CELEBRITY ENCOUNTER #1

Hundreds of years after the age of hunters and gatherers, we still hunt for celebrities and gather everything associated with them. Paparazzis still possess the same wild animal instinct of the cavemen, and publishers who espouse them are no less civilized than Neanderthals.

Wherefore we ask, what do celebrities have that you (unless you're one of them) and I don't that we scramble for spots in their presence? Honestly, I don't know, which does not necessarily mean there ain't. Because I, too, sometimes get starstruck, and then later ask, why?

Have you ever had your share of celebrity encounters? Did you, at one time, rub elbows with a star? Or probably even had dinner, if not sex, with them?

Mine's not as grand, but cool enough to tell.

February 1996, at the Annual Arts Festival in Coconut Grove, a free jazz concert was held at Peacock Park, open to the public, and it featured some of the biggest names in jazz music locally and internationally: Spyro Gyra, David Sanbourne, Ed Calle, and the University of Miami Jazz Ensemble. My brother and I were in attendance, sitting on the grass and on a spot closest to the stage. Less than a hundred people were within 100 meters from the stage, and probably even less were paying attention. Miami, after all, was not a jazz country, and their collective presence was probably more out of curiosity than anything else. In short, almost nobody cared, which my brother and I couldn't care less because that meant we had the open space practically to ourselves.

The star of the day performed, and in one of the highlights of the hour, his saxophonist went down the stage and serenanded each member of the small audience with a few notes from his sax. When the concert was over, my brother and I sat still on the grass, completely perplexed that we just watched the stars for free, a few yards away, while everyone else went to their more pressing business of running around for booze. "If this was in the Philippines", my brother remarked, "we would have been sitting behind a hundred thousand people."

We were still on that stupor when, my good jazz god!!!, the star of the concert came down and approached us. Are you two twins?", he asked. "(Gulp), no", I said, "I'm 5 years older". I looked at my brother and I thought he had a lockjaw, as if suffering from tetanus, which I understood because this intruder was his big hero artist from high school and was now talking to him like a friendly stranger asking for directions.

The artist then made an offer while looking at my camera. "Can we have our picture taken?", then called for one of his stagehands without waiting for my "(Gulp) yes of course" of a response.

So we had our picture taken, with the artist in the middle and his arms over the shoulder of my brother and myself. I was even thinking that he might pull an act and put a peace sign atop my head for some devilish effect (or was it really I thinking of doing that to him?)

The picture, from then on, became an incriminating evidence of one of my few celebrity encounters, and a testament, to me at least, that there were celebrities like this guy who knew to plant their feet firmly unto the ground.

That artist, by the way, was pianist David Benoit.

attempt #1

anybody who ever said that water unlike man seeks its own level had never been swallowed by the height of the wave nor pumped to victory by the weight of ambition.

SELECT, REFINED

That, in Tagalog, means pili and pino.

Pili. Pino. A reference to a race that may not be few but select, tough but refined.

I remember years ago when Rodel Rodis, big shot lawyer from San Francisco and brother of celebrity manager Girlie Rodis, came up with a column in Filipino Reporter entitled Telltate Signs wherein he enumerated all visuals that will tell you if somebody is Pinoy (and not Indonesian or Malaysian or Thai or Singaporean) to serve as identification kit to a Westerner in whose eyes Southeast Asians seem to be identical twins and nothing but.

The Pinoys point with their nguso, Rodis explains, which I analyze as our very discreet way of directing out someone or something which a hand gesture may otherwise make obvious, which is bastos, aside from our strong superstitious belief that pointing, especially with a forefinger, is a bad gesture. Baka mamatanda, ika nga. (Uh, do we then follow the West, who point with their middle finger for fun?)

From a distance a Pinoy will call out to you, Hoy!, or if you're near he'll gently say, Pssst, as if you're part of hoi polloi or simply enamored by a snake.

Joke time:
Q: Anong maliit na pusit?
A: Psst.
Q: Anong malaking pusit?
A: Hoy!

Go to a Filipino house (except mine) and the one appliance you know they have, aside from the basics, is a karaoke.

Go to their dining rooms and you will find, hanging on the walls, the following crafts: a Last Supper depiction and giant Spoon and Fork wood carvings.

Their salas, or living rooms, must have a china cabinet displaying millions of bric-a-bracs received as souvenir giveaways from weddings and more weddings galore.

Restroons. Ahhh, comfort rooms. The toilet sink should be topped by a freaking doily, with silk flowers on teeny-weeny flower vase made of some woven freakin material of yore (and I don't know which is more tacky, that or our loose input of shit which, in Ilocano, is called take).

From experience. Once I attended a Pinoy birthday party in Ft. Lauderdale or someplace of an 85 year old Pinay who smelled like Asian Clay but tried to speak like a Western Sod. Came the "opening the gifts portion" which is probably at par with cutting-the-freaking-cake in any wedding in terms of tackiness. The first gift opened was a bracelet made of mahjongg pitcha. NamPucha!!!

And then there's this guy who gayly rushed to a beautiful plant in the corner of a room, only to turn around disappointed. "Asar", he said, "akala ko pa naman silk". I wanted, right there, for him to have all the silk he can get by kicking him all the way to China.

Hanep talaga sa tackiness, these Pinoy abroad, oo. Sometimes I think, leaving the Pinas actually sheds us of our untackiness. So here's more for pruweba: Graduation pictures settling atop the piano (like in our house in the Pinas) that only tend to frighten the pianist; the mat by the doorstep that says "Welcome" in varying fonts, which actually serves no purpose because the owner of the house expects us to remove our smelly shoes; or the ashtray on the center table in the sala that must be a way of telling guests, Please, people, smoke na!

Ayayay, ibalik nyo na talaga ako sa Pinas, o-oh!

the bs of cbs: an unauthorized autobiography
(coming soon indefinitely at a bookstore not near you)

hi, my name is cbs. i know it doesn't matter to you, but what the heck, what does? unless of course you continue to read from this point on, which means i, under that name, matter to you. i don't blame you. you may have accrued your bads in the past and adding up this one will swiftly and surely strengthen your chances at failure. bad luck to you, then.

there is a method to my cbs, my cbs being my madness. i live clandestinely. i always look at my back for fear of pursuers, most of them being the dandruffs falling off my hair incessantly. but i have learned to shrug them off, sometimes violently, sometimes quietly, sometimes happily when they fall like flurries and i am tempted to open my mouth and do a snow angel.

walk fast, think furious; that is my gist, delirious! there is poetry in my nerves.

i am 5'9" when barefoot, 170 lbs when naked. with full apparel i might weigh 172 lbs, attributing the additional .1 to my tee, .2 to my eyeglasses, .3 to my wallet, .4 to my cellphone, and a pound to my jeans. there. a pound of jeans is better than an ounce of prevention - preventing to go naked and attract more pursuers. (for how do you live a clandestine life when all you do is attract?)

one time i have a gummy worm in my hand and i asked a co-worker, do you like worm? she said, no thanks, i'm married.

i don't wear jewelries. and the only thing i dig about women who flamboyantly wear their blinding jewelries is their graves. i am disgusted with anything foreign attached to my skin but for my clothes and glasses. of course my disgust list does not include people, foreign bodies included, to whom in an ideal world i hope i will never be detached. figuratively (meaning, go figure, or, hell, especially to those with great figures, a-he-he).

bs is a majority of cbs; the connection smells the same sweet pus-y scent as cynthia ozick's description of the coordinates between my idols kafka and babel: "where their fevers intersect lies the point of infection".

c may then stand for care. care for some bs?

i read. i also write, like, right now, duh. i know you read, too. i know you read bull, like right now, duh. so, why don't we do our own duh treat, okay?

so, go, comment and waste you precious moments.

AY, BUHAY: ISANG PAGBUBUTINTING

Nagising ako kaninang pasado 7:00 n.u. na humahagalpak sa tawa. Naranasan nyo na ba yun, ang gumising sa umaga ng natatawa imbes na natatae? Sana hindi pa para solo ko ang experience.

Nanaginip kasi akong hinahabol daw ng isang lawing mandaragit. Hinahabol, I repeat, kasi di sya lumilipad kundi tumatakbo. Ako naman, dahil mahilig mang-inis, sa tao man o ibon, tumakbo akong pagewang-gewang kaya naman nagmistulang engot si Lawin. Naimagine nyo na ba ang ibong tumatakbo na parang iika-ika? Ganun, mukang tanga, kaya natawa ako kahit binabalak nya siguro akong gawing panila pang merienda-cena sa kanyang nagngangawang mga inakay.

Syempre dahil Sabado, natatawa man ako o hindi, kailangang maglaba. Laba-dami ang inabot ko kasi 3 linggo ata akong di naglaba dahil inuubo ako. Kung ano man ang koneksyon nun e hindi ko alam. Naalala ko tuloy sa aking paglalaba ang newscasting epeks ni Joey de Leon, Mahalagang balita: isang labandera ang nabuntis; ayon sa ulat, ginamit sya ni Mr. Clean.

Ubod ng ginaw, 58 degrees F kahit may araw, tas tumawag si Senor Alejandro na tubong-Peru, palo daw kami, e di pinagbigyan ko kahit minsan nauunsyami ako sa kanya kasi ubod ng lakas ang service, parang si Andy Roddick. Yun nga lang, one-dimensional, again, parang si Andoy. Oras na maibalik mo ang 1st serve nya, o kaya e fault sa unang serve, tapos na ang kapalaran nya. 6-3 ang final score, kapos ang kanyang kapalaran.

Tapos nagutom ako. Kumain ako ng mga tira-tira. May scallops na binalutan ng sangkatutak na bawang, para tuloy syang "garlic with scallops", parang yung pulutan sa may Quezon Avenue na Tokwa't Baboy daw e para naman syang Tokwa't Sibuyas.

Hayy buhay, sapo sapo ko ang tyan kong naglulumaki sa sarap ng mga pangarap, isang dighay lang ang lamang sa akin ng sinumang tumama sa lotto, oy, oy, oy, sabi sa isang kinalap na storya sa Esquire, may pamagat ata na How Does It Feel (ngaba?), may sanaysay doon na How Does It Feel to be a Lotto Winner?, sabi nung isang nanalo, Para mong nakita ang pangalan mo sa obituary ng isang dyaryo.

Meron din dung artik na How Does It Feel to Be Seven Footer?, tas ang ininterbyu e si Shawn Bradley na 7'6 at dating sentro ng Dallas Mavs. Sabi ni kumag, nun daw nag-aaral sya, kalimitan daw syang ginagawang landmark ng mga kaibigan nya. Sasabihin daw nila, O mga tols, kita-kita tayo mamya kay Shawn, as if para syang monumento, never mong mami-miss. Tas tinanong sya kung ano ang masasabi nya sa mundo batay sa p.o.v. ng isag higante. Hindi maganda, pagrereklamo nya, Di nyo lang alam kung gaano karurumi ang refrigerator ng mga tao!

O ayan, pwede kayang isama ng Esquire ang kwento ko, How Does It Feel To Wake Up Laughing?

Ay buhay ng mga nangangarap, lustay ang kapakinabangan, oo! Takbo na lang akong Borders para magbasa, asiwa na kasi akong basahin ang nilalaman ng aking puso. Charot.

Pagdating sa Borders, tipong may gathering sa isang corner ng bookstore dahil may book signing, andun ang isang nagngangalang Alan Troop (yata) na may bagong libro tungkol sa mga dragon dragon ek-ek, syempre di ako nakiloko kasi di ko naman hilig ang makiloko...sa mga dragon, baka mamya bugahan pa ako ng apoy. Di ko talaga trip pati yang mga temang narnia narnia na yan, pati nga yung gaiman gahaman ba yun, ala sa panlasa ko, parang sabi nung dj sa isang bagay na ayaw nya, It leaves a bad taste in the mouth and some place else.

Naalala ko nung araw may booksigning din dito ng isang local based author. Syempre sucker pa ako noon, (ngayon e sucked na lang!) punta ako dun sa may karatulang "booksigning line starts here". Yung author, andun at nakaupo na na parang haring gutom. Di ko na lang babanggitin kung sino sya baka mamya e igoogle pa nya yung pangalan nya at makitang ginagago ko sya dito. E di tipong wala namang ibang nakapila, ikako nga, I am the line, e di pinalapit nya ako, pinag-sign ko sya nung binili kong libro (na may "Mountain" sa title) tapos, sa laking tuwa siguro dahil kahit papaano me gagong nagpa-sign sa kanya, bukod sa naglagay ng dedication, nagdrawing pa ng mga bundok-bundok ang magiting na writer. Akala ko nga e iipitan pa nya ng pera yung libro. Pag-uwi ko sa amin, sinuksok ko na yung libro sa shelf. Magmula noon hanggang ngayon, di ko pa rin binubunot yung libro.

Sa Borders ulet: Matapos kong isnabin yung nagbu-book signing e dumiretso ako sa banyo at naiihi ako. E di habang nakatayo ako't nagpapaluwag ng puson, napatutok ang paningin ko sa dingding. Natawa ako kasi may nakasulat dun, "The future is in your hands"...tapos may nagdugtong "...and the future looks bleak".

Tas nun e naghagilap na ako ng libro, Memories of My Melancholy Whore ni Gabriel Garcia Marquez (Alfred Knopf, 2005) and nahagip ko. Punta ako sa cafeteria para basahin. In one sitting, tapos. Walang alisan sa pagka-upo. Josme, eto ngaba ang dahilan kung bakit ako pirmeng may kabag. Laging nakaupo, kantahin ko nga, Magbasa ay di biro, maghapong nakaupo...

Basta di nag-oover the top si Senor Gabriel e matalas ang pluma nya. Antalim ng Memories, tungkol sa isang matandang binata na naghangad ng isang birhen para sa kang 90th birthday. 115 pages lang ang libro pero andaming subplots. Namemelankolya tuloy ako, parang naratibo sa buhay nating lahat na nag-iisip na mas masarap ata yung noong araw, blah3, laging nostalgia...O di ba nag-aangas tayo, Hu-hu-hu, bat parang di ko na ramdam ang diwa ng Pasko ngayon di gaya nung araw, hu-hu-hu?

Tas eto, harap ako sa blog ng di ko naman talaga alam ang isusulat ko, pero ngayon alam ko na, sigurado ako kayo man e alam nyo na, magaling naman kasi talaga kayo o, uyyy, ayaw pa nyang amininnn...

Makapagsulat nga ng isang kwento, yung tipong isang kwentong walang kakwenta-kwenta.

Gaya nito.

METAMORPOSER
by cbs
(all rights na all rights reserved)

Ako si Gregorio Samsam, kilabot ng mga sampayan. Walang sampayan akong pinalampas, basta may nakasabit na panampay, sya kong sinasamsam. Sa aming lugar, kilala ako sa palayaw na Kit, kapag may nagtanong kasing maybahay kung nasaan ang mga damit na sinampay, ang sagot lagi ay

Kinuha ni Kit
Sinong Kit?
Exactly!

Di ko alam ang sanhi ng aking fetish (at di ko din alam kung ano sa Tagalog ang fetish, tiningnan ko na sa Tagalog English dictionary ni Carl R. Galves-Rubino pero wala sya dun, although may entry na "festschrift: n. parangal) subalit di kayang arukin ng aking mababaw na panghusga ang alituntunin ng mga sanhi. Shet. Nonsense ang pinagsasabi ko.

Sa kaliwa't kanan kong pagkalantari sa anumang bagay na sinampayin, nahulog ako sa balon ng hustisya. Sa kulungan, dun ko nalaan ang isang napakasakit na bagay. Wala silang sampayan.

Tangi kong ginawa ay manalangin sa dios ng kalayaan, Patawarin mo ako, makalaya lang ako dito, di na ako mangungulimbat ng mga jacket o panty na pagkaylalaki, o anumang damit na nakasabit sa tuwirang kableng nananalaytay mula Pole A to Pole B.

"Paggising na paggising mo bukas, humayo kang malaya", saad ng masidhing boses sa likuran ng aking ulo.

Nasa dagat ako ng kaputian, sambit ko sa aking paggising. Ano itoh?
Tas nakita ko ang mga kakosa ko, para silang mga higante, tas nagkaroon ako ng isang masidhing uhaw, hindi sa bagay na sinampayin, kundi sa dugo, kahit sa dugo ng mga kakosa ko.

Ahhh, ano it!! sigaw ko pagkakita ko sa mahabang karayom na nagsilbing nguso ko. Bzzz, bzzz sabi ko sa mga kakosang nagmumuni-muni, pero tila di nila ako naririnig, tila di nila ako napapansin, kaya lumapit ako sa Mayores na himbing pa sa pagkakatulog. Tinusok ko sya ng ngusong karayom sa malabalbuning hita, Pwe, anlansa ng dugo mo bok!

Bumunghalit ang boses sa likuran ng aking ulo. Anupa ang inaantay mo. Puga na. Indahin mo na ang wagi ni Robert Louis Stevenson, Here is the door, Here is the open air, Itur in antiquam silvam.

Bzzz, bzzz, malaya na ako at ngayon ay nasa gitna ng inyong pagkaharapan. Pero isang pakiusap lang po sana, sa ating pagsasalu-salo, wag sana kayong pumalakpak.

LOLO ROCKER

klik ako ng klik ng mouse kanina klik2 daan2 sa mga blogs di ko naman kilala at walang ka bagay2 ang mga nilalamang loob nila at habang dumadaan e panay2 sabi ko ng tabi2 po apo nakikiraan lang sa mga walang ka lantoy2 na hinaing ng mga manunulat sa sinapupunan ng internet pero tuloy pa din ako baka nga makasagasa ng me katuturang magpapaaliw sa akin gaya ng mga maimpormasyong diga nina jobert o maungas na hataw ni angelo at angela (magkakilala ba kayong 2 ha?2) o nakatutuwang chismax ni miss k pero gusto kong magliwaliw at makakita ng ibang hataw lalo na sa mga di ko kilalang bloggers kaya ayun link2 laktaw2 hop2 hanggang sa woing2 mapadaan ako sa isang blog na tila ko ba e kot angkot maangas tongsangtoah so yun na nga ang sabi ko sa monitor i think i found one blog de angas habang tumutungga ako ng paboritong vistana de chile kamachile

pero yung ma-angas na blog ang dakilang ngalan e bang and blame (bang and blame? ano yun matapos kitang barilin tatanong ko sa yong duguang tenga bakit mo ako sinaktan why3 delilah?)

anyway kaya ako napatigil dun sa blog kasi iniisaisa ni miss b&b ang mga mostly magigiting (sagwa ng bi) na pinoy rockers y rockerettes at kung matalas pa ang bahay palatandaan ko e ito sila spongecocacola sugarfree kitchienadal urbandub imago sandwich radioactivesagoproject updharmadown atbp

sabi ko labo bat ala akong kilala kahit isa sa kanila ibig ba sabihin hindi na tumutugtog ang juan dela cruz asan na sila mike hanopol di ba sila tipo ng mga maangas ngayon hay labo

labo na nga yata ng mga mata nila mike hanopolpol di na mabasa ang nota

pero josme buhay pa ba (no pun intended) si pepe smith?

e yun na nga nung iniisa isa ko yung mga manunugtugan ay nagpasimula at nangagsipagsayaw na ang mga bakla e parang sabi ko doy mukang iba na ang eksena sa pinas hu3 wala na labo ala na akong kilala sa mga pinagbabanggit ni ms b&b kaya ramdam ko di na ako nabibilang sa bansa ko at di na rin ako nabibilang sa henerasyon na ito hu4 (dagdag ng isang hu) pero josme kako anong klaseng ngalan ba naman ang spongecocacola bat di na lang pepsigugo?

seriously nagparang nawala ako ng say2 sa buhay kasi naman nun pa rocker na ako lagi ako sa eksena ng mga rock concerts mula nung bata pa ako habang nanonood ng mga ingg ingg sa dzrj grounds o kaya sa rizal memorial coliseum habang binubutas ni edmund fortuno yung drums pati na rin yung eardrums ko

tas nagsidatingan na yung pangkat ng the dawn aysus alam nyo ba may six degrees of separation ako sa pangkat kawayan na to yung mga tropa ko nga may mga kinompos pa na kanta nila ay ay ay kalisud talaga o2

nung dumating ang eraserheads at pinakilala ang o pare ko meron akong problema hayy sabi ko anobanamantong kanta na to parang tungkol sa buhay ko pano ba naman leche yung nililigawan kong si mayeen na nursing student sa la salle dasma e ako pa ang sumulat ng thesis nila antaas pa nga ng nakuha nila e ano ba naman ang alam ko sa nursing samantalang ang pinagaralan ko e kung paano magtulog

tas yun na nga nung pagsikat ng eheads sumabay sina cookie chua tsaka yung yani na kumanta ng natatae ako hi4

tas yung utol ko mejo uma attend2 ng jamming ng after image tsaka habagat tas binigyan nya ako ng live tape ng jamming ng tropa na puro kabastusan kasi mejo dinouble entendre' nila yung theme ng batibot

e ayun na nga nung taep na taep ko tlg ang pinoy music e nag one flew over the cuckoos nest naman kami bigla kaya babay na sa inyong lahat na mga rockers ng bayan ko at papunta na kami sa lugar ng mga cuckoorookookoo...

hay rock en roll

gising na rj na

bumangon ka pepe smith sa ataul ng buhay

wag ka pumayag matabunan resty fabunan

friction asan na ang koryente nyo

jerks kinikilig ako sa talino nyo lalukana chikoy pura

joey ayala mas malupit ka pa ke jaimezobeldeayala

taenamo florante sumama ka na kay laura sa pagkamakoy mo

haynaku sabi nga nung mga arsonistang nilalang nung araw

sindihan na yan

SUI GENERIS

My sister emailed last night, wrapping up family eklat-issues with news from this side of jologs: c, did you know that Jake Gylenhaal went to Columbia for 2 yrs before heading West? I replied, No, I don't, and uh, do I care?

Sshhh, for purposes of this blog, let us pretend that I do. After all, it has come a long way and been a long time since Hollywood was known as the hodgepodge of stupid people, owing it to the cliche that beauty and brains don't mix.

Like me, that cliche is old and tired. It's likewise unfair. At this day and age where nothing is impossible, it becomes possible, too, for a smartass to have a smart ass (or some ass described by Janet Mandlebloom as resembling a bifurcated cantaloupe).

The saying was actually universal, stereotyping a stunner in any nation and culture as one whose grey matter is somehow grayish in terms of existence. (Q: Miss Beauty Contestant #1, where does your father work? A: In the Department of Labor. Q: Uh, what does he do? A: Uhm, he's a laborer).

But as Darwin may himself said, things evolve, thoughts inclusive. We now begin to appreciate intelligence behind physical attractiveness and the thinking that beauty and brains don't mix is no longer part of the Reality Principle.

So, Jake Gylenhaal went to Columbia, huh? (Big deal!, as the Counsel will say. "Columbia U does not even come close to the rigors set by UP".)

Anna Pacquin went there, too. At Columbia, I mean, though I heard she's intelligent enough to be accepted at UP, unless someone, say, Cha, will remark, Excuse me, you don't belong!

Which brings the thesis to the fore, beauty and brains could mix, Hollywood has a place for the intellectually attractive.

I heard that Mina Sorvino graduated cum laude from Harvard (I saw her on tv as an undercover cop, in a telemovie about human trafficking, shot in the Philippines); Tommy Lee Jones went to Harvard, too, (and was the roommate of ex-veep and part time Columbia prof Al Gore) and so did Meryl Streep. Jodie Foster graduated from Yale, while David Duchovny got his baccalaureate in from Princeton and his Masters from Yale, both in English Lit. (In James Lipton's Inside the Actor's Studio where Duchovny guested sometime last year, he discussed his Masteral thesis in brief and it blew my mind. It has something to do with American Poetry and technology, the magnetic ek-ek of Robert Frost's poem , which I could not remember well because, remember, my mind got blown away and I was not able to retrieve it.)

There's an Ivy League connection to some Hollywooders, too. John Travolta's mom was an English teacher at Columbia (which somehow helped shape his career), and Uma Thurman's dad, the well-respected Prof. R. Thurman, teaches Philosophy, also at Columbia, and leads an annual trek to Bhutan where he probably gives a big piece of his Buddhist mind.

Beauty and brains, however, do not reside in me. Women's attraction to my being, I believe, is merely fatal (if they consider me handsome, they die, probably in laughter). Besides, the school I went to is affiliated with the Poison Ivy League.