Yes, the Stackers Auss'm Burgers restaurant in Metrowalk did this to me, just about an hour ago while having breakfast with my office teammates Karla and Lea.
To think I was the first person who told the waitress my order, and "One clam chowder" was the first thing out of my mouth, especially as the photo of the soup on their wall displays and the menu really looked yummy.
So the waitress first brought in the fries--perhaps the only surprisingly impressive thing about the place as the P60 order turned out to give you a huge serving--and then Lea's Corned Beef Brekkie, complete with coffee. Karla ordered the same thing and it was served about 15 minutes later. Time elapsed since ordering: about 20 minutes then.
And yet still no soup.
Almost an hour later, after much chat and looking over the two flat screens on the high wall showing a rugby and baseball game each, we decided to follow up on the clam chowder. The waitress looked a bit perplexed and hurried to the kitchen, and then came to our table minutes later to say, "Three minutes po for the chowder, OK lang?"
Of course it didn't take three minutes. And of course she could have been more apologetic, maybe even admitted that they forgot to prepare my order. They could have given us a complimentary soup or dish to make up for the looooong wait. Heck, even free iced tea for all I care. But all we got was a bitch face from the waitress, saying, as she served the soup finally with a steely smile, "Sorry po for the delay," and for some reason her face really didn't look sorry.
That's pretty much it. I can't remember the last time I ordered soup and having to wait an hour for it; I guess there's a first time for everything. And to that bitch-face, unapologetic waitress, wait 'til I send this to your feedback mailbox. Tsk, tsk.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Saturday, October 01, 2011
Time elapsed: one year
Today it's exactly a year since I joined the company where I'm in. And while this day posed many interesting options and a lot of crazy sh*t, I think I'll stay on longer and take to doing what I love doing most: surprise people.
Buckling up for the next speedy loop!
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Never stop reading
About half an hour ago I was able to read something from one of my favorite local authors again, F. Sionil Jose (thanks to my friend Rico who sent me the link to his Philippine Star article). It's met with much delight and pondering on my part. And relief that it's circulating Facebook currently and everyone seems to "Like" it.
I'm hoping they don't stop at just "Liking" it but actually do what it challenges: Read more.
http://www.philstar.com/Article.aspx?articleId=726155&publicationSubCategoryId=79
I'm hoping they don't stop at just "Liking" it but actually do what it challenges: Read more.
http://www.philstar.com/Article.aspx?articleId=726155&publicationSubCategoryId=79
Thursday, September 08, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
"This new self takes no prisoners"
I just had to re-post a part of this blog entry that my friend Karla shared with me. It's from Frances Amper Sales' blog. Frances is the editor of OK! Magazine Philippines. I just love how much of an empowered mother she is.
Like her, I know motherhood has changed me. But reading this has amplified that change by a hundred-fold. And I realized what she said here is also the reason I care less what people think--even much less than how much I already cared less then.
"With a child, I have less time now so something better be worth my time. I care less for the trivial. I care even less about what people think.
At the same time, I feel I have so much power now. So much life! I feel I can take on the world and it will bow down before me because I am a mother now. My old self died the day I shed so much blood for my son and a new self was born. And this new self takes no shit. This new self takes no prisoners. This new self has the hands that rock the cradle. And so I rule the world."
Thanks, Frances, for your re-affirming me of my newfound power. Click here to read Frances' article.
Like her, I know motherhood has changed me. But reading this has amplified that change by a hundred-fold. And I realized what she said here is also the reason I care less what people think--even much less than how much I already cared less then.
"With a child, I have less time now so something better be worth my time. I care less for the trivial. I care even less about what people think.
At the same time, I feel I have so much power now. So much life! I feel I can take on the world and it will bow down before me because I am a mother now. My old self died the day I shed so much blood for my son and a new self was born. And this new self takes no shit. This new self takes no prisoners. This new self has the hands that rock the cradle. And so I rule the world."
Thanks, Frances, for your re-affirming me of my newfound power. Click here to read Frances' article.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Where am I?
Taxi driver (to a security guard on the road): Boss, 'san ang Emerald Avenue?
Security Guard: Ah, Emerald na po ito!
I overheard this walking along Emerald Avenue with colleague and friend Karla, and it made me laugh aloud. I thought the driver stupid maybe, or just thought the whole thing funny.
An hour later now and I find myself thinking back on that convo. Why was it so funny? Someone's already there and he doesn't know he was until a guy on the road told him. Pretty mundane, yes, but somehow I see myself in it. Maybe that's why it made me laugh.
Because I would constantly ask myself, unknowingly, where the heck am I? I'm always out of time, out of touch to many friends, always longing to do things I used to do. Where am I?
I'm lost in a sea of work, deadlines, bills to pay, motherhood, being a wife. I'm always everywhere but nowhere, I feel. Sometimes I do get to sneak in things I fancy but it's rare that they last enough for me to lay back, put my feet up, close my eyes and just feel good.
Where am I? I can maybe ask my husband, but he'd tell me something I probably already assume. Because we're together. We're in a family, we're in a home. We're in love. But me, the girl with wild hopes and vast ambition, the woman who once did everything and anything she set her mind on, the daredevil, the adventurer...where's that girl?
Maybe I'm somewhere I already know where, but I've no security guard on the road to tell me.
Shucks. One of those days, one of those.
Security Guard: Ah, Emerald na po ito!
I overheard this walking along Emerald Avenue with colleague and friend Karla, and it made me laugh aloud. I thought the driver stupid maybe, or just thought the whole thing funny.
An hour later now and I find myself thinking back on that convo. Why was it so funny? Someone's already there and he doesn't know he was until a guy on the road told him. Pretty mundane, yes, but somehow I see myself in it. Maybe that's why it made me laugh.
Because I would constantly ask myself, unknowingly, where the heck am I? I'm always out of time, out of touch to many friends, always longing to do things I used to do. Where am I?
I'm lost in a sea of work, deadlines, bills to pay, motherhood, being a wife. I'm always everywhere but nowhere, I feel. Sometimes I do get to sneak in things I fancy but it's rare that they last enough for me to lay back, put my feet up, close my eyes and just feel good.
Where am I? I can maybe ask my husband, but he'd tell me something I probably already assume. Because we're together. We're in a family, we're in a home. We're in love. But me, the girl with wild hopes and vast ambition, the woman who once did everything and anything she set her mind on, the daredevil, the adventurer...where's that girl?
Maybe I'm somewhere I already know where, but I've no security guard on the road to tell me.
Shucks. One of those days, one of those.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Theater actors, time to show muscle - Anton Juan
A good friend who's also a theater actor, Rico del Rosario, sent me an article by Anton Juan, a commentary on the "Sky Flakes and catfood" issue that is slowly but surely garnering fits of outrage from theater actors especially. That newbie filmmaker Rafa Santos should feel like a total fool right now for uttering the completely idiotic on national TV.
--
Sky Flakes and Cat Food and Grace, by Anton Juan
All utterances being signs of a greater context and foreboding, it is my duty as a Filipino artist and educator to flesh out this “Skyflakesand Cat Food” phrase. Evidently it is a symptom of indifference to the construction of words – a malaise that has arisen from the vast mouth of ignorance that is eating up our society. It is a symptom of a “wala lang” (oh, nothing really] malaise in an ABS-CBN cum GMA cum AFP formula Philippine society, where words are not the sincere and true expressions of ideas and truth. Surely in this world, where the insensitive maker of words simply utters out of formulated taxonomies, equivalences to persons, objects, and things will arise resulting in the inhumanity of meaning and cynicism.
In this case, the theatre actor has been, at the origin of the statement, designated as being equal to convenient and sustainable ---and mind you, these words are so mis-used by art and cultural managers, and we must admit, even by theatre managers. But it is the attitude and the lack of insensitivity attached to the utterance that
changes the utterance into a mockery. If the utterer, Mr. Rafa Santos, had been more aware of the field of attitudes that cloak words, and if in his intent he were to make a self parody as all theatre actors do
to “ennoble” their ridiculous talent fees, then first of all he would own the utterance in defiance of the system. But he does not. First of all he is not a theatre actor. In this case he is a celluloid or digital image-maker, with the celluloid or bullet as the medium of his craft. Secondly, his intent is clearly from the “practical” and
exploitative point of view, which is the origin of his encodification of his “skyflakes and catfood utterance” in response to why he cast theatre artist. The theatre artist therefore is now like, in this case a literal image of a stuffed cat in biology labs, to which a formulation has been attached.
And the formulation of this taxonomy is: Theatre actor= skyflakes and catfood; this equivalence translates to theatre actor = sustainable production; theatre actor = sustainable product.
Ergo: use them. They’re cheap.
But this brings us to a wider context. The question by a T.V. host posed an opposition of categories regarding casting framed in a question seeking the reason for choosing the theatre artist as cast -- Santos’ reason being, the theatre artist is: 1. Never late; 2. Is content being fed skyflakes and catfood.
Clearly in these oppositions, there are other cultural interventions: the TV./film industry and how it looks down or upon theatre artists; the theatre artists themselves who would still continue to shuttle from theatre to film/TV. --- inspite of being treated in a non-equitable way by the film industry till they get to a star level
as say Eugene Domingo and other theatre people who have climbed to the top. This statement is only a symptom of the greater system of exploitation that occurs in the industry, and the Hobbesian choices theatre artists, writers, directors, are forced to make - between the mouth of Hell and starvation. Theatre artists indeed can be treated differently from the way movie artists are. While there is a reverence for their discipline, there is in fact that other condescending attitude that yes they can be fed “skyflakes and catfood.” Yet we
theatre artists must also admit there are those among us who apart from the love of art, also love the limelight and are willing to sacrifice for this. This does not mean however that the carrot stick swung before our faces of bigger roles and bigger parts, of directing serials and advertisements that lie, carries with it the care and
pandering given to the sexy pussies (who certainly are not fed cat food) and cocks (who do not peck on the crumbs of skyflakes) who strut around the animal farm, where they get propped up in the kliegs and smoke machines, fully powdered and legally blonde or dumb. For directors there will be the fear these cocks and pussies and hopefuls hold for the “direk” a fear of not being cast in the serials, and God and those who play gods on every exploitative strata and hierarchies know what body and soul they will give to get parts. For theatre artists there is no choice. You are given this month, this number of days, and there is no pandering. Also they can change their mind if they have already assigned you shooting days. Or they can always cancel a call or a shoot. Or cancel you altogether.
So I am not in any way surprised that such a statement should come from the mouth of a petty bourgeois mouth, one which is starting his career as a film director. In fact if he were aware of histories in theatre, there was a time when we actors and directors fed on “Styrofoam” as we called that left over “kropek” made from who knows rotten shrimp shells and fish ground and made into cans and cans of neither yellow nor cream colored squares of Styrofoam that you had to down with a coke. Or cracked biscuits in cans, the discards of
factories. And that was termed as “lamay” ---KUNG may kapeng ipakain sa iyo. E yung REP nga ni tubig wala. I and Bibot used to have kape at pan de sal during Lear and Our Town rehearsals courtesy of our own
remembrance and pocket. Dulaang UP has a “Bring your own mug” policy and coffee and whatever biscuits or turn-overs from departmental parties will grace the table shared. Or Beth bless her soul, and Judy Ick and Teroy at World Theatre Project rehearsals would bring Spanish bread and pasta yet! -- kung anong meron, share. But all of these are not “institutionalized” sustainability.
THESE ARE NOT “SKYFLAKES AND CATFOOD” PAMATID GUTOM OR Consuelo de Bobo. THESE SHARING IS GRACE. GRACE, BY WHICH THE THEATRE ARTIST
LIVES.
The statement this utterer of sounds made is only a sign that yes, there is a vast exploitation of theatre artists within the system of stars of the Film industry. I also believe that this statement is a result of the contagion of the inability to express oneself in words with a definite logic of framing one’s answer before speaking. This
process is lost because precisely in the media, this is the way they speak and this has now seeped into the veins and cells of these upstarts who think they are being witty, and has seeped into the cells of the people who will, wala lang, accept such statements, wala lang, accept corruption, wala lang, that a dictator or a general thief of the country should be buried as a national hero, wala lang, that Caparas should be National Artist magaling naman cya wala lang, or the woman who gets hit by the pressing iron by a drunken philandering husband should believe he really loves her and that is the way to express it wala lang. and that wala lang, pinatay ko cya kasi wala lang, at direk sige na kahit na anu gagawin ko talaga? Sige kain ka
wala lang, kain ka ng CATFOOD, tanga!
Wala lang, utter any it's okay, people won’t remember anyway. Wala lang leads to no sense of history, to the malaise of forgetting. WE then allow these horrible myths and lies to grow and become the eventual meaning of our country and our race.
Maybe we theatre artists should also start to reflect, get stronger, and say: NO WE DO NOT ALLOW.
It is time to REFLECT, seek within ourselves why this equivalent of the theatre artist has come up from the vast mouth of ignorance. TIME TO SHOW MUSCLE.
--
Sky Flakes and Cat Food and Grace, by Anton Juan
All utterances being signs of a greater context and foreboding, it is my duty as a Filipino artist and educator to flesh out this “Skyflakesand Cat Food” phrase. Evidently it is a symptom of indifference to the construction of words – a malaise that has arisen from the vast mouth of ignorance that is eating up our society. It is a symptom of a “wala lang” (oh, nothing really] malaise in an ABS-CBN cum GMA cum AFP formula Philippine society, where words are not the sincere and true expressions of ideas and truth. Surely in this world, where the insensitive maker of words simply utters out of formulated taxonomies, equivalences to persons, objects, and things will arise resulting in the inhumanity of meaning and cynicism.
In this case, the theatre actor has been, at the origin of the statement, designated as being equal to convenient and sustainable ---and mind you, these words are so mis-used by art and cultural managers, and we must admit, even by theatre managers. But it is the attitude and the lack of insensitivity attached to the utterance that
changes the utterance into a mockery. If the utterer, Mr. Rafa Santos, had been more aware of the field of attitudes that cloak words, and if in his intent he were to make a self parody as all theatre actors do
to “ennoble” their ridiculous talent fees, then first of all he would own the utterance in defiance of the system. But he does not. First of all he is not a theatre actor. In this case he is a celluloid or digital image-maker, with the celluloid or bullet as the medium of his craft. Secondly, his intent is clearly from the “practical” and
exploitative point of view, which is the origin of his encodification of his “skyflakes and catfood utterance” in response to why he cast theatre artist. The theatre artist therefore is now like, in this case a literal image of a stuffed cat in biology labs, to which a formulation has been attached.
And the formulation of this taxonomy is: Theatre actor= skyflakes and catfood; this equivalence translates to theatre actor = sustainable production; theatre actor = sustainable product.
Ergo: use them. They’re cheap.
But this brings us to a wider context. The question by a T.V. host posed an opposition of categories regarding casting framed in a question seeking the reason for choosing the theatre artist as cast -- Santos’ reason being, the theatre artist is: 1. Never late; 2. Is content being fed skyflakes and catfood.
Clearly in these oppositions, there are other cultural interventions: the TV./film industry and how it looks down or upon theatre artists; the theatre artists themselves who would still continue to shuttle from theatre to film/TV. --- inspite of being treated in a non-equitable way by the film industry till they get to a star level
as say Eugene Domingo and other theatre people who have climbed to the top. This statement is only a symptom of the greater system of exploitation that occurs in the industry, and the Hobbesian choices theatre artists, writers, directors, are forced to make - between the mouth of Hell and starvation. Theatre artists indeed can be treated differently from the way movie artists are. While there is a reverence for their discipline, there is in fact that other condescending attitude that yes they can be fed “skyflakes and catfood.” Yet we
theatre artists must also admit there are those among us who apart from the love of art, also love the limelight and are willing to sacrifice for this. This does not mean however that the carrot stick swung before our faces of bigger roles and bigger parts, of directing serials and advertisements that lie, carries with it the care and
pandering given to the sexy pussies (who certainly are not fed cat food) and cocks (who do not peck on the crumbs of skyflakes) who strut around the animal farm, where they get propped up in the kliegs and smoke machines, fully powdered and legally blonde or dumb. For directors there will be the fear these cocks and pussies and hopefuls hold for the “direk” a fear of not being cast in the serials, and God and those who play gods on every exploitative strata and hierarchies know what body and soul they will give to get parts. For theatre artists there is no choice. You are given this month, this number of days, and there is no pandering. Also they can change their mind if they have already assigned you shooting days. Or they can always cancel a call or a shoot. Or cancel you altogether.
So I am not in any way surprised that such a statement should come from the mouth of a petty bourgeois mouth, one which is starting his career as a film director. In fact if he were aware of histories in theatre, there was a time when we actors and directors fed on “Styrofoam” as we called that left over “kropek” made from who knows rotten shrimp shells and fish ground and made into cans and cans of neither yellow nor cream colored squares of Styrofoam that you had to down with a coke. Or cracked biscuits in cans, the discards of
factories. And that was termed as “lamay” ---KUNG may kapeng ipakain sa iyo. E yung REP nga ni tubig wala. I and Bibot used to have kape at pan de sal during Lear and Our Town rehearsals courtesy of our own
remembrance and pocket. Dulaang UP has a “Bring your own mug” policy and coffee and whatever biscuits or turn-overs from departmental parties will grace the table shared. Or Beth bless her soul, and Judy Ick and Teroy at World Theatre Project rehearsals would bring Spanish bread and pasta yet! -- kung anong meron, share. But all of these are not “institutionalized” sustainability.
THESE ARE NOT “SKYFLAKES AND CATFOOD” PAMATID GUTOM OR Consuelo de Bobo. THESE SHARING IS GRACE. GRACE, BY WHICH THE THEATRE ARTIST
LIVES.
The statement this utterer of sounds made is only a sign that yes, there is a vast exploitation of theatre artists within the system of stars of the Film industry. I also believe that this statement is a result of the contagion of the inability to express oneself in words with a definite logic of framing one’s answer before speaking. This
process is lost because precisely in the media, this is the way they speak and this has now seeped into the veins and cells of these upstarts who think they are being witty, and has seeped into the cells of the people who will, wala lang, accept such statements, wala lang, accept corruption, wala lang, that a dictator or a general thief of the country should be buried as a national hero, wala lang, that Caparas should be National Artist magaling naman cya wala lang, or the woman who gets hit by the pressing iron by a drunken philandering husband should believe he really loves her and that is the way to express it wala lang. and that wala lang, pinatay ko cya kasi wala lang, at direk sige na kahit na anu gagawin ko talaga? Sige kain ka
wala lang, kain ka ng CATFOOD, tanga!
Wala lang, utter any it's okay, people won’t remember anyway. Wala lang leads to no sense of history, to the malaise of forgetting. WE then allow these horrible myths and lies to grow and become the eventual meaning of our country and our race.
Maybe we theatre artists should also start to reflect, get stronger, and say: NO WE DO NOT ALLOW.
It is time to REFLECT, seek within ourselves why this equivalent of the theatre artist has come up from the vast mouth of ignorance. TIME TO SHOW MUSCLE.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Finally, a screenplay after eons
Yes, one by me, and a friend, Hans Estialbo, is finished after ages and ages. This screenplay for a short had been two years in the making in fact. I still hope it sees film production any time soon--somewhere in between working night and day, being a first-time Kinder mom and a five-year-and-counting wife and housemate.
I don't even know what came over me that day, I just had that urge to again do something I badly wanted to do, create something again. And then maybe that Usana energy pill helped. Or maybe it's the Cannes fever all about. Whatever it was, suddenly the screenplay vein in me popped alive again.
Basti, Bahista tells the story of a slob of a bass player who succumbs to drug addiction, battles with the challenges of unemployment, loses the only precious possession he has in life and then tries desperately to get it back. In doing so, he finds what just might be the true meaning of his life, too.(Not sure if this synopsis actually gives you a picture of anything, but I don't want to spoil it, you know. I mean, if you plan on reading the whole thing at all).
Holler at me if you want a read at it. Or if you want to produce it with me (and Hans if he's still interested).
I don't even know what came over me that day, I just had that urge to again do something I badly wanted to do, create something again. And then maybe that Usana energy pill helped. Or maybe it's the Cannes fever all about. Whatever it was, suddenly the screenplay vein in me popped alive again.
Basti, Bahista tells the story of a slob of a bass player who succumbs to drug addiction, battles with the challenges of unemployment, loses the only precious possession he has in life and then tries desperately to get it back. In doing so, he finds what just might be the true meaning of his life, too.(Not sure if this synopsis actually gives you a picture of anything, but I don't want to spoil it, you know. I mean, if you plan on reading the whole thing at all).
Holler at me if you want a read at it. Or if you want to produce it with me (and Hans if he's still interested).
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