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My friend Mike is extremely organized and obsessive-compulsive, like many of the people I hang out with, which is how he manages to stress himself out. He usually wears jeans to work, but a few weeks ago he varied his routine by wearing slacks. “I mustn’t put my cellphone in the pocket of my slacks or it will fall out,” he thought. Then he put his cellphone in the pocket of his slacks, which is how this story begins.

That night when he got home, he emptied the contents of his pockets on a table and stretched out on his bed. He was just falling into a pleasant doze when his eyes flew open. “Where’s my cellphone?” he said. He jumped out of bed and looked at the stuff he’d taken out of his pockets. Of course the cellphone wasn’t there. “Could I have put it somewhere after I arrived?” he thought hopefully, the way we tend to when we know something aggravating has happened.

He was still pointlessly ransacking his apartment when there was a knock on the door. It was the messenger from his restaurant, bringing the day’s receipts. “Sir, your brother called the restaurant, he says Anna has your cellphone.” Mike was floored. How did his brother know he was missing his cellphone, and Anna who?

Immediately he called his brother, who told him that their friend Anna had called. Apparently Mike’s phone had been left in a taxi. After Mike got out of the taxi, it was hailed by two MAPSA traffic enforcers on their way to SM Makati. One of the MAPSA guys saw the phone on the seat and told the taxi driver. The taxi driver said, Give it to me, I’ll return it. The MAPSA guys said, No you won’t. One of them dialed the first name on Mike’s phone’s directory. The first name listed in the A’s was Anna. 

Anna answered the call made from Mike’s phone. “Yes,” she told the MAPSA guy, “I know the owner of this phone.” “You can claim it from the MAPSA office in Mandaluyong,” said the guy. “The traffic is terrible,” Anna said. “Are you in Mandaluyong right now?” “No,” said the guy, “We’re in SM Makati.”

Guess where Mike’s friend Anna was at that very minute. And she seldom goes to SM Makati, so it was amazing. She found the MAPSA guys, who were reluctant to give her the phone, so she offered them a reward of 200 pesos. Then her large burly bush jacket-wearing driver came over, and they were convinced.

So Mike got his phone back. “You should be more careful with your phone,” his older brother admonished him, “It’s such an inconvenience to lose your numbers. Don’t just stuff it in your pocket. You should attach those little phone chains with bells so it makes a noise if you drop it.” “Yeah, yeah,” said Mike, who was extremely relieved that he didn’t have to reconstruct his directory.

Three days later, Mike’s older brother lost his cellphone.

Kahapon, nagmiminindal kami ni Carlo sa isang magarang restawran nang mapansin ko ang lalaking nakaupo sa kabilang mesa.

“Carlo,” sabi ko sa aking kaibigan, “Masdan mo ang dayuhan sa mesang iyon. Tila nakalimutan niyang maghilamos at magbihis bago lumabas sa kanyang tinitirhan.”

“Oo nga,” ani Carlo. “Kanina ko ba napansin na suot niya ang kanyang damit-panloob bilang panlabas.” Ang dayuhan ay nakasuot ng “sando” na maluwag, maikling pantalon, at tsinelas. Wala namang masama sa pagsuot ng pambahay sa labas ng bahay, nguni’t kung Pilipino ang gumawa nito, marahil ay hindi siya pinapasok sa nasabing restawran.

“Siguro’y kaibigan ng may-ari ang puti kaya’t pinatuloy siya rito kahit siya’y nagmistulang yagit,” sabi ko.

“Nguni’t disente ang may-ari at marahil ang kanyang mga kaibigan ay marunong ng disenteng pananamit,” dagdag ni Carlo, na bukambibig ang salitang “disente”.

Naniniwala kami na bawa’t tao ay may karapatang isuot kung anuman ang kanyang ninanais, nguni’t di dapat bigyan ng mas maraming pribilehiyo ang mga dayuhan dahil lamang sila ay puti at inaakalang mayaman.

Nakakaaliw talaga ang paggamit ng pormal na Tagalog, lalo na kung ito’y ipanlalait sa mga dayuhan na walang modo. (Kung sila ay nakakaintindi sa wikang Pilipino ay mas mabuti nga.) Masyado nating tinitingala ang mga banyaga samantalang minamata natin ang kapwa nating Pilipino. Dapat matuto ang mga bisita na makibagay sa atin dahil narito sila sa ating bansa. Hindi maaaring tayo na lamang palagi ang magbibigay sa kanila.

Naisip ko tuloy: Kung si Colin Farrell kaya yung dayuhan sa restawran ay nagkaroon kami ni Carlo ng ganitong diskusyon? Ngunit ang tanong na ito’y walang katuturan dahil hindi naman siya si Colin Farrell; kung si Colin Farrell siya ay agad-agad kaming nagpakilala, at malamang ay nag-aaway na kami ngayon.

Caffe Florian, Venice. Hindi dito naganap ang kuwento. Marahil kung ang turista ay pumasok dito na naka-pambahay ay minata-mata na siya ng mga tagapagsilbi. Patutuluyin nga siya, nguni’t daragdagan ang singil sa kanya.

Jason Moss the artist, Ely Buendia the musician, and I met the other day to discuss a book project. I arrived fifteen minutes ahead of time. Jason arrived exactly on time. Ely was thirty minutes late, making him the winner of the diva contest. Then he took out a giant ziploc bag containing bottles of vitamins and heart medicine and whatnot. So much for hanging out with a rockstar—it was like dining with old people.

After the meeting I suggested we walk around Greenbelt to see the new shops. “That way people will see us with Ely and be jealous,” I told Jason. Jason made a face. He is from an alien species: the gay outdoor jock who does not like shopping malls. 

Ayala Center is like Dark City: it’s always under construction so the geography keeps changing and you start suspecting that aliens are futzing with your memories. Greenbelt 1 now connects to Greenbelt 5, so one second you’re in rather grim surroundings and then whoosh! you’re in a more fashionable dimension. Marlon calls it Narnia: you go into the wardrobe, and suddenly you’re no longer in London during the Blitz.

It is not fun wandering the mall with a claustrophobic visual artist and a musician who’s borderline autistic savant. They don’t go into a store, examine the merchandise, and declare whether they approve or disapprove of the concept (which is what my usual companions do all the time). Ely went to Bang & Olufsen and checked out the audio set-up. When I heard the price my shriek of horror nearly shattered the windows. “That’s just for the speakers,” the salesperson helpfully added.

Nearly everyone we met looked at Ely, but no one approached him. The looks generally had five stages. One, “Hey, isn’t that. . .” Two, “Yes, it is!” Three, “He’s alive!” Four, “Mustn’t gawk, he’ll think I’m not cool.” Five, “I have to text someone!” There were a couple of double-takes, and a large, burly man’s thought balloon read, “Pare, I lab you.”

“I feel trapped,” Jason said. “I can’t stand these long hallways. I can’t see any trees!” Then he left to finish some paintings. (Visit Jason’s exhibit at Cubao X, the Marikina Shoe Expo in Cubao, later this week.)

On our way out of Greenbelt someone asked Ely if she could have her picture taken with him. She looked exactly like Francine Prieto the actress, because she was Francine Prieto the actress. Her companion snapped the photo. “Shouldn’t we all be in the picture?” Ely said. 

“Oh no, go ahead,” I said. I’m not standing next to a bombshell, what am I, suicidal?

At 5pm Ely went home. 

This rock and roll lifestyle is too exciting.

Our friend Carlo the pastry chef gave a presentation on entertaining at home.

“I’ve got it,” I told Noel. We had planted ourselves in the back of the room, where we could talk without interrupting the proceedings. Noel and I have realized that we are characters in a 1930s screwball comedy who have escaped from our movie. (You’ve seen The Purple Rose of Cairo? Similar idea.) “I have an excellent idea for the cookbook Carlo will write. We’ll call it “Cooking for Mistresses”. It cannot help but be a bestseller!”

“I can see it!” Noel said. “You can’t cook? Not a problem! Serve the sashimi on your breasts!”

“And to make sure all demographics are covered,” I said, “We should publish a companion volume: “The Anti-Mistress Cookbook.” Chapter 1: Defend your house from that gold-digging tramp. She’s probably planning to serve sashimi on her breasts! Here’s the counter-measure.”

Quantum of Martha in Emotional Weather Report, today in the Star.

*****

Just got a text message from Krip Yuson: Chuck Syjuco has won the Man Asian Literary Prize (They seriously need to rethink the name) for his novel, Ilustrado. Congratulations! I met Chuck in the 90s when he was doing his website; he had spiky hair and we called him Dragonball Z. I ran into him a few years ago when he was visiting from Australia. Now he lives in Montreal. (Krip’s novel The Music Child was on the shortlist for the Man Asian—See what I mean? I don’t like “Man Booker” either, it sounds like “pimp”—so I offered to put a hex on the other finalists, but I can’t hex someone I know.)

My career as a Shelf Bandit began in the 1990s, when my first book was published. It was my friend and fellow author, a distinguished recipient of the Order of the French Fry, who introduced me to shelf banditry. We were standing in the Filipiniana section of a bookstore when he casually picked up a stack of his books and moved them to a more prominent place on the shelf, where they were more likely to be noticed by a random browser. So I picked a good spot, moved its occupants to the side, and transferred a stack of my own books to the vacated space. 

As I’ve mentioned, I’m a big fan of NYRB Classics and wish to see them all lined up on bookstore shelves, where they would be more attractive to potential readers. Or at least to interior designers, who would appreciate the spine design. I’ve suggested this to bookstores a couple of times. Yesterday while browsing in Powerbooks Greenbelt, it occurred to me that the way to see this done would be to do it myself. So I located all the NYRB Classics in the Literature section and brought them to the coffee shop to take a picture. Then I cleared a place for them on a shelf.

 

 

Yesterday I tried to do the same thing at Fully Booked in Rockwell. I got one of their trolleys and started locating the books. Unfortunately since the store was renovated the aisles between shelves are much narrower—you can barely drag a trolley through, and if someone is standing before a shelf, you get jammed. So I only found a few titles before I lost my patience.

 

File under “Walang magawa”.

*****

This is the New York Times article on Pannonica de Koenigswarter on the occasion of the US publication of Three Wishes.

This is my article on Pannonica which appeared in The National, Abu Dhabi, in May. The Times cites The National piece as a reference. Hmm. Except for a few quotes, looks like I did all their research. Wow, thanks.

Two nerds stand in front of a movie poster.

Grungella: The title of the movie is “My Only?” 
Ernie: There’s a text smiley next to it, so maybe it’s “My Only Smiley”.
Grungella: That makes no sense to me.
Ernie: It could be “My Only Umlaut”.
Grungella: It’s another language, and I don’t mean German. Could it be “My Only You”? Is that grammatical? It sounds Palinesque.

*****

When I saw the TV commercial in which two actors are getting ready for a dream date, I thought the dream date was with each other. It’s not just that I haven’t seen a heterosexual in days, it’s the way the montage of the two guys getting dressed is edited.

*****

Anthony Lane on the dueling movies by the dueling soon to be ex-Ritchies: “What vexes me most about “Filth and Wisdom” is the economics. Madonna has been a global star for decades. She has amassed a fortune, much of which presumably remains intact. She can’t have spent all of it on jodhpurs and conical bras. So why, when it came to launching herself as a film director, did she limit her budget to $365.23? Such, at any rate, is my estimate for the funding of “Filth and Wisdom.” If the actors were paid according to their talents, they cannot have cost more than forty bucks…“RocknRolla,” by contrast, has competence on its side. Whole scenes go by in which one shot actually matches the next.”

*****

Nerd’s eye view of the Democratic National Convention in September: “It was. . .like the change that might occur between the first and second volumes of some spectacular science fiction fantasy epic. At the end of the first volume, after bitter struggle, Obama had claimed the presumptive nomination. We Fremen had done the impossible, against Sardaukar and imperial shock troops alike. We had brought water to Arrakis.” Michael Chabon on Obama & the Conquest of Denver.

 

PHOTO РA la fin du d̩bat. (REUTERS)