Faith in Humanity Restored

I ordered, on-line, for two “overpriced” acrylic half face shields from Lazada; the items were delivered promptly in a carton box.  The items were in “zip-lock” bags, which in turn was bubble-wrapped then wrapped once more with a strip of cling film. The packaging is an “unboxing” YouTuber’s delight.  Disappointingly, in spite of its three layers of protective covering, one of the two items had scratches on its acrylic shield.  Well, it wasn’t the first time I was scammed by an on-line seller.  It comes with the territory and on-line buyers have little protection against sellers of defective or inferior products.  It is really up to the buyer but in the end a big part of it is trust— the belief that at the other end of the line is a trustworthy human being.  While on-line distributors offer a feedback mechanism that should impact on a seller’s reputation— and ultimately on his sales, it wouldn’t stop a scrupulous seller from having multiple “stores” such that one with a bad rep would not impact on the seller’s other “stores”.  Anyway, I submitted a review detailing the packaging and the scratches on the merchandise.  Lo and behold, within minutes I got a text message from the seller telling me that they’ll replace the item and within an hour a replacement was indeed delivered— via a courier that the seller contracted at their expense,  with a note that I could keep the damaged one. 

Getting Smarter

    I finally got a Google Nest Mini S.  At Php2,030.00, it's a cheap ticket to the home automation/digital assistant world. At that price point-- and since I got 24/7 WIFI anyway, it was a cinch. Four years ago I checked out Amazon's Echo Dot but held off. I think the technology at that time has not matured enough yet.  I also checked out the Xiaomi's Mi Home-- which is now compatible with Apple's HomeKit, but I don't trust Chinese tech enough to jump in. I chose Google for it's search engine which, IMHO, makes its digital assistant more "intelligent" if not more "informed". Setting up the Nest Mini is patchy at best. The ios version of Google Home looks and feels like a Microsoft circa 80s software. But, beyond that annoyance the Nest Mini delivers.

    A few days after I got the Nest Mini, I got the Xiaomi Mi Box S to upgrade my outdated TV to a "smart" TV. As with the Nest Mini I don’t really need the Mi box because I could watch Netflix (and YouTube) via my Sony PS4.  But, for P2,669.00 it’s cheap. I figure it would be a faster alternative since the PS4 takes ages to load up and turn off. I wasn’t expecting much for that price but the Mi box hardware is decent and it works.  When I ordered, I wasn’t sure if the Mi box will work with the Nest mini— the information I’m getting in the internet is, at best, vague, but it did, though it’s mostly a hit and miss. Sometimes the Mi box turns on when I “Hey Google” the Nest, sometimes there’s a wait of two minutes or so before the Mi box fires up and sometimes nothing happens or the Mi box is “unavailable”. Using the Mi box remote to turn on the Mi box is more reliable, but the built-in Google Assistant is likewise a hit and miss. I’m okay with that. You get what you pay for and that’s as far I’m willing to spend for this thing and so it is what it is.

    From here I’m looking at a way to voice command my room lights. Maybe I’ll go with Chinese rip-offs of Google Assistant compatible outlets or maybe I’ll try and explore the Xiaomi system. I haven’t decided yet. For now I’m exploring what the Mi box could offer. It’s just a game… nothing serious.

The Devil is in the Details

    You've lied, cheated, stolen, and been a dick and an asshole all your life. When you die, you will be condemned to the fires of Hell. Well, at least that's what we have been told growing up.

    But, think about it for a minute. If you've been bad will you be punished and made to suffer in Hell? By the devil? I don't think so. If you've been bad then that would be, I think, "good" from the devil's point of view.  It would seem that the punishment is NOT being allowed to go to Heaven-- and that's it. God slams Heaven's Gate in your face. And since there's apparently no other place to go-- you go to Hell. But, whatever happens to you in Hell would be up to whoever is in charge there:-- the devil. 

   The Bible depicts the devil as God's "equal". Well, equal in the sense that they are always portrayed talking with each other like diplomats in a summit meeting. In the Book of Job, we are told how God and the devil-- picture them talking over coffee in Starbucks, played craps with the life of a decent man. God agreeing with and giving the devil a free hand to do whatever he wants to do with Job, short of killing him, to test the man's faith. I could not begin to imagine how God and the devil sets up a meeting. All I know is that the Bible tells us that they do meet. Are these talks deliberate and on a regular basis or do they just randomly run into each other. The Bible says that after the failed coup in Heaven, a place was carved out of eternity to contain coup leader and now ex-angel Lucifer-- the devil, and his cohorts. The Bible only mentions these two places. And since there are only two places (-- to be accurate there is one other place: purgatory. We are told that purgatory is a temporary holding area for sinners who may be considered for admission to Heaven), there must be a common border. Picture God and the devil walking up to the border-- maybe not unlike the DMZ dividing South and North Korea, and having a tête-à-tête at arm's length. Or, maybe they meet up on Earth. One thing is certain though, there is no mention in the Bible of God visiting the devil or the devil having a day tour of Heaven (though it is mentioned in the Bible that the devil gave Jesus, the Son of God, a guided tour of Hell after the latter died on the Cross). It could reasonable be concluded, therefore, that neither of the two could pop out at will on the other's realm. It would seem that neither have control beyond their turf. Thus, God runs pretty much everything in Heaven (and apparently on Earth too since it's His creation). But, for all intents and purposes Hell is run by the Devil.

   So, if you've been good all your life, the big pearly gates opens and there is this bright light. Yippie whoopee doo. You're finally home in Heaven where you will spend an eternity basking in God's eternal and unconditional love. Yeah hey. It would be like visiting your grandparent's house on a damp Christmas day as a kid. Yippie yah yeah. Boring? What do you expect? It's not like that God is going to say: hey kiddo, see that hot babe with big boobies, she's yours. Nope, that's not going to happen. Eternal bliss. Like standing on the moon. Alone. Forever.

   And if you've been a bad boy?

   I'm not sure. Everything we know about the devil is from the Bible, now that's God's book. The devil hasn't put out a book yet. It would seem that the devil has taken the high road by not bothering to respond at all (then again, he might have a hard time getting published either). The thing is if you've really been bad the Devil would have no reason to not like you. You're one of his boys. Why would he make you suffer?

   What could be in Hell then?

   Well, if we take out everyone that shouldn't be in Heaven:-- Rock n' Roll!  

Johnny de Leon, Ngo-ngo and a deck of cards

   
    Grandmother calls out my name. I stood up, dropped whatever I was doing and raced into the house. By the time I ran up the stairs darkness has already crept into the house. Grandmother had gone back to the kitchen. Only the light in the kitchen is on. I would usually flop down on the floor near the kitchen doorway. From under the glass cabinet-- where grandmother kept her best china, I'd pulled out my stash of green army men then line them up for a make-believe reconnaissance mission.

     The AM radio is on, tuned in to the station of Johnny de Leon's program. It was actually the only radio station Grandmother listened to and Johnny de Leon was the king of the airwaves at that time. You could hear his voice early in the morning and again just before the day ends. He would do the news, commentaries and even dish out advices on relationships. On Friday nights there was "24 Oras" where he voices the character that would give resolution or a twist to a story that, you guessed it, happened all in one day.

    At six o'clock Johnny de Leon would break for evening prayers. He'd play a recording of the Angelus-- three Biblical verses describing the mysteries are recited as versicle and responses alternated with the "Hail Mary". After a short pause, a narration of the story of the "deck of cards" would follow. It's about a "soldier boy" who got into trouble when he was caught spreading a deck of cards during church service. He would be brought before the Provost Marshall where he would explain the meaning of each card. He would start with "You see Sir…" something I would mimic later in life whenever I was asked to explain. I would learn many years later that the narrator was the then popular actor/singer Tex Ritter--father of the late actor/comedian John "Three's Company" Ritter.

    Johnny de Leon would come back with his spiels then smoothly segue to one of many commercial breaks where Ngo-ngo-- Johnny de Leon's cleft-lipped sidekick, would do his "Bataan Matamis"  thing. It's interesting to note that in an industry where one's voice is the ticket to success, a novelty like Ngo-ngo could survive. Today where political correctness has gone overboard Ngo-ngo wouldn't even be on radio much less doing a cigarette ad. Ironically still, Ngo-ngo even recorded a song ("Hernando's Hideaway") and even made TV appearances later on. I remember Ngo-ngo as dark-skinned, slick black hair, short in stature, skinny and stands with a slight forward angle-- not exactly TV material either.

    There was no television then. No video games. Grandmother didn't even have a refrigerator. Instead she had this cabinet with screened doors where leftover food was stored precariously perched on a drinking glass standing on a saucer filled with water-- a precaution against ants, she would later tell me. No, there were no cockroaches. Never saw one. No mice or rats either. Grandmother told me that is so because she kept a sawa on the rafters. And, the resident tuko took care of the rest.

   Sometimes I would lie on my back and stare at the ceiling hoping to get a glimpse of the sawa. Nope, I never saw it. The tuko, on the other hand, guards its turf on the southwestern side of the house. You know it's there because he belts out, without fail, a guttural mating call right after the Angelus.



    

My Tower of Babel

I was maybe fifteen when I first became aware of a faint ringing inside my ear and head. At first I thought it's in the environment and that everybody else hears it; but when I started to complain and asked people if they also hear the sound. They looked quizzically at me and said I was crazy. I shared it with a sister; she said I should get help-- a mental institution kind of help, with these "voices" that I hear. It was only then that I understood that it's a highly personal sonic phenomenon that's inaudible and unintelligible to others. It's like a sonic mirage: a sound that doesn't exists but is heard and experienced by me alone. I later learned to suppress it by deliberately avoiding to pay attention to it. It was that or I could have gone mad. It is like being held prisoner inside your own head; a party that doesn't stop and you're not invited. It has since worsened. The disturbing and persistent sound had become louder and has increased in pitch.

It's Tinnitus.

It is quite common, the doctor reassured me. There is, however, no cure nor even a remedy to alleviate the condition. I was made to understand too that the condition could not be measured objectively by any existing medical tests. It's a false subjective phenomenon. Thus, the condition is rated by, who else, but the sufferer himself, on a simple scale from slight to catastrophic according to the difficulties it imposes-- such as interference with sleep, quiet activities. I rate mine as "troubling".

More than once, this internal hubbub had driven me to deliberately seek out "noisy places" to drown it out. I once walked out from an important meeting to stand on the sidewalk for a good fifteen minutes until I could "hear" myself think again amidst my inner din. There had also been several instances when I was roused from sleep in the middle of the night by the ruckus.

I would describe the inner phantom sound I perceive as a continuous steady whining buzz much like the "sound of the night" of my childhood but in a slightly higher pitch. Annoyingly, I could hear the buzzing even over loud external sounds. The problem is involuntary; I simply could not override or ignore the sound.

It is one of those things in life that I have learned to cope with. It made me wonder though that in the event I go deaf, would I still "hear" the buzzing inside my head; and, if I go mad because of it, will the sound continue to bother me or will it be drowned out in the madness.


... and the band played on.

Mafia Whores

Two weeks ago while playing Mafia Wars I went through my Mafia list. There I discovered three names that shouldn’t be there. Back when I first started playing Mafia Wars I decided to cheat. And so I created three phantom accounts on Facebook which I used to augment my Mafia family. For these accounts I used the names Roy Batty, Zhora Tyrell and Pris Tyrell (--the names of the "replicants", genetically engineered organic robots, played respectively by Rutger Hauer, Joanna Cassidy and Daryl Hannah in the 1982 cult film “Blade Runner”-- top billed by Harrison Ford as the burnt out Blade Runner Rick Deckard. Tyrell, the surname I used for the two female accounts, is the name of the powerful Tyrell Corporation, the "mega–manufacturer" of replicants.)

Before long, a sufficient number of people I know started playing, too; and so I didn’t need the fake accounts anymore. So, I deleted them. Strangely enough, these imaginary people who no longer have Facebook accounts are still listed as members of my Mafia family; stranger still, they have a need for energy packs. It’s disturbing that figments of my imagination now have lives of their own, continuing to live on Facebook and have needs. My thoughts have thoughts.

Is it possible they've opened their own accounts after I’ve deleted them? Do they PM each other? Do they have feelings? In the film "Blade Runner", replicants are exclusively used for dangerous, menial or pleasure work on Earth's off-world colonies. The use of replicants on Earth is banned and replicants who defy the ban and return to Earth are hunted down and "retired" by police special operatives known as "Blade Runners". Could it be possible that the fictitious people I created have, like their namesakes in the film, defied protocol? Have they formed their own Mafia families? Have they formed alliances with the people I play with and could they be, at this very minute, plotting to take me down? It scares me to think that I may have possibly hurt their feelings when I unceremoniously deleted their Facebook accounts-- as real people usually do when you “unfriend” them.
 
Suddenly, It’s no longer fun to play anymore. I now constantly look behind my back when I play. The only thing holding me back to altogether stop playing Mafia Wars now is the mortal fear that I could further piss them off. They might feel that I’ve abandoned them.

Monday morning after Armageddon

I grew up living in a series of middle class apartments mostly around Quezon City. We didn't have appliances by modern standards-- other than a stove and a clothes iron. I was nine or ten before we even had television-- a B&W Electone TV with a rotary channel selector; there were no remotes then and you have to wait for fifteen minutes before you could see ghostly apparitions of a television show on the screen. The rabbit antennae only pulled in two channels, and we grew accustomed to the picture rolling the entire evening; we later learned that if we kept a hand on the antennae the rolling would be less frequent. I don't remember listening to a radio as a boy, though if I turned the television on early in the morning, it played a rhythmic sound which I later learned to be music. I was already in my teens when we had our first radio-- an Akai integrated hi-fi system with a turn table, a Teac reel-to-reel tape deck and an amplified FM/AM analog radio enclosed in a huge coffin-like cabinet that occupied half of the living room.

We didn't have toys either. But I discovered early on that you could whittle a semblance of a toy out of a block of wood. I developed scavenger skills and would pick up, as I walk home from school, bits and pieces of metal parts and vestigial remnants of what used to be a toy, tinker with them and turn them into something else. When I wasn't making something inappropriate out of nothing, I would stare at the wall until something comes up. It was at this time that I acquired my lock picking skills and the awakenings of a criminal bent.

The worse times were school breaks-- it was three months of nothingness. It was akin to being Laika in Sputnik as it orbited the Earth in deep space. Ten days into the "Summer " vacation (-- we actually only have the wet and dry seasons here, but we delude ourselves by calling the dry months as summer), I was eagerly looking forward to school opening not because I enjoyed school but because it was an escape from soul-crushing boredom. Worst was Holy Week. Back then it runs for the full seven days-- today people observe it, grudgingly if at all, between 12 noon and 3'oclock on Good Friday. I remember spending my time during Holy week just sitting around the house and twiddling my thumbs. Playing outdoors or looking happy is discouraged-- if you so much as smile, you'd be called a "Hudyo". Going out on the street is like being on an episode of Twilight Zone. Everybody talk in whispers. Radio and television broadcasts would stop-- telecasts would come back from the dead on Black Saturday with the annual rerun of "Demetrius and the Gladiators" with Victor Mature-- who moves and talks with a distinctive look of constipation on his face, to bore to death those who were still alive at that point.

Those times seemed to have passed. We've won the war against boredom.

People standing in line at a movie house box office, at a bank or at the LTO could pull out a smartphone or a tablet to play "Plants vs Zombies", check their e-mails, read an eBook, listen to music while they read the closed captions on the flat screen LED 3D HD Monitor on the wall. We now have 24/7 internet or cable TV-- yeah, even if it's Holy Week, and we could bypass commercials by surfing through the channels or having a quick arcade game on our Nintendo DS. Having an iPhone in our pocket, a Sony PSP in the living room, a Kindle in the bathroom, an iPad in the bedroom, means we never need to suffer boredom ever again.

I dread to think what would happen if a global electromagnetic pulse is unwittingly or wittingly set off that would disable all electrical and electronic equipment and devices. People will find themselves, maybe for the first time for some, without their gadgets. It could be Cathartic.

People around the world could experience their first Holy Week.

Goodbye, Mr. Jobs

I too watched the iPhone 4S presentation streamed on the internet. Apple CEO Tim Cook's solitary appearance at the Cupertino event said it all. It wasn't the absence of the iPhone5, and the silence that seemed to hung over the event, that disappointed; it was the absence of Mr. Steve Jobs that made it somehow feel like a posthumous event.
The next day we were officially informed of what we already knew-- Mr. Jobs has left the building; his Mac monitor is dark; his keyboard silent. His St. Croix black mock turtleneck, his faded Levi's 501s, his Lunor Classic Round glasses and his New Balance 991s stowed away in some dark place. But, for those of us who religiously anticipate and watch each keynote address it was no surprise. We saw Mr. Jobs progressively withering away. At the iCloud keynote last June, we saw him, gaunt as an Arab freedom fighter, moving about the stage like a spindly mantis stalking a fly; shaky, wobbly, rickety; his turtleneck bunched up against his shriveled body as if it hanged on a clothesline on a windy day.

And then it happened. He disappeared. Like Obi-Wan Kenobi disappearing under Darth Vader's light saber blade to become a spirit in the Force, Mr. Jobs transformed to pure thought, an idea; disembodied from the material world; digitized; and will continue to be in future iterations of the iPod, iPhone, iPad, iBook, iMac and the next cool gadget we never thought before we'd ever need or want.

              And as the flames climbed high into the night
              To light the sacrificial rite
              I saw Satan laughing with delight
              The day the music died

The Batman Within

For me, the most enduring image of Batman hails from the 1943 fifteen-chapter serials of Columbia Pictures-- the first Batman live action film ever. These serials were intermittently shown on Philippine television as fillers in the mid-60s. It was a bit confusing and I had a hard time connecting a “resolution” episode to a “cliffhanger” episode because they were not shown sequentially. With its low production value, over-the-top action and dialogue they came across as laughable campy

entertainment. It is as if they were begging not to be taken seriously. Batman’s physique was un-athletic and thick about the middle while his voice was a tad too high. Worse still, the Batman costume was baggy and topped by a pair of limp devil’s horns. But, in spite of its shortcomings, the serial spawned a sequel in 1949.

As a boy, I caught a re-run of the 1965 “Alyas Batman at Robin” with Bob Soler as Batman and Lou Salvador, Jr. as Robin. The movie, or so the production company claimed, was “inspired” by the DC Comic hero and the story “based” on a Horror Komiks-- a local comic, serial of the same title. One thing I give the movie credit for is that it pre-dates the campy Batman and Robin television series (hammily portrayed, respectively, by Adam West and Burt Ward. Film historians say that the television series, and perhaps Adam West’s acting as well, was inspired by the 40s serials.). While we could not discount the possibility that “Alyas Batman at Robin” could have been “inspired” as well by the 40s serials, the Philippine version could very well be the first ever feature length film of Batman and Robin (--Notably, the Batman and Robin 40s versions were actually serials-- over extended movies that were cut up into 15-minute episodes, and not feature length movies.).

The appeal of Batman to me as a boy growing up is his utility belt from which he could pull out a gizmo that is appropriate for whatever tight fix he might find himself in. More tools are secreted in his boots and cape. Batman is the most accessorized among costumed superheroes; he has loads of cool weapons, all sorts of vehicles, gadgets, tools and perhaps the first superhero to use computers. While it has often been noted that Batman’s uniqueness among costumed superheroes is that he possesses no super-powers, I think more than that is how he compensated for being just an ordinary and regular guy by becoming the ultimate techie and gadget/tool user. Kind of like a walking Swiss Army knife with a cape. That, to me, is what really made him a superhero. A bit of the Batman still lives inside each of the eternal children of my generation. You could still see them doddering about. They are the few who doesn’t carry a sissy bag like almost everybody else. They cut a silhouette of an ordinary man with nothing on him but his clothes yet, magically, they would whip out a pack of cigarettes, a cell phone, an iPod, a PDA, a balisong, a box cutter, a pepper spray, a ball pen, a lighter, or even a comb or other contraband out from their socks, their waistband or some hidden compartment unto which they have secreted away other stuff you wouldn't have imagined they could carry around discretely. Alyas Batman at Robin movie ad photo courtesy of Mr. Simon Santos video48.blogspot.com

Tweets for my Twit...

Airports always make me a bit wary of people around me (-- it's just the paranoia in me) but the ready smile of a young woman, who looked Filipino, sitting beside me totally disarmed me (-- after a light pat on my back pocket assured me that my wallet is still there). It’s amazing how a complete stranger in a foreign country instantly elevates you to the status of a friend solely on the perception that you possess-- even remotely, an assemblage of racial traits close to his or her own. The woman closed the lid of her cheap ten-inch Intel Atom powered low-resolution netbook on her lap and told me her name was HotChik. It turned out, I discovered later without asking, that HotChik was her Twitter name. When I told her that I too am on Twitter. Her eyes got wide; she leaned in, feigning interest apparently assessing me if I have the potential to be an avid follower or if I’m interesting enough to be followed. When it became obvious to her that I have no intention of sharing my Twitter name, her eyes became clouded with disinterest. She seemed distracted or annoyed. She turned her attention to her netbook; opened the lid and deftly ran her fingertips on the banged-up keyboard; after a while her eyes focused on me again. Her face lit up like a contestant in a TV game show. She said she’s on Facebook, too. Then lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, she said in Facebook she uses her real name. I could see her lips move but I don't hear any sound, my mind has drifted three sentences ago.

Right there is a snap shot of the changing landscape of our virtual world. The mask-ball party in the Internet is winding up. Where people led double lives, real and virtual, now they are shedding their masks to lead single lives again. Anonymity have allowed people to reveal their true selves even if their true selves aren’t their best selves. Still anonymity provided solace and people were emboldened to nevertheless share their lives assured that the rest of humanity would remain clueless as to who they really are (anonymity has strong links with porn sites, which for most people was their first interaction with the Internet). But now-- because of Facebook and Twitter, people yearned not to be liberated from their boring daily lives but curiously to be more deeply embedded in them.

Facebook made cyberspace honest and more like the real world: dull but civilized. All that stuff that the Internet enabled us to leave behind, all the trappings of our ordinary bourgeois existence, we take it with us on Facebook. The face, the name and the life posted on Facebook is real. It’s who we are (or, at least, most of us are). Facebook has simply made anonymity pointless.

On the other hand, the Tweeter micro-blogging community actually encourages-- mainly due to its format, identity deception and trolling and thus harbors in its bosoms two distinct types of internet denizens: narcissists who have revealed themselves as their true selves; and, the last vestiges of the bal masqué pretenders. Those who have revealed themselves hold the view that their everyday lives and opinions are interesting enough for other people to follow even as most of what they twit are blatant lies; and, those who are still anonymous are latent stalkers, posers (-- including those who take on the virtual persona of real people they hate or are presently obsessed with) and cyber-saboteurs/anarchists.

Ode to the Commodore 64

My first hands-on encounter with a computer was in 1987 when I got a pre-owned Commodore 64. The 8-bit C64 was basically a fat keyboard that looked like a breadbox. It featured 64 kilobytes of RAM with sound/graphics performance that was superior to most IBM-compatible computers of that time and rivaled only the Atari 8-bit family computers. The C-64 had a built-in RF modulator and thus you have an option of plugging it into a television set (instead of a specialized monitor-- which was quite expensive at that time). I plugged my C-64 to an old black-and-white Philips TV (The first television I bought. I bought it in 1980 for P999.00 and came with a free clothes iron).

The C64, being pre-owned (-- there's that scary word again), didn't come with a User Manual so I had to figure out by myself most of what the C64 was all about. The C64 did come with a Datassette-- a tape cassette recorder/player with which you could save and upload programs. Like most home computers from the late 1970s and 1980s, the C64 came with an on-board (ROM) version of a stripped down/simplified version of the BASIC programming language (-- yup, that's Bill Gate's Beginner's All-purpose Symbolic Instruction Code. Jack Tramiel of Commodore International-- maker of C64 was said to have paid US$25,000 to Bill Gates for a perpetual license for it and thus did not see the need to acknowledge Bill Gates, but typing "WAIT 6502, 1" would invoke an embedded easter egg that would make "Microsoft!" appear on the monitor screen). There was no so-called "operating system" then; the kernel was accessed via BASIC commands. The interface, unlike what is usually expected from computers nowadays, is an austere and unwelcoming blank screen with a blinking cursor on the upper left of the screen. I spent a lot of late nights punishing my poor eyes as I stared on the contrasty B&W television screen. Unlike nowadays where everything could be downloaded from the internet, documentation then was hard to come by. It took some work to figure out the C64 Basic Language and for a long time all I could do with it was to use it as a calculator and as a synthesizer.

It was by mere chance that I came upon a sixth copy of a photocopy of a copy of the User Manual (-- which, praise God, included a glossary of BASIC commands and a short tutorial on BASIC programming) in an obscure shop in Greenhills. And after much anguish, I came out with my first program-- a crude clone of the virtual ping pong game. From the same shop I got the MIKRO assembler-- which curiously came in a Game Boy-like cartridge (-- there is a slot behind the C64 console that accepts cartridges), and which integrated seamlessly with the standard BASIC screen editor. I also explored third party BASIC compilers. Then I discovered the SEUCK (Shoot'Em-Up Construction Kit) development suite which allowed wannabe-programmers like me to create original, professional-looking shooting games.

The C64 introduced me to Unix (-- initially via the Unix-like LUnix), and encouraged me to explore scripting via Python (-- and later AppleScript) and object programming via SmallTalk-80 (via its quirky dialect, Squeak), to look and think beyond the GUI that present day operating systems have forced down our throats-- and to confront the CLI. It taught me perseverance, patience, to think logically and not to trust what I see.

Gēmu Otaku San

Gunpei Yokoi (横井 軍平) is said to have hit upon the idea of the Game & Watch when, while traveling on a train, he saw a bored businessman pressing the buttons of a calculator to kill time. The Game & Watch triggered the evolution of mobile gaming and it wasn't just to "kill time" anymore, it had become a lifestyle. The Game & Watch also led to the mass production of Chinese bootlegged game consoles and culminated, in the 1980s, with the Brick Game craze when just about everybody lugged a Chinese bootlegged version of the game console; and for a time offered Filipinos a virtual respite from their miserable lives.

Mobile gaming was so-so and mainly served as virtual baby-sitters for dorky kids until the Portable Sony PlayStation (PSP) came around. Maybe more as a marketing strategy rather than anything else, game developers began to target serious gamers by porting the most popular PC and PS games into the PSP. This allowed hard core gamers (-- as against those who are casual gamers who only played simple arcade style games to "kill time") to be Solid Snake (-- and Gabe Logan in the Syphon Filter series; and Kratos in God of War; and Sam Fisher in the Splinter Cell series) even when they're on the road. I'm a Metal Gear Solid (MGS) fan and I've beaten every MGS reiteration on the Sony PlayStation (PS1/2) and now the PSP had snipped the umbilical cord that attached me to the PS. Although I was a bit disappointed with the first MGS on the PSP: Metal Gear ACID (Active Command Intelligence Duel), because the action-based game I enjoyed so much in the PS had morphed into a card trading/collectible turn-based system where you either draw a card or play your hand to control the character’s movements and actions, I still played it because I haven't played MGS for maybe three years and I missed it. Although Metal Gear ACID is not canonical, it retained the original MGS look. In the game, Solid Snake must retrieve the "Pythagoras" from the Lobito Physics & Research Laboratory. In the end, he will face the latest model of Metal Gear-- the Metal Gear KODOQUE.

The sequel, Metal Gear Acid 2, the protagonist is a clone created from tissue samples of Solid Snake. The game had become totally unrecognizable, gone are the gray and green theme of the original MGS series, instead the in-game models are rendered in stylized anime graphical style that looked more like colorful, clearly-inked concept art. It was disappointing.

Metal Gear Solid: Portable Ops is the first canonical outing of the MGS series for the PSP. It again featured Naked Snake (introduced in MGS1 as "Big Boss", Solid Snake's C.O. in FOXHOUND and who is later revealed as the source of Solid Snake's cloned genes and that of Liquid Snake as well; and who was also Solid Snake's main antagonist in Metal Gear 2: Solid Snake). It also went back to the series' action-based game play from previous PS1/2 console iterations, but instead of Naked Snake doing solo missions, the game has a squad-based approach, with Naked Snake having to recruit allies and form a team. It is set in 1970 in South America, six years after the events of MGS3:Snake Eater. It is nowhere near previous PS reiterations, but it was way closer than the ACID series.

Snake has yet again returned in Metal Gear Solid: Peace Walker. The first MGS title for the PSP directed by the series' creator Hideo Kojima. I look forward to beating it; as eagerly as I look forward to finally getting a PS3 so I could beat “Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the Patriots”--which features an aged Snake clone (The only other MGS game I haven't yet beaten).

In the meantime, I alternate between "New Super Mario Brothers" on my Nintendo DSi and "Splinter Cell: Essentials" on my PSP2000 (and my trusty Sony Reader PRS300:-- repository of my "walk-throughs" and e-books).

A well meaning friend once told me to get a life.

"Hey, I don’t need a life....

... I’m a gamer. I have lots of lives!"

The Fellowship of the Smoke Ring

I was nineteen when I started buying cigarettes by the pack and smoke on a regular basis, before that I smoked intermittently since I was fourteen. Contrary to popular belief I was not sucked into the habit by sinister subliminal print ads nor by juvenile peer pressure. Smoking requires deliberate decisions. Nobody gets hooked on their first cigarette. I bet most smokers didn't enjoy their first cigarette. It probably made them cough and retch followed by clammy dizziness and nausea. A smoker only got hooked because he stuck long enough, in spite of these initial drawbacks, to get addicted. That, I submit, is a deliberate act. Personally, I got into smoking because I enjoyed it. After smoking a few sticks of cigarette, the initiate must make a choice-- which requires an even more purposeful deliberation: menthol or regular? And lastly, the smoker decides on a brand. Finding a brand is like choosing a gang or a second religion, it defines you.

Me? I was born to be a Marlboro Man.

In the old days, Marlboro comes only in one unadulterated dose:-- full strength. There were as yet no anemic Lights, sissy Mediums nor heretical Greens-- which, I think, only gave false hopes to smokers who fear death from smoking by being led to believe that they are smoking less lethal versions of the poison. I preferred the full on Reds particularly the more lethal Military or Reynold's. They were so intense my forefinger and middle finger would turn yellow orange from smoke exposure; and Marlboro comes only in two sizes: “Filter Kings”-- the regular sized cigarettes and in “student” size. The "shorties" was pure genius. Marlboro wouldn’t admit it but it was really meant for teenagers. Shorties comes in flip top packs which are no more than two inches in an almost square configuration that could easily be hidden by tucking it in your socks or rolling it in your T-shirt sleeve.

Back in the days of yore, one could light up anywhere— like you could be a doctor examining an asthmatic child or a priest administering Extreme Unction, and you could go ahead and light up. Nobody would mind. Smoking back then was a personal thing that was tolerated much like farting is in public rest rooms. You could smoke even if you're riding in public transport. You could get a stick of cigarette from your trusty “Ta-Ka-Tak” boy, light up and blow smoke on the face of the person sitting next to you. It was an accepted inconvenience in public transportation, nobody complained about secondhand smoke or any of those lame issues wing nuts dreamed up.

And because smokers can light up anywhere, anytime, I didn’t much notice my fellow smokers until we began to be cordoned off from the rest of humanity sometime in the 90s. It was still possible to smoke though. Not as easy as it had been in the 70s or 80s, but most places still tolerated it, there was always a “Smoking Section”-- separate sections in restaurants and hotels, or a “Smoking Lounge”— a cordoned off area with carpeting and upholstered divans.
 
Then suddenly schools, government buildings and hospitals became “Smoke Free Zones”. Then not just buildings, but entire cities have since banned smoking in public. In order to have a cigarette in airports, I had to drag my tired ass and huff and puff back to the main entrance. Pass through at least three security checks then walk about fifty meters away from the main gate to a place where other losers hang out, I usually find a bunch huddled around a trash can. Only then am I allowed to smoke, but even then I still have to endure the killer stares of passing self-righteous cranks who looked at me as if I'm defecating in public.

While most places still provided a place for smokers, it had become shabbier through the years. Now, instead of a “Smoking Section”, smokers are directed to the “Smoking Area”, which is usually a designated place in a back alley alongside stinking garbage cans and toxic trash trolleys; a miniature pocket of slum where twisted butts and yellow-green spit decorated the ground around a caramel stained ash tray-- disguised as a garbage can, that nobody bothered to empty. You’ll know it’s the place because it smells of neglect, a dreary communal pyre where smokers gather to sacrifice their lungs to an unsmiling god. A place where the fellowship of the smoke rings still holds its regular meetings and where adepts exchange secret messages by sending out smoke signals to each other. Passing prigs would often stop by, cover their snotty noses, give you their best death-stare, point and say a bad word or two.

It has come to this.

The world has become inhospitable to smokers. It pains me to see hard-cores hot-boxing three quarters of their cigarettes then quickly walking away from these gatherings. They probably could not stand how things have become. Personally, I never liked the imposition nor the insult. I'm old school, a firm believer that a smoker should be able to light up wherever, whenever.
 
And so one fine day— one very ordinary day, I simply stopped. There was no plan. No preparation. I’ve even just bought a can of lighter fluid and a pack of flints for my Zippo lighter; and on the day I stopped, a half empty pack of Marlboro lay beside my Zippo on the table. It was as if I’ve been allotted a certain number of cigarettes and I’ve smoked them all and now I’m done.

After more than three months I guess it’s official: My thirty year affair with tobacco had ended. They say it takes sixty days to break a habit and forty-five days to break an addiction, I guess whatever you may want to call my relationship with nicotine; it’s over.
 
I sometimes walk over to the “Smoking Area” of a mall I frequent to check out on the fellowship. They are still sending out smoke signals but its gibberish to me now. When I turn to walk away, I feel their stares burning a hole at the back of my skull. I have betrayed the fellowship and now I have abandoned them. I now live in constant fear that the fellowship will one day gather around my house and throw their lighted cigarettes on my roof and watch as my house burns down.

Condemonyo

A week after I moved in to a Manila condominium building, an earthquake rocked Luzon. I was terrified and felt helpless as the walls creaked and moaned for a few seconds and then it stopped; after I few more seconds it swayed again as the building's foundation shifted and settled back to its original position. The earthquake jolted back the images I saw on television in 1968-- a few days before my birthday, when an intensity 7 earthquake hit Manila and flattened Ruby Tower, a six-story apartment-building on Doroteo Jose and Teodora Alonzo streets in Sta. Cruz, in a rubble of twisted metal and hollow blocks. The street corner where Ruby Tower once stood is just a few blocks from my condominium building.
Almost 400 of Ruby Tower's more than 600 tenants lost their lives. I remember seeing in television the badly injured survivors being extricated from the rubble in rescue efforts that lasted for more than a week. Two hundred seventy survivors were rescued but twenty-seven among the injured later died. An undisclosed number of tenants, mostly Chinese-Filipinos, were never found.

Like the Ruby Tower, my condominium looked out of place. Manila is a city where the homeless and fringe dwellers congregate and somehow condominiums doesn't fit into the dire landscape-- a slap on the face of people who are down in their luck. The sprouting of condominium buildings even in the seedier parts of the metropolis is the main reason, I think, why nobody goes to the Manila zoo anymore. These condominiums had allowed people who had more in life to observe people who had less-- much like people watching animals in a zoo, while safely perched on a balcony beyond spitting distance of those wretched creatures called the urban poor-- the great unwashed.

The Manila Zoo offered a similar visual treat in reverse-- people could observe a solitary ape in a cage. When I was a boy the Manila Zoo was always one of the stops whenever our school would have a field trip. Everybody eventually gravitated to the famous ape in a cage. People who visited in the 60s and 70s will remember this ape (He’s probably dead by now; probably shot dead by one of his unsuspecting victims). You can’t miss him. He was some sort of a celebrity then-- the main attraction. Nobody could come close without being exposed to the hazard of being inflicted with the salivary excursions of the bored primate. One time, I remember going for a closer look and sure enough the damn ape was accurately spitting to his heart’s content. I later observed, and I could be wrong, but it seemed then that it wasn’t random spitting. He was only aiming for my better-dressed classmates. Boy, this ape had issues. Or, maybe he was making a statement; whatever, but he sure did it with the chutzpah of a rock star.

There was also an island where a bunch of monkeys were allowed to roam free within the small environ of the artificial island and there was a group of juvenile delinquent misfits who threw trash to onlookers; but, their accuracy paled in comparison with the spitting ape. Juvenile delinquents in the poorer sections of the metropolis would later copy the antics of these monkeys; calling themselves gangs they would terrorize neighborhoods at night; they would throw bottles and stones at each other; attacking and retreating throughout the night causing little damage to themselves but wrecking parked cars and the display windows of commercial establishments in the neighborhood. In my brief stay in a condominium in that part of Manila I have watched quite a few episodes of this senseless destruction of property. I have witnessed a few bag and cellular phone snatches, too; a hold-up and a knifing.

The morning after the earthquake, I fancied taking a walk to the site of the Ruby Tower. I found out that the 1,293-square-meter property where the Ruby Tower once stood was donated to the survivors; a two-story building now stands in the property that houses a shop selling industrial gaskets, lubricants and heat insulation materials, a hardware, an eatery and a cultural club. On the building’s top floor is the Ruby Tower Temple, built a couple of years after the tragedy by the survivors who formed the Ruby Tower Memorial Foundation. I climbed up the stairs to the temple; but the gate leading to the temple was padlocked. The grid iron gate is rusted, it needs a new coat of paint. Nobody seems to go there anymore. Maybe people have forgotten the tragedy that happened here. As I climbed down the stairs, I felt a slight tremor; it was an aftershock.

SanDasal

Hindi na mapilit ang sarili upang dumalangin at dumulog pa muli sa kinagisnang Diyos.
Hindi ba niya naririnig ang damdamin kong nagsusumigaw sa galit?
Hindi ba niya nararamdaman ang lamig ng nadurog kong puso?
Mayroon pa bang hihigit sa katotohanang ito?
Mga nabubulok na laman ng damdamin at isipan na hindi mabigyan ng laya ng dahil na rin sa kakulangan ng salitang natutunan.
At dahil dito ay mananatili na lamang bilango sa isip at damdamin…
at paglaon ay hahawaan ng taglay na sakit ang kalahatan ng kinaluluklukan.
Siguro’y wala ng hihigit pa sa lahat ng uri ng dalangin ang katotohanang ito.
Noon sana’y diningin man lamang ang sasaloobin bago pa tuluyan ng nalunod sa luha…bago pa tuluyan ng dinurog ng nagsusumikip na dibdib…bago pa nilamon ng galit ang nalalabi pang pagkatao.
Tama na... ayoko na.
At hindi na kakailangin pa ang tulong upang maiintindihan ang mga nangyari.
Matagal nang nakapinid ang pinto. Pilitin man ay hindi na magawang bigyan pa ng puwang upang tanggapin ang kapunuan ng kakulangan.
Suko na.
Wala na ring dahilan.
Hindi rin lamang maiwawaksi sa isipan ang sumpang ito.
Isang bangungot na hindi na kagigisnan pa.
Diyos ko, ako'y nagsusumamo sa iyo muli hindi para hilingin na pawiin mo ang sakit o kaya’y ibsan lamang ang bigat ng pasanin.
Hindi...
ipakikiusap ko lamang na kung ang puso ay durog na…
isipan at damdamin ay patuloy na sinasaktan at ginugulo ng nakalipas…
ay kunin na rin ang aking kaluluwa.

Riding the Midnight Express

After a school day, I've gotten into the habit of walking in the direction of Divisoria, instead of just crossing the avenue in front of the university to catch a jeepney ride home. Most times I'd checked out the second-hand books and magazines sold along the sidewalks. Sometimes I would stand on the edge of the sidewalk and just watch the endless stream of people. There was always something interesting: a novelty toy being hawked or even a chess challenge.

It became too interesting one day when, as I crossed Morayta street, I saw a group of teens in High School uniforms, about my age, scampering in all directions. I knew some of the faces; a stupid street fight most likely, I thought. Instinctively, I darted to the side and leaned back on a wall. People were rushing about. Then someone handed me a gym bag. Stupidly, I held it and stood there; it was heavy. In a moment, policemen came into view; they were running after the hooligans. After the policemen had passed me, I dropped the bag. The bag hit the sidewalk with a thud and lead pipes, homemade bolos and knives jumped out from the bag. I started walking away, but a policeman collared me.

In a blink of an eye I was in Presinto Tres beside Central Market. The police precinct sits on a cul-de-sac with a tunnel view of jeepneys queuing for passengers in Quezon Boulevard.

There were ten of us; three had nasty gashes on their head; their shirts bloodied. I knew some of them by their faces; some looked familiar, but I’ve never been in their company until that day. All of them looked smug and talked with an attitude. Two were Chinese. They sport big biceps. They have bruised fists and tight buns; and were probably adept at some kind of martial art. I was skin and bones side by side with them, but I stood an inch taller than the tallest in the group. That was bad. I stood out.

A fat, oily man in a bedraggled police uniform who looked like he had just waken up from a nap-- the desk sergeant, sat on the front desk. He looked at us with lecherous eyes and asked for our names. He scribbled something on his logbook then told us that two boys had been hurt-- one was stabbed and another had a cracked skull. Criminal charges were being prepared. Immediately after that, calls were made; some handed over to the sergeant. By the time the sergeant opened the door to the cell only five of us remained. The Chinese looking boys were the first to go; the three smug looking characters were next. I haven’t spoken yet other than when I gave my name. There was no reason to. I was better off if they didn't know why I was there. I don't know who belong to which group and I figured it would be better to keep everybody guessing.

Truth is I'm not known as a talker; not then; not now. In fact, I was a late talker. Well, not exactly. I preferred not to talk, and my first word was "...tado". It was meant to keep people at bay. When I was an infant, I didn't cry much, too-- in fact, I hardly ever cried. I preferred to be alone, and the only time I'd cry was when somebody was nearby. As a toddler, I preferred to observe what was going on around me and then have conversations with invisible persons. People would find me sitting up and having an earnest debate with the air. It didn't change much even when I was a boy. People would later conclude that I was talking to myself. A conclusion that probably kept more people away; which was fine by me. Even then I never had the compulsion to explain myself; that would require talking, and I don't do that. Ironically, gabbing is a favorite contact sport in our family, our paternal uncles like to talk, loudly. It wouldn't be accurate to say they talk loud, they shout when ordinary mortals find it sufficient to whisper. Whenever, there is a family gathering I would watch them and observed that for an uncle to be able to say his piece, his voice should be the loudest to smother the other voices for a while. Then there will be a lull and only the loudest talker would keep on talking. But, I could see that though the others have closed their traps nobody really bothered to listen; they just wait out whoever was talking to tone down the decibels then the shouting contest began again, whoever won would talk next. They looked pathetic.

We were led into a detention cell; four people were already in it, all with taunt athletic bodies-- snatchers and stick-up artists. As we came near to the cell door, everybody crowded behind me.

A half naked thin man with gaunt face and a tattoo of the Nazareno on his chest, sat on a makeshift hammock; another was fanning him with a tattered abaniko. He looked at us like we were dinner as he rolled his dentures in his mouth. I cast down my eyes and let my shoulders drop to show a body language of submission. The man started to stand up. I took a quick side step and whacked his mouth. He didn't see it coming. He dropped back to the hammock. His eyes desolate pools of confusion, his denture stuck on his upper palette. Blood oozing from his mouth. I grabbed him by his arm, pulled him up and dropped him on the floor. I sat on the hammock and ordered the man fanning him to fan me instead. The five boys huddled around me. I've been voted Alpha Male.

I've earned their respect.

Out in the streets respect is the only thing that mattered. I told the cowering boys around me to hand me all their money. I tossed some coins to the bleeding man and calmly told him to get some cigarettes. I pocketed the rest of the money. The man scrambled to his feet and asked leave to go out. He was let out. I took a mental note of it. He came back with a handful of cigarettes.

In less than an hour, only two of us remained. It seemed everybody had flashed their get-out-of-jail cards and they had pulled all the strings and the stops to get out. Time was running out; as soon as the only other boy gets out, the snatchers would surely jump me. The man I've punched in the face is becoming bolder every minute. Now he's looking straight at my eyes. It is time to go.

I asked to be let out to get some snacks. The desk sergeant looked at me and nodded to a trustee. I walked out of the precinct-- counting each step that I took, to a small sari-sari store a few steps from the main road. Forty steps. That's all it took. I bought a pack of Hi-Ro biscuits and a Coke. I took a swig on my Coke and looked at the sergeant. He wasn't even looking. I got a few sticks of cigarettes, too. I closed my eyes and counted my steps as I walked back. Forty. I opened my eyes. Fat man is right in front of me. I tossed a stick of cigarette to him; the pig smiled. The trustee opened the cell. I sat down on the hammock for my Coke and Hi-Ro fix. As I downed the last of the Coke, a slight smile pulled on the right side of my lips. I've got it. I looked at the other boy, he seemed lost. Scared, too.

Each time I ran away from home, I spend my first night sitting at a police precinct and I’ve seen people thrown in jail. I’ve seen enough to know that the police would have to book you first before you're thrown in the can-- something that hadn’t happened yet because the police were still waiting who would get sprung. That was how the game was played. If you're connected, you use your connections to put pressure on the police to get you out. If you're not connected, then you figure out how to get some cash. The police were just giving you time. If you don't have the connections or the money then you stay locked up until the procedure catches up. That way nobody gets "embarrassed".

Calmly, I asked to be let out again; to make a call, I said. I don't really need to call anybody; I don't know anybody who could pull me out of this hell hole. I can't call home either, what for? The phone was on the desk right in front of the Sergeant; plastered on the back of the receiver is a note "Piso Bawat Tawag"-- one peso for a call! I tossed a peso coin to the man and dialed a number; a random number. The phone at the other end of the line rang. I coughed deeply into my fist. The fake cough was to get the man's attention and as he looked I pointed the phone's receiver to his face, just so he'd hear the ringing. Somebody with a gruff voice picked up the phone.

"Oo, nandito pa ako..."

"...?"

"Maayos naman ako..."

"...?"

"Ang tagal naman..."

"...?"

"Ano oras?"

"...!"

"Bilisan n'yo! ..."

Click!

The man on the other end of the line was still cursing when I put down the receiver. I again asked permission to get more cigarettes. He nodded.

As I walk to the door, I checked my pockets. I still have enough for jeepney fare. I walked out of the precinct as if I had just stepped out of Sunday mass; when I reached the curb I took a glimpse back then jumped into a jeepney.

Roasted Manok ng kapitbahay, NPA style

Capture a medium sized chicken and terminate it with extreme prejudice. Cut off the head; set aside. Practice torture by dipping the chicken in a palanggana of hot water; pull out all the feathers and take out the intestines. Dunk the chicken one last time into the palanggana. Rub salt unto the chicken. Put the cleaned chicken in a plastic bag. Pour soy sauce into the plastic bag until the chicken is half covered; top off with vinegar. Put a crushed head of garlic. Pepper to taste. Shake to mix. Let it marinate for half an hour. In the meantime, look for an empty biscuit can; preferably a can of Fita or Sky Flakes. Punch holes on the side of the can. Cut out the top of the can with the knife and a piece of rock. Look for four flat stones; set them on the ground and put the cut out top of the can over them. Put the marinated chicken (after taking it out of the plastic bag first) unto the cut out top of the can. Put the other part of the can (duhh... the part where holes had been punched?) over the chicken to cover it. Put dried sticks, old newspapers and dried leaves over the can until it’s fully covered. Set it on fire. Put more sticks when the fire is blazing. Put a pot of rice on top of the fire. When rice is cooked, allow the fire to burn for about a half an hour more, push aside the ashes; remove can. Serve and consume immediately. Dig a hole; bury the chicken's head and bones with the feathers and other pieces of evidence.

Ligo

I bet few people know that Ligo actually meant Liberty Gold. It says right there on the label. I guess nobody really read labels or cared much for brands back then (nowadays, however, you have to check if it's from China). But, for some of us Ligo is the only brand of sardine we knew. I could be wrong but I think it was Ligo that came out first with the little cylindrical can; all the other sardines in those days were in big flat oblong cans which contained about twelve pieces or in smaller rectangular flat cans of Spanish sardines which are really for the left over Peninsulares holed up in snotty subdividisions. It was also Ligo, I dare say, that came out with the groundbreaking idea of single serve "happy" meals. It also offered an instant meal in the days when home deliveries were still unheard of. Ligo saved the day for me when I need a quick meal at our dysfunctional home.

Inside a can of Ligo are two fat slices of sardine locked in a tight, almost sensual, embrace and bathing in a red orange sauce. Pouring out the contents of a can is like unraveling the folds of an Origami masterpiece. You tease the contents out and as soon as it hits the plate it magically unfolds leading one to wonder how the heck did they make those fat slices to fit inside.

I’ve seen people who sauté Ligo and some even drain out the sauce, mashed the sardines and mixed it with mayonnaise ala tuna spread. Blasphemy. These people have no respect. Ligo should be appreciated in its purest form-- straight out of the can and poured out in-- not in a deep bowl, but in a saucer or a medium sized shallow plate-- just deep enough for the slices of sardines to be immersed in exactly five millimeters of its sauce.

At least a tablespoon should be used when eating (-- a fork would be helpful but eating with the hands, though typically Filipino, is a no-no. Forget the table knife. We as a race are probably the only diners in the world who could make do without a knife. We cut food with a fork or spoon held sideways. Go ahead and take a look around in a restaurant and you’ll see that most knives are usually shoved under the plate and left untouched after a meal.).

Eating Ligo sardines is a ritual that parallels a Zen experience-- an attempt to achieve perfect balance that begins with mixing at least two green Kalamansi and Silver Swan soy sauce in a separate saucer, each slice of sardine quartered first on the bellies then once more in the middle where the grains of the flesh meet (-- with the tablespoon, of course), then scoop a small amount of soy sauce just enough to fill a third of the tablespoon then gently pass the tablespoon over to a piece and slice off a morsel getting enough of the tomato sauce to fill the tablespoon being careful to avoid an overflow. A perfect tablespoon would have a bit of sardine in the middle, sufficiently big enough to block the yin of the soy sauce from flowing unto the yang of the tomato sauce. A slight fusion in the middle would be acceptable. When this lethal combination of textures and flavors hits the palette it burst into a multitude of a bit of that and a bit of this… heaven in a can.

I vividly remember one time when I got caught up in one of our family's explosive moments in the middle of a Ligo meal. I was having a late dinner alone when I slipper flew and landed on my plate. The sauce splattered all over me, but I kept eating.