Cagayan de Oro, a week before the deluge

“In this season of love and kindness, think Cagayan de Oro”

My last night in Cagayan de Oro City last December 10 was a memorable one – and not only because it was raining furiously.

I arrived in CDO, as it is sometimes called, five days before to fair weather. The friendly cab driver, who took me from Lumbia airport to my hotel, however, said it had been raining intermittently all week. He also complained about the pre-holiday traffic, especially in the part of town where I was bound for – near Gaisano Mall.

I spent the next days talking with entrepreneurs in the city, carefully selected for their innovative ways of doing business. I was doing field research for a book on “Product Strategies of Micro and Small Enterprises” to be published by my office, the Small Enterprises Research and Development Foundation. A wonderful excuse for visiting Cagayan de Oro again, if you ask me.

I haven’t told you yet Cagayan de Oro is my favorite city in the South, have I? I have been there thrice before and my experience left no doubt its tagline as “The City of Golden Friendship” is not just empty sloganeering to promote tourism. Its people are gentle and genteel, warm and hospitable, and yes … always smiling. When they say “kamusta ka,” they actually wait for you to answer! Most of the people I talked with during that trip would pick me up at my hotel and take me back or, if I was going someplace else, bring me to my next destination. I always came away  with gifts of their products in spite of my lame protests “I don’t want any freebies, just discounts.”

One of my best and most admirable friends is from CDO. Her name is Loreta Rafisura , a handmade paper maker, social entrepreneur, Fair Trade champion, poet and writer I met on my first visit there some 12 years ago. She is a survivor of two episodes of cancer, the reason, I surmise, she is always in a joyful and thankful mode, constantly looking for ways to reach out to the poor, like putting up a library and computer center for them. We call each other kindred spirits, which flatters me no end. Loreta is why a trip to Cagayan de Oro is to me always something devoutly to be wished for. In this last visit, she coordinated all my meetings with other business women -- Vivian Libao, abaca bag maker of Puyo fame;  Esmer Gabutina who has wonderful ways with sinamay; and Litlit Mejia who parlayed her mom's home-based ham making venture into a modern, globally-competitive manufacturing industry-cum-restaurant chain known as SLERS.

There are other reasons I love Cagayan de Oro and nurture the secret wish to retire there someday. It is  climatically well situated, being outside the typhoon belt. The temperature is almost never harsh, but fairly cool, at an average of 28 degrees centigrade.

It is also one of the most progressive cities in Mindanao, with a thriving industry and trade community. Easily the most famous is Cagayan de Oro’s ham-making and meat processing industry, with 40 producers as of last count. No visitor hardly ever leaves Cagayan de Oro without a package or two of jamon de Cagayan, the most popular of which are Oro, Pines, and SLERS brands.

On my third day in the golden city during that recent visit, I took a bus to Iligan City for more interviews and meetings with entrepreneurs. An hour and half’s ride from CDO, Iligan is another beautiful , prosperous and pleasant place – but that is another story. Let me just say that there, again, I was blessed with sunshine plus a gracious host by the name of Danny Capin, a fortunate combination that allowed me, at last, a glimpse at majestic Maria Cristina Falls, which eluded me on my previous visit to Lanao del Norte.

From meeting the grand dame of Iligan, I was driven straight to the bus terminal to go back to Cagayan de Oro, where I would spend a last night before flying back to Manila the following day.

That final evening in CDO was unforgettable – not so much for what happened as for what took place after.

Up to that time, I was having amazingly good luck with the weather. But when it rained, it poured -- torrentially.

From the bus terminal, I took a cab to the Fair Trade store, along Velez Street, where I had deposited the bulk of my luggage for safekeeping. The rain started as I was having a merienda of jamon de cagayan sandwiches with the young ladies manning the store. After shopping there for more items for my Christmas gift-giving, I was ready to go to my new hotel a block away. As the rain didn’t show any sign of relenting, I accepted one of the girls’ offer to accompany me to the hotel with a big umbrella.

I must have been beat – though I didn’t feel it – for as soon as I hit the bed in my hotel room, I fell into deep sleep. It was dark when I woke up and I could hear the rain had slowed down into a drizzle.
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Ways of skinning the 'CAT'

Fresh high school graduates are awash with thrills and jitters. Graduation is saying goodbye to the best friend, the barkada, the first love or the current squeeze or crush, the favorite teacher, the beloved campus of their youth. It is turning their backs on childhood and irresponsible ways. It is also the excitement of the senior ball, the battery of final exams, the career orientation seminar. The anticipation of yet another phase of student life: college.

As they get ready for college, there is one major challenge they have to hurdle, one that can send chills down their spines. Will they pass the college entrance tests? Will they get accepted to the universities and courses of their dreams?

How did the successful ones do it? Let’s hear it straight from the winning horses’ mouths:

How they did it

Michelle, who made it through the UPCAT and thence to the University of the Philippines (UP) College of Home Economics a few years ago, said she went through a stoic regimen worthy of military cadets. She made sure she spent at least three hours a day for her self-review. She would rise an hour earlier and go to bed two hours later than her usual waking and sleeping schedule. Saturday was the Great Review Day when she would work from break of dawn to the wee hours of morning. Sundays, however was R’n’R day – she needed that weekly break to unwind and recharge.

As Michelle was a self-reviewer, she bought review manuals from a reputable review center which she mastered with a discipline she didn’t know she had. Not content with that, she prepared detailed outlines for all subjects and exchanged notes with fellow self-reviewers – sometimes by phone, at times by Internet chat, occasionally by meeting together for a combined “group study and social” encounter.

Eric, who passed both Ateneo de Manila University (ADMU) and UP entrance tests but finally enrolled at ADMU, partly because he couldn’t imagine himself cheering for other than the Blue Eagles come UPAA season, believed in the minimalist approach.

He took care to study only subjects he was weak in. A constant essay-writing contest winner and an editor of their school paper, Eric felt confident he could breeze through the English grammar portion of the exam – which he did.

However, he knew Math was his waterloo. Abstract reasoning, too, was almost esoteric to him. Thus, he spent time grilling himself in numbers and abstract-thinking exercises. Weekends, he would go to his uncle’s house in Pasig City (Eric lives in Novaliches, Quezon City) and stay there overnight. The uncle would oblige with lessons Eric calls “algebra for dummies.” “He was better than my Algebra teacher,” he gushes about his uncle “he made finding those elusive X’s easy or at least doable for me even if it took me double the time it would for a regular Math whiz to get it.”

Sam thinks he may have luck on his side. He was a student of the UP Integrated School and weekly UPCAT reviews were integrated into their school calendar. He made it to the State University’s College of Architecture. He reckons that during his time, the passing rate of UP Integrated School graduates was about 70 per cent.

Michelle might have worked as hard as never before. She says her mother was also a sigurista who made her take fish oil and ginkgo bulova capsules, said to be great memory aids. She can’t say whether they worked. But look, she made it to where she wanted to be.

Sam’s mom had her own way of “loading the dice” for her son. She and the whole family stormed the heavens. They lighted candles at the shrine of Our Lady of Manaoag in Pangasinan before the exams and went back to light some more when Sam passed. His mom finished countless rounds of novenas to the Sacred Heart before her son began to take the exams.

To each his own way of “climbing the mountain,” or "skinning the... uhrmm ... CAT."

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Grim Tales of Basyang

Tahanan sa Trece Martires, Cavite, nabagsakan ng puno. Mag-ina, patay. Tatlo nasugatan.

Metrorail trains suspended, thousands stranded.

Metro Manila and Luzon plunge into darkness. Some areas to endure two or three days more without electricity.

Ship captain hits head while abandoning ship; 12 barges and fishing boats, sunk, run aground. Captain’s body later found floating in a river at Limay, Bataan.

19 mangingisda hindi na nakauwi matapos pumalaot sakay ang kanilang bankang de motor.

Floods swept away a house in Batangas City, killing two children. Their companions still missing.

- - - - - - -

Tales from Basyang. Unlike the fairytale- like stories the baby boomers of the 1950s and 1960s were regaled with by (Mga Kuwento ni) Lola Basyang, then a popular radio drama series based on the writings of Severino Reyes, this atmospheric Basyang wove grim tales of death, darkness, injury, and destruction. (In 1997, the Lola Basyang stories were adapted on TV with a contemporary twist, starring Manilyn Reynes as Lola Basyang's now grown-up grand daughter out to perpetuate her grand mom's story-telling legacy.)

Typhoon Basyang, internationally code-named Coson, struck Metro Manila and Luzon Tuesday almost stealthily -- like the proverbial thief in the night. Most of the residents of the affected areas were caught flatfooted, clueless that they would be directly hit, and probably expecting only a mild weather disturbance. They were not prepared for the howling winds, the persistent downpour, the sound of rushing floodwaters, the systems-wide power outage -- which for many were quite reminiscent of Typhoon Ondoy that wreaked unprecedented havoc not yet a year ago.

In its latest online news update at 9:58 am, July 15, Inquirer.net reports a death toll that has risen to 23. The fatalities, mostly from areas south of Metro Manila, drowned or were crushed by trees toppled by Basyang’s strong winds.

The figures on the missing also went up to 57, according to the National Disaster Coordinating Center (NDCC). These were mostly made up of fishermen whose vessels capsized or went missing during the storm.

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The 'Tycooning' of the Magbobote (from tindero to taipan)

In Gagalangin, Tondo, Manila, in the time I was growing up, there was a ‘tindahan ng Intsik’ in every street corner, which co-existed with smaller Pinoy-owned shops we called ‘sari-sari’ stores.

Right opposite our house, on the corner of Pampanga and Angat Streets, was a tindahan ng Intsik owned by a man we fondly called Sin Teng. He was a smiling ebullient Chinaman with gold on his tooth and premature silver on his hair, who didn’t stop smiling and glowing even when young boys made fun of his accent and called him ‘Intsik beho, tulo laway.’ He made friends with his suki-housewives who would linger to small-talk him and steal glances at yet another new fair lady beside him – usually from the Chinese mainland who would be sure to speak no Tagalog -- and wait for Sin Teng to introduce her as his wife No. 2 or 3 or so on.

It was from Sin Teng we purchased our daily bread and the isa-singko Spam and Kraft (cheese) slices to eat it with. Same with the coffee and milk and Toddy (a popular chocolate drink) and Coke and Pepsi to chase the bread down with. Mongol pencils, intermediate pad paper, crayola, Manila paper, everything we needed for school – he had stocks of these which never seemed to run out. If someone was sick, we didn’t have to go to the drug store a ten-minute sprint away: we could get the most common medicines from Sin Teng -- Capi-aspirina, Mentholatum, Phillips Milk of Magnesia. Sin Teng runs his shop quite unlike the sari-sari store of Mang Iking and Aling Tonya which was right next door and thus should have been the more logical convenience store, but was almost always inconveniently out of every other thing we needed.

On hind sight, I realize I was witnessing then how the Chinese storekeepers drove their Pinoy competitors out of business; on hindsight too, I know I should have recognized it as a premonition of the future. They bought their stocks in volume so they seldom ran short of stuff and were able to sell cheaper. They mostly didn’t allow credit (or allowed it discriminately and sparingly). Sin Teng didn’t, which was one of few reasons we would sometimes run to Mang Iking and Aling Tonya – on whose wall was clipped several small sheets of paper each of which was labeled with a customer’s name, all caps, underlined. These were in essence yesterday’s credit cards – but for poor people only – for the rich dealt in cash.

Mang Iking would huff and bristle when he spotted one of us headed to his store rather than the Chinaman’s but would still take down the piece of paper with ‘Aling Celing’ written on it – that’s my mom’s name. He would hand us the toyo or suka we needed grudgingly, but not before adding yet another P.50 to Aling Celing’s already number-laden card and not before reminding us sternly to tell our mom that ‘mahaba na ang listahan ninyo.’

But Sin Teng's was the store of choice even if it allowed no credit and even if we had to cross a mean street to reach it. His store was big and wide (easily 5 times that of Mang Iking) and open and well-lighted and welcoming and you didn’t have to knock and shout ‘pabili po’ to be attended to. He sold cheaper than did the Filipino stores like Mang Iking’s. And he would sometimes give us small gifts – I remember ponkan in December and tikoy in February. I guess Mom was special among his customers because she was half Chinese and could strike up a conversation with his wives with a smattering of Mandarin.

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Good News -- not for the balikbayan only

In the 1960s and 1970s, migrating was so easy. Back then, one didn't have to part with an arm or a leg in order to work and live in a rich country. Consequently, half of my high school batch are now prosperous expats living the good life in the United States, Canada, and Australia.

When I meet some of them online or face to face in one of their balikbayan sorties, they frequently ask me: "Why did you stay?"

My patent answer is: "I didn't dream the American dream," with its prideful undertones.

But nearer the truth is: "It never occurred to me to leave." So I say that too.

"But why not," some would insist with great curiosity.

Such probing has led me to an exercise in introspection.

I probably lacked the daring required for someone to leave warm home and hearth to venture to a foreign land where nothing is certain except cold strangers and colder winters. Plus I happened to be so ginawin.

I probably lacked ambition, easily content with the tiny professional niche I managed to build here which brought me much in psychic income but little in material rewards beyond a small home and no-frills amenities. It must be the gift of shallowness, as in mababaw ang kaligayahan.

I probably lacked foresight to think in terms of "next generations" and pro-actively secure a good life for my children and my children's children. Tutulog-tulog -- that's me, to a T.

Could it be, on the other hand, that I define the good life a bit otherly than the Pinoy-everyman does?

Is it possible I have inherent faith in my country and people and by extension in my God. A God I cannot imagine --when pouring out His beneficence -- to distinguish between east and west and between white and brown and black.

This is a faith that is often severely tested by biting realities in this otherwise fair land -- including an economy that wouldn't take off, a body politic that refuses to mature, graft and corruption that have grown endemic.

Goodnewsbalikbayan.com keeps faith with this faith.

This new website invites Pinoy OFWs and expats to come home to Pinas -- virtually or actually, for a while or for good. And come home not only for the umbilical and sentimental ties, but also for more practical reasons.

Like for prospects in real estate, entrepreneurship and other investments. Or for enjoying the spectacular sunsets, culinary feasts and nature trips the best way they can be enjoyed -- in the company of a warm and welcoming people.

And also for connecting with other Pinoys in common passions and advocacies that will burnish the Filipino identity and label.

Goodnewsbalikbayan.com sends out the wishful message that the good life need not be sought elsewhere but rather lived right here in our country.

(Goodnewsbalikbayan.com is edited by Noemi Dado, with Dine Racoma, Annalyn Jusay, AJ Matela, and Annamanila, as sub-editors.)

Paper Chase 1: THINGS I WOULDN'T HAVE KNOWN IF I HAD PAID A FIXER AND HADN'T BRAVED THE LINES AT NSO

·

That people density and air humidity tend to increase in direct proportion to one’s proximity to NSO.

·

That NSO doesn’t have a car park for its public but a block away is a gasoline service station with two or three spaces that seem to be (miraculously) always available.

·

That NSO has bred, around its vicinity, thriving micro businesses that deal in sama-lamig, snacks, ball pen and abaniko, as well as – don’t ask me why -- vegetable and plant seeds, all of which I bought (yes, including the seeds); but that there’s a market demand yet unfilled for smelling salts, tranquilizers, and – now seriously -- “how to transact at NSO” information manuals (hmm … teka nga).

·

That you might really need an abaniko as the old and decrepit and frail have been known to collapse inside, in spite of misting devices at areas where crowds are densest.

·

That going to NSO can sharpen your cunning, resourcefulness, and information seeking -- for how else would you know how to proceed, without information posters, handouts, or desks you do not have to line up for an hour for.

·

That, even as guards valiantly double up as information officers, the best way to get information on how to get your records – especially if you are a special case like I was -- is to get out, call their delivery service number, and talk with a well-informed officer not necessarily only to get your records delivered.

·

That the queues of people are so long that if you come after mid morning you might be given number 4999 when the one currently being served is No. 409.

·

That they will refuse to serve you when you come at mid-afternoon but you won’t know it, if you didn’t ask, until you have already braved some lines.

·

That guards would permit you to enter almost anywhere the place and people would allow you to cut any which line with a smile as long as you brandish a senior citizen’s card, but you won’t know of this happy privilege until you have begun to grow more wrinkles. In other words, seniors don’t need a number, so what was I doing with number 4998?

·

That, in my case, I had to apply for my record, wait two days, and come back to confirm I do not have any record (which I have known all along) and thus what I got was a certificate of “no record” which I carry with me to the city (hall) registry of my birth which in turn will search for my record in their own archives and when they confirm what I tried to tell them (that I don’t have a record) will proceed to late-register me (I am told this will take several months) and then send that late registration to NSO where I have to queue all over again. (I felt – hingal -- rundown writing this, so excuse the run-in clause.)

·

That NSO must like their customers around for why else – instead of flinging the exit door wide open -- do they make it so difficult for them to get out of the premises?

·

That NSO can be an efficiency expert’s dream project.

·

That Filipinos are normally a patient people and that I am not normal.

Watch out for the “city hall” episode on part 2.

Taking Responsibility

"Anna, you got to help. All the rest has said their piece and we have been quiet. They are waiting for us to make a stand."

That was JP, leader of an old and respected professional group in the country -- sounding anxious. He was my former boss and now a good friend.

He wanted me to revise his group's position paper on "a damaged people" that they wanted to publish in the dailies soon.

JP, I told him, how can I help you? I don't understand what's happening. And I don't want to; I refuse to.

That was the truth. That wasn't mere avoidance of more work (though I have a rising hillock of papers atop my desk).

For months, I had insulated myself from the percolating political turmoil. I cocooned myself in my own little world where I was peacefully and blissfully mothering/grandmothering, book writing/editing, maintaining my innocous blogsite, keeping up with my limited social life, and otherwise pretending I was immune to execrable pinoy politics.

"Nope," I repeated as though to convince myself, "I have stayed too long in the cold to warm up to the issue now."

"Just go over our draft, edit it, polish it" -- JP persisted. "Add your own thoughts. We will give you materials, answer all your questions."

JP and I go back a long way. He accompanied me to then Constabulary Chief Fidel Ramos when my father was detained in Crame in the early days of martial law. JP would buy, when I asked, remote control cars and other toys for all my boys during his official trips abroad. In turn, he expected my editing help. He has always been so persistent and pushy in a sweet way, sometimes sending me roses. And he knows, I suppose, in the end I'd find it hard to say "No."

That was how I began my crash course on the national drama series starring Neri, Lozada, Abalos, and the Arroyo couple, with a supporting cast from the Senate, the cabinet, the clergy, the old leadership, the civil society, the military.

"Are we about to oust another president?" -- I kept asking.

"Yes" seemed to be the answer though I didn't hear a categorical affirmation.

"Who's going to take her place?" -- I fretted.

"Lacson is good," JP's friend, a prominent businessman replied. When I made a face, I was promised an email about the good but misunderstood man that Ping Lacson was. Roxas and Gordon's names were also mentioned, but in halfhearted tones.

"What about Bayani Fernando" -- I said. I always thought we needed to be strong-armed, the same way Lee Kuan Yew bullied the Singaporeans.

The more I read the news and commentaries and the more I watched tv talk shows, the less I was able to form categorical judgments. I was unable to unerringly separate the good guys from the bad. I see most of the players in varying shades of gray. I could not tell: Who are on the take? Who are letting themselves be manipulated? hostaged? Who are prevaricating? Who are shielding who and from what? Is there a direct link between the abominable corruption and GMA?

It might be because I am EDSA-fatigued. At EDSA 1, I rehearsed, with other women, confronting imaginary tanks, cajoling imaginary soldiers and offering them real, not imaginary, white roses. (I was disappointed when the tanks didn't show up in our part of EDSA). I got involved too in a near stampede at EDSA 2 where I observe my young daughter who had a mild heart disorder turn from pink to gray and myself about to collapse from lack of air.

Or because of a sneaking suspicion we are character-blemished as a people and that regardless who sits next in Malacanang would sell our national patrimony down the drain as well.

Or because there is something inherently wrong with our political systems that breed leaders with absolute power which of course absolutely corrupts.

I don't know. I am not sure.

The only thing I was sure of, as I wound up my information seeking, was what I have always known before -- that we all take personal and collective responsibility for the rut we find ourselves in.

We felt euphoric after the two EDSAs. After anointing our new heroes and new leaders, we went back to our own little comfort zones and our own little compromising ways, and our own little machinations to preserve our own little status-quos. We all have Lozada's oh-so flexible tolerance boundaries, don't we? -- that point up to which we are willing to compromise our so-called principles. I myself cheered when GMA cheated in the last elections in my paranoia over sending another actor to Malacanang.

That is what I added, not in exact same words, into JP's group position paper.

Yesterday morning, after I submitted the revised paper, JP summoned me to where he and his colleagues were meeting.

When I opened the door, I entered to the clapping of hands.

Flabbergasted, I mumbled lamely there was absolutely nothing new I wrote there.

They said not to worry and that people simply needed to be reminded.

UP Ang Galing Mo (UP Centennial Kick Off)

"Aati-atihan" UP version

Air show by alumni now with PAF

This "caricature" of the oblation danced to shrieks from the audience.

A tribute to ubiquitous ikot jeepneys, boon of student life.

Creative floats from the College of Fine Arts

What is UP life without legitimate protest?

Ang galing mo.

That is the theme of the University of the Philippines' centennial celebration that kicks off today, January 8. I didn't like the slogan much. I thought the UP community could do better than flaunt its tradition of excellence. I'd say that should be quietly treated as a given. But oh well ... it's too late to suggest something more ... uhmmm ... classy.

I don't usually join parades especially one held in the middle of a warm afternoon. But I just couldn't pass this one up. My days at UP are numbered and I am bent to stock up as much memories as I can to last me through the rest of this lifetime.

Anyway, this isn't about me. It's about the parade that will begin a year round commemoration of the 100th year of the school that has cradled heroic types as well as infidels of sorts and those in between; successful people and those not so, given the infinite nuances of the word "success."

Whether or not you identify with UP, enjoy these images of the memorable parade.

My small-scale (UP ISSI) contingent

Famished, thirsty, while waiting for formation.

There are two celebrities in this photo. Can you spot them? (hahaha!)

Photo credits: Annamanila, Mar Valesa, Bernz Villaluna

Wishes to YOU from Rolly thru Annamanila

Don't you sometimes read something and it hits you smack where your tenderness resides? This Christmas message written by Rolly Lampa, my ole high school friend, did it to me.

With Rolly's permission, I pass on these beautiful Christmas thoughts, wishing with all my heart I had written it myself for ALL OF YOU.


Christmastime is always a season of hope …. and a time for wishful thinking. These are the things I hope for and wish for you.

I wish you holidays of remarkable evenness and ordinariness. Not rollercoaster days of emotional peaks and troughs. No ecstasies or tragedies. Just days of quiet. Days you can curl up on a sofa and read a pocketbook or watch an old movie. Days of peace.

I wish you days of long forgotten pleasures – an extra half-hour in bed in the mornings; light traffic all the way to office or to the mall; short queues at the check-out counter; steaming hot coffee or frosty cold beer at the appropriate times of the day; the light of your life wearing a silly old thing that reminds you of a moment in your courtship when you both were young and the world was young with you.

I wish you days of small, splendid joys - the car pulling out from the parking bay just as you happen to turn into the parking lot; the shop assistant/office receptionist actually smiling up at you as you come in; an unexpected email from an old friend; a favorite song you haven’t heard in years now playing on the car radio; the keys or your eyeglasses just where you thought they would be; your kids (or grandkids) rushing in with a garbled greeting and a tight hug and a warm look around the eyes that says they’re actually glad you’re home.

I wish you little nuggets of happiness … the peace-be-with-you moment at midnight mass when you turn around to your loved ones and embrace and kiss each other; the count-down craziness on New Year’s eve; the warm sand on your bare feet at the beach; the tiredness at dusk on an outing that was just perfect. At such times, you get the feeling all is right with the world and the heavens.

Drive safely. Enjoy the year-end break. Be happy. God bless.

Rolly and Lynn Lampa

Ngyok-ngyok-ngyok (dad at comedy barn)

My dear blog friends!

A pre-Christmas treat for you ...

Just click here.

(Alternatively, so you can avoid loading time, go to www.youtube.com, then under "search," type "dad at comedy barn.")

Don't forget to turn up the sound. And please don't choke while watching.

Still ngyok-ngyoking,

Annamanila


Note: Thanks to Juliet, the wittiest and prettiest helper at the internet scrabble club, for tipping me about this site.

A MANTRA FOR EVERY DESPERATION (Whispering Hope)

Nighttime, circa 1990s, Cubao at its most chaotic. At Araneta Center, by the jeepney stop, I was as usual scuffling to get a ride. It was drizzling and I had 10 kg of grocery I had to bring home, which, an hour into the wait, had begun to weigh like a ton of lead. I was starting to feel light in the head with hunger and heavy on the chest with anger. I was being beaten soundly to the climb by younger, more sprightly, more shove-savvy rivals, all desperately thinking of home and dinner.

Time to unleash my secret weapon.

Which is simply whispering:

“Oh, Holy Spirit, thou who makes me see everything and show me the way to reach my ideal ...”

Before I could say “amen,” a jeepney unloaded one -- just one -- passenger right by me, with the other desperadoes out of jostling distance. I didn’t even have to clamber up; I had the luxury to climb royally as though the seat had my name embossed on it.

I call it my “dyipni mantra” and it works like a charm.

I don’t always use this prayer ... only when I get desperate enough. I don’t like to bother the Holy S unnecessarily. And I have this OA scruple about having an unfair advantage over other people.

At the workplace, I am sometimes called an MVP ... Most Voluble Valuable Pahinante. I got that title for doing work in record time and doing it while fussing and fuming.

What they don’t know is that I get not a little help from the great father of all MVPs, my Most Venerated Partner and friend who is always within whispering distance. All I have to do is mumble:

“We’re in this together.”

When I get stuck or blocked writing, I simply tell my MVP: “We’re in this together.”

When I’d get my priorities confused and would rather text-blog or text-twist than text-straight to do a report or story: “We’re in this together.”

When I’d rather go for lobotomy than face an audience for a lecture or presentation: “We’re in this together.”

When I coordinate a big project and Murphy’s “all things that can go wrong will go wrong” law threatens to sabotage my show: “We’re in this together.”

I had this project in Naga last year that required me to meet with 10 peoples organizations and interview over a hundred of their officers and beneficiaries. When I came home I couldn’t make heads and tails of my voluminous notes. Unable to make even just a false start, I was sure I was at a dead end and therefore a very dead duck. Secretly, I began to calculate how much my trip had cost the office and was about to refund the amount so I could drop the project guiltlessly.

But I remembered in time to whisper my MVP mantra. Before the day ended, I had three pages of a rough but coherent beginning of a report.

By far the most powerful mantra I have is the one I reserve for important examinations. This was the mantra I gave my children when they took the UPCAT, the NMAT, the engineering board. It will be the same mantra I will give to a daughter when she takes the LAE next year and to another when she goes for the medical board the year after next.

It has worked 90 per cent and it goes like this:

“God is the light with which I see
God is the mind with which I think
Wherever I am, whatever I do
God is with me.”

I have come to the conclusion there’s no desperation nor worry nor trouble so foul it can’t be whispered away. Whispering hope -- I sometimes call the technique.

I got a few more mantras for other occasions.

“Don’t give yourself too much credit” – for when I find myself about to be convinced I am really voluble and valuable and beginning to strut like a diva.

“Don’t sweat the small stuff and all stuff are small” -- for when I become too much of an old grouch with a gigantic grudge against the world.

“This too shall pass away” -- for when life stinks so badly all the other mantras don’t work.

“What you do for the least of my creatures you do it for me” – for when I feel too imposed upon, drained out, and aid-fatigued.

You -- how do you whisper your woes away?

Unspooked (Nothing to Fear But Fear)

This time of year, people get sorted out into two types.

Those who've seen ghosts and those who haven't.

For all my interest in the occult, I am one of those who haven't.

I work in a building said to be densely haunted, built as it is on what used to be a stretch of killing fields during the "Japanese time." Every other officemate has reported unexplained sightings, soundings, and sensings. And of course, the stories fly thicker and faster as November comes near.

It is always Hector this and Hector that.

Hector is the most popular of our resident ghosts.

Last seen, Hector was walking the office corridors and entering the men's washroom. The only trouble is he snubbed the door and entered directly into the wall. He must have stayed there because even the most macho of our macho men stayed clear of the men’s room all day.

Objects were getting lost all week. Keys, files, mobile phones. Si Hector kasi. Then they are wondrously put back. Si Hector din kasi.

One morning last week, as I came in, there was a crowd huddling by the big glass door. "Look, look," they say, "there’s Hector." Before I could scamper away, someone assured me “... it is just his image.” My less than 20-20 vision could only make out amorphous blotches, even as everyone else saw a silhouette of eyes, nose, mouth on the glass door -- as though the surface was thick with mist and someone pressed his face unaccountably on it. The consensus: “Guapo pala si Hector.”

My own daughter had close brushes with Hector, too. She has espied him in caucus with his buddies by the dimly-lit lounge near the stairway. In my room one night, she saw the main door swing open and then swing close, with no visitor to account for the motion. Since then, she refused to again come up at night unless I fetched her from the ground floor.

One night, many years ago, the reconnoitering security guard heard earnest typing at the director’s office on our floor. A workaholic spirit by all indications, as the click-clacking on the keyboard continued until the small hours of morning. Also an impatient one, because between click-clacks, there was the bang-clang of file cabinets flinging open and pushing shut.

First thing the next morning, sure enough, a computer was seen still running. On the screen was a single word: “Hector.” And that was how the playful phantom identified himself.

Come to think of it, I am the only person in the office willing to work alone late at night nowadays, with only the security guard on the lobby for insecure company. When my friends ask me why or how, I can only mumble: “There’s nothing to fear but fear.”

I don’t know why I am impervious to Hector and his buddies. All I know is that they just do not seem to like me, for why else have they never spooked me?!

I think I am about to take personal offense.

Note:

Last night, at the online scrabble club, I opened a game with the word "S-P-I-R-I-T-S." My opponent in turn answered with the word "S-E-N-S-I-N-G." One of us remarked how our bingos kept with the spirit of November 1st.

And that is how this post got written.

Deciding to be Nice and Other Niceties

Most of those who’ve been around me enough to say they know me think I’m nice.

I am. But mine is more of a deliberate, cultivated kind of niceness. It is one that comes out of a decision -- to be nice.

This is why I am not too nice early in the morning, when I am all impulses and reflexes and coffee hasn’t yet cranked up my willfulnesses. My kids, thus, know when it’s best to approach me for money or a night pass: post meridian or, better still, after sunset.

This is why under pressure, the shrew in me may come out unbidden, leaking carefully sealed toxins. Office colleagues have known to keep a safe distance while I crumble like badly-baked biscuit managing a big project.

My cute-smug reason for willing to be nice: it’s nice to be nice. When you get right down to it, when niceness persists in the workplace, don’t we get more things done? And more pleasantly?

But there are people who are really nice -- by nature nice. No matter the time of day, the season of year, nor changes in personal fortune. Respond to them or rebuff them, they keep going their nice and happy way.

Really nice people know not that they are nice and know not that they know not. So if you think you are, then you are not, or not yet.

I have met some really nice people. They quietly smile and listen. They are accepting of others. They assume people are good unless proven otherwise and they don’t pigeonhole, judge, and indict.

Truly good people are not the glad-handing, horn-blowing-while-do-gooding type. They don’t make a big deal out of their goodness.

When I grow up, I'd want to be truly nice.

Till then, excuse me while I fake it, fake it till I make it.

Ouija and Other Lunch Treats

In the office where I work, lunch is usually something to be done in a hurry. We often gobble down our baon or rasyon, expectant of some after-lunch treat or other.

I suppose I can sort out my working years into seasons -- defined in terms of what we do between 12 and 1, after a wolfed-down lunch.

Crossword-puzzle solving season is as far back as I can remember. Three of us would race to the library in a bid to get to the newspaper first. The one who grabbed it first from its rack got to sit with the newspaper; the others would flank the lucky one, craning their neck at the page, waiting to be consulted.

My brother in law -- bully for him -- who was enrolled at UP would sometimes drop by at lunch time and refused no food or entertainment except a crack at the exact-same puzzle. That's how I came to know in-laws can be pains in the A _ _.

We've had our card-playing days. Name it, we played it. Black jack, red dog, mahjongg (cards, of course), 44, pekwa, ace-deuce, pusoy dos, tong-its. We often played beyond 1 p.m., at which point we'd lock ourselves inside the stock room, never mind that it was 2 x 2 meters big, windowless, airless, and had a mouse or two in residence.

We've had our season with dart games, game-and-watch (remember the handheld brickgames, popeye, octopus?), the rubics cube.

We had a long fling with word games -- scrabble, squabble (a more exciting and provocative version of scrabble), scribbage, big boggle and its local sister, word factory. Hey, I have bragging rights to "word factory" -- do you know? I coined it at the behest of office friends who quit to become entrepreneurs and chose it among a list I gave them, which included word safari, word war, and wordy-word-picker. (I' d have picked the last, wouldn't you?) My prize: Word Factory's first prototype set.

Hard to forget was our Pictionary season. It was rollicking fun and we were all fiercely competitive. Because of it, I willed myself to learn how to draw, but still I was better at guessing the word, but best at stomping my feet in anger and calling my teammates "dense" when they couldn't decipher my sketches. In turn, they wanted me out of the team. Our room shook with our laughing and yelling and jostling.

One afternoon, after a especially lively game, the whole building did shake and move as it had never done before. The quaking lasted an interminable five minutes, which found me petrified on a chair by the phone as officemates took refuge under tables. "Stop na naman, Lord," I recall crying.

Later that night, we learned Hyatt Terraces and Hotel Nevada in Baguio collapsed in the 7.7-degree quake, burying and killing hundreds in the debris... including one office friend who was attending a conference at Hotel Nevada.

It took a week before Joy's body was retrieved. A pall of silence and grief fell on our office and stayed for months. And we never played Pictionary again.

Which leads me to our cabbalistic days with the Ouija board. An office mate had an authentic one, the kind Linda Blair used in The Exorcist. We tried to call the spirits of Jose Rizal, Andres Bonifacio, Ninoy Aquino, John Kennedy, Elvis Presley. Most days, we had on board a lolo, nanay, relative or friend called in from wherever it is they were resting in peace.

Some days, we summoned no one in particular. Some unknown spirit or other would come, manifested by the shaking glass which then started to spell out messages.

One day, an unnamed and unsummoned visitor came. We began by asking for the usual -- name, age, sex, location.

Yes, location. Specifically, we asked: "Are you from heaven or hell?"

The moving glass answered: " H - E - L - L."

We persisted, even as our hands on the glass turned clammy: "How does it feel to be in hell?"

And the glass had an answer that chilled our spine: "C - O - L - D."

That was also the last time we dabbled in spirits.

Note: We watched Ouija (featuring Judy Ann Santos) the other weekend at the cinema. I didn't like it much (read: didn't scare me a bit) but it nudged memories.

Doing a Julie Andrews

No, I can't belt out "... the hills are alive with the sound of music ..." but I can recite, sing-song, my favorite things. Here are a few of them:

Sudden rains tempering a sizzling summer day.

Scent of mangoes ripening, adobo simmering, bread baking, coffee brewing.

A warm corner, corn on the cob and John Steinbeck or Bob Ong on a rainy afternoon.

Sunsets on a picture window in the campus I work in.

Festive sunflowers on University Avenue.

My girls giggling over some deep dark secret and letting me in on it.

My boys looking at my girls with a silly grin and being overprotective with them.

Reading a good story or blog piece; writing one.

A "Q" on a blue and an "I" under and right of it, on a scrabble board.

So ...stand me up, let me down, steal my thunder, rain my parade (or even step on my blue suede shoes) -- I cope, I get by. Simply by thinking, what else -- favorite things.

By the way, what are yours?

It was summer in England ... and the skies lit up and the women cried

"Oh to be in England now that summer's there." *

I was … in England … and it was summer. Not just an ordinary summer, but the most incredible summer for believing in love and its power to endure. Who could have known then that not only England but the whole world was bound to be heartbroken?!

The summer I arrived at Heathtrow, all England was spruced up for a wedding.

I came in the first week of July, 1981 at the behest of the British Council, to attend a summer program on enterprise promotion at the Cranfield School of Management in Bedford, an hour from London.

The program was cool and relaxed. I made friends quickly with the Indonesians, Malaysians, and Latin-Americans in that international group of 40. I was elected vice president – simply because I spoke the best English of the five women in class.

We had weekends off and plenty of time to go around– the Big Ben, British Museum, Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum, and the Westend for some theatre. I peeped into an English pub house, gulped English draft beer and apple cider, sipped tea with cream and 8’oclock mints, and shopped at Harrods. I wanted to go to Stratford on Avon (birthplace of Willy, the bard) or even just Liverpool (cradle of the noble mopheads). But I was told going to those places would take some doing, not to mention British pounds which I was short of.

All too soon, it was time for the wedding. We could have the day off and go to London, our training coordinator announced the day before. I demurred at joining the wedding mob. But I grabbed the chance to go to Hyde Park at its eve – a sort of despedida de soltera for the affianced couple.

Maybe I saw Diana and Charles at the park. Maybe not. It was hard to say from our distance of 20-25 meters from the grandstand.

The most vivid recollection of that night at the park should have been the fireworks -- the most spectacular I have ever seen to this day. But it recedes side by side memories of the women, the English women -- many of them in tears.

"Charlie, oh, Charlie ... goodbye Charlie."

"Charlie, let me have a last look at my Charlie,” a blonde woman about my age, was crying loudly, piggybacked on her husband for a better view of her Charlie – as though Charlie was about to die instead of get wed.

I took it personally when that marriage failed. I took it hard when Diana died

On the 26th anniversary of that star-crossed marriage, I remember the women crying.

* Adapted from:

Oh, to be in England now that April ’s there

And whoever wakes in England sees

Some morning, unaware

That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough

In England—now!

- from 'Home thoughts from abroad' by Robert Browning.

ZZZ Zizzzles on Ztage (Zsazsa Zaturnnah, Camp Theatre)

Zsazsa Zaturnnah Ze Muzical combines bizarre setting, and fantastic good-vs- evil story with the the very real pathos that often underpins gay love.

It is self-proclaimed (or self-confessed) "camp theatre." Indeed, it flaunts homosexuality, plays on the "curious attraction that everyone -- to some degree ... has for the bizarre, the unnatural, the artificial and the blatantly outrageous." (Center of Gravitas)

ZZZ's playbill explains "camp" further:

Ang camp ay pananaw na nagtatampisaw sa artifice (ITSAFAKE), theatricalization (DRAMADRAMAHAN), irony (TARAY), playfulness (HARUTAN), exaggeration (EKSAZH!) at kawalan ng meaning (GAGA-GAGAHAN). (Susan Sontag)

Camp nga ba sya?

There is nothing fake, overly theatrical, playful nor inane when Ada, small-town beauty-parlorista, delivers the opening monologue.

"Sa buhay, may mga pangyayaring hindi natin maipaliwanag. Ang pagsabay ng buhos ng ulan at pagsikat ng araw. Ang pag-aaway ng aso’t pusa. Ang paglaho ng inasahang walang kamatayang pag-ibig. Gayunpaman, tuluy-tuloy ang buhay. .... Tulad ko. Ilang taon ko nang iniisip kung bakit ako ganito. Kung bakit malambot ang galaw ko. Kung bakit matinis ang boses ko. Kung bakit hindi ako…normal. ... Ngunit sa dulo, tinanggap ko na.

Bakla ako."

It is Ada who by some fluke transforms into a Darna-like character -- powerful, brave, beautiful, and babaeng-babae. In her skimpy sequined bikini, s/he basks in being a girl:

Babae na ako! Babae na ako! Mula kilay hanggang kuko! Babae na ako! Ang taray na ng lola! Sa akin nang korona! Tingnan mo… babae na ako!!! (I’m a gherl!) Ang taray na ng lola! (Ang ganda!) Awwww!!!

Ada, now Zaturnnah. then proceeds to fight one evil element after another that invades her village, threatening destruction and death. She doesn't do this by her lonesome but rather by inspiring her kababayan, including Dodong, the village hunk, to rally around her.

AT the end of the skirmishes with a giant frog, rampaging zombies and power-tripping extra-terrestrial amazons, , she and villagers emerge triumphant. But the superbabe is not unbruised. As she licks her wounds, she also nurses a heart broken by what she thinks is unrequited love for Dodong. She is weary, confused, -- and now wants to leave town for the bigger world.

And where is "camp" when Ada poignantly sings out her confusion and heartbreak?

Kailangan nang lisanin ko ang lugar na ito. Sa hawak niya ako’y nasasakal. Kunwari daw tanggap nila ako, pero alam ko’ng totoo. Ayoko na. Ayoko nang mabuhay ng ganito. ... Maiwan man kabiyak ng puso ko. Ano pa nga ba ang bago… nasanay na ako. Sawi na naman. Puso’y duguan ngunit kailangan kong lumisan. ... Talikuran man ang iniibig ko. Ano pa nga ba ang bago … nasanay na ako. Sawi na naman. Puso’y duguan ngunit kailangan kong lumisan

What she doesn't know is that Dodong has learned to love not only Zaturnnah the superbabe but also Ada, the gay parlorista. Ada isn't within earshot when Dodong sings:

Ikaw ang superhero ng buhay ko. Hindi ka man lumilipad, napakalayo ng iyong narating. Nais kong sumama saan ka man magpunta. Hawakan mo ako. Maglalakbay tayo. ... Tulad mo’y nagsimula akong managinip. Ang bugnot kong mundo binuhay mo. Ikaw ang superhero ng buhay ko. Pagod ka man ngayon, ako naman ang papasan sa iyo. Halika na sa piling ko, kita’y iuuwi.

The story ends happily as Dodong follows Ada out of the village amidst a rousing sendoff by grateful townsfolk.

The theatergoer comes away happily too after imbibing heady admixture of camp and soul.

(ZZZ still runs at RCBC Theatre Makati with the following playdates/time: June 15, 16, 22, 23, 24, 29, 30, July 1 - 8 pm; June 16, 17, 23, 24, 30, July 1, 3 pm. Call ticket world 891-9999 and CCP Box Office 832 3704).


Acknowledgment: Gibbs Cadiz, theatre blogger and PDI lifestyle desk ed.

Photo credits: Dine Racoma aka sexy mom, inspiring blogger and friend



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Perfect Moments

Seldom do we see perfection ... or the approximation of it.

We had a holiday the other weekend -- my family and I. We didn't expect much-- just a break from the humdrum.

The two days and one night we spent at Pahiyas Resort in San Juan Batangas were fun . We had a fill of the sun and the ocean. We enjoyed soaking (for me), swimming (for the rest), boating, snorkeling and feasting on the fresh catch that enterprising fishermen sold, cottage to cottage.

I also enjoyed the long walk (and talk) by the beach with an often distant son, never mind if this was prompted by the mundane need to push a heavy dinner down.

But perfect? Hmmm -- nowhere near, and anyway, there was no expectation of it -- from no one of us.

But I have always thought I'd recognize perfection when it stared me in the face.

And it did -- on our way home.

We just had lunch at Kusina ni Salud and were traversing this tiny bridge off Maharlika Highway in Barangay Sta. Cruz, San Pablo City. Looking steadily to my right (as I always do during a ride), I espied a scene down by the river that made me gasp. "Stop, stop," I told the driver (translation: oldest son). After a moment's hesitation, he did, then backed down. "Hey, hey, take a picture, take a picture," I yelled to my aspiring filmmaker-daughter. But she was too sleepy to comply.

I yanked her camera, went down, and clicked away at what I thought were perfectly happy folks in a perfect little place enjoying a perfect moment.

Above is the first stealthy shot, hurriedly and nervously taken.

Uh oh ... here they have begun to notice me!

Finally, a tacit permission to go ahead, click some more ("and publish in your blog").

For the rest of the way home, I lectured my daughter why she shouldn't sleep on a perfect photo opportunity -- until her ears bled.

What's in a Name

Hey there -- friend, blog buddy, or stranger!

Can you tell me your name? Do you like it? Do you feel it's YOU? Why or why not? If it's not you, then what is YOU?

My name is Myrna. No, it's not quite me. What is very, very me is Anna.

Why?

Well, when I was growing up, classrooms always had one too many myrna's in them and one has to distinguish one from the other. As in myrna matangkad (tall) and myrna maliit (shortie) --which is me. As in myrna maputi (fair-skinned) and myrna maitim (dark-skinned) -- guess which is me?

(By the way, there are no more Myrna's being born today. Heck, my daughters don't have a single Myrna-friend. When I ask why, they say .. duh, that's a mommy name. In the same way that the bags I use are mommy bags, the shoes I wear, mommy shoes, my hairdo, mommy do ... ho hum.)

I didn't -- still don't -- like pronouncing my own name. Myrna has this R right smack in the middle. You see, I have this problem with R's.: I can't roll them. The reason I am in horror of introducing myself. The reason I invented my own special tongue twister -- Reliable Lory returned the ruler to the library -- in the hope of straightening my own aberrant speech. Hey, you got to agree it's more challenging than "She sells seashells on the seashore!"

Then I read this book "Mr. God, this is Anna" by Flynn. The story of a girl who instinctively knew God and his bigness and his can't-be-missed-ness. I identified with Anna. And so I was, am Anna, whenever I can choose to be -- even before I noticed it didn't have an R in it.

As a mom, I am careful about giving my children names they wouldn't forgive me for. Like Luddendorffo (the name of the UP registrar), Jesusjosemaria (the mayor of Makati), Majaradithaperpetua (which I only invented).

I am also careful about giving a child a name that would be forever a burden to him. Can you imagine if were responsible for an Aristotle who graduates to be class goat? A Lovely who is a wallflower? An Alexander who's not so great because he scares easy?

I am also careful to give a child a name that is -- you know -- simply "her."

Jennifer -- isn't that a lovely name?! Oh, how I ached to name a daughter Jennifer. But I had five boys in succession ... so you can imagine how that name itched and tingled.

Well, my sixth baby was a girl. But If you think I finally had my Jennifer, think again. When we first eyeballed, mom and baby -- I knew without doubt: "Uh-oh, you're very pretty, but you're not Jennifer."

My husband named her Aleta -- after, say's he, a Greek goddess. I think he meant Alathea. But that doesn't matter, because she IS Aleta.

When she was growing up, she hated her name, too, but admitted she would have hated Jennifer more. Because Aleta had a Ma. before it, she was teased as maleta (suitcase) though she conceded she could have done worse.

Today, all grown up, almost a doctor, tall and brown and (to me) beautiful, she is perfectly content being Aleta. Unique and strong sounding , and "very me" -- she says.

Postlude

"His name was Hugh. Kate had never met a Hugh before. How did one name a baby, defenseless, small and new, Hugh?"

This excerpt from Alice Walker (Now is the Time to Open Your Heart) I used for my 1-2-3 meme which I did quickly but curiously. I wondered aloud what was the point to posting sentences No. 6-8 on page 123 of the book nearest me -- and then tagging other bloggers to do the same, and that was it?!

Prab's mom is right ... everything happens for a reason. Even memes.

Oh, No, Not Ely Buendia (The Poet as E-head)

Hearing in the news Eraserhead Ely Buendia's recent heart attack, I realized how afraid I was of losing this musical icon. (I breathed easy when an update announced he was mending nicely after an angioplasty.)

It isn't just because he is young (36, just about my oldest son's age), popular, talented. Just how talented: hardly in his prime, he has had his band's compositions revived, a tribute preceding that paid to the Apolinario Hiking Society (APO), another iconic band.

It would have been a monumental waste! I mean there should be a hundred more songs inside the guy, blocked arteries, faltering heart, and all. Songs he has yet to compose and sing. Songs which uncannily sound like poetry -- young-sounding yet timeless, pinoy-flavored yet universal.

He sang for the young of his generation, using the "now-language," sometimes the jargon of the streets, occasionally the cusswords of the angry and frustrated as many of our youth are prone to be. All these -- without sounding crass or vulgar, still managing to be lyrical.

He spoke for other love-sick young men when he sang, his guitar whimpering:

Ilang awit pa ba ang aawitin, o giliw ko
Ilang ulit pa bang uulitin, o giliw ko.
Tatlong oras na akong nagpapa-cute sa yo
Di mo man lang napapansin and bagong t-shirt ko.

Freely translated:

How many times will I sing my love
How many times will I reprise my love song
I have been strutting around you for hours
I have on a new shirt .. you looked but didn't see)

In Spolarium, Ely reeks with angst. In turn, we, the sung to, recognized as our own his sense of "stop the world, I wanna get off."

Umiyak ang umaga (hmmmm) -- anong sinulat ni Enteng at Joey dyan
Sa gintong salamin di na mabasa pagka't merong nagbura
Ewan ko at ewan natin sino ang may pakana?
At bakit ba tumilapon and spolarium dyan sa paligid mo?
Ano ngayon, di ko pa rin alam ba't tayo nandito
Pwede bang itigil mo na and pag-ikot ng mundo

Translated:

The morning wept -- hmmm
Erasing the handwriting on the golden mirror
I can no longer read what Joey wrote there.

You and I will never know who masterminded this
Who made the world so colored and yet so broken
Like a painting blown to smithereens.
No, I still don't know why we're here
Somebody, please, stop the world from turning.

The Eraserheads disbanded years ago but they live on as the "one, the only, the irreplaceable Pinoy rockband." Much like the Beatles, to whom they have often been compared. "But thats blasphemy," Ely himself protested in an interview.

I don't think so -- at least, not on the scale John Lennon's "we're-more-popular-than -Jesus -Christ" pronouncement was decades ago.

Anyway, I am just glad Ely is bouncing back nicely. Who knows that the close brush with his mortality doesn't inspire more and better songs? And who knows that the crisis the head E-head met won't trigger the band's regrouping? Hope springs eternal, doesn't it?