when an anti-establishment hippie is established...

All right all right so I’m not writing anymore.

But what is a girl swamped with deadlines and literal floods supposed to do?

Plus, my social chart is somehow subjected now to a rather sudden and sharp incline in activities.

Characters who’ve entirely bid adieu to my existence are now popping up, such as my college art teacher who I now constantly bug for schedules to film festivals for. In turn he bugs me to pose for his photography portfolio. Which in turn, I try to squirm out of every time topic veers to “so about that shoot…”

Also there is mr. busal, who I’ve professed mad, insane love to back in the erring days of college inanity. My declarations of passion for him were close to the level of obsession I harbored for a high school History teacher named Mr. Arellano, whom I stalked, every time I can,  like a lunatic to his house.

Mr. Busal, tattooed, dreadlocked drummer, did not profess mad, insane love back.

He had a girlfriend then, and was probably too cool for a wide eyed groupie like me.

And now, four aged years later he is on the phone, proclaiming, professing… oh if he could only bring back those days….  dot dot dot. I am honestly at a loss.

And Lesley, environmentalist and president of our mountaineering club but too sweet to be really radical. Last I heard she gave up on the pointlessness of the corporate world, shaved all her head, headed up north to Sagada and lived in a monk’s temple, subsisting on rabbit and hamster food. Just last night I received a text from her---she is leaving for Beijing next week, apparently for a very long time. .. so cool, I’ve always wanted to learn Chinese.

….

and then,.. again no time to finish---it’s 5 pm and it’s a weekend. Precious minutes of freedom are wasted by the minute.

 

To old friends, and the new! Tagay!

Posted by: Hoon at 10:03 | link | comments

Posted by: Hoon at 09:20 | link | comments (1)

Namby pamby

 

Not that any of you should care, but I find that the opportunity to write about this highly unforeseen event in my life as too great to pass up.

The highly unforeseen event in my life being as this---

 I am coming out on TV.

 

Yes. Sound the alarms, if you must. What right could I possibly have—this pasty individual void of any captivating aspect whatsoever— to earn a whole episode’s worth of footage, on a truly hip, truly la-la lifestyle show on the lifestyle network, no less?

 

Well, I have a twin for one.

And the la-la lifestyle show’s cutting-lala edge director turns out to be my twin sister’s bud.

And the theme of the episode just happens to be---well, la-la-la--a party about twins.

So there.

 

So Karen and I, become, in effect, stars for a day. Costume, make-up, lighting, black and white striped clapboard clapping in our faces and all.

 

We were asked to round up six friends to complete the casting call. Sounds easy enough a task right, what with everyone clamoring for a second of the world’s expendable fifteen minutes.

Wrong.

Seems the catchword for today’s Philippine youth is anonymity.

My sister ends up aggressively coercing (threatening may be more apt) the assortment of male-females that arrived on the set ( a  la-la-lavishly uber hip condo unit somewhere in the skyrises of Makati) in funky-colored shoes (the text message came with an explicit warning to wear something fun-colored on their footses.)

 

A couple, though, assimilated quite comfortably, one being my ‘pakner’, Camoi---who deems such situations as pivotal to our four-fold plan of conquering the universe (but that is, of course another story), the other being Erwin, who in fact was NOT threatened by Karen and was actually not even invited, but who was only too happy to appear on national TV and therefore more deserving than all of us combined. The rest--- Carive (whose gayish little heart I suspect literally burst into joy upon receiving Karen’s invite(threat) but outwardly managed to appear all cool and nonchalant about it), Ilang-Ilang (our hard-core socialist-communist journalist who in all probability may have just thrown away most everything she’s sweated ink for, the moment she donned the glittery headband Sister-Sledge style on her hair), Brutalgrace (a photographer herself and could not resist taking pictures of the entire ruckus while we ourselves were being filmed) and Jopet, Karen’s boyfriend, who looked the entire moment as if he would just die out of the sheer embarrassment of it all. (He too, donned the same glittery headgear as our journalist friend, Ilang-ilang did, but with greater resentment---that he managed to suffuse by means of wearing it Jimi Hendrix as opposed to Sister Sledge style.)

 

And it was this gathering that the camera swooped upon, that stormy Thursday night---under the floodlights and cable and intricate set design it did. We were seated around a table, mad-hatter style and fed round upon round of beautiful, tasteful goodies. At some point I begin to suspect that it carried classic symptoms of a lab experiment, wherein we, as the variables were fed and observed and left pretty much to our own devices. The pita bread was timidly gnawed upon at first, as our company awaited some barking of instruction from the sea of faces that peered at us from the room’s dark corners. The soup (a horrid-sounding combination of pumpkin and cappuccino which actually tasted incredible) was tentatively slurped upon and still no commands befell us whatsoever. And so by the time a ball of frozen calamansi was presented on our plates (to whet our appetites, our waiter / host of the show explained before scurrying off) we realize quite twinklingly that we were being filmed as we were and thus a grand commotion of sorts broke forth.

 

We were free to do and say anything we wanted----on national TV.

 

I couldn’t quite remember now EVERYTHING that went about the dinner table after that, although I have faint memories of champagne glasses being filled as quickly as they were downed (Which I refused to drink, the lab experiment theory, though hazy, still somewhat the only logical datum of the night) and a sea of chattering, pawing at food and a general bemoaning on essentially every topic not meant for the tv watching layman.

 

Of course we realize that 90% of the proceedings will most likely be chopped out but the viewing audience might still be treated to an entertaining enough representation of a forthcoming generation of possible leaders. (plus some cuts to a panicked confrontation with a compromising piece of parsley.)

 

The night ended fulfilled, full, a little gassy perhaps, with inner showbiz seeds of intent duly sprouted. (planted in some)

 

All in all, I wouldn’t have missed that namby-pamby night for a double serving of fudge brownie in vanilla ice cream.

 

Now we lie in wait.

Hohoho what a day for teeeveeee it will beeee…

Posted by: Hoon at 07:07 | link | comments

Posted by: Hoon at 02:33 | link | comments

 CREPE

 

Sadly, I cannot, for the life of me, write anything.

It’s the second day of a storm called Florita, and it’s the second day, too, that I’ve sat in front of this computer and tried [with many many unsuccessful attempts] to begin an article on mango rum.

 

--which I tried last night and was simply superb, by the way---

 

Was at a crepes party and spent half of the night watching amazedly as the crepe masters flipped and flicked those runny crepes to crispy brown perfection. There was a sort of quiet precision in the kitchen, everyone was absorbed in his own little personal task:  Antoine slicing ham and draining mushroom water, Matthiu running a grater over one end of a block of cheese, Guillaume presiding over the ceremonies as official crepe party host, and therefore Official Crepe Master---a title he wholly deserved, I should think. He and Cecile stood in front of the stove, expertly smoothing some oily liquid over the hot pans, calculating exact moment of transposing crepe to its other side (which you could do either by heaving the pan upwards to let crepe flail in the air and onto its back---or face, or by daintily picking up crepe’s edges and flipping it over while trying to retain shape and consistency.)

 

My closest relationship with a crepe being as that of its eater, I was relegated to the spectator side of this spectacle, right until amidst a chorus of approval I was thrust in the middle of Cecile and Guillaume to attempt my own crepe.

 

I still have the tiny burn mark in one finger as testimony.

 

But the crepe turned out well, I believe. This was, of course, after a wild activity of shouts, quick-moving fingers and a combined effort to rehabilitate a scrunched-up crepe, but yes, there it was---a little too thick perhaps, yet just the right level of brownness. I am sure that crepe will serve whatever purpose it was put out on the counter for.

Right about 11pm, various heads had poked in and about the kitchen as the people got hungrier and Guillaume got more perplexed.Preferences as to combination were called out and the quaint little crepe-making atmosphere had turned into a sweaty diner as eggs, ham and cheese collided and the famished, like crows awaiting their chance to swoop down upon some morsel, perched every whichever place near the crepe master.

 

By 12mn the kitchen was a stack of dirty plates and knives and cheese and ham crumbs—and phase two of the crepe session had begun. Sweet ones this time, and David, who was still hungry and had therefore taken it upon himself to create one final ham crepe of his own, had by then been forced to stay on for the sugar crepe detail. A batch that never even made it out of the kitchen, it was seemingly attacked just as it was preparing its ascent.

 

When Guillaume and I decided at about 2am that we wanted some chocolate crepes we discover that someone had taken the bottle of nutella. The only evidence left was some traces of the chocolate spread still clinging onto a lone knife on the counter.

And just like that, the crepe party was over.

And what do you know, I still got an article to write.

Posted by: Hoon at 02:27 | link | comments (1)