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!