Athena's Demitasse

A demitasse is a small cup of black coffee. I only need one to fuel my thoughts, two to make me babble until the wee hours, three to make my left eye twitch and four... (You wouldn't want to know...)

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

020506

On the way to watch a play, Gabriela, I met Kiko in Vargas Museum in UP Diliman for KUHANG MARINO.

I had a bizarre opportunity to get my arms twisted to attend this two-part exhibition, but hell, it was well worth it. (I'd say, here's the other arm, twist it again.)

It was really a big F for Effort to go to Vargas Museum - which, by the way, you have to walk to for a few minutes from the Academic Oval since the week-long carless oval at the University was being implemented. I hate walking - I take cabs from UPCSWCD to Bahay ng Alumni for a cup of coffee. But yesterday - again, walking a few minutes to get to the exhibit was indispensable. (I did try to harass the cab driver to go a few more yards to get to the nearest point, but it was of no use.)

As I entered the museum where I spent a semester during my undergraduate degree for a course in Museology, the warm face of the guard reassured me that my gasping from walking (and self-abusive drinking session of the night before) was going to be well worth it.

Hopping on from this melodramatic ranting of my anti-walking sentiments, I climbed the stairs and entered the exhibit area. There was a big picture on a tarpaulin of a grease filled face of a Filipino seafarer while he was deep in some kind of a cylinder in an oil tanker somewhere at sea.

The first part of the exhibition is a photo documentary by Johannes Ode, a professional Dutch photographer who was commissioned by the Philippine Seafarers Assistance Program (PSAP) to capture the lives of Filipino seamen in some of the world's biggest ship. I learned that photos onboard are rare because generally ship managers do not allow it and also because of the seafarers busy shipboard schedules. (Exhibit text)

He smiled at the camera, taking a second off from work in a look that seemed to me that of hope that he was smiling to his family, telling them he's okay at work. Probably, he is - was - okay at work. He earns more - in dollars - compared to others in the labor force at home. The dollars - which he will not earn in a regular 8 to 5 work in the Philippines - neatly seated in a cold room in the world of Yuppies - all cloaked in plain colored polo in hues of blue with printed neckties and black slacks. The dollars that will provide more than the basic needs in a family of five or more - a good house, cars, education in high end schools, techno gadgets, in fad dogs, flat TVs, full-packed fridge, and everything else that more and mere money can buy. All for the financial comfort in exchange of a life in absolute desolation, the sacrifice of time, and the yearning for your child's smile - everything now seemed priceless.

Immediately, Tito Ricky and Don came to mind. They are probably the two closest (in a sense) people who I know worked/work as seamen. Both of them, in different periods and circumstances, went aboard to work on a luxury cruise. Tito Ricky, Don's father, is now retired in their family's house in Sorsogon and attending to Don's son, Gian - after years of being a seafarer. Don, on the other hand, is bound to leave for his new contract on March 23rd, aboard Royal Caribbean.

Unlike his father, Don couldn’t see himself working as a seaman up until his bones turn weak from old age. In a conversation over the phone, he told me that he didn’t want to be like his father – after retirement his savings was used to renovate their home and build an extension to the house for his children. Now Don is left to support the family. After a few years or so when he has saved enough for him and his family, he planned to start a small business that will be enough to send his kid to school and support the family’s needs.

The big photos of unnamed faces were glossy and bore contradicting realities. Each picture looks back at you as you look at it. Figuratively speaking because it was such taken in a way to speak and move people and literally because of the gloss you look at an unfamiliar seafarer's face with your own reflection staring back at you.

For me, it was an hour tour of the largest ships, introduction to faces without names, loading myself with knowledge of seamen's job onboard, visual representation of the life stories I heard from the seamen I met and known, and a symbolic override of my personal 'onboard' conceptions and misconceptions.

The second part of the exhibit shows the photo's of seamen in their travels abroad and the poetry they have written. My personal favorite was a poem entitled Salungat sa Agos by Ed R. Labao. It speaks of the hard work that seafarers subject themselves to while they fight the social stigma that they were in it solely for the money defying their sense of Nationalism; and the sacrifice of being away from their families for a long time. Some of the poems were published in PAROLA, the newsletter of PSAP. (The poems will be published by Vargas Museum in the coming months.)

The visual and literary component of the exhibit provided the texture to which it was aimed for - I believe so. So when one of the guests asked me how I find the exhibit, he assumed I would say: MAGANDA 'no?. It took me a while to gather my thoughts in an emotional overload. In an impression that I couldn’t find the exact words to describe the exhibit, he started to tell me stories of how happy life at sea actually is – beautiful women in every port, financial stability, change in status of their families, et cetera. It is undeniably a good life, a linear mode of thought I told myself, but I answered in two words: absolute desolation. His face gave an expression of awe, I explained to him that the pictures reflected the sad faces of many Filipinos who were taken away from their families in the optimism that somehow their lives will be better in the future. (May whoever is up there grant them that.)

Tuesday, March 21, 2006


by the beach Posted by Picasa

Salon Scary Story

RRSFM* Scary Story
(October 10, 2005)

After two weeks of social inactivity, not including those confined in my domestic abode, I finally decided that I want to go out. After all, the pain in my back and the fever that I have been suffering from in the past two weeks were (Almost.) gone. So I decided to tag along Dudzki** after he convinced me that having his hair long isn't really his thing. A quick last look at him made me agree that indeed it was time for a haircut. (College rock star days are over, dear.) Although it took a while and a few men’s magazines, before we finally decided to hit the road. (I got to pick which haircut would best suit him. And NO – I am not a connoisseur on that department, so don’t ask why he gave me such a privilege. As much as I am so audacious when it comes to hairdos – or what a few of my friends would call it on me, Hairdon’ts – I seldom get such a sought after chance to pick someone else’s hairstyle. YES, I grabbed the chance as a hungry devil as I am would do.)


Franck Provost's salon in Makati is where the nitpicky Dudzki usually have his hair done. (Makati?! NO!!! Take me to Timbuktu instead. I beg of you. Insist and I will fake a heart attack.) I told him that the long way just didn't appeal to me so I convinced him to have it in one of the salons in SM City. "I used to go with Celso to Ricky Reyes Salon For Men way back in college." That and a few winks did the job. (No lip-licking moments this time. Honest.) So he agreed.


The usual Yuletide Season crowd flocked the mall, which reminded me never to come to this godforsaken place called in contemporary time – The MallEVER AGAIN during this season.

When we got in, the receptionist with some female salon aides in the waiting area looked as bored as expected. (During Christmas season, people will spend money on anything else but a haircut. Or so I thought.) With straight faces they asked, "Sir, anong kailangan niyo?” (Instantly I thought of answering, “Is this where we can get siopao?” For the love of Hades, why ask that? This is in FACT a SALON, right?) I was about to start with my usual oration of sardonic remarks but Dudzki gave me a nudge me and answered, "Yes." (People I often go out with in public places are scared to hell that I might start a fight any moment – with anyone at any cause.)


There was no line for customers at that time. So one aide, ushered him inside "to check the state of his scalp" first (A tinge of promotional shit over here.) on a high-tech gadget of some kind and as expected from the screen shots, he did have dandruff. (Yes. Tell me something I don't know yet! They should have asked first before they went on with it. It would save them time. And Expertise? – Na-ah, I don’t think so.)


This Aide explained how dandruff started with the use of wrong shampoo brand, blah, blah, blah. And (Guess what?! ) in a minute or two, she was endorsing their new 'scalp treatment' and shampoos exclusive ONLY in the salon. (What a lucky day... )


Before Dudzki could even answer, I said NO. (There are people who can’t say no, excluding me.) It's a good thing the aide didn't insist, otherwise it'll be her last day of work and that I can be sure of. (Does Ricky Reyes, after years of 'hair' practice really believe that 'his' shampoo is the ANSWER to dandruff problems? Mother Ricky, think again.)


So Dudzki waited for a while until his name was called. On the seat, I reminded him to be more aggressive with whoever (From this hell hole with a pair of scissors for a pitch fork.) is going to do his hair because - this is RR Salon and the cutters are not exactly devoted to making other people look better. (Believe me, they’re NOT.) In my sour humor I said while pointing a finger to Mother Ricky's life-size picture by the wall, "You might end up looking like Mama Ricky!" (I have to check though if part of their training manual is to make everyone who enters the salon look like their founder – Heavens NO! )


I was a bit scared.


If this haircut fails, it’ll be the end of me with Dudzki when it comes to ‘haircut-must-go’ places. And I did skip one very important detail with the story of tagging along with Celli - he came here to have his shoulder-length hair trimmed by one inch only, which isn’t really very complex for any cutter with good eyesight and two hands. Precision matters more than expertise with this kind of style. But hey, it slipped my mind and Makati is just so damn far. (Poor Dudzki...)


So when his name was called, I immediately asked what kind of person is going to do the job. “Ano ang maggugupit? Babae? Lalaki? O bakla? Kung bakla, maghihintay na lang kami ng available na lalaking maggugupit.” (O Hayop?)


This has nothing to do with being sexist or gender insensitive or whatever. It’s just that I personally believe straight men would be best to cut straight men’s hair. (And I prayed: Please don’t make him look like Ricky. Please.) Don’t worry, that’s not universal. So leave it at that.


The usual process took place, the shampoo before the cut and the haircutting. In betweens, I took a peek and gave Dudzki hand signs to have the rear end shorter and the ‘bangs’ shorter, et cetera. (If my overpowering tone of voice and devil eyes won’t make this cutter listen intently and with empathy as he’s paid for, I would stab him with the nearest sharp thing I could get a hand on.) He did listen. (Some people just know when not to mess with crazed audience and lose a limb.) So I left Dudzki to the care of the barber.


Around this time, the waiting area suddenly became a fiesta of activities. Men between the ages of 2 to 40 years old created a mass at the waiting area.


The baby who came in with his parents and with the latter’s desire to have his haircut today (And not any other day.) started crying, obviously impatient and hungry. I hated his parents instantly. (Torch them to death, I’d say.) These were parents who opted not to bring their baby somewhere else where they can get the baby’s hair done A.S.A.P. without the WAITING! (I started imagining that I could get into the baby’s mind through some cosmic powers and start biting the parents. Or suck their blood dry. Or...) There wouldn’t be a tag that’d make other babies envy knowing that he got it from this salon anyway.


The other guy beside me, who was on the phone when he went in, (And still on it when we left.) was talking to his ‘Babes’ and giving her a monotonous recount of all his rendezvous in SM. (By this time, I had a warm feeling of saying ‘Ohhh’s and ‘Ahhh’s to make him suffer the consequences of his squeaky voice bugging my ear from about 6 inches away. But one look at him stopped me, even for the sake of satisfying my prank addiction, I will never give this guy a chance to listen to my sensual moans. Oh. Did he come here for the haircut or a face job?) And what really got into my nerves was the fact that he started his every sentence with ‘BABES’! (The only guy I dated who attempted to call me with a name fit only for piglets in the entertainment business and furry friends lost his balls. I made him eat it. Just kidding.)


The other guy just right across me was complaining why he was included in the long ‘line’ at all when in fact he was there for a haircut with ‘Julius’. (Bastard. Take your scene elsewhere.) This ‘Julius’, who I assumed was the senior (Superstar?) cutter of the salon, ought to have a different ‘line’ for his customers because this guy sitting across me made a scene out of the whole thing. (Puh-lease...) Nobody can be that good and worth fighting for even in the call of vain over your hair! (For someone who doesn’t care where s/he gets the cut done, I will never make such an atrocious affair tantamount to leaving the house for work oblivious of the fact that he placed his undergarments on top of his pants. Hell-o!?!)

Du’h (To quote colegialas), “Julius” cannot do wonders and make you look pretty, you - YOU ugly piece of muck - you. And the scene you made is an obvious minus pogi points for you. (SWOOSH! NOT. NOT. NOT CUTE.)

Before I could even start untying the straps of my sandals and shove it in the last guy’s ass (Or mouth... What’s the difference?), two youngsters came in. The receptionist asked the same – (Uhm...) – stupid question she asked all of us who were lured in this den of pseudo-haircutters, the two asked the basic question of how much the haircut would cost. (I admired the two for their curiosity for the cost of their future demoralized hair state. That comes on top of the rules when you are entering the hair ward of which you will have a less than 10% chance of getting your hair done well – based on your personal liking.)


And in another minute a family of five – all adults - decided to make a fieldtrip and came in. There were five of them but only one actually needed a haircut (GEE... It made me wonder why some are fond of bringing the whole barangay when only one needs to get a thing done. Spell: TOO CROWDED.) The phone guy with his “Babes” – still romancing his ultra-modern phone moved a bit to give space to “the barangay”. (Cramped in my seat, I had another demonic premonition of moving a few inches to throw the matronic beauty representative of “the barangay” on the other end of the seat to the floor. But I took pity on the plant beside her.) The matronic beauty peered at my feet for more than ten minutes and announced to the whole world that she needed a foot spa. I looked at my feet instantly, conscious of how she suddenly got the idea, and my feet looked back – reminiscent that I’m also in dire need of one. (I wished at this point that I was performing liposuction on her using pieces of straw gathered from the pile of trash in Payatas and put together for that purpose. Or. Chicharon, anyone?)



Before my stronger evil spirit took over me, Dudzki came out with what seemed to be a decent haircut. He paid in the reception area, looked at me to ask how much a tip would be just for the job, I got up and told him to give a hundred pesos. (Was I guilty of casting mean thoughts? NO!) But no sooner than he dragged me out, I told the receptionist that WE WERE NEVER COMING BACK for any service because the place sure was torture. (There’s a weird feeling that the haircut would show its ‘real look’ in a few days that would presage: DISASTER.)


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In two weeks, after all the blow-drying and the gel mutation had worn off from Dudzki’s hair, he begged me (Actually I insisted.) on giving him a trim.


And allow me to say that it was a success. (Come on, he didn’t have to pay for a stay-home cut unlike in salons.)


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* RRSFM – Ricky Reyes Salon For Men, particularly the branch they have in SM City North EDSA – just right outside the mall entrance from the Car Park. (Find the Mall Map, if you are still unfamiliar of this notorious place.)


** Dudzki – not his real name of course, you dummy.


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If you are going there (or to any pseudo-posh and really posh salon), I suggest that:
- you bring a book to keep you from casting death wishes to others,

- the picture of the hairstyle you want if you are too poor at explaining to the idiot savant with the scissors how you want it,

- you take an honest friend who owns a gun along with you (DON’T TOW THE WHOLE ADAMS FAMILY IN) to comment on your choice of hairstyle,

- a waiver stating that you have the right to kill the haircutter if you are dissatisfied with the way it turns out, (And remember to have it signed first, of course.)

- a gun (if your friend doesn’t own a gun) or your kitchen knife to kill the haircutter, (If only you can get through the SM security personnel - but with the lousy way they check the bags, you could.)

- and a phone number of a lawyer who can defend your claim for insanity.



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NOTE: These were just mean thoughts, no animal was hurt in the process.