Breakfast @ Noon

2006-12-26T01:01:00.000+08:00

Cobwebs in the weblog.

This blog will be updated soon.

2005-10-06T14:36:00.000+08:00

That toy

I don’t usually do this, but my last column elicited quite a response from readers that I feel I have to acknowledge some of them here.

And I hope you won’t begrudge me this chance columnists sometimes grab, in recognition of their readers’ efforts, in aid of deadline-beating, and with not an inconsiderable dose of self-congratulation.

It was just about a toy made in China, really, and the English instructions (also made in China) that came with it. A good number of readers recognized the great wall I ran into, trying to divine what the accompanying “literature” meant.

Norman Catabug, whose letter found its way to the TalkBack section of this paper, recounted a similar experience he had last year, getting lost in the instructions while installing a Chinese-made smoke alarm. He has since installed it, but wonders, to this day, whether it would work.

Norman, I’m optimistic that it will, and I am told that prayers help. But what I’m more worried about, really, is whether your Chinese-made gadget will give off the international signal for a smoke alarm, or whether its innovative manufacturers have decided to make it talk, and shout a warning instead. Because how would you respond to: “Vaporous system of small particles! Carbonaceous matter emerging! Possible to conflagrate organic material!”?

Brigitte Novabos wanted to “roll on the floor” in laughter reading the column, and remembered her mother buying a Chinese-made toy a few years back, that came with accompanying “literature”. On the package, was written, in a bit of self-advertisement: “Amused! Intersting! Elicitation your wisdom!”

Maybe we should stop calling it literature, because some countries apparently take the word seriously. It’s not enough to call a toy “fun” or “exciting” or “educational”. No, that’s too prosaic to be called literature. It has to be “amused”, “intersting” and “elicitation your wisdom.”

John Kupsch, Technical Director of the Good Housekeeping Institute, of the Good Housekeeping Magazine published by Hearst Publications, found the column “hilarious”. But he hastened to add: “Other than the large comedic value, there could be something here to discuss with our readers.” He meant, of course, readers of Good Housekeeping Magazine. And so, he asked: “Is it possible to send details of the product, e.g., manufacturer, .jpeg or picture of packaging or product?”

So I did. And so to Mengkay, and all the others who were wondering whether I wrote about an actual toy or was just making things up as I usually do, I will upload a picture of the toy and the packaging to my new (and I emphasize “new”) blog, which you can visit at breakfastatnoon.i.ph.

Menchu Ponce, from North Hills, California, swore she “rolled with laughter”, literally, and had to be restrained by her daughter, who worried that the neighbors might call the police. She wrote that it was “comforting to know that the Filipino sense of humor is still alive, in the midst of the crisis confronting the country.”

Of course it’s alive, Menchu. Why do you think we keep importing toys from China?

2005-09-29T09:31:00.000+08:00

Choking hazard

Toys these days are getting more and more complicated.

Last Christmas, my then one-month-old daughter received a toy, and so, dutiful father that I was, I figured I should read the packaging first, so when the time came to teach her, I’d be ready.

It’s been 9 months but I still haven’t figured it out. From time to time, I take the toy from the shelf, bring it to my study and subject the literature that came with it to another round of hermeneutics and logical analysis. This has occupied my mind since, and I’m now concerned that another Christmas is coming in less than three months.

I thought the toy itself promised nothing complicated. It’s made in China, calls itself “Magical Light” and is supposed to light up and play a melody when you push a button. What kind of light? A “different efffeet light!!!” – the extra “f” and the extra “e” and the missing “c” giving you an idea just how different it is.

What I’ve been spending the rest of my life on since last Christmas is the warning label, under the heading “Notice” which advised: “The custodian must be read it as follow.” Custody over my daughter not having been in dispute, I felt alluded to, so I read on.

“No play under 3 years children, so as to eat it.” I am not a genius, but it did not take me more than three months to abandon the idea that this was an invitation to partake of the gustatory delights of “Magical Light”, with its main ingredient, the “special efffeet light”.

“Forbidden small parts leaded into the mouth, so as to lead to stifle.” This was the particular line that I wrestled with throughout the summer months and into the rainy season.

After 10 months, I decided that it sounded like a Japanese poem manufactured in China through some outsourcing scheme that took advantage of the cheap labor. So I have since been consulting Basho and the other haiku poets in hopes of arriving at its meaning.

“No shut battery, resolve or throw into the fire.” How does one resolve a battery? There must be some Zen wisdom here, reminiscent of the poet Buson, advising us to transcend the duality of the battery’s negative-positive polarity.

And even if you cannot figure it out, who would fail to see strains of Yosano Akiko, in her rich, sensuous and erotic lines of the ancient Japanese poetic form of tanka in the warnings that followed?

“Pat attention to forbidden finger hand and clothes insert moving parts.”

“Finger do not insert moving parts gap to so as to lead to danger.”

“Do not cover head and fan with plastic bag so as to lead to stifle.”

Here was accompanying literature that was really literature, and I don’t care if you find it inappropriate that it should be waxing poetic over a piece of plastic that promises to light up and play a melody when you push a button.

Yesterday, I finally showed this to my wife, what I’ve been laboring on for the past 10 months. She began reading the packaging. Then she started laughing. She didn’t stop laughing. She was turning red and gasping for air, laughing.

And I looked at her and I wondered whether this, here, wasn’t the real choking hazard.

SunStar Cebu
29 September 2005

2005-09-25T17:06:00.000+08:00

Not so fast

Perhaps to make up for the shortcuts they have taken in order to make their food fast, fast food outlets have made ordering food a long and winding road. It’s like needing to get married – quick -- and applying for a license without the benefit of a fixer.

That is not entirely true. At least, when you apply for a marriage license, the guy over at civil registry doesn’t ask you: “Would you like some fries with that?” They ask for the usual credentials, sure, but they don’t ask you if you’d like to “super size” your fiancée, for a few pesos more.

Not the chatty type, I have avoided fast food outlets for precisely this reason. (And just so my friends don’t bother with the punch line: It is along this line of reasoning that I have not been avoiding the civil registry.) I actually have a fear of fast food outlets: the noisy welcomes, the perky sales “crew”, the sales pitches, the cross-selling and the up-selling, the loud exchange between counter and kitchen that management feels it is our privilege to hear.

The other night, I tried to get over that fear by confronting it. Surely, I thought, another offer of French fries won’t kill you, if the fries actually will.

I can, I felt, stand my ground. “No, I don’t want fries with my French fries.”

If nature abhors a vacuum, fast food outlets abhor silence. There is this inordinate need to fill every silence – every space in conversation -- with something they feel needs to be said. You cannot, for instance, pay for your order in silence. They assume you are either an idiot, or a sleight of hand magician: “I received P500, Sir.”

And if you so much as made the mistake of handing over a P1,000 bill, a whole production number is laid out for you. “I received P1,000, Sir.” You nod when deep inside you want to tell her “That’s amazing, because that’s exactly what I gave you.”

But that, apparently, is not enough. The “crew” member shouts, at the top of her lungs, “Large Bill!” You look to your left and to your right, wondering whether “Large Bill” isn’t the name of a bouncer who throws out insensitive customers who gobble up all the change. The manager marches in, solemnly, holding a key, holds the large bill against the light, opens the cash register, and walks away, leaving you wondering what that whole drill was all about.

I was prepared for all that when I walked in the other night. I ordered a burger, “not the meal, no drinks, no fries, and no upsizing,” and that sort of perplexed the girl at the counter, who appeared ready with her array of offers. Before she could ring up the register, I gave her the exact amount, to the last centavo, wondering what else she could possibly say, under the circumstances.

Fast food outlets abhor silence. “Thank you for giving me the exact change, Sir!” the girl chirpily cried out. “Enjoy your take-out!”

And just when I was about to walk away in defeat, she called out, for good measure: “Be happy!”

SunStar Cebu
Thursday, 15 September 2005

2005-09-08T17:32:00.000+08:00

Three minutes

If you were wondering why the Constitution prohibited multiple impeachment proceedings in one year, Tuesday should have clearly demonstrated its quite charitable intent. Apparently, it is to protect the sovereign Filipino people from congressmen who have three minutes each to explain their votes.

That’s 690 minutes of speeches, and the framers of the Constitution must have thought that while this country was worth dying for, it shouldn’t be out of sheer exhaustion.

This is perhaps why congressmen call their leader “Speaker”. Even in primitive societies, to the leader usually was attributed the quality to which the herd aspired. For members of Congress, they call their leader “Speaker because that is exactly what they want to be, and preferably for longer than three minutes: the one speaking.

(For largely the same reason, Senators call their leader “President”.)

In fact, the only reason I stayed up early morning Tuesday until late in the afternoon was to see if congressmen could actually limit their speeches to three minutes. This is like “Starting Over”, I said, a reality TV show featuring people who are trying to kick a bad habit and become better persons.

I’m afraid it was too much to ask. Congressmen routinely ignored the three-minute limit as if it were the “No Left Turn” sign on the corner of D. Jakosalem and Sikatuna.

“I am winding up, Mr. Speaker.” By which they meant what a toy would have meant when it said it was winding up. I don’t know how many of them began with “History will judge us…” and then went on and on as if they were actually planning to go on speaking until history did judge them.

If I were the Speaker of the House, I would have gently reminded them that although their arguments were sophomoric, this wasn’t college, that a “Yes” or “No” answer was quite sufficient, thank you, and you didn’t get extra points for long-winded explanations that needed a lot of winding up.

And should members of Congress really show the whole nation that not only could they not agree, their subjects and verbs couldn’t, either? Has the “rule of law” amended the rules of grammar? And -- on the other side -- must we be so unforgiving of lapses in judgment, and so liberal with those of the grammatical kind?

And how many times can one repeat “rule of law” without sounding anal-retentive? And how many congressmen can claim Torrens title over the “search for truth” before you get the feeling that they’re being sanctimonious? I actually feared that the headline the following day would read: “Toilet training prevails; massive manhunt for the truth called off”.

And how could congressmen from opposite sides of an issue quote from the very same Bible, sometimes the very same verses? Does this mean that the Bible is neutral? If that is so, can we say that God, if called to vote, would have abstained or absented Himself?

But that would have put God in a tight fix. Pro-impeachment congressmen would have quickly accused Him of making a deal with Malacañang. Perhaps a relative of His has been appointed to a government post?

Considering how many government officials think they’re God, that is one accusation the opposition would have no problem proving.

SunStar Cebu
8 September 2005

2005-08-04T00:28:00.000+08:00

Security check

On recent trips, I’ve noticed how airport scanners are taking their jobs more and more seriously.

On my last trip, this scanner in Manila actually stopped my bag, ordered it opened for inspected, then scanned again and opened again. He was looking for a “round, metal thing” which he seemed to have seen on his screen.

“What’s that round, metal object in your bag?” he asked, looking at the frozen picture on the monitor.

“I don’t know.” I honestly did not.

That’s when he ordered the second scanning, then the second opening, after which he asked: “What’s that round, metal object in your bag?”

“I don’t know.” I still didn’t.

So he let me go. Maybe he figured that a terrorist would have a more elaborate answer to the question “What’s that round, metal object in your bag?” and that I obviously wasn’t smart enough to be a terrorist.

And maybe he could sense that I was blushing not because I was about to get caught, but because I pack terribly and my underwear always seem to find their way to the top of the heap. That’s the reason I find those x-ray machines terrifying. My stomach turns at the thought of scanners snickering behind my back, making judgments about the kind of person that I am.

I told my wife this, hoping she’d do the packing herself. All she said was that I was so paranoid I should consider a job as an airport scanner.

And have you noticed how, in Manila, their metal detectors are gender-sensitive? There’s one for males and another one for females. I once mistakenly walked through the one for females and the crack security men ordered me to go back and walk through the other one. (The metal detectors looked identical.)

“Why?” I asked. “I just walked through and the alarm didn’t go off. Is it possible that it would on the other side?”

They looked at me with humorless eyes. “Airport policy.”

Which, as a response, was quite disappointing. I sort of expected them to prove that the female body had a higher metal content than the male body. I wanted them to scoff at my ignorance about gender sensitivity vis-à-vis ferromagnetic fields.

But they were curt, and I had to walk through the other metal detector. The alarm didn’t go off. But only because the metal detectors were not sensitive to electric currents emitted by sarcasm and gloating.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad airport security people are taking their jobs more seriously. I was pleasantly surprised that scanners were actually looking at the monitors more closely now, unlike before, when they looked like they were itching for a remote control to change the channels.

My last trip was a week ago. I’ve unpacked my bag, turned it inside out a hundred times, and my wife is beginning to give me funny looks. She wouldn’t understand. I’m scheduled to fly back to Manila next week and I’m sure the first thing that conscientious scanner would ask me after I’d cleared security would be: “Well, sir, what was that round, metal object in your bag the last time?”

And I still don’t know.

SunStar Cebu
4 August 2005

2005-07-28T00:31:00.000+08:00

Don’t ask

I never thought that my eight-month old daughter, who has all of two front teeth (both lower), would soon find reason to gnash them, albeit against her upper gum. But it seems Karmina Constantino has that effect, even on infants.

“Isn’t this a rather early stage to be developing such strong feelings, child?” I asked her, and proceeded, without delay, to e-mail ANC, telling the network about this phenomenon, and how it might consider issuing a parental advisory regarding its morning news anchor.

I didn’t realize what my daughter’s problem was with Karmina Constantino until I had finished writing the long e-mail, sent it, left my computer, resumed my position in front of the TV set, and saw that Karmina Constantino was still finishing the question she had started when I left her.

My baby was frowning, in a way that said, hey, this woman was taxing her admittedly short attention span.

And everybody else’s, it would seem, including her guests’. In that particular interview,
former UP President Dodong Nemenzo, a renowned thinker of quite complicated thoughts, proved no match to the standard Karmina Constantino question. “The question is too complicated,” he curtly replied.

So she began again, on a long and arduous journey.

What is the standard Karmina Constantino question? Let me put it this way: “What is the standard Karmina Constantino question?” is not a standard Karmina Constantino question. It is too direct to the point. It fails to take the interviewee on the extended excursion that Karmina Constantino apparently believes it is her duty to take them.

Let me put it another way: I am actually glad my daughter is frowning. Because while I dreaded the day when I would be asked “Why is the sky blue?” that was before Karmina Constantino.

Now, I’m having nightmares about being asked: “Father, why (and by ‘why’ it is presupposed that I am asking a question and I expect an answer) is this matter (and here, I use ‘matter’ loosely, to include not just ‘matter’ in the scientific sense but also concepts) we call ‘sky’ -- which admittedly is a non-scientific concept but nevertheless suffices for purposes of identification – blue?”

I would, of course, have to clear my throat. “…And before you answer that, Father, I hope you realize that by ‘blue’ I mean a specific spectral color discernable on a chromaticity diagram, excluding other senses of ‘blue’ that have evolved metaphorically in the course of time.”

There ought to be a rule prohibiting talk show hosts from asking a question they can’t tackle in a standard high school sentence-diagramming exam.

But there’s hope. I don’t know if it was because of my e-mail, but it seems that Karmina Constantino has realized that her questions are too long and too complicated that she has come up with a solution. No, her questions are still long and complicated. But now, at least, when she asks a guest a question, she suggests an answer.

SunStar Cebu
28 July 2005

2005-05-05T23:07:00.000+08:00

In dire pre-need

When people ask me if there’s a bright spot in this whole debacle involving educational plans, I readily tell them there is. And it is this: At least, the calls have stopped.

I think I speak for newlyweds and couples under 40 all over the country when I say that since the pre-need companies College Assurance Plan (CAP) and Pacific Plans went belly up, there has been relative peace and quiet. The phones have stopped ringing about a “business opportunity” involving “the future of your children.”

And we’re loving it.

It had become quite a challenge avoiding those pre-need agents. They’re usually friends or relatives (or friends of friends or relatives, and their relatives and friends), and they’re the first to know about a recent birth, a pregnancy or – the earlier birds among them, at least – a wedding.

“Congratulations and Best Wishes. You might be interested in a business opportunity involving the future of that zygote that’s likely to develop tonight, if it has not already.”

And it’s usually tricky trying to talk your way out of it. You try to tell them you don’t really need an educational plan right now, you’re practicing birth control, say. But then they give you this condescending smile, this shaking of the head, as if to say they heard that before, from people who thought they didn’t need any, and look what diploma mills their children are attending now.

And if you ever made the mistake of bringing your baby to the mall, that’s pre-need hell. “Oh, what a cute baby! How old is she, five, six months?” You know, of course, that your friend isn’t really interested to know what developmental stage your daughter is in, or the peculiar parenting challenges that come with it. In his or her head (or at least in that clear book he or she is carrying), there’s an actuarially determined equivalent in premiums, in pesos and centavos.

It had gotten so bad that I had this retort in my head if I smelled a pre-need agent’s ulterior motive in asking my child’s age. “She’s on her sixth month. And I’m glad, because she’s developing sensory-motor skills already. And she’s getting so good at it that I’m thinking of sending her to vocational school after high school.”

I wonder what happened to these pre-need firms. Of the 91 that the Securities and Exchange Commission registered since 1978, half had ceased operations by 2002. Maybe they were too focused on the “pre-need” part of their business that they altogether forgot that – post-need – they would have to pay up.

What do they tell plan holders? “Well, it was a plan. And, as you know, in life, plans don’t always…”?

Or: “Well, you learned your lesson. You can’t say it wasn’t a very educational plan.”

And what about the owners and officers of these pre-need companies? Do they go to hell? Or are they covered by some pre-need memorial plan that guarantees to get them straight to heaven?

SunStar Cebu
5 May 2005

2005-04-23T22:53:00.000+08:00

Papabile

Why do I feel like I was the only one jumping for joy when news came of Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger’s election to the papacy?

Considering the outpouring of sentiment that followed John Paul II’s death, I would say the reception was rather tepid. This puzzled me, because I was in tears when Pope Benedict XVI emerged from the Vatican balcony. Ecce homo, I said: Behold the man who has just given me back the life I thought I had lost forever.

“You are speaking in Latin again.” This would be the wife. She had, for days, laughed at what she called my “paranoid fear of being the next pope.”

I had patiently explained to her that under the rules of the papacy, any “baptized Catholic man, who is not a heretic, in schism or notorious for simony” was qualified to be elected pope and that, at least three times in the past, laymen had assumed the office: Benedict VIII (1012-24); John XIX (1024-32); and Benedict IX (1032-44; 1045; 1047-48).

“What happens then if I did get elected?” I asked. “I don’t think I can take you or my children with me to the Vatican.”

But she had laughed. There she was, about to lose her husband to the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church, and she was laughing.

“The last layman pope was elected 958 years ago,” she said. “They’re going to undo close to 1000 years of history for you? And for what? Just to make you attend mass?”

For days following the death of John Paul II, there were signs everywhere, pointing to the possibility that I was the chosen one. My wife, for instance, asked me why I had a second name, and wasn’t made a “Junior”.

“I was named after John XXIII…” I said, my voice trailing off, my eyes widening as I looked at her, beseeching her once again to allay my fears of losing her for the sake of the Holy Mother The Church.

She just laughed. I was dragging so heavily on my cigarette that she said: “I can’t even breathe in here with all this smoke.”

“White smoke…” I said, my eyes still wide.

Then April 15 came. I had labored to meet the deadline for filing taxes, knowing that Richard Gomez was being prosecuted for failing to. They’re going after tall, dark and handsome men, I said, and by some logic that my mother (and my mother only) would understand, I just knew that I was next.

“I wish I didn’t have to pay taxes,” I told my wife.

“I know,” my wife said. “With what you earn, you won’t be anywhere near contributing to solving the budget deficit.”

I wish I were tax-exempt, I said. “I would be if I were part of the clergy…” My eyes were the widest she’d ever seen it.

But Pope Benedict XVI is here at last. I celebrated with what was left of my money, after taxes. My two daughters were there, horsing around, and I just knew what was on their minds.

“Habemus Papa,” they seemed to be saying. Yes, my dear girls, you’ll have to deal with Vatican’s loss for the rest of your lives.

SunStar Cebu
28 April 2005

2005-04-07T14:18:00.000+08:00

Filipinos rise up

Filipinos are among the world’s earliest risers. Which confirms the suspicion I’ve held for so long that I was born in the wrong country.

The research firm AC Nielsen a month ago released the survey results that officially alienated me from at least two-thirds of my countrymen. Sixty-nine percent of Filipinos wake up before 7 a.m., the survey said, a respectable third to Indonesia (91 percent) and Vietnam (88 percent).

The results were carried in front-page stories of the major national broadsheets. I know, because on that particular day, someone who belonged to the 69 percent strategically spread the broadsheets on the floor when I got out of bed.

It was a bit disorienting, such that instead of the usual “Good Morning”, I kissed her and said: “What’s the margin of error?”

Later accounts have it that I slogged to the bathroom mumbling “methodology”. I was offered coffee and I thanked her by giving her a lecture on “sampling error, non-coverage error, non-response error and measurement error”.

It didn’t work. She said something about whether I knew the difference between the snooze button on my alarm clock and the TV remote control; that maybe I should stop thinking that waking up is just a “commercial interruption” between dreams.

AC Nielsen ruined what seemed to be a plausible cultural reason for waking up late. Now we’re not just lazy; we’re actually un-Filipino. Yes, the Filipino can, so why can’t you?

I’ve worked with alarm clocks all my life. I’ve tried the old ones, the ones that involved actual bells and hammers, but that didn’t work. The distressing noise teaches your body, in Pavlovian fashion, to compensate. Your body clock actually tells you to wake up just moments before it actually rings, so that you can preempt it and go back to sleep.

By the time those electronic alarm clocks started coming into fashion, I was pretty much a hopeless case. The low sound it emitted I actually found hypnotic.

Then the snooze button came. Great. Alarm clocks that are open to negotiations.

So I’m thinking of giving up on alarm clocks, I told her.

“More like the alarm clocks gave up on you.”

A few weeks after that survey came out, came another survey by the Asian Development Bank which showed that the Philippines had the second most corrupt government in the world.

Not only that. The top three early rising countries – Indonesia, the Philippines and Vietnam -- were also the top three most corrupt. When you’re running out of arguments, you see connections everywhere.

So it was my turn to spread national broadsheets on the floor. “So you see,” I told her, “maybe this waking up early business is bad for the country.”

And I glided through the air triumphantly, as if to say – the early birds do get the most worms.

SunStar Cebu
7 April 2005

2005-03-17T14:16:00.000+08:00

Go figure

You tend to rethink your attitude towards alcohol when you wake up and there are black-and-white figures and patterns plastered all over your room, like a hangover rendered on paper, in high-contrast graphics.

“What the…” you whisper, and you stop there, because right above you there’s a checkered flag signaling you to finish whatever it was you were starting.

What’s this all about? Why has this room been invaded by diagrams?

Call it paranoid, you think, but maybe this is the wife communicating symbolically, conveying in visual metaphors where words had apparently failed. Some kind of marital sign language.

That initial suspicion is fed when you see that on the wall to your side of the bed, there are concentric circles with a dot right in the middle. Like a dartboard with a bullseye.

What am I on target for this time?

Let’s see. On your closet is a figure resembling piano keys, white and black. What could she possibly be saying? Notes? Tune? Perhaps you’ve been needing some tuning lately? Chords? Harmony?

You open your closet and in that jumble of articles of clothing, you see that just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean she’s not really going after you. Maybe your wife is making a point about harmony.

This is not good. To your left you see a drawing consisting of two dots and a curve, making up a smiling face. Hey, maybe it isn’t that bad. But it’s part of a three-part series. Beside it, a pattern that looks like a thatched roof. And, to its side, a figure of the setting sun.

Smile. Roof. Sunset. In your mind, there are subtitles: “I’ll be happy if you make it a point to be home by sunset”.

You bury your face in your hands, your shoulders hunched. Bad husband. And while you’re in this state of dejection, the door opens and your wife calls out: “Hey, did you see the patterns I printed out for the baby?”

“Prints…? Baby…?”

“Yes,” she frowns. “Those prints. They stimulate the mind. Create synapses responsible for learning.”

“Synapses…” you say blankly.

“Yes,” your wife says, “especially for math. And it increases concentration skills.”

“I’m sorry, can you repeat that? I wasn’t paying attention.”

“And they calm the baby when she’s bored.”

“Calm? But this dartboard here nearly knocked me out of my senses!”

“They’re supposed to enhance curiosity in infants.”

“Well, it certainly did arouse my curiosity.”

“It’s good for the baby.”

“But I thought they were for me.”

No, she says. It’s too late for that. You’re sort of a hopeless case. Your mother should have printed out these drawings before you turned three.

SunStar Cebu
17 March 2005

2005-01-27T23:03:00.000+08:00

There’s the rub

I would say the Conde Nast Traveler citation was not at all undeserved.

I have not read the citation itself, but I figure that if Cebu was chosen one of the ten best destinations in Asia, it had to be because of our malls.

It doesn’t matter which one. Either of the two major ones will prove the point. You feel it at once: this friendliness; this feeling of being welcome, the moment you walk in.

Actually, just before.

“Good morning, Ma’am/Sir,” the security guard sings. (I guess in these days of blurring genders, it has become necessary to say both “Ma’am” and “Sir” in the same breath. Mercifully, they still omit pronouncing the “slash”.)

How nice. But then security guards hardly stop at obligatory pleasantries. It isn’t enough to welcome you. They feel it their duty to make you feel at home.

And so – words not being enough – they proceed to stretch out their arms, as if to say “Hey, it’s good to have you back”, encircling the middle region of your body, both palms inching closer until they rest on the sometimes non-existent boundary between your hips and your waist.

“Welcome to Ayala Center,” the man in blue says, rubbing your sides to make sure you fully appreciate this supreme gesture of intimacy.

And so awed are you that, if it weren’t for the long queue of people pushing you beyond this zone of friendship, past that table of understanding on which rest handheld radio transceivers and log books, you might have stopped to reciprocate, if only to say: “I’m not sure I got your first name, but say hello to the wife and kids.”

I don’t know how many times I’ve walked into a mall with my head turned back to the security guard, trying to recall that forgotten place and time when he and I became brothers.

I’ve been telling my friends about this wonderful experience at the malls and I’ve been struck by the cynicism that usually greets me. “That’s for security,” they invariably say. They say this with an incredulous look on their faces. “They’re checking if you have a gun tucked to your side.”

How cynical. How sadly it trivializes the tremendous significance of the hip rub.

And it’s not that believable either. I figure if it were for security, how easy it would be – in those few moments it takes for the security guard to stretch out his arms and rest both his palms on your hips – to grab the gun holstered to his own hip. Faster than he could say, “Welcome to SM City Cebu”.

So let’s not be cynical. Let’s take hip rub for what it is, and return the warm and friendly gesture.

I do. These days, when I walk into a mall and the security guard does his thing, I throw my arms up and say: “I know, I’ve grown maybe one or two inches since the last time.” You never call me. Let’s do lunch.

SunStar Cebu
27 January 2005

2005-01-13T22:56:00.000+08:00

My last confession was…

And then you hesitate. Should you tell the truth? But what would the priest say if he learned that the last time you confessed, it was over Vivian Velez? In her prime?

Or maybe you should lie a bit, and then after the priest gives you the go-ahead to recite your sins, you include “I lied, Father”? Would your confession be valid? Is this within the intent of the Council of Trent?

If there’s one sacrament Catholics dread most, it is confession. It’s that “face time” with the priest, you see. It’s embarrassing. It’s so… analog. We have come to embrace the virtual anonymity of the digital world, and here you have to say your passwords out loud.

I remember that a few years ago, somebody suggested confessions by fax. List your sins and transmit them to your priest’s fax machine, and receive penance on yours. Reconciliation and redemption at a baud rate of 9600 bits per second.

Of course the proposal was quickly shot down by the Vatican. It tends to be absolutist on the matter of absolution. You need a personal interview to get a tourist visa to the United States, why shouldn’t you need one to get a green card to heaven?

You’d think that was the last of it, but someone came up with the idea of an ACM. The automated confession machine. If you don’t believe me, look it up on the Internet. And why should I lie? I’m the one who’d have to get some “face time” with some priest if I did.

The ACM is set so low you’ll have to kneel to confess before it. Then you key in your PIN, I guess. What kind of automated confession machine wouldn’t require you to key in your PIN? You don’t want the wrong people to mess with your permanent record in heaven.

Then the machine deftly guides you from one step to the next. Press “venial” or “mortal”. In the “venial” sub-menu, I guess there must be a listing there of minor offenses to choose from. The “mortal” sub-menu has options consisting of the Seven Deadly Sins and the Ten Commandments. You just key in your choices.

At the end of the transaction, the screen flashes your penance. I’m sure it would offer the option: “Would you like a printed receipt?” Then you go home. Forgiven.

If the idea hasn’t been shot down already, I’m sure it will be soon. But you can’t help thinking of the advantages. For one, as concepts go, the computer’s binary logic blends perfectly with the good/evil, black/white dichotomies of our creed.

And it does away with a lot of the arbitrariness that comes with penance. No more: “What? You only got 3 Hail Mary’s? I got 5! How much does it cost to get impure thoughts nowadays?”

The ACM can keep a record of recurring sins, and give you more Our Father’s for repeated offenses. And the Church can set some sort of a credit limit for mortal sins so that incorrigible sinners could have their accounts closed when they draw against an insufficient balance.

Then maybe their ACM cards can be captured so that they’ll have to apply for new ones once they’ve reestablished their credit.

And you can’t lie about the date of your last confession.

Hey. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

SunStar Cebu
13 January 2005

2004-12-23T23:10:00.000+08:00

Claus for alarm

I don’t worry at all that my six-year-old daughter will soon learn that Santa isn’t real. As of Sunday, she still believed him, and this article of faith has been most expensive to her mother and me.

No. That is the least of my worries. Frankly, there are a million other questions about Santa that I dread more.

“Papa, is Santa obsessive-compulsive?” That should be difficult to answer. He makes lists and checks them twice. Normal men don’t make lists, and never check anything twice. Santa, on the other hand, would seem to obsess.

“Papa, wouldn’t you say that Santa has a rather Manichean view of the world?” I would not go so far, my child. But to the extent that he sees everyone in terms of “bad or good” and “naughty or nice”, and acts on the basis of those judgments, let’s just say George W. Bush comes to mind. There is only black or white. The grays don’t get gifts either.

And I will save you the need to ask the question: Yes, my child, it would seem that there are no clear-cut standards of what is “bad” or “good” or “naughty” or “nice”. Santa’s discretionary powers to grant or withhold a bequest do not seem to be, as Justice Cardozo puts it, “canalized within banks to keep them from overflowing”.

Santa Claus, his agents, successors-in-interest and assigns, and all those acting for and in his behalf, such as, but not limited to, Vixen, Blitzen, Pranzer and Dasher, always run the risk of being challenged on the ground of due process.

“Papa, is trespassing illegal in the North Pole?” This is a trick question. This is what lawyers call “laying the predicate”. You know there’ll be a follow-up, and you’ll have to think of a convincing defense for Santa’s rather unconventional means of ingress and egress. “Down the chimney, broad and black, with his pack he’ll creep,” reads rather like the charge sheet in a criminal indictment.

“Papa, under fairly standard stalking laws, wouldn’t Santa be in danger of prosecution?” You would have to clear your throat. How long can you continue defending this man? He sees you when you’re sleeping, and knows when you’re awake. He knows when you’ve been bad or good. He’s a menace, for goodness’ sake.

So you better watch out.

“Papa, why doesn’t Santa outsource his toy-making?” Ah, but, my child, he already uses little people and makes them work round-the-clock, free from scrutiny in the North Pole. Nike and Wal-Mart never had that advantage.

Such difficult questions. You never thought Christmas carols would bring so much anxiety. And not just about Santa, either. It’s the whole Christmas “thingy” that seems to raise so many questions in our kids.

“Deck the halls with boughs of holly/ ‘Tis the season to be jolly,” the song pipes in, innocently enough, or so you thought.

“Papa, did they have Queer Eye for the Straight Guy makeovers in ancient times?” What? Where did this come from?

“Don we now our gay apparel. . .” the song continues.

Hey, kid. We don’t say “gay apparel” anymore. These days, it’s called “metrosexual”.

SunStar Cebu
23 December 2004

2004-12-16T18:54:00.000+08:00

Fair warning

In the first place, why should a pack of condoms come with accompanying literature? That’s why they’re called literature. Men don’t read them unless they’re required reading.

And if they don’t stop men from plugging appliances straight into sockets, anyway, what makes condom manufacturers think situations requiring the use of prophylactics should be any different? It is a superfluity heaped on something that men, deep inside, feel is a superfluity, in the first place.

Maybe the world is just getting so complicated. Manufacturers feel the urgent need to warn everybody about their products, to protect themselves from liability. I once bought a car freshener that carried the warning: “Do not eat!” So I didn’t.

On the manual that came with a flat iron, it said: “Caution: Do not iron clothes on body.” “May irritate eyes,” said the can of self-defense pepper spray. The Christmas lights were tagged: “For internal or external use only.”

And on a box of rat poison, the thoughtful warning: “Warning: Has been found to cause cancer in laboratory mice.”

In all fairness to manufacturers, there must be some segment of the population that doesn’t already know these things but is smart enough to read, and another one that is smart enough to read but don’t already know these things. It may be that twilight zone that is a rich source of tort liability.

Because we are told by several Internet sites, and are assured that this is not apocryphal, that on the body of a Boeing 757, it is written: “Fragile. Do not drop.” Pilots are busy people; they need to be constantly reminded.

So when I heard that condom manufacturers were catching on, I bought myself several packs of different brands. Solely -- if I may just make it clear -- for research purposes. For column material. Not to be used for its intended purpose. I have kept them in their unused state, for evidence.

The most helpful instructions were those of this hip new line of condoms that seems, from its packaging, targeted to the young market. So you can understand the high sense of social responsibility that underlies the thoughtful tip: “How to use: Wear condom before intercourse.”

On the instruction manual that accompanied a Malaysian-manufactured condom that prides itself in being “ultra sensitive” is written: “Don’t return used condoms to the distributor through the mail.”

I will, due to the condom’s “ultra sensitive” nature, withhold this incredulous snicker. Perhaps, in Malaysia, there is this phenomenon we don’t know about. People everywhere returning used condoms by mail. Something we should guard against.

Which leaves me with just one question. What does it say about a condom manufacturer that feels the desperate need to implore people not to return used condoms by mail? What kind of marketing pitch is that? Why advertise the fact that apparently unsatisfied users are resorting to their own return policy?

Let’s just say it doesn’t really inspire much consumer confidence. “Dear Manufacturer: As you can see from attached product…”

But maybe they’re banking on the fact that nobody really reads these things. Me? But I just bought them for research purposes.

SunStar Cebu
16 December 2004

2004-11-18T23:05:00.000+08:00

Help wanted

There must be a lot of earthmoving going on in there.

Which is the only logical explanation, if you’re wondering why a local motel in the northern part of this city has a sign outside that says “Dump Truck Drivers Wanted.”

Which is a great way to advertise your motel, and what a three-hour stay might do to the earth under your feet. So it may not be that funny, after all. So maybe I should just stop snickering.

We tend to underestimate the marketing skills of motels. We don’t expect them to go beyond billboards advertising three-hour specials, with rates shouting for attention as if someone with the urge really stopped to consider the prices.

I am in the grips of passion, Maria, and I know I must have you now, but the other place we passed cost 20 pesos less. Going back on your tracks is unlikely, and not out of superstition.

Looking at those billboards, you’d think they were gasoline stations with pump prices and oil change rates… And maybe I should just stop there because I’m not going there, where the naughty possibilities are about to lead me. Suffice it to say that these are filling stations of an entirely different kind. You don’t have to start zero-zero, Sir. You can pretty much start anywhere you want.

So you can understand how refreshing a “Dump Truck Drivers Wanted” sign can be, marketing-wise. “Guaranteed No Brownouts” was getting a bit old. And a bit odd. People with the urge to enter a motel are worried about power failures of an entirely different kind.

And everybody’s having midnight specials. So that was getting a bit tired, too. And people were beginning to question why a motel should reward people who stay overnight instead of go home, unless it was for stamina. They should be charging these showoffs more and subsidize the rates of those who are honest enough to confess to needing just a short time.

And not one motel has ever taken up the very intelligent suggestion to advertise its great food. That would give people a great excuse for going there, so maybe they’ll stop ducking in taxis when they’re about to make that sudden turn. I went there for the fricassee. It’s like reading Playboy for the articles.

I used to wonder why motels didn’t make themselves more discreet. I mean, why all the lighted signs and billboards to welcome couples who are about to remove themselves from the state of grace? Don’t clients prefer the anonymity?

I got my answer last week and once again, I was wrong about motels. You see, I live in the southern part of the city, and there’s a very discreet motel nearby. If you didn’t know it was one, you’d never suspect it was there. No lighted signs. No shouting billboards. In fact, if you’re going there, you’re liable to miss the entrance. Even in daylight.

Which was exactly what happened to that taxicab we were following along that road. It missed the entrance. In broad daylight. So it stopped in the middle of the street, a few feet from the entrance. It didn’t know whether to back up or to make a U-turn. The cars behind were honking their horns. And the distressed lovers were ducking in their seat.

I know. But the embarrassment was only half the problem. Inside our own car, my wife and I were imagining the conversation of the lovers. We should have gone north, the man was saying. The woman would have none of it: Maybe it’s a sign, my love. Maybe it’s not God’s will.

And you thought a power outage was your biggest problem.

SunStar Cebu
18 November 2004

2004-11-11T17:37:00.000+08:00

Girth control

People who worry that Filipinos are losing their competitive edge in English should just go and buy an abdominal binder. And I recommend this medical supply shop in front of Chong Hua Hospital.

I know. I didn’t know there was such a device myself. Never thought you could grab your flab, tuck your tummy in and hold it all together with Velcro. What a remarkable feat of girth control. Such solid waist management.

Last week, I bought one for someone who had just delivered a 7-pound girl. That 7-pound girl filled this world in such a big way she must have left a big void where she came from. Hence the need to pack the slack and put it all back.

Best of all, it’s from Korea.

At least the one I bought was. Nice, unintelligible characters on the packaging. A picture of a slim Caucasian model who looked like she only needed the abdominal binder to make her waistline look bigger.

Then, a smart looking trademark of a Korean orthopedic company that boasted, in English: “Special in Health Care and Orthopedic Soft Good.”

So there you go. I had purchased not a mere abdominal binder. I had, in my hands, a special “orthopedic soft good”.

So you can understand the complex literature that not surprisingly came with this intricate product. Apparently, for products like this, it is not sufficient to say it is for women who had just given birth. “To use the belly getting weak from numerous pregnancy” is, I guess, more appropriate to the magnitude of this invention.

I read on. “Due to flexible support pad of the product is curved by your body shape, the product makes you be convenient.” I know. You have to read it maybe three times. But I just know that in that purgatory where Korean characters wait to be transported into English, that statement would sound comforting.

Besides, it “protects from rolling for continuous clean.” And it is made of high density sponge, “which is different with general sponge don’t grow its shape smaller or shrink.” And because of that, it contains “fibrils which make air circulate well supply the belly region a suitable compression with itself elastic materials.”

That -- you would have to agree -- certainly makes up for whatever linguistic difficulties you’ve had to contend with so far.

And the possibilities hardly end there. The abdominal binder works “to make warm getting cold in your belly.” “And”, it continues, “also it keeps beautiful silhouette of your body.” How it achieves that without a lot of backlighting, it doesn’t say. Effects not included.

The amazing thing, of course, is that the abdominal binder does this without losing sight of its main objective. Which is – and you will have to bear with the technical language involved here – “to make normalization your belly hanging down more than the other persons.”

So you hand this abdominal binder to its intended recipient. She reads the packaging. You ask: “How’s it hanging?” And she says: “I guess, more than the other persons.”

And you both get a good laugh. A good belly laugh. Such a deep belly laugh your belly hurts from all that laughing.

And then it hits you. Aha. So that’s how this whole thing works.

SunStar Cebu
11 November 2004

2004-11-04T22:58:00.000+08:00

Kerry, that wait

So John Kerry lost.

I sat up the whole day yesterday, waiting for returns to come in from Ohio because it said there on CNN and NBC and even in Fox News that the fate of the whole planet itself hung on whether Ohio voted for Bush or for Kerry.

That, you would have to admit, is reason enough to stay indoors, to skip work and to forego a bath, and to extend a deadline for a column. I care enough about this planet. I didn’t want to be out there, doing inconsequential things, like work, while Ohio messed around with the planet’s future.

But John Kerry lost.

Just when we were having trouble with one of our toilets in the house, and were hoping that a Democratic presidency would provide the best atmosphere for fixing it.

I could have fixed it. I can be your regular handyman when inspiration strikes me. But not -- and let me make that very clear -- not under a Republican administration. All these fittings, these assemblies, these what-do-you-call-these-little-round-things will have to wait, on a matter of principle.

“We waited four years for this victory,” vice presidential candidate John Edwards said, in an effort to justify their refusal to concede. “We can certainly wait one more night.” Tell me that didn’t come like a breath of fresh air. You go, John, I said. And your partner John, too. If this planet can, there’s no reason why this toilet can’t.

But it appears that John Kerry lost. So what do I tell my wife now? That we were short of electoral votes to ensure unhampered flushing in the next four years?

She had prayed hard for a Kerry victory. I just know that. I knew that from the way she looked up to high heavens when there was another light bulb to change that had to wait for a change of administrations.

And when she threw her arms up in the air, as if in supplication, when the doorstopper for the flinging screen door lay there, waiting for George W. Bush’s concession speech.

Or when she bowed her head and closed her eyes when I refused to install the telephone extension because the Democrats had a better plan.

I’m reading her mind and it’s saying: “Nothing’s going to happen in this world unless Kerry wins.” So there. CNN is right. NBC couldn’t have put it better. Fox News is right on the money. The fate of the planet hung on this election.

But Kerry lost. NBC all but said it.

CNN was more cautious. Wolf Blitzer bit his tongue, and so did Larry King. Maybe that’s why my wife tuned in to CNN and hid the remote control, took out the lightbulbs, the doorstopper, the phone extension and the plumbing tools. There was hope in her eyes.

The sight of tools and things to be done moved me enough to say to her: “ Maybe we should switch to NBC now? Tim Russert really made a lot of sense with all those Bush numbers.” But my wife, and the remote control, were immovable. And so were those tools and things.

But Kerry lost. A new direction for this planet will have to wait. We will just have to put this behind us and move on. I did. I went to take a bath and told the toilet: Four more years. Ohio really did you in.

SunStar Cebu
4 November 2004

2004-10-28T18:42:00.000+08:00

The Cinderella curse

Perhaps it was the choice of song.

After all, if there is one song that could potentially set back the anti-violence crusade by at least 50 years, it would be Bato sa Buhangin. Don’t ask me why. Some songs are just like that.

Invariably, they start off with a major 7th chord, the chord of choice being C major 7th. Then, almost imperceptibly, they shift to a minor 7th -- E major 7th, for instance. Then here’s the catch: an unexpected diminished chord, such as an E flat diminished, follows.

And here, you might as well kiss your pending criminal investigation, and the whole criminal justice system upon which society is founded, goodbye.

Or, as a veteran prosecutor I interviewed, and who asked not to be named, suggested: “There is something about Cinderella, and that whole 70’s Philippine pop love song genre that is inimical to the orderly administration of justice.”

Dalawampu and Tajanlangit should have seen that sinister chord progression coming. Salatandre, the defense lawyer, very well knew that nothing muddles a criminal investigation like Bato sa Buhangin. They could have objected soon after “Kapag ang puso’y natutong magmahal…” and well before that harmful refrain.

Department of Justice Secretary Raul Gonzalez, while downplaying the incident, conceded: “But it appears there was fraternizing between the defense and the prosecution. We are looking into that.”

What Gonzalez will never say is that there are disturbing reports that somewhere deep in Mindanao, another criminal investigation was effectively sabotaged after lawyers for the defense successfully lured prosecutors into joining them in singing another 70’s Cinderella hit, T.L. Ako Sa ‘Yo.

The problem, it would appear, is bigger than everybody thinks. Anti-violence crusaders and disturbed radio commentators should not lower their guard against this musical menace that threatens the very integrity of law and order.

God forbid Cinderella’s Ang Boypren Kong Baduy should find its revival in another prosecutor’s office in another town or city in this country. That would truly be disastrous, because heinous crimes are especially vulnerable to heinous songs.

We need proactive measures. If singing in the course of an investigation cannot be stopped, then Gonzalez should at least come up with a play list of DOJ-certified songs. Songs that have been tested in simulated criminal investigations and found safe for use in sing-along sessions between prosecutors and defense lawyers.

This task is admittedly formidable, but should not meet difficulty in enlisting the participation of lawyers, anti-violence crusaders, radio commentators and concerned columnists like me. The problem, after all, is urgent. And it is not everyday that one is given a reason to grab the mike and sing.

As for Favila, the suspect, I’ve reviewed the tapes and listened closely to his performance in this sing-along. I leave his legal defense to his lawyer. But musically, I believe he should have invoked his right to remain silent.

SunStar Cebu
28 October 2004

2004-10-21T23:12:00.000+08:00

Wedding junkie

Admit it. More than once these past few weeks, you spent your weeknight watching somebody else’s wedding on cable TV.

Sure it began innocently enough. There’s no reason to sound so defensive. You were clicking your remote during a commercial break and stumbled on Channel 44, The Party Channel (you believe it is called), and watched, bemused, as the bride began the first day of the rest of her life getting her eyebrows plucked by tweezers in the expert hands of a local genius.

But you stayed longer than you thought you would. So you clicked your remote back to National Geographic to assuage your guilt. Hoover Dam. All that concrete. There.

But then, yes, there’s the matter of whether there would be a dramatic descent down a winding staircase, with a six-foot train slithering behind the putative virgin, like the serpent in the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. So you click back to Channel 44.

And that is how it started, this dependence that threatens to stay forever.

You can’t even explain it. You thought wedding videos were meant to be stashed away, safe from vicious relatives, unimpressed guests and, God forbid, the cavernous mouths of the uninvited. The latter are the most brutal: they remember your names forever, and condemn them to that part of hell on which are written the sequin-and-Styrofoam names they didn’t get invited to see.

Wedding videos are explosive stuff. But here they are, on cable TV. And you’re watching.

And it’s catching on, too. Amid the ratings war between the major television networks, where they’re unleashing weapons of mass media destruction, there’s a low intensity conflict brewing in this region of cable television. You know this region. It’s the South and North Poles of cable. Last I heard, The Party Channel has just dislodged Taiwan TV Shopping, DW Germany and that channel where the computer monitor shows whether the cable signal is strong or weak.

But Channel 44 shouldn’t relax, because the issue of sustainability worries its faithful junkies no end. It should continually reinvent itself if it is to beat the market share of that channel where they tell you what’s on in the other channels.

I’m thinking reality TV. Queer Eye for the Straight Guy stuff. Maybe a panel of men and women who’ve separated from their wives and husbands punctuating each of the weddings’ segments with searing commentary.

“I don’t know how they’re going to live down the embarrassment of that awful gown.”

“Uh-oh. Not too much wiggle room in those vows. Tsk, tsk.”

Or an awards night always makes things more interesting. I think, for instance, that after watching hours of wedding videos, we deserve to know who’s Best in Getting Women to Stand Up and Catch That Darned Wedding Bouquet.

SunStar Cebu
21 October 2004

2004-10-14T17:43:00.000+08:00

Clearing the throat

Oh, I’m so sorry, I thought this was the door to the men’s room.

Or some excuse like that. The sign fell off. I didn’t mean to pop up, uninvited, and invade your morning reading. I meant to knock. I meant to clear my throat. But columnists don’t do that, even if they could. And if I had you wouldn’t have noticed, anyway, because you obviously were as mesmerized as I was about this newly renovated opinion page, lost in thought, admiring the big fonts.

So I’ll just make myself comfortable here, and not apologize for walking in like this with big ideas about how our lives should proceed in light of reports that George W. Bush walked into the second presidential debate with a listening device stuck inside one ear. Why wasn’t it visible? I don’t know. Sound technicians say it’s easy to do that when there’s substantial space between the ears.

Speaking of space, yes, this one here is mine. I was told by my editor that I could put anything here. I haven’t moved all my stuff yet, although my friends say I shouldn’t cram it too much, that I should throw away a lot of the old stuff. They say they were getting kind of tired, you know? These friends. They just don’t understand columnists. We’d been recycling before environmentalists caught on. We beat deadlines by beating dead horses.

Like George W. Bush says “It’s hard work… It’s hard work…” when he doesn’t know what to say. We do that to fill space.

It’s hard work, when you can write about anything. You think of all that blank space to fill, and that blankness fills your mind. The trick is to pretend you can write about anything. My father always said: “Treat a man like an expert, and he’ll act like one.” Imagine how he must feel about my being a columnist. All that irony, lost in transmission from father to son.

I’m sorry: did I say “anything”? No, not anything. I can’t write about local politics. I’m unable to do that due to some congenital condition, something in-born. It’s no big deal, really. It just means I’ll have to dig dirt elsewhere for material.

How long have you been here? No, tell me what it’s like in here. It feels so important. I’m beginning to wonder if all that stuff I’m about to bring here won’t somehow mess up the scenery. I’m going to write about Boy Abunda, after all, and his 100 questions.

I’m going to contemplate on the reasons why they put the payphones near the toilets at Ayala Center and wonder whether they’re somehow trying to create “call centers”, because you go there to make a call or to answer the call of nature. I’m going to compliment that mall for that splendid idea of putting the electric meters of their tenants there, too, to provide entertainment to the men while they wait forever for their wives or girlfriends.

You don’t know? Which way, did you say, was the men’s room?

SunStar Cebu
14 October 2004