Le Cirque-gate

Despite Malacañang's denial that a dinner at New York's famed Le Cirque restaurant cost USD20,000 (PHP1 million), this headline from a news item seemingly betrays the refutation:

Solon says P1M is just right for NY dinner

I especially relish the following quote from the esteemed Congressman who was a member himself of the President's dining party that night: "I don't know why they are making such a big deal, it’s New York where everything is more expensive than Manila."

Shy Little Violet

This was how classmates of Cory Aquino described her during her college days in New York as related in Time Magazine's 1986 cover story when she was the Person of the Year. As she is laid to rest today, I guess we are all less skeptical about the idea of one person making a difference.

Happy INC Day Everyone!

Today is the Iglesia ni Cristo's 95th anniversary and in honor of this, I decided to find out why this church's doctrine forbids the eating of animal blood as contained in yummy Filipino dishes such as dinuguan and pinikpikan. My only recourse was to do my research on the interwebz and just like how I've been taught to trawl for porn and torrent sites, I used good ol' Google and did a search using "INC" and "animal blood" as my key words.

Some of the results I got were links to forums and clicking on these, I was shocked into recalling how vitriolic and hostile the debate between the INC and Catholics remains. Just to get a flavor on the level of sophistication has been set on this discourse between the two factions, here's a link to one of the forums.

So why does the INC forbid partaking of blood? From what I've been able to discern from all the trash talking and ad hominem debating tactics, the basis for this eating taboo can be found (surprise!) in the bible. Specifically, in Leviticus 17 of the Old Testament which sets out the dietary restrictions of the Holiness Code for the Israelites. Verses 10 to 13 require the following:

10 " Suppose someone eats meat that still has blood in it. It does not matter whether he is an Israelite or an outsider. I will turn against him if he eats it. I will cut him off from his people.

11 The life of each creature is in its blood. So I have given you the blood of animals to pay for your sin on the altar. Blood is life. That is why blood pays for your sin.

12 So I say to the people of Israel, 'You must not eat meat that still has blood in it. And an outsider who lives among you must not eat it either.'

13 Suppose any of you hunts any animal or bird that can be eaten. It does not matter whether you are an Israelite or an outsider. You must let the blood flow out of the animal or bird. You must cover the blood with dirt."

An aside: Leviticus also contains the sexual restrictions of the Holiness Code in Chapter 18 of the book. How confused were these people that laws had to be implemented to set out their faith's stance on having sex with their mothers and/or animals? The position, by the way, is not to have sex with either/both.

Anyway, why did the INC parse this particular part of Levititus to dictate a ban on eating animal blood -- I mean to the exclusion of other parts of the bible, most notably, perhaps, the New Testament? I don't know. It's curious though that it is so and the whole context, historical or religious, of this dietary requirement was apparently lost on the INC.

It is not my intention to pick a fight and be self-righteous on this by saying that the INC is wrong on this taboo. It boils down to everyone's personal beliefs and preferences. We live in a democracy and have the free will to believe in anything we want. And certainly this freedom includes and must provide room for atheists. As for me, there must be no persecution of people who do not believe in God or a god. The debate on this should continue for a long time. What is irrefutable though is the existence of Satan. Yes, the chief evil spirit lives and breathes among us. The Devil. Lucifer. The Anti-Christ. How do I know? Well, watch her give her State of the Nation address this afternoon.

So the lady fortune teller asked me which of the two methods I wanted. I thought for a bit and said I would go with the one question.

I came up with a doozy: When am I going to die?

Sakinah nodded her head in admiration. "Good question," she said.

However, the old lady said that it would be impossible for her to provide the answer. She could only deal with questions which could for the most part be responded with either a yes or no. Queries like: will I win the lottery? does Susan from Accounting like me? or will my sex videos ever go viral? I know, I know. The old lady's a total cop out, right?

So then I just decided to have my fortune told. The woman asked me to close my eyes, clear my mind and then touch the top of the deck of tarot cards with my right hand. She then dealt out the cards and divine from them what fate deigned to give me as a sneak peek of my future self in the areas of health, wealth and love.

My God, I thought the fortune teller was going to have a nose bleed when she was speaking English. She was struggling so much that I told her that I understood a little Spanish. And so the old woman told my fortune in a mix of Spanish and English. However, this only served to confuse me as I would begin to comprehend some of the Spanish she was speaking and then have everything disappear in a haze of dubiety when she switched to English to bolster whatever point she was trying to make.

From what little I could understand, the fortune teller said that I would live a long life but that I should be careful in the morning and be extra-cautious of elevators. Or maybe she said stairs. In terms of my finances, I apparently will do well if I decide to go into business. I think she said something about selling cake as the strategy I should focus on.

And what about my prospects for love? The fortune teller said that I was in love with a young white woman with blonde hair. I looked at the young Sakinah with her Caucasian features and blonde hair and asked, "Do I know anyone like that?" She just gave me a look which froze the blood in my veins.

"Let's just go. This woman..." Sakinah said, her last point trailing into silence.

"I know," I replied, doing a bit of clairvoyance myself on what Sakinah meant to say.

Yani? Ya-No!

And of course there was the time I was with Sakinah in Madrid last November. It was her first time in the capital and I was over the moon in my vain attempt to be her tourist guide. My vast knowledge of the city's cultural and gastronomical highlights became evident when she asked me where we were going to have dinner -- our first full meal in Madrid -- and I recommended without any hesitation: why, of course, KFC. I remember that her eyes lit up like stars. This was because she hadn't been to a KFC in months and months as we didn't have one back in Salamanca.

After the best fried chicken dinner I've ever had, we decided to walk around the city just to take in the sights. It was a warmer than usual November night and so it was a comfortable walk around Puerta del Sol. There was a Peruvian flute band busking at one of the corners of the plaza and Sakinah stopped to listen.

"I love this kind of music," she said.

Well, I didn't. But for her, you know...

"Yeah, I love it. Just like Yani, you know?" she continued.

The four letter word hit me like a Pacquiao jab to my gut.

"Do you know Yani?" Sakinah asked.

"A-huh," I mumbled. I knew that he was once married to Linda Evans but I didn't relay this piece of trivia to Sakinah. I wouldn't think she'd know who Linda Evans was. For Christ's sake, she was born the year Dynasty was on its second season. Oh, and listening to Yani's music would be ranked a notch lower on the list of activities I would enjoy than jogging home from a vasectomy.

She approached one of the Peruvians who was hawking the band's CD and the lady said that they cost 10 euros. This was a price too steep to pay for Sakinah and so she didn't buy one. Right then and there, I wanted to make a grand gesture of buying the CD in secret and surprising Sakinah with it later. However, that Yani remark...I know love conquers all but Yani? Fucking Yani?

Sakinah and I went on walking through Calle Mayor and then eventually Plaza Mayor. There weren't that many people there and some of the bars were already closed. We just did the roundabout of the plaza and then walked to the direction of Sol again. As we were exiting through one of the square's gates, I saw in a corner an old lady sitting down on a stool and infront of her a small wooden table with some tarot cards on top of it. There was also a cardboard sign which read "5 euros."

"That lady tells fortunes," I said, "do you wanna?"

"No," Sakinah said. "Do you want to?"

"Hmm, yeah. Might be interesting."

The woman had a bony, angular face and was wearing layers of clothing. She was reading a book in French when we approached her and she gave a big smile. I asked her if she spoke any English and she couldn't say si fast enough.

The old lady explained to me in halting English that she could tell my fortune in two ways. One, I could ask her one important and personal question and she would be able to divine the answer for it. And two, she could tell me how things are looking up to be in three general areas: health, wealth, and love. I couldn't tell right away that this was the only English that she knew as she probably memorized the whole spiel. Later on, when she really had to tell me my fortune, she had the English vocabulary of a five year old.

And so what happened? To quote Ryan Seacrest: "Results...after the break."

Quantum of Solis

I was watching the news last night and came upon the story on one of Katrina Halili's lawyers distributing to the press CDs reportedly containing audio recordings of Lolit Solis counseling Vicki Belo and Hayden Kho on how to act and what to say in interviews and public, specifically to gain sympathy and support. As much as I wanted to provide a link to this story, I couldn't find anything on the interwebz which, I think, goes to show how the shelf-life of this issue has passed its expiration date and is now all stinky and moldy.

What really piqued my interest though was seeing Lolit Solis. My God. When this woman makes a commitment she sticks to it. Yes, I'm talking about Lolit Solis' resolute and unfailing dedication to the mullet.













Look, she's a handsome woman and all but it just made me wonder what is it about the mullet which made her forsake all other hairstyles? It can't be the economics of it. I would think that the mullet falls on the high-maintenance side as far as haircuts go. Just to have the look of the spikeyness on top, short on the side and the behind long consistently over years and years could get really demanding in terms of resources. I mean, you don't see Bill Gates or the Sultan of Brunei sporting mullets, right? Or maybe she could have fallen into such a comfort zone with regards to her choice of hairstyle that changing it would be tantamount to something like, say, adultery in her book.

Whatever the reason, kudos to you madame! Keep on rocking the mullet!

Anatomy of the Anti-Hero

I found this essay by the great Nick Joaquin the most insightful yet on the very psyche, nay, soul of our national hero, Dr. Hayden Kho, oh, sorry, Dr. Jose Rizal.

I have thought about Rizal the past few days -- owing to the fact that I have more time on my hands but more so because I came across the curious fact that the Spanish philosopher Miguel de Umanomo compared him to Shakespeare's Hamlet. You know, Hamlet? As in the guy who abhorred making decisions and taking actions from them to the point of paralysis?

In the essay, Joaquin makes his analysis on the Hamlet comparison (and much much more) by referring to two biographies by Leon Maria Guerrero and Ante Radaic. I won't get into detail because Joaquin does a far more superior job at it more than I ever could. However, I have now began to at least get a semblance of understanding as to why Rizal would decide to volunteer as a doctor in Spain's campaign in Cuba in 1896 (the year of his death) when, at the same time, the Katipunan was seeking his help with the revolution. Twice the Katipuneros offered to spring him from the custody of the Spaniards: the first time was during his exile in Dapitan (In June 1896 -- the only reason he was allowed to leave Dapitan was because the Governor General approved Rizal's request to serve in Cuba. Yes. Rizal made the request himself.) and the second time was when Rizal was sequestered onboard the Castilla docked in Manila Bay when he was on his way to Cuba (in August 1896 -- when Andres Bonifacio himself and Emilio Jacinto and other Katipuneros boarded the cruiser). Both occasions, Rizal refused to be rescued.

Why did Rizal rebuff the Katipunan's offer of rescue and ultimately reject the very idea of a revolution by Filipinos against Spain via his manifesto? Perhaps even then he was already thinking, To be or not to be?

I Love Paris in the Winter, When It Embezzles

After spending two and a half hours at the Louvre, I decided to go outside and take in some air. The cold wintry wind blowing from the Seine shook me back to the realization that I was in Paris on a rainy December day. I had a few hours to kill before I had to meet up with a friend for a late lunch and so decided to walk all the way from the Louvre to the Eiffel Tower.

Ah, the Eiffel Tower. I half-expected to see the top of the world's most famous landmark from the airport when the plane landed yesterday. I was mildly disappointed when I didn't see any sign of it walking around the Rue de Louvre where our hotel was. Where the fuck was it? Wasn't it visible everywhere from the streets of Paris like the opening scenes of Truffault's 400 Blows led me to believe? I soon realized after checking out the crappy free map from the hotel that the Eiffel Tower was at the Left Bank of the city while I have been all that time at the Right Bank. The Seine separates both parts of the city and, apparently, the tower isn't that tall enough for it to be spotted when you're at the other side.

I now understand that December is one of the worst months to be in Paris. It is brutally cold and the constant somber gray skies always threaten to drizzle just like what the Cole Porter song said. Indeed, the sky was overcast as I made my way across Pont du Carrousel over the Seine and towards Paris' Right Bank. There were just a few people walking about. Looking down at the river, I saw that its color was a blackish shade of chartreuse.

I had intended to walk through the whole stretch of the sidewalks which ring the bank of the river. I had no idea how far I had to walk as the map I had didn't seem to be accurate in terms of depicting scaling distances. I just thought that I only had to walk the equivalent of minutes before I'd be seeing the tower.

The light shower started when I got to Quai Voltaire where the booksellers were. I stopped for a bit to browse through the selection of books but I saw that all were in French. I didn't stand around too long as doing this in the rain was rather uncomfortable.

I had just passed the crowds at the Orsay Museum and was on the quiet part of the Quai Anatole France when I saw a man walking my way from the other direction. We passed and then I heard a voice calling out to me from behind.

"Monsieur!"

I turned and saw the man had stopped a few feet behind me and he seemed to be holding out something to me with his right arm.

"Look, monsieur!"

I turned away and decided to continue walking.

"Monsieur, please! Do you speak English?" he said as he caught up with me. He was now at my side and walking at the quick pace I was.

"No," I said which pretty much confirmed that I did. I turned to look at the guy and he was of medium height and built, had curly hair and a stubbled chin. He was also wearing a denim jacket which made me distrust him immediately.

"Look what I found, see?" as he once more held out to me the thing he was trying to show me.

It was a ring.

"It's a ring," Monsier Veston en Jean said rather anti-climactically.

"Okay," I replied without giving the damn thing a second look.

"It's yours?" he asked.

"No," I said.

"I give to you."

"No," I repeated.

"Please, monsieur. I give to you -- for luck."

"No, it's okay," I just said while continuing to walk.

"But, monsieur, I give to you."

"Please, please, take it."

I was just not interested but the guy wouldn't leave me the fuck alone. And so to just have my peace back I took the stupid ring from him.

"Okay, it is lucky...for you," the man said with a smile.

I mumbled a mercie without even taking a look at the fucking ring I just got from him.

With my back already turned, I hear the guy say, "Monsieur...give me money...for the ring." This caught me by surprise that I instinctively turned around and saw him with the smile already gone from his face.

"Give me money. For the ring," he said with a much serious tone this time.

Un-fucking-believable.

"Please, I give you ring. Now, give me money."

If I thought that he was persistent when he was offering to give me the ring I could just imagine how much more resolute he would be when this time, he was the one asking.

I dove my hand into my pocket and fished out two euros.

"This is all I have," I said as I handed the money to him.

When he saw the coins spread out on his palm he looked at me with as he probably would a can of deodorant -- this is supposed to be something useful to me?

"Give me more," he said, "I give you a ring."

"No more money," I said.

He shakes his head and says, "Give me back ring."

I looked around and saw that there was no one else. The street was deserted saved for the parked cars. I handed him back the ring and as soon as I did that, the guy turned around and walked away. No doubt he was pissed that he only managed to rip-off two euros from the rich Japanese tourist. Or so he must have been from Japan -- they're the only ones from Asia wealthy enough to go prancing about the Quai Anatole France at two in the afternoon.

I continued on my way in the rain. I was poorer by two euros but the thought that events could have been worse and a lot more costly made me feel a little better. Now, more than ever, I will be weary of men wearing denim jackets.

Eventually, I didn't make it all the way to the Eiffel tower that day. I got a text from my friend when I was still a long ways off at the Quai d'Orsay about lunch and turned back to cross the Pont de la Concorde.

Twitterrific

I signed up to use Twitter exactly a year ago but was disappointed to learn that I had not much use for it since none of my friends were on it. As you know, Twitter is a social-networking and micro-blogging site which enables users to send status updates in the form of text-based posts limited to a maximum of 140 characters. It's like facebook but its sole service would be to provide only your status updates to your friends. No photos. No virtual teddy bears to give away as gifts. No game apps. No Superpoking by way of flying thongs flung by your compeer.

After creating my Twitter account, I was frankly mystified as to what I should do next. I considered typing in a zesty bon mot onto the What are you doing? box but I had no one following me and so it'll be a useless gesture with not a soul to read it. And so I just forgot about the site and relegated it to the the barren wastland of forgotten usernames and passwords in the company of my login details for Hotmail, Yahoo, Muliply, and Flickr.

However last month, I received an admin email message from Twitter saying that my friend Ogster was following me on the site. I decided to log in again after a year and, wow, a lot has changed in Twitter since then -- big changes, no, Obamaesque changes. Well, it's true that I had only one follower but I then thought of becoming a follower of other Twitterers. Hmm, who would be a famous person I wanted to be kept updated on? But my mind was drawing a blank. I was watching American Idol at the time and thought what the hey? And so I did a search for Seacrest and boom! I was instantly made aware of the following insider Ryan Seacrest dish:

"My producer @NegativeNatalie ran into @AndersonCooper and he autographed a photo that read 'Ditch Ryan and come work with me.' What the heck"

Sweet, huh? I felt like I was in on an inside joke. One thing lead to another and now I have managed to track down the following celebs on Twitter and have become entangled in the minutiae of their day to day lives:

Ashton Kutcher - Last weekend he was asking for the what the best NY pizza place was in LA. He uploaded a pic of the pizza later.

Demi Moore - She's "mrskutcher" on Twitter and tweets mostly about books. I was surprised to learn how heavy she is into reading books. She's almost done with "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao."

Jimmy Fallon - He just got a Kindle and was asking what titles he should try. Someone suggested the book "Twilight." Being the nice guy he is, Fallon didn't say WTF am I? A 16-year old girl? He said he'll give it a try but won't expect to like it. Awww. Pussy.

Tina Fey - I love her and her tweets but she seems to be very busy now because Tina's been awfully quiet lately.

Rob Corddry - He used to be a Daily Show correspondent. My god, this man is funny. I'd fall down on my knees and worship at the temple of Corddry but then he'll only make a snarky remark about it.

Lance Armstrong - He flew in from LA to Paris yesterday. Lancieboy is on his way to Nice for training.

Neil Gaiman - Writer Neil Gaiman's father passed away the other day. He is currently on an airplane on his way back to London from the States.

Rainn Wilson - Wilson plays the annoying Dwight in the TV show "The Office." He is also one of the funniest guys on this planet who makes me want to give up having a future in comedy writing.

Russell Brand - He's in New York pimping his book "My Booky Wooky" on its American publication.

The above list of celebs just form a small sample of all the people on Twitter I follow. I read somewhere that Twitter is seriously being considered a threat to facebook, Google (!), and the whole of independent blogging. This maybe true or not but the fact that facebook has made attempts to buy Twitter means that Mark Zuckerburg sees its potential. And we all know that Zuckerburg's no slouch when it comes taking a tried and true formula and spit polishing it into a phenomena which seemed new and innovative.

As for me, well, I can't wait for what the next tech bandwagon I'm jumping to next -- and I'm sure you'll know all about it on my Twitter feed.

Happy VD!

To celebrate this year of change's Valentine's Day, I decided to get off my ass and post an entry. I know. I know. It's been awhile. A long while. Apologies all around for that. And this being so, the first order of business is to give updates on this train wreck I quaintly call my life. I'm back home here at home in the Philippines. I've been here for almost a month now. The course in Salamanca ended last December and then I spent the holidays in Barcelona. I also did some traveling for the month and a half I still had after Salamanca. I am a lucky bastard, I know. I went to Paris and Amsterdam and then to Rome, Florence, and Venice in Italy. A lot of things happened of course which will provide me with enough material for future entries but I'm going to keep this entry brief though. I have to buy lubricants for tonight's Valentine's Day's festivities. I mean, for the car.

Let me tell you about this pithy exchange I had with the girl behind the counter at the KFC in Amsterdam. I know what's on your mind. What am I doing eating at a KFC and not chalking up new gastronomic experiences in the local restaurants? Well, for one thing fast food is cheap and another, the Netherlands isn't exactly renowned for its cuisine, right? I also have a thing about eating at the KFCs in the countries I travel to. I honestly believe that the KFCs here in the Philippines have the best menu. Well, the KFC chicken is the same all over but the basis for our country's superiority is that there's white rice and gravy with free refills to boot. In Amsterdam, as in Paris, the chicken is served with fries but they hand out wet naps in the Netherlands though. The KFCs in Spain actually charge you for your catsup and mayonaise packets -- of all the fucking nerve.

And so the Dutch girl behind the counter taking my order (shit, the name on her tag pinned to her uniform has escaped me) was very young and pretty precisely because she's young. Give her a couple of years and she'd be described as a handsome woman and not a beautiful one. I tell her that I'm getting the two-piece chicken set.

"Would you like a Coke?" she asked me.

I was taken aback because I knew that KFC was owned by Pepsi and therefore Coke was as welcome at KFC as PETA was. You know how the people behind the counters at KFC always give you that apologetic look when they say, "Pepsi lang po kami rito, eh."

"Yes," I said, "I'd like a Pepsi please."

"Okay, one Coke."

"Wait a minute," I then added, "make that a Pepsi Light please."

"Okay, a Coke Light."

I look at her and my insistence on Pepsi completely goes over her head. Right then and there, I desperately wished that I could speak Dutch so I could tell her that I'm trying to save her ass at work.

I give her one more shot when she hands me the Pepsi from the dispenser which has a big sign which says "Pepsi."

"This is Pepsi Light, right?"

"Yes," she said as I waited with anticipation and thought that she couldn't have missed the name of the softdrink company which pays her salary from the dispenser, "Coke Light."

I mumbled a thank you as I took the tray with my two-piece chicken, fries, complimentary wet nap, and a motherfucking Pepsi Light.