Buck naked

VERY few straight men find amusement in encountering another living, breathing male who happens to be completely naked.
Whatever the circumstances—cinematic, theatrical, sociological, social, personal, and worst of all, sexual—no straight male in his right mind, no matter how liberal, has relished the idea of being in close proximity to a man in his birthday suit.
Although always delighted by the sight of young and pretty females— especially those who show off more skin than usual—many men remain uncomfortable when confronted by a fellow male who has chosen to trump your garden-variety tabloid centerfold by displaying his willy willy-nilly.
This unfortunately pretty much describes my recent experience at the low-end gym I patronize.
While performing the second set of my elevated leg raises—an exercise which I am forced to do inside the men’s locker room—a fellow gym buff sideled up to my right, took a deep breath, and took all his clothes off, underwear included.
He then scoured his bag for a towel which he, perhaps by force of habit, proceeded to sling over his shoulder, oblivious to the fact that his crown jewels were within the visual range of everyone, including obviously myself.
Despite the easy accessibility of his package, I—with my unblemished record of staunch heterosexuality, to borrow a Seinfeld phrase—was not particularly interested in inspecting his specifications.
After all, everyone in the locker room possessed essentially the same biological configurations except that he couldn’t—and wouldn’t be able to—examine ours in the same way we could his (that is, if ever we intended to do so, whether individually or as a group).
And so, like all males pretending to be sophisticated enough for this sort of thing, I closed my eyes, praying that by the time I opened them the surreal penile apparition would either be restrained by cotton underwear, covered by a towel, or for lack of other options, relocated somewhere private, free to roam around without causing injury to anyone or anything and/or sustain any damages.
Unfortunately, this proved to be complicated.
Halfway through my exercises—with my eyes looking straight up—the subject in question emerged from the shower room, still unaware that slick willy resulted in everyone else’s discomfort.
As a result, I lost count of my leg raises, ruining the beginnings of a great workout, no thanks to a man in a birthday suit.

Start spreading the news

YES, because if things go as planned, my mother-in-law will soon wake up in a city that never sleeps, a city whose theme song was popularized by a New Jersey native, a city which, according to jazz vocalist Carmen McRae, is so nice they named it twice—what else but New York, New York?
Although Mama Tells didn’t exactly want to be a part of it, free roundtrip airfare plus a small allowance—courtesy of a close college buddy—eventually convinced her to leave the confines of a Manila suburb and visit one of the truly cosmopolitan cities in the whole world.
Fortunately, her US visa application didn’t get in the way of her travel plans: she secured a ten-year, multiple entry visa faster than a New York minute.
Which explains why her daughter and son-in-law are very excited about her month-long trip beginning middle of October.
Having visited the city more than once, my wife and I pretty much have an idea of what lies in wait for our mother, an active sexagenarian so youthful she is often mistaken for my father-in-law’s second wife.
And I’m not just saying that because I need to get on her good side. After all, I did ask her to get me some remaindered books and a coffee mug from Strand. Supposedly the world’s largest used bookstore, the legendary establishment is fortunately located just a block down from the Manhattan apartment where she’ll be staying.
However, the used bookstore—with its cramped shelves and uneven heating—may not exactly be the tour expected by a homemaker from Manila.
If only to get a feel of what the city has traditionally offered its first-time visitors, she should ride an elevator to the top floor of the Empire State building, walk down Fifth Avenue, and have her picture taken at Times Square, a place considered by New Yorkers as the center of the universe.
While moving about in the city, especially in Manhattan, she is well-advised to wear a dark coat—perhaps the only thing that New Yorkers have unanimously agreed upon to put on during winter—so as not to distinguish herself as a tourist.
Not that it’s a crime to wear anything else.
Except that no one really wants to be mistaken for an unsophisticated yahoo from Manila while walking down the street in a sea of black, an experience which I am not exactly unfamiliar with.
But whether or not she complies with this odd and unwritten sartorial code, my mother-in-law—at least for once in her life—will understand and appreciate why even non-New Yorkers love New York.

The Cat in the Flat

AS DOMESTICATED animal companions, cats require very little attention, especially when compared to a few socially-inept, self-absorbed, and sorry-ass bums I have unfortunately encountered these past few months.
Besides daily feeding, felines only need annual rabies shots, the occasional bath, and regular cleaning of their litter boxes.
Which is not the case at all with other supposedly sentient but nevertheless irritating human beings.
Unlike regular, well-adjusted felines, these vexing, intolerable entities demand more than just food and shelter but also inordinate amounts of patience and sympathy than what is generally provided for under the law and the Geneva convention.
As a result, these so-called “people” deplete my goodwill and reduce whatever is left of my Christian charity.
No wonder many individuals—myself included—prefer felines over their fellow human beings, given half the chance.
Take the overweight grey and white cat we keep at our apartment.
Although aloof, independent, and sometimes even insensitive by nature, the five-year old cat we adopted five years ago only becomes demanding and noisy when he runs out of dry food.
However, once his bowl is refilled—done twice a day at the maximum—he is a bother to no one, preferring to pursue his worry-free indoor existence under the bed, on the stairs, in the bathroom, or ensconced inside a special square basin in our bedroom.
Originally a stray cat living off the cold, inhospitable streets of Western Pennsylvania, our British shorthair cat is now living the life of luxury, although in another country with only one timezone, two seasons, and limited choices for wet cat food.
But during the past month, his charmed life was sorely interrupted.
Since his skin had developed a fungus, he had to be given a bath twice a week using a special shampoo. It was an experience that my cat and I rarely looked forward to.
Given felines’ legendary aversion to water, our cat struggled to escape from the bathroom while I did my best to keep him in it.
Despite this discomfort, I don’t think he’s ever going to complain, especially now that his skin condition is improving.
With my wife and I always at his disposal and a loving vet on call 24/7, the cat previously known as Alex is, without a doubt, living it up.
Although he appears to miss his scratching post, he nevertheless manages to stretch his limbs using our chaise lounge upstairs and our couch downstairs, ruining our precious and not exactly inexpensive furniture.
But then again, that is the price we pay for keeping a cat inside our apartment and ensuring that the rats are kept out. Bet you can’t do that with a bum.

Chairman of the Bored

AMONG the three types of office workers—those who work hard, those who play hard, and those who filch paperclips—very few pay attention to office furniture.
Which is expected.
After all, the first are too busy to waste their precious time thinking about them, the second are preoccupied with watching the clock, while the third are always keeping their eyes peeled for the latest delivery of office supplies.
Since I am an underemployed, self-proclaimed comedian masquerading as a mid-level pencil pusher by day, I naturally fall under the second category.
However, unlike those who forget about the job the minute the clock strikes five, I nevertheless care deeply and profoundly about one aspect of my day job: my chair.
Yes, ladies and lesbians, gays and gentlemen, just about the only thing that keeps me from quitting my job and strangling a few of my co-workers is a chair, a device, usually mechanical, which filters noxious gases emanating from your posterior once you sit on it.
Besides helping me endure more than my fair share of boring meetings, the current chair that I use—which is fitted with wheels—also assists me in zipping in and out of my cubicle, useful whenever evading superiors bearing nothing but bad news, additional work, and the latest memo from HR.
Although the chair itself is nothing special—just the standard issue found in corporate Makati sweatshops—mine features an expansive backrest, allowing me to lean further backwards without thinking about chiropractors.
And once my feet is up on my desk, no office-related emergency can ever faze me.
Employees may call a strike, management may decide to shutter operations, and the office may catch fire but if I’m sitting on that chair, I feel like a true-blue professional, someone who renders productive work eight hours a day for five days a week.
Unfortunately, for the past workweek, I have been denied of my right to pretend to work and possibly reduce the company’s productivity. This is because my chair—the same one I had been using for the past three months—has disappeared.
Since I have been forced to settle with a lesser chair—one with a shorter backrest—the loss has deprived me of my afternoon naps, a privilege perhaps now enjoyed by the person who appropriated my chair.
Although I have already issued verbal complaints about this incident, management so far has not taken any action. If this continues for the next month or so, I may either have to request a new chair or get myself a new job.

Sabado Nights

NOTHING is more discouraging to a fully-grown, mature, healthy Filipino male than to discover that he has run out of beer buddies on a Saturday night. Always unexpected but very difficult to accept—like athlete’s foot, corny jokes, and middle-age—the sheer absence of friends to share a drink (or two) with especially during weekends is a form of torture tantamount to the election liquor ban.
Unfortunately, this was exactly the kind of suffering I almost had to endure a few weeks ago, when the specter of a sober Saturday loomed large on the horizon.
The day began innocuously enough, never giving any indication that I would run dry of beer buddies later in the evening.
Before I got out of bed, my wife left for Metro Manila’s deep south—Alabang—to attend an extended lunch party. Upon kissing me goodbye, she told me that she wouldn’t be back until midnight, leaving our fat feline companion and myself to our own devices for one whole day.
Intending to take full advantage of my solitude, I stayed in front of the computer and typed until I developed carpal tunnel syndrome and conjunctivitis. Meanwhile, our indifferent overweight cat proceeded to ignore me just like he did during the other days of the week.
But as soon as the sun set, I whipped out my phone and sent text invitations to the two of three permanent members of the Thursday Institute for Transformative Ideas, an exclusive group which undertakes informal discussions regarding public transportation, traffic enforcement, and Katrina Halili.
Unfortunately, not a single one responded in the affirmative.
While B., a lawyer, was at home, he was nonetheless occupied with a role-playing game with his other friends, all geeks. For his part, A., a television producer, escaped the pressures of his job by spending the weekend in Cebu with his girlfriend—a rare privilege anyway you look at it. After all, whenever assaulted from all sides by various forms of  pressure, regular people such as myself merely scamper off to the nearest cubicle and cry in the toilet, an option I was about exercise since no one among my closest friends gave in to my form of beer pressure.
However, since thirst got the better of my self-pity, I decided to grab a few cold ones—all by myself—at our regular watering hole in Quezon City. No amount of pride, prudence, and fortitude was about to prevent me from nursing an alcoholic beverage, best consumed cold.
Fortunately, even before I finished my second bottle, I was joined by E., the bar’s lovely proprietor, who agreed to sit with me and listen to my tales of woe. And by the time I left at midnight, I was already sufficiently loaded, satisfied that another Saturday didn’t go by uneventfully.

Dial-a-friend

Dial a friend

SO the cellphone rings in the middle of a cool afternoon.
Although my phone shows the calling party’s 11-digit mobile number, it fails to identify to whom it belongs.
Which is a puzzlement.
After all, ever since I got myself a fairly sophisticated phone early this year, I have kept the contact details of some 200 important individuals, many of whom have yet to be reminded of my existence.
And since none of them have ever replied to my text messages, they can hardly be expected to call me up.
As such, the Friday afternoon call was obviously initiated by my credit card company’s much-reviled, much-abused contact center agent, suffering from stress and sleep deprivation, which may somehow result in occasional breakouts of facial acne.
Whenever I pick up these calls, the said agent—most of the time female—will inquire one, whether I have already received my billing statement, and two, whether I have already remitted payment.
In a generous effort to share misery, I almost always reply to both questions in the negative, even though the two conditions have already been satisfied.
But when I answered the call during that afternoon, I discovered that the calling party had exceeded my expectations.
Instead of a Filipina with an American accent at the other end, a masculine voice asked me—all of a sudden—who I was. Like any neurotic worth his paranoia, I merely continued to talk without disclosing any personal information, curious as to why this person wanted to know my name.
To get on my good side, he rephrased the question and explained his situation. After introducing himself, V. told me that he needed to know why his landline phone was being charged for a call to my cellphone number. Since we didn’t know each other—at least not in this life—he neither recognized my number nor did he remember placing such a call.
He then asked me whether I could help him explain to his phone company that the billing was erroneous. After all, he lived alone, received very few visitors, and was not employed as a telemarketer.
And when I learned that his phone company and my internet service provider were one and the same, I told him I was with him for the long haul. This was my way of exacting revenge, however little, on the company which screwed us both—V. with his false billing and me with so many dropped internet connections that has fouled up many a deadline.
Unfortunately, the day of reckoning never came.
Thanks to my cellphone’s log, and V.’s journal, we both find out that the call had indeed been made by a mutual friend who flew in from New York, stayed in V.’s apartment for a few hours, and took liberties with his landline without telling him.
As a result, V. and I now occasionally text each other, checking up on each other, still amazed that we got to know each other through what initially appeared as a wrong number.

Baby you can drive my car

Baby you can drive my car

YES, especially if you’re inclined towards ten-year old, four-door Japanese compact sedans with chipped paint, poor airconditioning, and interiors that smell like wet underarms on a hot afternoon.
Because this is exactly the kind of car that I have.
But it is far from being a lemon.
After all, every single day, whenever I turn on the ignition, Charing—the car’s name—is always ready to roll, prepared to take on the wide variety of challenges posed by Metro Manila traffic.
Be it speed demons or suicidal pedestrians, Charing can either evade or outmaneuver both, with very minimal assistance from her driver, a certified amateur who inadvertently turns up the airconditioning whenever he wants to listen to the radio.
Despite two previous owners and her long years on the road, Charing has remained dependable, never once breaking down, even after a minor collision with a jeepney in Makati.
During the height of lunch hour traffic a few months ago, I made the mistake of overtaking a jeepney which was cruising along Chino Roces Avenue at the speed of a funeral hearse.
A few seconds after I stepped on the gas pedal, I heard a crash on my right,
which later turned out to a broken signal light and a crumpled fender; damages sustained by Charing. I then jumped out of car, dazed and confused about how the whole thing took place.
Meanwhile, in a move to defend himself and possibly reduce his liability, the jeepney driver immediately confronted me and said that I had miscalculated my turn, resulting in the jeepney’s dislocated muffler.
With the confidence of a mechanical engineer explaining combustion technology, he said that when I rear-ended his vehicle, the muffler was forced to skew to the left.
To correct this problem, all I had to do was to fork over two hundred pesos for the muffler’s repair.
Since the encounter immediately demolished whatever confidence I had behind the wheel, I lost all ability to think clearly nor quickly and proceeded to fork out the money.
However, later on, I realized that I was an unsuspecting victim of a small time con. Besides failing to inspect the supposedly damaged muffler, I also automatically waived my right to dispute the jeepney driver’s version of events.
Upon reaching the office, I puttered about, dazed and distracted, spending the next eight hours wondering why I ever bothered to bring the car to Makati, one of the worst places to drive in the city.
Which is why I’m regularly taking trains to work now.
It’s faster and cheaper although it smells worse than Charing’s interior. But that’s another story.

Attack of the Killer Bee

SCORE one for humans. And zero for the bees.
Or whatever insect it was which bit me on my neck Monday morning while I was out for a drive in those tight, two-lane highways in Quezon City where tricycles rule the streets and pedestrians casually walk along areas especially reserved for roadkill.
But then again, it was a good thing that the bee bit me when it did. After all, this humble, patient, law-abiding motorist was at that time reduced to first gear, moving at the pace of a three-legged turtle. Because when I felt something sharp digging into the left part of my neck, I applied the brakes all of a sudden, putting the car at a full and immediate stop.
Had I been cruising along Commonwealth Avenue—by far, one of the most dangerous thoroughfares in northern Metro Manila—I would have created a vehicle pile-up from Tandang Sora to Fairview, elicited a special traffic alert on the radio, and incurred the perpetual scorn of irate motorists.
But since I was only negotiating a stretch of road filled with so much people it might as well be EDSA during any of the two peaceful revolutions, my sudden stop only caused the the tricycle driver behind me to grunt, curse, and spit (in that order).
Dismissing the thought that Count Dracula was in the back seat, I reached out for my neck, grabbed the creature with my fingers, squeezed it until it was sufficiently incapacitated.
In an unparalled stroke of genius, I threw the irritating insect on the floor, right by where my feet was, giving it another opportunity to have a go at my lower limbs if ever it decides to wake up from its coma.
Fortunately, the insect didn’t bother me any longer.
It either stayed dead, flew out of the window, or still trapped in all the gunk and caked dust collected by the car’s floor mat.
Meanwhile, the tricycle driver behind me revved up his engines, took a quick left, and sped on. As he overtook me, the driver gave me a look usually reserved for cheapskate passengers and irritating people in general.
Nervous insect in hand, I forced an apologetic smile while pointing to my neck, a gesture which I knew he understood to be the universal sign language for either a) “my neck hurts,” b) “I have sore throat,” c) “I have lost my voice,” d) “I am thirsty,” or finally, e) “I have swallowed an insect.”
Moral of the story: have the aircon fixed so that foreign objects—inanimate or otherwise—would be disallowed from entering the car through the open window. Either that or simply close the windows and endure the heat. Stupid bees.