Exploits of a City Dweller

A few months ago, a friend of mine took a trip to Japan and came back with this photo taken from a hotel in Osaka. A long debate ensued over the usage of the word ”criticize”. In case of emergency, do we take the staircase to the first floor, look each other from head to toe and start making brash comments about how the other person looks? Or do we go to the first floor (still with the staircase…it better be one of those portable ones or this would be one strenuous operation) and start complaining about how the wallpaper mismatches the overall design of the room?

Let’s face it, Filipinos don’t always write in the best of English. The grammar is sometimes off. I’ve seen essays with a syntactical war raging between subjects and verbs. Melanie Marquez? Come out, come out, wherever you are! But do we randomly pluck words from the dictionary for use in a completely unrelated context? In hotel signage no less?

Here’s another interesting anecdote about Japan. Did you know that their train stations have sanitation crews specialized in clearing out suicides from the tracks? And they have a time limit as well. Thirty minutes and there should be no trace of human remains anywhere (This is just a good a time as any to stop whining about our jobs). I’ve always been aware of their suicidal culture, what with Harakiri and Kamikaze alone. But this I didn’t see coming.

Has anybody seen the new M. Night Shyamalan movie, The Happening? I wonder if the pandemic would be handled more efficiently had it happened in Japan as opposed to the US East Coast.

I am a recently converted siopao afficionado. As with all my food preferences, the obsession was triggered by my inability to produce anything edible out of my own kitchen. Except maybe instant noodles but a daily swig of MSG is not a healthy way to thrive. Even for me, an eight-year dorm food veteran. I leave it to the pros (or whoever is willing to brave my stove) to provide me with nourishment. Not too long ago when work-related stress (or rather stress-induced laziness) prevented consumption of a proper meal, I discovered my fall-back -the lowly siopao asado from 711. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve eaten the stuff before just not with the same gusto as now.

Incidentally, I came across one of Jessica Zafra’s articles where she spewed encomiums over a certain Chinese restaurant of her youth. According to her, it once peppered the metro but have now dwindled to a handful of hard-to-find joints. She mentioned their menu was centered on three oriental staples: siomai, mami and of course, siopao.

Enough said.

I proceeded to ask Manila-raised friends if they knew where to find the reputed chain. All I got were several hesitant replies of Hindi ko alam e. Pero sabi nila masarap daw dun. Some have never even heard of it. Some were slightly more specific with their lips pointing in the general direction of Binondo (Why we do that is beyond me. Do we not have enough fingers? Does lip-pointing provide more emphasis? Remind me to investigate that one of these days). The hunt went on for weeks to no avail. It was eventually dismissed as one of those lost causes one is forced to live with. This devotee simply had to forego a visit to the supposed mecca.

Then as chance would have it, I found myself in a cab bound for the National Museum on my bestfriend’s birthday. We were to see Juan Luna’s Spolarium and while dodging vehicles on Quezon Ave, an aged neon sign materialized. I shrieked, MA MON LUK!!!

It is now safe to assume that the museum took a sudden plunge on our list of priorities.

At the entrance, we were greeted by that familiar Chinese restaurant smell. Across the large mess hall was a painting of Ma Mon Luk himself. Walls were strewn with framed newpaper articles written about how he introduced mami to the Pinoy diet. The structure is an obvious remnant of the 60s. As were the waiters who’ve been there so long, they can enumerate the menu while navigating the maze of chairs backwards to and from the kitchen with their eyes closed.

We ordered two siopaos and a bowl of chicken mami which were (in true old school fashion) carelessly plopped on our table. And darn it, it was well worth the effort! The siopao was nothing like the artificial lump of who-knows-what they sell in 711. You can actually taste the kneaded homemade dough. The mami, pure broth, no MSG. A little soy sauce and it was perfect. Zafra was right. The secret ingredient has to be that overall haphazard what’s-that-floating-in-my-soup ambiance. We seem to take with it the same daring approach we do with the tap water and carinderia food. No one has died from it so it must be clean and should we drop dead, at least we had a good meal. I’d say, with all that history, Ma Mon Luk is a shrine to the sturdy Pinoy constitution awarded exclusively to those who braved the third world.

And had he been there, I’m sure Juan Luna will understand why we bypassed his painting for steamed dumplings and a bowl of chicken soup.

And then came the heaving session that led up to my birthday. Went blank the entire time thus the absence of entries in this blog. I am now attempting to get back on the proverbial blogging horse (for the lack of a better term).

I, 26.

I assume this is the point where the numbers populating the dotted line next to “Age” will take the inevitable turn for ugly. Twenty-five was such a nice round number. And it’s not the same for men. They don’t seem to have an expiration date like we do. Heck, Charlie Chaplin had kids in his 70s.

Not that it matters. I feel exactly the same way I did when I was in college, minus maybe the bills that show up at my doorstep unscrupulously demanding my attention each month (a necessary evil in life along with traffic, taxes, rice shortages and death). Not to mention, I no longer know the meaning of the word allowance, what it tasted, smelled or looked like. Mind you, this is not the onset of some mythical quarter-life crisis the billion dollar self-help industry feeds on. In fact, I think I’m hitting a reversal of sorts because I consumed more alcohol and nicotine back in college. Now consumption is down to zero but I’m trying to replace that high through non-cancer inducing alternatives.

I think the only thing that really ages is the number, everything else is subject to debate.

Last night at the Conspiracy Café which fulfills my short term goal. To clarify, there are no forthcoming ploys to turn into a stalker/groupie.

The thing we went to could hardly be classified as a gig. It was more like a living room jam session and we were there as weird furniture with ears. Pardon the pun. 

The advantage being that you get more attention from the artist than you would have been prepared for. She even egged me for more song requests and I couldn’t remember what the damn tracks were called (what the f@*% is wrong with me?!!). I managed to spew out two titles and relinquished the hot seat.

Anyway, l’m documenting the event as a rare suspension of Murphy’s law. I got (the much hunted) Rippingyarns as a gift and Cynthia Alexander signed it with a little note that said, “For everything a reason.”

My hernia has healed. And I am very close to forgiving that record bar sales lady who called her Cindy.

Spent the better part of last week working on a 2400-word write-up of my recent trip that placed my existing range of adjectives under a rather harsh perspective. It involved countless hours staring at a wall trying to think of creative ways to describe the Baclayon church without forcing my readers into a coma. Or into projectile vomiting depending on how bad the writing gets. After five days I succeeded, somewhat. I think at some point all writers and self-proclaimed writers (the latter being the demographic I fall under) get the feeling their work could never use enough editing. Anyway, for those of you still looking for the full account, Clare got dibs. And I’m all worded out. If you’re wondering who Clare is, she’s my highschool friend who gave me the anthurium that was castigated by an ant colony (previously mentioned in “Straight from the Horses **bleep**” back in February. After 12 years I’m still dumbfounded, really).

Anyway, her NGO Youthtrip (if you’re looking to explore more of Pinas, these folks can help you out) will be launching their website come Independence day and they’re including my article. That is assuming Clare won’t be mutinied into excluding it all together. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that way I can simply link up and I’m done! Haha!

That’s the downside to going on an out-of-town trip. On top of having to reprogram your system back to the fast-forwarded pace of urban life (which gives you that hideous aftertaste of being cheated out of the lifestyle you ought’ve gotten had that long lost, filthy rich, ready-to-die uncle collapsed at your doorstep with a will), you also get blitzkrieged by a colossal amount of material. Mounds and mounds of joy.

So if you’re wondering what this is, let’s call it a two-part preview. Both on my monstrosity of a write-up and Youthtrip’s website which I will link as soon as I get the go signal from the upstairs barroom.

By the way, I posted all the pictures in my multiply site http://eilishmoon.multiply.com. Kudos to those guys for the idiot-proof photo uploader.

Post post script: I have a new theory. I am convinced that George Lucas modelled Yoda after the tarsier. Plausible? Win the staring contest I shall!