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A typhoon was expected but it veered away at the last minute so there was no rain, not much wind, just the ambience. My favorite weather: gloomy, cool, conducive to contemplation (You can’t mull over the meaning of life or lack thereof when it’s hot and humid; you’ll run amok).  You can call your friends, order espressos, sit around and wonder at the fact that on your way down from Baguio, there is a restaurant on the Pangasinan highway called Hugo Boss Seafoods. What does it mean? Is it some Pinoy pun we don’t get? “You go, Boss?” Is it owned by a man named Hugo who is therefore the boss? Does it have something to do with the haberdashery of the Nazis? Bernard-Henri Levy (…Not) put it all in perspective by paraphrasing Freud: “Sometimes a seafoods is just a seafoods.”

More challenging intellectual exercise followed, in the form of a statement by that provocateur whose spontaneous experiments with language lead us to suspect that she is related to Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I’m talking about Melanie Marquez, who reportedly declared, “You know naman I hate children. . .especially when they’re dead.” Michel Houellebecq (…Not) surmised that Ms. Marquez was expressing her sympathy for suffering children (She endorses a brand of soap called Placenta, which may account for her attachment to children), but her technique of linguistic deconstruction is too advanced for our brains to grasp. Bernard-Henri Levy (…Not) added that it would be a mistake to classify Ms. Marquez’s utterances with malapropisms of the Ricky Belmonte/Alma Moreno school, as they are far more complex. Take this famous quote: “Do not judge my brother. He is not a book.” One may trace the genesis of this statement to the old saying, “Do not judge a book by its cover.” The intention is there, but when the thought makes its way through the Marquezian synapses, it evolves into something unexpected and wonderful. I suggest that evolutionary biologists study the neural pathways of Melanie Marquez’s brain as they may hold valuable clues to the future of the species.

On the way home I spotted a restaurant called Amnesiacs’ Grill. What a charming idea! The waiter brings you a salad. “I didn’t order this,” you say. “Yes, you did,” he says. “You must’ve forgotten.” Or the waiter brings you a charred porterhouse. “Waiter,” you protest, “This steak is burned to a crisp.” “But you said super-well done, don’t you remember?” Then they bring you the bill ten times and insist you haven’t paid.

I love stormy weather, especially when there’s no storm.