever reason, agreed to finally sit with me for a one-on-one at the Star Magic office the day after we were introduced, before gracing his story conference with Kim Chiu. He arrived quietly, alone, shook my hand and sat down beside me at the Star Magic lobby. The guy is meltingly guwapo, especially that early evening, wearing a grey wool jacket, sporting a five-o-clock shadow. His handshake is solid and his demeanor that of a gentleman much older than his 20 years--the way he perhaps imagines how Eddie Garcia would carry himself.

And he is articulate! And straightforward and subdued, and the little hint of Visayan accent doesn’t hurt. He was charming. And I was charmed even more when I found out he only spoke of his ‘heroic act’ on television in the most general terms, as opposed to the detailed information he so generously granted YES! And as of the time I’m writing this, I don’t think the details ever really came out in print except in our magazine.

The report will take a bit of effort to read, but it is so competently put together. The celebrity stories are interspersed with stories from non-celebrities and each enhances the other. Reading of Echo’s experience alone, or that of Gerald’s, or Raymart’s (who I interviewed on the phone after I spoke to his friend and neighbor Rico Gutierrez, another Ondoy survivor) doesn’t quite, I think, reward one with the same emotional experience as when it is read in its entirety. You will fall in love with Mr Santiago when you get to the part where Andi Eigenmann, his neighbor, gives her eyewitness account. And you will be amazed with Gerald and Echo, of course. And feel for the other men and women who braved the current, lost livelihoods and the lives of their kin and friends. It is not just the story of a storm or of a great flood. It is the story of—hindi niyo kakayanin ito—the human condition.

MORNING BECOMES ELECTRIC

I find myself looking forward to mornings these days. Excited to dress up, excited about the weather, excited for the two smokes and coffee—which is really just Nescafe. “Lift it,” Anna Wintour says. So I boil the water using the coffeemaker.

Excited about opening the windows and letting the Christmas air in. I’ve started playing music again: yesterday it was The Stylistics, and in past mornings The Essential Barbra Streisand and Jose Mari Chan The Golden Collection. Nothing like “Love at Thirty Thousand Feet” to set off your day. Did Joe realize kaya he wrote a song for the Mile High Club with this one? But I love it for its music--typical of ‘70s OPM and it’s sweeping, ascending octaves--and Joe’s cool, coffee commercial voice. When did this all start? When did this turnaround happen? That morning I squeezed myself out of the train with Babs singing “Don’t Rain On My Parade” on my earphone, that’s when. Suddenly, Boni Avenue Station is the old Jersey Central, and every time I turn a corner, cameras!

One of these days I’ll have a good camera to take a photograph of the morning sky from my glass windows. They’re narrow panels framed by black steel and span an entire wall. The sky was particularly impressive this morning, a beautiful ocean blue with clear clouds and moving streaks of white (at one point, an airplane!). I get an unobstructed view of this vista from the rectangular opening of my little orange balcony on the third floor. At a certain angle, a little green enters the frame from the tree across. I was so taken by its gorgeousness today that I had to share it with friends, ask them if they’ve seen the sky. “D eh,” said Noel, who plans to one day paint a picture of a sky as seen from a thin strip of his office building’s 13th floor toilet. “Me bulutong ako.”

“I know. And you can’t see?”

“Oo nga,” he said a couple minutes later--hopefully looking at the sky from his home in Malabon and not just shitting me. “Parang pininta ni Beethoven.”

“It’s a fucking symphony,” I said.

“Here it’s almost opaque with grey and white clouds,” said Raymond who I suppose was at home in Paranaque where he regularly hears the hum of aircrafts zooming in and out of the airport. “But you can still see the radiance behind.”

“Imagine the white clouds,” he continues, “suddenly forming into massive forms of the most ghastly, frightening beasts charging at us, coming for us. Judgement day.”

“And giant horses!” I said. “Don’t spoil it.”

“Sorry. Sige, giant Hideos in nothing but the faintest of smiles.”

“What if the sky were a reflection of our mood of the moment?” he asked. “Tugma ba ‘yung sa’yo? Sa’kin, oo.” And then he said the sky had cleared up suddenly.

“Yes,” I texted back. "Mine matches."

Lourd, who I assume has a perspective of the sky closer to that of mine since he lives a mere few streets away, is not feeling eloquent this morning. He’s just moved back to his “riot” of a house very recently ravaged by the flood. “Have you seen the sky?” I asked. “It’s quite lovely.”

Lourd: “Mainit, bakla.”

In vintage Babspeak, the guy knows exactly how to make this faygeleh so terribly faklempt.

BACK FROM THE DEAD

People asky why editrixiagomez. Because I'm an editrix and a bold star from the '70s. That's Trixia Gomez up there.

I was suprised to see sotanghon and lumpiang shanghai on the dinner table tonight. "What are we celebrating?" I asked my sister. All Souls Day, she said. Not that I forgot its araw ng mga patay, or araw ng mga kaluluwa. I forgot that my dad really cooks something special every first of November, apart from lighting candles in front of the house. Sometimes its dinuguan, sometimes pinapaitan, but always there's pancit, or noodles to signify long life I guess. And he makes excellent pancit. No scrimping on the sahog: shrimp, celery, pork, squidballs, balun-balunan and liver, this last one giving the noodles a subtle grainy, deliciously greasy texture that, fortunately, is not nakakasawa. Also thats why I guess its a lot browner than the usual you get from the nearest pancit-serving place. I remember bringing some to the office one Sunday, the day after the Palanca awardings in 2007, as a small treat. I remember Virgil was there, who I know didn't always like me. But he was sweet towards the end. I miss Virgil. I hope he's having a fine life being a host in his very own bed and breakfast in Cambodia. In vintage Virgil fashion, its name is Cockatoo.

Hey, I don't really know where this post is going but I just wanted to try this personal blogging thing again. Twitter, I find, is actually more tedious, and quite disappointing. Too little tweets and most of them links to some video or other. I mean its only 140 characters, people, think of something! Also because I want to write again, and I feel that I am in the right mood to do this again. I actually would like to apologize to the guys who follow this blog for being AWOL for quite awhile (Allow me na to feel important, All Souls Day naman). I can't promise anything, but I guess since I'm starting over, a new job in a new company, a home space of my own finally, it would be a great moment to capture. And I guess it would be more appropriate to do it here than in an itsy-bitsy tweet.

And I have so much to tell you, so many things I am only beginning to see again. Today, I woke up to a blue sky so graphically framed by my glass windows. Because usually I wake up to half-naked construction workers finishing the Internet cafe across. And Ben, my nephew who is now 5-months old, has begun to show teeth. This evening, I tried making him walk while holding on to a stroller, and he did, while I lightly clasp the back of his shirt. James has just recommended a new sitcom called Bored to Death, and from the initial minutes it is so up my alley (Jason Schwartzman being a sad Jew in New York, bring it on!). Tomorrow, there are things to buy for the house and, oh, new shoes! You'd have to see what happened to my orange one. So yeah, I'm back I guess.

Today as we remember those who have left us, let us also celebrate those who return, and remain. Naks.

WHAT I WORE IN CHANG MAI

More photos from my working trip to Chang Mai two years ago. These kids were from a vast, mountainous village whose main produce used to be opium. We also visited the Opium Museum where there were dioramas of opium dens. Oh, how people would recline or lie down on those flat wooden beds! How great for one's posture, I thought. They look so lifeless and so glamorous. Very '90s heroin chic!


We watched the schoolchildren sing their school anthem. Apparently I was pregnant then. With my third child. My first and second were still in there as well.


I felt very Jackie Kennedy here. A First Lady on an official trip to a poor country. With my very simple roundneck shirt, ethnic accessory, pants native to the region. They are pants traditionally worn by fisherfolk but I love that they look like palazzos in linen. How light and airy and chic I thought. What brilliance!

I dare say the fisherman's pants are the capri of Thailand.


But ASD doesn't seem to agree. 'Day, payong.'

THE AVEDON ATTEMPT

Dovima with the elephants.

Inspiration.

Desperation.