ige's ukay-ukay

Look Ma, I'm on TV!

2007-08-02T18:32:00.000+08:00

Watch me answer these questions this Sunday at Pia Guanio's show "Ang Pinaka" to be aired on Sunday, August 5, 6:00 to 7:00 pm, QTV Channel 11.

Katakatakng Kwento (Urban Legends & Historical Hoaxes)

1. White Lady sa Balete Drive
2. Mananangggal/wakwak/aswang in the city
3. Taong ahas sa Robinson’s Galleria; that Alice Dixson was eaten by the snake
4. AIDS carrier na nang-i-inject ng syringe infected with AIDS virus sa sinehan
5. Tasaday Tribe hoax
6. Anak ni Rizal si Hitler
7. Bongbong Marcos is dead; that he has a clone
8. Burger na gawa sa earthworm
9. Siopao na gawa sa pusa
10. Child with a fish for a twin (may kakambal na dalag ang isang sanggol; tinampok sa Eye to Eye ni Inday Badiday)
11. Dugo ng mga nawawalang bata nilagay sa foundation San Juanico Bridge
12. Mga nawawalang bata sa Pampanga, kinuha raw ang body parts
13. 10 Bornean Datus & Code of Kalantiaw hoax (Jose E. Marco's historical hoax debunked by historians)
14. Princess Urduja hoax
15. Rizal is Jack the Ripper
16. Alien Abductions in Mt. Banahaw
17. Yamashita treasure

QUESTIONS:

1. Sa palagay ninyo, bakit mahilig ang mga Pinoy na magpapaniwala sa mga kataka-takang kuwento?

2. Sa pagkakatanda ninyo, paano nagsimula ang kuwento tungkol sa (ITEM)? Ano ang naging epekto o impact nito sa mga tao? Nadiyaryo ba ito? Nabalita sa TV? PInag-usapan? Ginawang pelikula? Kinatakutan? Pinangambahan?

3. Paano napatunayang hindi pala totoo ang kuwento?

4. Paki-rank ang entry from 1-15 batay sa naging impact nito. May gusto ba kayong idagdag sa listahan? Ano at bakit?

Bravo! Indios Bravos

2007-05-18T12:08:00.000+08:00

In September 2006 while strolling the span of La Rambla in Barcelona’s Gothic Quarter, my Partner and I chanced upon a handsome 19th century edifice that I knew to be the old headquarters of the Compañia Tabacalera de Filipinas. Upon entering it’s narrow foyer with vaulted ceiling, I discovered that this 19th century symbol of tobacco monopoly in the Philippines had been transformed into an elegant 4 star hotel—the Hotel 1898.

On further, into the main vestibule, its walls decorated with wide cream and black stripes of raffia and large-scale photo-murals of Ilocano ancestral homes, Cagayan Valley tobacco plantations and Ifugao granary gods, I was delighted to see fine examples of unmistakably modern Philippine-made furniture in rattan, woven bamboo and Cordovan leather. Determined to find out more about this unique find, I struck up a friendship with the concierge, who, having discovered where I came from exclaimed, “Señor, this hotel is dedicated to you. In your country, the year 1898 is a big victory, but for us, it is a reminder of El Disastro, which the majority of Spanish people wish to forget.”

Moving on to the bar, where we ordered Cervesa San Miguel. I suddenly felt an enormous sense of well-being. As a proud Indio, I began to think about Rizal and the Indios Bravos. The Filipino Diaspora it seemed had finally arrived into the 21st century, and of all places in Barcelona, where we are now celebrated and not condemned.

While sipping the cool San Miguel, I allowed my imagination to drift back to one of those mild Spanish winters in Barcelona, visualizing Rizal promenading the La Rambla, while perhaps carrying with him a book to remind him of home: that metrical romance with convoluted plots written in the sweetest Tagalog, Francisco Balagtas’s Florante at Laura. Was it this book that helped him shape an opinion about the Filipino Diaspora while working as a correspondent for the La Solidaridad? Being known as a propaganda newspaper, it is credited by many as having created a nationalist consciousness that eventually helped spark the revolution.

During Rizal’s time, the term Filipino was reserved for Spaniards living in the colony, whether they be creoles, insulares or peninsulares. The rest of the population was known as Indio, Mestizos (half Spanish-half Indio), Mestizo Chino (half Spanish, half Chinese) and Quadrecillos (a quarter of everything). So one is left to wonder what passport our national hero carried during his world travels. Indio perhaps?

Rizal was clearly burgis, not in the strict French bourgeois sense, but class and class struggle was something he always understood. Being artistic and at the same time logical and scientific, social traditions and new ways of thinking excited him. He was cosmopolitan, a man of the world, a seasoned traveler. He moved homes many times, but always wanted to belong—to an organization, a race, and to the global brotherhood of nations. When Rizal reached his teenage years, Calamba became too small a pond to sustain the intellectual stimulation that this big fish longed for, so his parents dispatched him, first to Manila and eventually to Europe to enable him to quench his thirst for the education and information he desired so much.

A century before Filipino overseas workers began peppering the European landscape, a band of “Filipino” students or illustrados had already demonstrated the first signs of collective activity, notably in Barcelona, Madrid and Paris. Their spirited youth, gaiety and pathos were reminiscent of Puccini’s opera La Boheme—totally immersed in romance, artistic triumphs, and political intrigues, complete with a tragic ending. These men, who by living overseas imposed upon themselves a life of veritable self-exile, had strong convictions but were inevitably homesick, always anticipating letters from home. In letters he sent to his brother Paciano, Rizal was known for his constant pleading for his allowance, and in his pocket diary he kept detailed accounts of his expenses for food, lodging and items such ink, pens, paper, candles and books. They conquered their vulnerability and sadness by channeling their energies into nationalist sentiments and creative pursuits in order to further the propaganda movement for the reform of the Spanish colonial administration in the Philippines.

In spite of a longing for family, friends and food from home, the accoutrements that accessorized their existence abroad were fully Western. They certainly had style, and dressed in the finest suites, hats and walking sticks, Rizal and his friends were known as Dandies as they elegantly did their paseos, as proud as any of their European counterparts. In their lighter moments they donned classical Greco-Roman costumes for fancy dress parties, disguised as a sitting in the atelier of Juan Luna. To stimulate their young minds, they engaged in lively debates and participated in fencing; a graceful sport reserved for gentlemen wishing to show-off their tactical psyche and agile physique.

One summer evening in 1884, Rizal who at the time had just turned 23, delivered a toast at a banquet in the Restaurant Inglés in Madrid honoring Juan Luna for winning the gold medal for his painting El Expoliarium and Felix Resureccíon Hidalgo for his silver medal for his painting Virgenes Cristianas Expuestas al Populacho at the Exposition Nacional de Bellas Artes de Madrid. In his rhetorical and florid style, which was fashionable in those days, he conveyed in his propaganda, veiled as a toast, a glowing manifestation on “…how the illustrious deeds of her sons are no longer wasted away at home...” He then compared the two artists to: “…the oriental chrysalis is leaving the cocoon…” The anticipation of the time when Spain finally embraces the Diaspora: “…the dawn of a long day ahead is heralded in brilliant shades and rose-colored dawns…” And he lionizes them to heavens: “…to you are owed the beauty of the diamonds that the Philippines wears in her crown; she produced the precious stones, Europe polished them…” Rizal would have used “world-class”, “our very own” and “yes, the Filipino Can!” if it were the mot du jour. Undoubtedly, Rizal in the beginning was a pacifist and all he wanted was Las Filipinas to undergo colonial reforms that would make it an Overseas Department or a Province. (The complete text of the toast in both English and Spanish can be found in 20 Speeches that Shaped the Nation. Selected and with introductions by Manolo Quezon.)

It was at the time of the Paris Exposition Universelle of 1889, held during the centennial anniversary of the French Revolution, that Rizal’s patriotism reached another dimension. Clearly, Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables and the dramatic storming of the Bastille left an indelible mark in Rizal’s mind and he was fortunate to be in Paris at the time to take part in the celebrations. The main feature of the Exposition was the Eiffel Tower, which served as the entrance arch. An engineering masterpiece by Gustav Eiffel, it marked the end of the Industrial Revolution. Parisians initially loathed the tower but ironically it was later to become the icon of modern France. Across the Seine, the village nègre or the “Negro Village” where about 400 indigenous people were displayed in the form of a human zoo, constituted the major attraction. During this time, Rizal has translated more than thirty pages of Blumentritt’s Memorias on the tribes of Mindanao. At the Exposition, the French composer Claude Debussy was in the audience when an ensemble from Java performed Javanese gamelan music and for sure Rizal heard it too. It probably helped him find the connection.

Upon arriving in Paris two months before the Exposition, Rizal immediately founded the Kidlat Club, the progenitor of the Indios Bravos. In a letter to Mariano Ponce, he proposed that Marcelo H. del Pilar, Graciano Lopez Jaena, Ferdinand Blumentritt, and Julio Llorente should all convene in Paris. It was exacerbated when Rizal learned from Trinidad H. Pardo de Tavera who had arrived weeks later from the Philippines, that life in the country was becoming impossible. Tavera predicted that unless conditions changed, a revolution would occur in the Philippines within ten years.

Paris was undoubtedly the center of the universe at that time. Think of Bas Lurhman’s film Moulin Rouge. It’s bright lights continuously shone and the grand party unyielding. It was teeming with people of all nationalities and races, and Rizal badly wanted to be a part of that global community. In his room at 45 Rue de Manbenge, with unrelenting inspired madness, he continued annotating Morga’s Sucesos de las Islas Filipinas, which he painstakingly copied by hand from the British Library. When he sent his annotations to Dr. Blumentritt for printing in Germany, he requested that the publication of the book be kept secret so as to surprise his compatriots. Dr. Blumentritt lent the illustrados his distinguished scholarship in support of their noble efforts whose aspirations were in complete accord with his liberal spirit. In his dispatches to La Solidaridad, he was urging his compatriots to purchase and read books published about the Philippines and to learn European languages, so they could themselves decipher what Pigafetta and Morga among others had written about Las Islas Filipinas.

It always strikes me as somewhat delusionary (Lourd, is there such a word, from delude, transitive verb) for people to perceive our national heroes as perfect, idealized individuals. As historian Ambeth Ocampo has always espoused, they are not made entirely of stone and bronze. Our textbooks glorify our heroes by venerating them as golden calves, thereby confusing respect with idolatry. For sure their heroic efforts were truly remarkable, but we must never forget that they were human too. With compelling emotions they cried, laughed and loved. They were young, exuberant and passionate, and by embarking on something that was bigger than themselves they eventually succeeded in creating a lasting impression.

If Rizal were alive today, he would undoubtedly frequent the bar of Hotel 1898 and along with Pedro Paterno and Juan Luna would also order Tapas and Cervesa San Miguel. They would perhaps discuss a concept for new magazine, a painting, or a book to be written by Rizal, and designed by Luna, while Paterno would do the business plan. They might even prepare to participate in the Frankfurt Book Fair and who knows, Blumentritt might just show up and pick up the tab. As for the Indios Bravos, I long to gate crash their party at 45 Rue de Manbenge and party all night long.

Weng Weng

2005-12-09T16:10:00.000+08:00

THE FORGOTTEN HERO OF PHILIPPINE CINEMA

In the 80s, Philippine Cinema’s contribution to the world was the micro-superstar Weng Weng. The pint-sized champion’s heroic act was to entertain depressed Filipinos collectively suffering from the madness of Martial Law, economic doom and artistic repression.

Even before Mike Myers conceived Austin Powers, Hong Kong film director Raymond Jury created the 1979 opus For Your Height Only. It had Weng Weng playing the dual roles of Austin Powers and Mini Me. The film had its world premiere on January 1st 1980 at the Manila International Film Festival. The film’s resounding success catapulted Weng Weng to stardom. The film was immediately bought by film buyers from all over, and like Freddie Aguilar’s Anak it was translated in several languages. One US release videotape was allegedly dubbed by a James Earl Jones sound-alike. The film ran in Tonga, Burkina Faso, Solomon Islands, Slovenia, Ukraine, Oman, and Qatar. If it didn’t, it shouldn’t have. The VHS and DVD version are in worldwide release and available on Amazon.com and Ebay.

So who is Weng Weng? Born on December 23, 1952 in Davao City. Wenceslao Wong was the son of a rice trader and a teacher. There are so many myths surrounding his life that it is difficult to distinguish fact from fiction. According to an article that appeared in Kislap Magazine. In 1981m when Weng Weng was seven years old, he had to be carried to school in the backpack of his sister Wing Wing (Rowena). Barely 14 inches in height, his sartorial preferences ran to Ken doll clothes, which he could actually fit in. In spite of his height, he lived a fairly normal life. Except for occasional bullying from his schoolmates, and we all got through that. An excellent student, Weng Weng had a penchant for the dark poetry of Edgar Allen Poe and for Sioktong (a Chinese liqueur that allegedly promotes menstrual regularity). At the Matina Municipal High School, he won the annual Declamation Contest. Being half-Chinese, he also had an aptitude for martial arts and salsa dancing. In his high school yearbook, he was named the class Denny Terio.

It was when he migrated to Manila that things started to get rosy. He lived with relatives in Quezon City and planned to study Dentistry at the Ortañez University. But he soon discovered the bright lights of the city, specifically Timog Avenue, where showbiz personalities hung out. Raymond Jury discovered him singing My Sharona in a karaoke bar, and life was never the same. Note to self: check if there was karaoke in 1979.

For your Height Only is classic camp: so bad, it’s good. Dr. Van Curler, the inventor of the N-Bomb, is kidnapped by syndicate ringleader Mr. Giant. Agent double O (Weng Weng) is assigned to save the scientist, and the world, from doom. He is aided by the voluptuous Irma Alegre, who gets killed in the cross fire. There are lots of derivative gadgets and gizmos copied from James Bond flicks but this is more ingenious. They attach an empty can of mini-fire extinguisher to Weng Weng’s body as a personal propeller rocket, and turn a cheap black Bumbay umbrella into a parachute. If Bruce Lee is famous for his flying kick, Weng Weng has his four foot-kick that directly targets the opponent’s groin.

There were rumors that a local producer wanted to produce a prequel to the blockbuster For Your Height Only. It was to be called Littlefinger. But the negotiations failed and Weng Weng’s receding hairline and deteriorating liver condition caused concern among the producers. The project was shelved indefinitely.

Weng Weng faded into oblivion when the country regained its democracy. He died of cirrhosis of the liver in the mid-nineties. He is survived by his wife and five children. His passing went unnoticed, except for snippets in People’s Journal and Taliba.

But his spirit lives on in every Filipino man, woman and child whom he entertained when they needed it most. The Film Academy of the Philippines should accord him a posthumous award or something. If not for his B-movie masterpiece, Philippine cinema would be a mere footnote in the history of world cinema. Size one. Rent the tape or buy the DVD for 88 minutes of guaranteed fun and laughter, Better yet, see it as a group. You may need CPR.

The Jukebox Kings

2005-12-09T16:09:00.000+08:00

25 centavos, two buttons, and three selections of pure, unadulterated, shallow excitement.

The Jukebox King was proclaimed by the masses. One had to reach a fan base that numbered the gazillion patrons of beer gardens, cabarets, and buyers of 45rpm records from Raon. Musical themes that favored the pretenders to the throne included the following: Philippine history (Yoyoy Villame’s Magellan); physical fitness (again, Yoyoy Villame’s Mag-Exercise Tayo); martyrdom (Edgar Mortiz’s My Pledge of Love); creative adaptations (Fred Panopio’s Kawawang Cowboy); and the soggy romantic mulch of Engelbert Humperdinck’s Please Release Me.

When Videoke King was shown in 2003, I was happy for Robin Padilla because he was finally being repackaged as a comedian, away from the gun-toting, vitriol-spewing, angry young man roles which he became famous for. I personally think that Robin is great as a comedian. He may not be a singer, but he carries a tune as if he were Perry Como. He also has the moves—his stunts and martial arts training translate well in his dance routines.

But his fans were cruel! They couldn’t accept their action hero fumbling like Hugh Grant and singing himself silly in a KTV club. He’s too good looking to be laughed at. Why do we have this notion that comedians should be: 1.) Aesthetically-challenged, as demonstrated by: Aruray, Menggay, Chiquito, Balot, Tange, Champaka and Katuray; 2.) Possessing some sort of physical imperfection and speech impediment, like Oscar “Komang” Obligacion, Doro delos Ojos, Babalu, Babalina, Pugo, Tugo, Palito, Tiya Pusit, Matutina and Pandaka Pygmea; and 3.) Racially different: Ponga (Chinese); Angge, Cofradia and Whitney Tyson, (Blacks); Jerry Pons, Lupito, Patsy, Vic Pacia and later Redford White (Tisoys and Albinos). Why can’t we accept the fact that being funny makes good-looking men more interesting? Frankly, I’d rather date a funny guy than spend my precious hours with a brooding Marlon Brando-ish character who will only practice his method acting on me. Unless he’s Colin Firth. Laughing is good and laughing with a cute guy is even better. Too bad Videoke King didn’t measure up to the fans’ expectations. It was funny, its Warhol-inspired poster was innovative for the market it served and Robin Padilla was so gorgeous, I wanted to buy all the toy guns from Toys “R” Us to impress him into coming home with me.

Why didn’t Videoke King have the same impact as The Jukebox Kings? I think I know the answer. Videoke is a free-for-all slugfest that anyone can participate in, which democratizes music in the process, and therefore there is no such thing as a Videoke King. One can assert oneself as Videoke King till he’s blue in the face, and still only be king within the confines of a KTV cubicle. The minute he leaves, he is dethroned.

On the other hand, the Jukebox King was proclaimed by the masses. One had to reach a fan base that numbered the gazillion patrons of beer gardens, cabarets, and buyers of 45rpm records from Raon. Musical themes that favored the pretenders to the throne included the following: Philippine history (Yoyoy Villame’s Magellan); physical fitness (again, Yoyoy Villame’s Mag-Exercise Tayo); martyrdom (Edgar Mortiz’s My Pledge of Love and Eddie Peregrina’s What Am I Living For?); creative adaptations (Fred Panopio’s Kawawang Cowboy, adapted from Glenn Campbell’s Rhinestone Cowboy); and, lastly, the soggy romantic mulch of Engelbert Humperdinck’s Please Release Me and Tom Jones’ Delilah. His cover versions of the latter earned Victor Wood the undisputed title of Juke Box King. . .until jukeboxes all but vanished from the face of the earth.

The jukebox was a fascinating invention. Just by dropping a 25-centavo coin in the slot, and pressing a combination of keys, you got three selections of pure and unadulterated super-babaw excitement. My favorite combinations were J5, K3 and B11. I didn’t have to look up the index to make my selection, I just pressed the keys and the intelligent machine would pick the records and play them. Those combinations I knew by heart.

One day, my mother sent me to buy food from our favorite Chinese restaurant in Cavite City, Cheffoo. In the restaurant there resided a monstrosity, a Wurlitzer that looked more like a Thunderbird convertible in all its 50s chrome and bakelite splendor, complete with colored lights and shark’s fin details. I nervously inserted my 25 centavos and keyed in my desired combination. To my horror and disappointment, it didn’t play what I wanted to hear. I was heartbroken because it didn’t play Rosita Cha-cha by Esperanza Fabon, Let Me Love You Carmelita by Victor Wood, and Beautiful Sunday by Jojit Paredes. I was livid: My 25 centavos! Gone! I immediately made inquiries about the anomaly. The cashier told me that a man from the payola mafia came by regularly and replaced 10 vinyl discs. When I inquired about my favorites, she told me they were still there, only they’d been moved to different locations.

My obsessive-compulsive disorder dictated that my trip to Chefoo would not be complete unless I heard my favorite tunes. So I did the unthinkable, gambled my last 25-centavo coin, hit the dollar daily double and I won! By this time, the chopsuey, camaron rebosado and fried rice had been neatly packed and were starting to turn cold. I was totally immersed in my melodic delirium. My soul was filled with the melodious harmonies of Espie Fabon, Victor Wood and Jojit Paredes.

That last 25-centavo coin was my fare money. I walked home, oblivious to the danger that awaited me. My heart was bursting from my chest when I reached the front door of our house. My hungry parents were in the dining room, waiting for me and our dinner. I won’t tell you what happened to me that evening. All I can say is that Bantay Bata would have had a fit if they’d existed at the time. My frail little body might have been mangled and distressed, but my soul remains unbroken. Thanks to Mr. Wurlitzer and the jukebox kings.

The Bar Formerly Known as Penguin Café

2005-12-09T16:02:00.000+08:00

True enough, the photojournalists’ strategy and camera blocking for EDSA 1 and the RAM-engineered coup attempts that followed were planned and drafted at Penguin Café. Paging Nancy Collins! Where art thou?

Penguin Café Gallery defined the artistic/bohemian life of Malate in the early 80s. I know that’s a sweeping statement, but it’s the truth. At least my truth, with apologies to the late Ishmael Bernal of “…Gray November” and “Indios Bravos” and to Larry Cruz of Café Adriatico.

Penguin Café Gallery once stood on the insignificant corner of Adriatico and San Andres Streets, until it moved to its present location near the Remedios Circle, in what the überstylemeisters define as the geography of “stylish Malate”: from Nakpil to Remedios (North to South) and M. Orosa to Adriatico (East to West). Anything outside of this imaginary boundary is purely marginal. I’m talking about Penguin in its early days—the fringe and the marginal.

This was the early 80s, the height of the Halakhakan Parties. Larry Cruz was holding court at Café Adriatico as the Sultan of the Circle, establishing his gastronomic empire on the Remedios and Adriatico quadrant. Ernest Santiago, the Emperatriz of the Kingdom of Coco Banana hung on to the bastion of the last days of the disco, and a few blocks away on M. Orosa Street, Virgie Moreno the High Priestess of Poetry and Film performed the Pagdiwata to a group of captive poets in her temple, The Café Orfeo.

Penguin Café democratized European cuisine, fine wine and world music to the “starving artists”. In return, the artists gave Penguin cutting-edge exhibitions and performance art by the likes of Cesare and Jean Marie Syjuco, Peng Olaguera and the late Santi Bose. It was an exciting time. This was the vision of Ami Miciano and Maryann Ubaldo, the two women who conceptualized Penguin Café. Ami and Maryann brought with them fresh ideas for a bohemian- style artist’s café in Manila. The country was then reeling from the effects of martial law and its miasma of mass-media suppression, intellectual stupor and artistic mediocrity. Armed with degrees in Hotel and Restaurant Management and Photography from schools in Austria, Germany and Switzerland, Ami and Maryann were ready to build a spiritual home for artists in the coming years.

I had my first one-person show at Penguin. It was called “Ang mga Pahinang Pinilas mula sa Notebook ni Narcissus-X” (Pages Torn from the Notebook of Narcissus-X). It was a series of personal autobiographical collages photocopied and individually hand-colored with Stabilo highlighter. It didn’t get reviews, much less sales, but I was happy just to show my stuff. Laida Lim-Perez liked it so much that she brought the show to her gallery in Baguio. So it never made a dent in the art scene, I really didn’t care. I was 19.

Penguin was my spiritual home, next to the CCP. I was still in college when I discovered the place through my friend Glenna Aquino. I would go there in my uniform—white polo shirt and jeans, with school props: big bayong bag, T-square, stretched canvas, rolls of tracing paper, etc. What I loved about Penguin was that the people there treated me like an adult. I could drink beer in my uniform, without the bartender harassing me, and participate in adult conversation. I was myself in Penguin, although the older people referred to me as bagets and being bagets meant that I was not to be taken seriously (Obviously the geezers were just bitter.)

Penguin was the center of my universe, the extension of my education, and the elective subject that I truly enjoyed. Its interior had a peculiar smell of musk, coffee and tobacco. It was decorated like a quaint Parisian or an Easter European café—marble top tables, glass globe lamps and ox-blood red upholstery. The prices of food and drink were atrociously cheap: red wine at P4.50 a glass, spaghetti carbonara at P9.50 a plate and bratwurst with fries at P8.50! This was in pre-inflation Manila, when the dollar exchange rate was 14 to 1.

Penguin was like an airport coffee shop. People who dropped by were either arriving or departing. Some overstayed and became part of the furniture, like good old Pepito Bosch, who was the local Pilosopo Tasyo, and the utterly talented Jess Abejo, who could play Rachmaninoff’s piano concerto better than Cecille Licad. May they rest in peace. There was a time when Penguin was a social weather barometer, and the mere presence of foreign photojournalists munching peanuts and drinking San Miguel beer at 6:45 in the evening was enough to give you the creeps. True enough, the photojournalists’ strategy and camera blocking for EDSA 1 and the RAM-engineered coup attempts that followed were planned and drafted at Penguin Café. Paging Nancy Collins! Where art thou?

Penguin was also the place for after-theater drinks. When Oro, Plata, Mata had its premiere in December 1982, the entire cast and crew all repaired to Penguin. Reading the film credits (Jed Arboleda, Gerry Fernandez, Rodell Cruz…) at the 20th anniversary screening of Oro, Plata, Mata set off a wave of memories. I remembered Peque Gallaga and Butch Perez debating about Kubrick. The 21 year-old peaches and cream Joel Torre conscious of his accent, wasn’t shaving yet. Punk-rocker Ronnie Lazaro, looking like Sid Vicious with earrings, safety pins, black torn t-shirt and all, became a regular pilgrim. He eventually met his wife there—Lola, a Spanish teacher at the Instituto Cervantes. Then you had guys from CCP, Ballet Philippines and Bulwagang Gantimpala (people too many to mention) and the defunct Shadow Visual Design Group, whose Neal Oshima, Mark Gary, Jo Chua and Nap Jamir were all regulars.

The place influenced me and my best friend Jake de Asis so much that our tastes can be traced back to the Penguin days. The books we read, music that we listened to, the food we ate, and the friends we made (Grace Amilbangsa, Chito Valenzuela, Jayjay Sevilla) were determined by Penguin. Laurie Anderson, Japan, Roxy Music, Kate Bush, The Clash, The Police, and Talking Heads were the musicians playing the soundtrack of our lives. The scripts were supplied by Still Life with a Woodpecker by Tom Robbins, Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad and the short stories of Yukio Mishima. We were so poor then, we had to invent our own outfits courtesy of the CCP costume department, second hand shoes from Carriedo, and vintage clothing from Bambang. None of us looked homogeneous or pre-packaged like the kids nowadays (Now who’s the geezer)—our personalities surfaced more than our clothes. We were young, we were brave, and we were angst-ridden, but we never had fashion hang-ups or designer brand-related dilemmas.

The highlight of the year for Penguin was the celebration of the Chinese New Year. Pinikpikan, the batik and bongo collective from Baguio, had their first and many gigs at Penguin until they finally decided to become serious musicians. They would play at Penguin’s notorious street parties headed by the resident shaman Pepito Bosch and Boy Yuchengco.

It is a sad fact that Penguin had to close its doors last December 2002. The amount of emotional baggage attached to the place was so enormous, we thought it couldn’t possibly end. True enough, it opened in March 2003 with the same furniture—marble top tables, globe glass lamps and ox blood red upholstery—warm and familiar, but minus the Penguin resin statue and the Penguin Café neon sign. It was rechristened Café Patagonia or is it 604 Café. For me it will always be the Bar Formerly Known as Penguin Café.

PS. Penguin Cafe is once again open for business. It was bought by kind hearted souls who gave Penguin a new lease on life. Meanwhile, Amy Miciano is trekking the Himalayas and jamming with her favorite sherpas. She plans to open another Penguin to a place where snow is abundant.

Lilet’s Little Secret

2005-12-09T15:59:00.000+08:00

Or How Celia Rodriguez made my life worth living.

When I was 10 years old, I was keeping a great secret from my family. It is such a great secret that I know it will be the end of the world for me and I will be killed by both of my parents if they find out that I was playing with a doll. I really felt that it was a criminal thing to do, hiding a doll in a shoebox in a storeroom on the second floor of our house and only me, but me who will know where it is hidden.

The doll is nothing special. In fact, it was from some cheap souvenir shop bought by my cousin in Saigon, when his tour of duty was over, mind you not as a soldier, but as a combo player. My aunt who owned a sari-sari store was a practical and tidy woman. She likes to throw away things that are no longer useful to her. One of the things she threw away was this eight-inch Vietnamese doll complete with a hat and white tunic (Imagine Lea Salonga in Miss Saigon). When she was about to douse a can of kerosene to the dump, the doll sort of talked to me and screamed silently to ask me to save her from my aunt’s wrath. When she lit up the dump and as soon as the fire was stable, she left and I ran towards the burning flame and looked for the doll, and there she was, her beautiful black raven hair protected by the straw hat she was wearing was already ablaze. Her left foot was a convoluted fusion of plastic and charcoal. With a long stick I braved the conflagration and tried to save what is left of the doll. What I saw was a sad and sorry state, a gruesome cocktail of charred plastic, burnt cloth, soil and organic substance clinging to it. Smoke coming out of its missing limb, like the photograph of the little girl in the infamous Tet offensive came to my mind. The doll was sending cryptic messages to me as I took it and hid it from every one else. The horror reminded me so much of Celia Rodriguez when she played Valentina in “Lipad, Darna, Lipad” when Darna shielded herself with a mirror when the lethal laser beam emanated from Valentina’s eyes backfire on her and causing her destruction. I named my burnt little doll “Lilet” in honor of my muse Celia Rodriguez.

Years later, I had the chance to meet Celia Rodriguez in a highly pretentious Japanese restaurant in Greenbelt 3 for a chat. I shared with her oysters and sea urchin in a bed of crushed ice and rock salt for starters. I couldn’t believe my self being seated next to the muse of my childhood. As I place the slimy sea urchin in my mouth, the film projector in my mind suddenly ran a clip from “Lipad, Darna, Lipad”. Celia played Valentina, the Queen of the Reptiles and moonlights as a ramp Model. She was seen walking on the lobby of the Manila Hotel in a turban covered Medusa wig, bare midriff Indian Sari, and on her belly button, a giant Ruby known as the “Star of Bombay” that can blow away suspecting Bollywood wannabees. At the Ilang Ilang Coffee shop, she saw Darna flying across Rizal park and she said, “Sino ba yang Babaing Mababa ang Lipad?”

I was brought back to my senses, when she asked me if I was recording our conversation. I was quite taken aback and got embarrassed, although, I have no intention to use the recorded conversation to blackmail her, it doesn’t really amount to anything. I told her that I’m using the material for a magazine article. Suddenly, there was a glint of excitement from her eyes. “So what do you write about?” She inquired. “Well, I write about dead, has-beens and forgotten people that created a dent in my life.” I said wryly. She then broke to a half non-committal smile.

Of the three antagonists of Darna, Celia Rodriguez has the class and camp factor that’s missing from the other two: Gloria Romero played the smarmy provincial public school teacher Miss Luna / Impakta / Bampira and Liza Lorena as Babaing Lawin that she looks more like a “basang sisiw” than a malevolent she-hawk. At least Celia Rodriguez had provenance and name to match her existence. In the film she was known as Dr. Valentina Vrandakapoor, Ph. D. in Reptilian Zoology from the University of New Delhi. She had to battle the waist-less Darna “mano-mano” in mid-air. Ate Vi had no match with Valentina, especially when Celia donned the Darna costume. She was flat chested, and she also had no waist. Her back is as flat as her front. She could pass for a transvestite, if you don’t look further down. But I think she is well preserved for her age. She may have minute crows feet on the corner her eyes caused by years of constantly smiling for no reason. There was no traces of botox, collagen implant or stitches behind her ears. She has tiny ears like a rat’s. It is so tiny and pointed and cute like a baby Klingon, only to be offset by a stunning sapphire earring that goes bling bling every time she turns her head. Her dyed black hair was a give away. It was so black and sticky as if she used Coke to shampoo it. Or is it the atomic strength hair spray she used that no amount of tsunami would destroy it. In spite of the artifice, she was still beautiful. The red Mac lipstick becomes her. She is obviously prettier than Angelica Houston when she played Morticia in Adams Family Values. I just wish, producers and directors offered her offbeat and challenging roles. She could have played Markova better than Dolphy, I think. She has more depth and the portrayal would be less caricature-ish.

Before Celia Rodriguez’s career catapulted into great heights via Darna, I remember seeing her in two films that defined her career: Celso Ad Castillo’s “Kung Bakit Dugo ang Kulay ng Gabi” where she played a supporting role to Rita Gomez and Alona Alegre as a fashion model (ala “Blow-up”) wearing nothing but original Emilio Pucci and the ground breaking “Lilet” where she collected the FAMAS best actress trophy in 1971. It was a tight race between Celia Rodriguez and Rita Gomez. When Celia’s name was called as the best actress winner, Rita Gomez appeared from the back stage and grabbed the trophy from Celia. A struggle ensued between the two women. Coiffure bashing and make-up scraping were the order of the day. “I am the real best actress!” Says Rita. “No! I am! Give that to me!” Replied Celia. Few days later, the photo of the hair pulling incident was splashed all over the major newspapers and no one bloody cared.

“Lilet,” was a psycho-thriller-film noir directed by Gerry de Leon. De Leon too has won the FAMAS as best director that year. The film was rated for Adults only. Somehow, I managed to sneak to the fleapit, sawali-covered wall of our local cinema in Cavite; it was called GAY THEATER. The film was so frightening that the only thing I can remember is the presence of at least 10,000 black tailor’s scissors in every frame. That led me in embarking on an early career in Haute Couture where I dress up my burnt, limbless doll Lilet in secret, which gave me so much pleasure. To this day, I can’t remember where I hid Lilet for fear that I will be found out. I’m sure my late father buried it somewhere in our garden, which for him was a great effort literally “nipping the bud” before it starts.

From Waikiki with Love: Remember Tom Babauta?

2005-12-09T15:58:00.000+08:00

The star of Strangers in Paradise remained a stranger in paradise.

Tom Babauta. A name immortalized in swardspeak. “Tom Babauta na ako” means “I’m hungry.” “Tom” is short for gutom, get it?

For decades the Philippine movie industry has been graced by foreign “actors” who want to try their luck in local showbiz. In the 60’s you had John Saxon, who appeared as the token Caucasian in movies like El Pinoy Matador, a Dolphy movie shot entirely in Spain; and the Pinoy spaghetti western Sergio Leone take-offs starring Chiquito. In the 70’s you had Sajid Khan, an Indian looker who appeared in mindless romantic comedies with Nora Aunor and Vilma Santos. His career in the Philippines didn’t last long because Filipinos are inherently racist and not very keen on actors who have dark skin. He was displaced in the public’s affections by Junior the American singer.

In the 80’s you had Tom Babauta, whose talent hung delicately on his cheekbones, triceps and his “big kahuna.” We don’t exactly know his progeny but legend has it that he was model for the original “Malakas” cracking out of a bamboo pole as depicted in the mural by Botong Francisco at the Manila Film Center. “Maganda,” on the other hand was supposedly modeled after the body of Coca Nicolas and
the face of Imelda Marcos. I don’t know if this mural still exists; maybe it’s hanging in the dining room of some fallen PCGG commissioner.

This ball-scratching monosyllabic dude was a dreamboat for casting couch directors. Rumor had it that he would do anything for a sandwich. His notable talents included: hula war dancing, baton twirling with fire on both ends, greased tightrope walking, lying on nails and broken glass, and last but not the least, fire-eating. Tom was so sought-after that Mother Lily made a series of Hawaiian-themed movies with social commentaries on Fil-American cross-cultural issues. At least there was a sense of authenticity when he was cast in these films. Another rumor was that his family was not
from Hawaii, but the Northern Marianas (The elected Governor of
Northern Marianas bears the name of Juan Babauta.). What the heck, no one will know the difference.

Tom Babauta had so much promise, and his career remained a promise. He appeared with Snooky in Strangers in Paradise. Then he starred with Rio Locsin in Waikiki , which propelled him to oblivion. From time to time he appeared in dramas and variety shows, notably in Lovingly Yours, Helen, where he played a balikbayan GI baby searching for his mother in Angeles. And yes, of our country’s 80 million population, I’m the only one who remembers this useless piece of information. If no one remembers what Tom looked like, think of David Kawena of Lilo and Stich, with curly hair.

In one of his final interviews in Manila, Tom Babauta graced the immortal Sunday variety show, Germspesyal. Here is the transcript of that conversation, plumbed from the depths of my memory.

Kuya Germs: Do you love Philippines?
Tom: Yes Kuya Germs.
Kuya Germs: Have you, ah, made love to a Filipina?
Tom: Duh?

And thus Kuya Germs brought Tom Babauta’s career to its final, inexorable doom.

From Aldeguer Sisters to Sex Bomb Dancers

2005-12-09T15:56:00.000+08:00

THE EVOLUTION OF PHILIPPINE POPULAR DANCE AS SPECTATOR SPORT

The WEA Twins made a few forgettable movies as the token brats; they were so wholesome, they couldn’t figure in any major scandals to sustain their careers.

When Lillian Laing dispatched her daughter Zeny Zabala and their bevy of beauteous boarders to the Dance-o-Rama dance contest finals with the immortal words, “Tayo na mga ghels, late na tayo sa ating shindig,” I had my epiphany. It was my destiny to become Adoracion Luna, the provincial lass who makes terpsichorean history by doing the watusi, pachangga and the baby elephant walk. (Susan Roces was delightful as Adoracion Luna, but it was Zeny Zabala who left a lasting imprint on my personality by showing me the proper way to raise my left eyebrow.) The Sampaguita Films classic Dance-O-Rama summed up how Pinoys regard dance: as a weapon with which to trample your enemies and reign supreme over the hordes of nobodies with two left feet.

When television replaced cinema as the prime instrument of mass hypnosis in the 70s, the Aldeguer Sisters—Lally and Terry—came into the light. They graced all the top TV shows: Nite Owl, Dance Time with Chito, Seeing Stars with Joe Quirino, Ariel con Tina, Tony Santos Presents and Darigold Jamboree (list not chronological). With their signature steps—Toss head back! Pas de bourreé ! Cartwheeeel. . .and split! —they brought a new vocabulary of dance to Pinoy pop culture. They also popularized Tahitian, Hawaiian and Maori dances through their famous dance school. I remember watching their much-anticipated annual recital at the Meralco Theater, and being entranced by the Maori dance Hoki Mai. So fascinated was I that I urged my mother to enroll me at our local dance school in Cavite City, but she didn’t approve. I secretly signed on when I was eight years old, and I have my recital photo to prove it.

Fast forward to 2002: If you’re wondering where the Aldeguer Sisters are, they are alive and kicking! They have just inaugurated The Aldeguer Sisters Performing Arts Center in Los Angeles, California. The school offers classes in jazz, ballet, Hawaiian, Tahitian and folk dance, plus voice lessons handled by Dianne Serrano-Pons, formerly of D’Nailclippers. They also dabble in “event planning and management,” which is absolutely essential for visits by Philippine dignitaries and fund-raising extravaganzas. Quote from a recent interview with Ricky Lo: "For as long as we can," smiled Lally and Terry, "we’ll keep on dancing. It’s our life."

By the way, I just remembered Lito Calzado the resident choreographer of TSP or Tony Santos presents. The last time I saw Lito was on a TV show on Channel 11 hosted by Ricky Reyes. He was given some sort of a tribute. I didn’t realized that he spawned a beautiful daughter in the person of Iza Calzado, a beauteous TV actress, in which the father claimed that she was named after the dance diva Isadora Duncan, the grand dame of modern dance. She died tragically when her 20 foot scarf got caught in the rear wheel of her top-down Maseratti while driving in the South of France.

Back to the 80’s, when the Aldeguer Sisters left for the States. A slew of dance duos, groups and whatnot emerged, literally crawling out from under the rock of obscurity. Allow me to enumerate the various dance groups that have graced TV town in the last 20 years. Let’s welcome our guests.

The Vicor Dancers. As may be gleaned from their name, they were employed to promote the products of the record company. The original members of this group were former models, boys and girls of the mestiza and jake variety: Milky Evangelista, Sonny Tanchangco, and a former Jazzie model whose name I can’t remember appeared in the step-by-step dance instruction manual which came with the El Bimbo-La Balanga long-playing album. That manual was my prized possession, framed on my bedroom wall. Other record company-spawned dance groups appeared: Blackgold Dancers, WEA Dancers, Dyna Dancers and WEA Twins. The latter shimmied to the theme from Voltes V in knee-high boots and polyester baby doll dresses, sporting anime hairdos held together by atomic-strength hair spray. They made a few forgettable movies as the token brats; they were so wholesome, they couldn’t figure in any major scandals to sustain their careers. Daily dance contests were beamed to our TV sets, from the Spanish Hustle, Salsa (The El Bimbo variety), LA Walk, Swing, the Bop Bop Girl and Cycling Punk.

Another dance phenomenon emerged when stars like Alma Loveli-Ness Moreno, Vilma Santos (Ate Vi), and later Carmi Martin and Dawn Zulueta needed to display their gymnastic skills. The choreographers to the stars, Geleen Eugenio and Miles Obra, became the brains behind the legs of the stars. They created the “helicopter” effect, wherein the star is lifted from the waist and twirled overhead like a baton by an agile male dancer. They also created the buhat-tapon (lift and throw) step, where the star dancer is lifted by three men, hurled through space, and caught by six men across the room. This has since mutated into the management workshop trust exercise where you fall backwards into space and expect your colleagues to catch you (My nails!).

Kuya Germs had his own contribution. He gave us Bella and the Bellestars, a pseudo-Follies Bergere complete with feathers, sequins and dental floss festooning their rears. They were the progenitors of the Japayuki, and most certainly will star in their own future Ukay-ukay tribute.

After the Bagets movies, the Boy Band explosion and Gary V’s insulin-driven dance routines, came the rise of the all-boy dance groups. There were Gary V’s Maneuvers, the Streetboys and the Universal Motion Dancers (UMD). UMD represented a new breed of dancers—the local version of the inner-city hip hop groups, the progenitors of jologs. UMD became so popular that they branched out into movies. Their shelf life was cut short because some of members thought that solo careers would bring them greater success. It is interesting to note that one of the members of the UMD, Miguel Tanchangco, is the son of choreographer Geleen Eugenio. Which brings us full circle. Some of the UMD went on to audition for Miss Saigon and made it to the touring company. I saw some of them in the Dublin production of Miss Saigon last September, and they demonstrated what Pinoys can contribute to a foreign production: pure talent.

The Sex Bomb Dancers started out as, and are essentially still back-up dancers for the Laban o Bawi gameshow segment of Eat Bulaga. Their generic presence in various stages of undress drew the interest not only of the television audience, but of
advertising executives expressing outrage over the fact that these girls are treated as commodities. I happen to think The Sex Bomb Dancers are the best thing that ever happened to Philippine entertainment in recent memory. They may be common, but they have raw talent. They can contort their bodies like invertebrates. They rehearse 8 to 10 hours daily to bring undiluted entertainment to anyone who wants it.

Aside from the regular television appearances, the Sex Bomb Dancers now have an album and a hit movie, Bakit Papa? a 72-hour comedy (no the film is not 72 hours long, but the story happens in 72 hours). Directed by Uro de la Cruz and produced by Regal Films, this movie is destined to be the Dance-O-Rama of this century. Young badings in 2052 will utter unforgettable lines from the film verbatim, and copy their style of dressing and rancid acting, mark my words.

Disco Malaria

2005-12-09T15:54:00.000+08:00

If Dance Fever was choleric, Discorama was phlegmatic if not downright pathetic.

There was nothing wrong with the Apo Hiking Society—they had musical talent and were certainly better-looking than Tito, Vic, and Joey. But they did not have the diabolical brilliance and street smarts of Joey de Leon.

When I was sixteen, I built a shrine dedicated to my hero/ demi-god/ imaginary lover and muse, Deney Terio, star of the American TV show Dance Fever. The shrine consisted of his portrait, which I asked my carpenter father to make a beautiful frame for, a ceramic vase (I called it vahss) with a plastic gardenia, a miniature disco ball, two votive candles in a glass tumbler, and a garland of sampaguita hanging around his portrait. This garland was replaced with a fresh one every Saturday night. All these objects were crammed into a space measuring 8 by 18 inches. To this day, I wonder why my parents didn’t ask me what a voodoo altar was doing on top of the television set. Don’t ask, don’t tell.

At exactly 6.30 pm on Saturday nights, my pet goat Camby and I would arrange ourselves on a tattered olive green bean bag that my father bought from an American couple whose tour-of-duty ended when Sangley Point was handed over to the Philippine Navy in 1970. Deney Terio opens the show with an acrobatic dance routine set to Instant Replay, and my gay little heart threatens to burst out of my concave chest. Then comes 45 minutes of pure excitement: The competition! The celebrity judges! The production numbers! I nearly pass out from joy. Meanwhile, my folks eat their dinner, indifferent to my boundless ecstasy.

When Dance Fever is finished, I repair to the kitchen to get some goodies for Camby and myself. After the commercials, Discorama is on. After Dance Fever, it’s like a decompression chamber.

If Dance Fever was choleric, Discorama was phlegmatic if not downright pathetic. Discorama was hosted by the late radio talent-turned-TV personality Bobby Ledesma, grand patriarch of Jakes, coñitos, and insulares. He spoke English with an Ilonggo accent so brittle you could hear it snap like toasted piyaya. I couldn’t understand why they had to hire an old guy to host a youth-oriented program—hello, he couldn’t even dance. Once, he did a show with a cast on his left foot, proudly announcing he’d stubbed his toes. The dance numbers were uninspired—the dancers were only there to promote the latest disco releases. You had the Vicor Dancers, the Dyna Dancers, the Black Gold Dancers, etc. These were all frigging record labels.

I also couldn’t understand why the hosts had to line up firing squad-style, and the two cameras were in the same place. At this point, Camby would have fallen asleep on my lap, dreaming of Deney Terio reincarnated as a goat. After every commercial break, the camera would turn 30 degrees to the right to reveal a bell jar sitting on top of a ledge. Inside it was the specimen touted to be the sexiest Filipina alive, dancing to the tune of Fly Robin Fly. It was none other than Vivian Velez, executor of the dance Salome wouldn’t do—the “Body Language”. In her tube top and shorts, she resembled Lolita on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Her doe-eyed innocence and snake-like choreography gave birth to rumors of a bootleg betamax tape of Vivian exchanging bodily fluids with Bobby Ledesma, and breaking into song with a microphone (emphasis on “micro”) provided by Ledesma himself. The rumor died down immediately because no tape of that sort really existed.
Vivian eventually danced her way out of television and into the movies as supporting actress to Carmen Ronda, whom she handily upstaged.

Discorama’s lasting contribution to Philippine culture was the discovery of Tito Sotto, his brother Mar-Vic, and their friend Joey de Leon. Tito, Vic, and Joey became the biggest, most influential TV personalities of the 80s and 90s. Their Tough Hits parodies of popular songs were the very definition of Pinoy humor and double-entendre. Tito, Vic, and Joey became so popular that people would tune in to Discorama just to watch their segment. Their Tough Hits albums were hits, and are bootlegged to this day. They were so huge, they swallowed up the show which spawned them in the first place.

The grim reality of being a big fish in a small pond took its toll on Discorama. Rumor had it that when contract renewal time came around, Tito, Vic, and Joey wanted more money, so Bobby Ledesma gave them their walking papers. This opened the door for the Apo Hiking Society. There was nothing wrong with the Apo Hiking Society—they had musical talent and were certainly better-looking than TV&J. But they did not have the diabolical brilliance and street smarts of Joey de Leon. They did not have the kind of visceral impact that TV&J had. True, the Apo were pillars of OPM (Original Pilipino Music), but Tito, Vic, and Joey ruled!

Meanwhile, TV & J planned a strategy to dislodge Discorama and hurl it to the depths of ignominy. Without them, Discorama was dead anyway. They launched a direct attack on the flagship noontime TV program that dated back to the Jurassic 1950s, Student Canteen, which was also hosted by Bobby Ledesma, among others. Eat Bulaga was born, and the juggernaut was unleashed.

Dance Fever reached saturation point after the release of the two definitive disco movies: Saturday Night Fever and Thank God It’s Friday. There were rumors that Deney Terio was the dance trainer and choreographer of Saturday Night Fever , but no matter how many times I paused and rewound the credits on my betamax copy, I never did find Deney Terio’s name. I was heartbroken. My icon, my muse and master, was nothing but a second-rate, trying-hard, B-grade TV host. At this point Dance Fever ceased airing weekly, and Discorama followed suit.

My Saturday nights were never the same. My shrine was packed into a shoebox and stored in the bodega, never to be seen again. Meanwhile Camby passed on and reincarnated as caldereta. Discorama defined a period that I want to forget. I’m glad there exists no photographic evidence that will incriminate me in my future reinventions. But Deney Terio, no matter how baduy he was, still has a place in my heart, right next to my inferior vena cava. As for Bobby Ledesma, may he rest in peace.

Chicks to Chicks Family Values

2005-12-09T15:50:00.000+08:00

Americans had The Waltons and The Brady Bunch. We had Chicks to Chicks.

The father’s political career ended after his son was found guilty of rape and murder. The child was shot dead in a stupid traffic altercation. The boarder jumped to her death from the 23rd floor. Is there a curse on the cast of Chicks to Chicks?

Chito was the archetypal Pinoy macho man, whose only aim in life was to transmit his bad seed to the nearest receptacle available.

In the early 80’s we saw the emergence of a Filipino middle class whose collective ambition was to just get by. One television show that illustrated this phenomenon so well was Chicks to Chicks, known later as Chicka Chicka Chicks. It chronicled the day-to-day activities of a middle-class (extended) Filipino family—their dreams, ambitions, and, uh, values.

People were glued to their TV screens every Wednesday night, ogling the “chicks” and laughing at the recycled jokes, the sexual innuendo, the macho posturing of the male cast and the helplessness of the featured bimbos.

The Family

Nova Villa (Mrs. Ines Capistrano) . Nova played a short and frumpy housewife who had no issues whatsoever with her body, despite being surrounded by five-foot-nine-inch 36-24-36 beauty queens and models. Her idea of fine dining was steak, and her favorite activity was taking extended showers with her husband. At 60, the youthful Ms. Villa still portrays variations on the Ines character, most recently in the sitcom Home Along Da Riles.

Freddie Webb (Mr. Jimmy Capistrano) – This was his in-between job after he retired from playing basketball and before he represented Parañaque in Congress. He eventually became a Senator.

Jimmy was the tall, debonair husband who fulfilled all of Ines’ material and sexual desires. To this day I haven’t figured out what sort of business he was in. All I know is that it involved models and other beautiful young things who did double-duty in the Capistrano household as furniture. Webb’s television and political career took a downward spiral after his son Hubert Webb was convicted in the Vizconde murder case. He was last seen in Abangan ang Susunod na Kabanata and the short-lived Mana Mana. According to my PDA he frequents a hotel gym and pumps iron. Yes, he is still crunchy.

Chuchi (Lola)- Her signature was the elegant, Castilaloy hoarse-voiced lola. She was mama to Ines, biyenan to Jimmy, and lola to Strawberry. She was the forgetful, nurturing, but sometimes scheming matriarch in the Capistrano household. Rosario Hernandez in real life, Chuchi died of old age last year. She was 91. Chuchi joined show business at the age of 13. She started out as a singer-dancer and stage actress at the Clover and Gala Theaters until her natural comic talent paved the way for a career in the movies and television. She had no children.

Chito Arceo (Bayaw)- He practically invented the word “manyakis” (manyak sa kiss). Chito played the younger brother of Ines and the business partner of Jimmy. He was the archetypal Pinoy macho man, whose only aim in life was to transmit his bad seed to the nearest receptacle available. His sartorial preferences generally consisted of a shirt unbuttoned to his chest, revealing a thick gold necklace and little strands of chest hair. He carried a clutch bag and smoked More cigarettes, the thin, brown variety. The things he did to the girls in Chicks to Chicks would make him the whipping boy of Gabriela in this day and age of political correctness. Haven’t heard much about him lately, but he is a television executive for a major network.

Strawberry (Strawberry)- The unica hija of Ines and Jimmy, Strawberry played the over-fed, under-loved and often ignored middle class Filipino child so common in today’s state of affairs. She was the bubbly child exposed to the Barbies and Kens of questionable morals. Her real name was Noche Sumayao. She was caught in the crossfire and killed in the aftermath of a stupid traffic altercation that involved her boyfriend.

Sammy Lagmay (Sammy)- The perennial usisero and pakialamero, Sammy played the bumbling janitor/messenger/office boy to Jimmy and Chito. He was an abusive employee and sexual molester. For some reason we found this hilarious. He would assume the bosses’ position in their absence, only to take advantage of female applicants. Sammy had a steady stream of work when he moved to ABS-CBN, appearing in Abangan ang Susunod na Kabanata , Only in the Pilipins, Palibhasa Lalake, and practically all the sitcoms on ABS-CBN.

The Chicks

Carmi Martin (Carmi)- It’s a good thing I don’t remember anything about her character in Chick to Chicks. All I remember is the screaming, the whining, and the rudimentary clothes she wore: tube tops and short shorts. This was before she became a serious actress, bagging major roles in the Lino Brocka films Bayan Ko: Kapit sa Patalim and Cain at Abel . In the late 80’s, together with her colleagues from Chicks to Chicks, she migrated to ABS-CBN, where she became one of the talents in sausage factory sitcoms and variety shows like Abangan ang Susunod na Kabanata , Only in the Pilipins, and Tonight with Dick and Carmi (which I remember fondly as Booby Dick). She has an enduring quality and a knack for reinventing herself as her contemporaries faded into oblivion. She now plays a contravida in a telenovela, Ikaw Lamang ang Mamahalin on GMA 7.

Lorraine Schuck and Bong Dimayacyac- Other than their good looks, these two former beauty queens had nothing to offer the camera but shrieks and giggles. Haven’t heard about Bong Dimayacyac since. Lorraine established Carousel Productions and runs Miss Earth, a beauty pageant with a “vision, mission and goal pertaining to environmental consciousness.”

Maria Theresa Carlson (Si Ikaw, Si Ako)- She was mestiza, young, and perky. She endeared herself to the audience with her inability to deliver her lines. People adored her mangled Tagalog. Theresa was crowned Binibining Pilipinas-Young International in 1979, amid a bumper crop of beauties which included Melanie Marquez, Dang Cecilio, and Cathy Veloso. She was barely 15 years old then. In 1981 she graduated from the International School and became a model, beauty products endorser, and TV personality. Five years later she was living with Ilocos Norte politician Rodolfo Fariñas. They had six kids. Carlson and Fariñas got married in 1991, after pressure from the Fariñas clan and the Catholic Church.

In 1998, Theresa made a phone call to a women’s NGO and said she was the victim of domestic violence. There were all sorts of rumors, TV exposes and tabloid reports, but for some reason no real investigation took place. As in, nothing happened. Last year, just before Christmas, Maria Theresa Carlson leaped to her death from the 23rd floor of a Greenhills apartment building. No one will ever know the truth. If you thought that someone as beautiful as she would be spared the problems of the real world, think again. Contrary to popular belief, mestizas don’t get all the fun.

Bobby Gonzales, D’Original OFW

2005-12-09T15:48:00.000+08:00

His sexuality was never exposed to the public: there were no scandals, no screaming headlines. But it reeked of capital G, as in Gonzales.

Let’s play a game! I declared to my assistant Lynn, who was born in 1975. OK, name the singer of this song. I cleared my throat, and in my signature atonal range sang, “O ang babae pag minamahal/ May kursunada Aayaw ayaw…” Easy, she quipped, Apo Hiking Society! I felt as if a baby grand piano had landed on my head and broken my cranium in half. In a fentosecond (a million times faster than a nanosecond!), I tried to regain my composure, clutched my chest, and with a deep breath I whispered through my nostrils, Bobby Gonzales. Bobby who? she asked. Bobby Gonzales sang it. What song? she asked again. The song I was singing a while ago, I said with growing exasperation. Go back to work.

It was a very sad October day when I read in a leading broadsheet that Bobby Gonzales had passed away. Hardly anyone had noticed. And yet this flaming performer deserved to go not with a whimper, but with a bang. This was the man who popularized Hahabol-habol, a rock-n-roll ditty about Pinoy courtship. It was played in all the jukeboxes of all the carinderias and beerhouses from Sta. Ana to Sta. Cruz, San Juan to Santa Mesa. It was on Raon’s (the street in Quiapo where you bought the latest vinyl, the Tower Records of its time) top 10 for months! It was a featured song in a Lita Gutierrez movie, Alembong I think.

The first and only time I saw Bobby Gonzales live was in the 60s, when the stars of Villar Records were on a provincial tour to promote Rely Coloma, the wunderkind of the Yamaha Electone Organ. In that musical extravaganza, Sylvia La Torre, Ric Manrique Jr., The Mabuhay Singers and of course Bobby G, were present. They were known collectively as the Villar All-Stars. At that time Bobby had just come back from a stint in Japan. He was proudly showing off his command of Nihongo while being interviewed by Oras ng Ligaya’s Oscar Obligacion. No one could comprehend what was going on, but the audience loved it anyway.

I was thunderstruck. His outfits (yes, outfits—he had several costume changes throughout the show) were outrageous. He was wearing a deep purple, magenta and tennis ball green checkered suit, mango yellow trousers, white nurse’s shoes and a fully sequined red bow tie. When he launched into Hahabol-habol, and mind you, he was accompanied not by an orchestra but by a rondalla, he practically brought the entire barrio down. Everyone was on their feet, like the audience at the recent China Crisis concert at the PICC. (At least in the barrio, the people were honest with their emotions; I don’t know about the last China Crisis concert.) After that barako-infused number, he delivered some spiels in Tagalog. And then his face took on a darker mood. He looked up and whispered, This is for you. He then sang Johnny Ray’s classic, Cry. When he was singing that song, I felt very uncomfortable—a mixture of fright, pain and pity—there was something different about him that I couldn’t explain. I just ignored whatever it was that was bothering me. I was in denial. No, no, he couldn’t be. He is not, I thought to myself. The man is an entertainer, that is all there is. His sexuality was never exposed to the public: there were no scandals, no screaming headlines. But it reeked of capital G, as in Gonzales.

Bobby G’s rise to stardom was not laced with paparazzi, champagne and marzipan petit-fours or whatever we think showbiz life ought to be. It was a hard life in the 1950s. In Clover Theater, at the foot of Sta. Cruz Bridge, Bobby Gonzales belted out 25 to 40 songs per show, three shows per day, seven days a week. He was paid 25 pesos a day, which he collected from the box office take on his way out. Katy de la Cruz, the diva of that period, got 50 pesos.

Hard work really paid off for Bobby G. Towards the late sixties his career blossomed, and he recorded hits like Ale Ale, Walastik, Dalagang Suplada and Diyan Ka Na. He hosted radio and television shows like the Big Show that eventually became Oras ng Ligaya with Sylvia La Torre. He was the original OFW singing OPM. He lived for many years in Tokyo, where he developed a strong following. He also played Vegas and Atlantic City with the Reycards Duet. With erstwhile friend Bimbo Danao, they helped build the reputation of Filipinos as “the entertainers of the world”.

Today, in hotel lounges from Bahrain to the Bahamas, Filipino bands and singers dot the map of the world. All this is thanks to Bobby G. Late in his career, he was seen regularly at the Intramuros Bar of the Manila Garden Hotel, performing kundiman and Japanese songs. Sometimes, guests who recognized him would request the occasional Johnny Ray tune; he would do it without hesitation, but he would have a hard time reaching the higher octave, and resort to some musical device to remedy the situation. Among his last public appearances was the 47th Famas night in 1999, when he received the Lou Salvador Memorial Award. He died of emphysema last October 4. 2002. And is almost forgotten.

Apat Na Sikat: Sikat No More

2005-12-09T15:44:00.000+08:00

A futile exercise in resurrecting dead careers via Google

In 1977 the king of local TV was Ike Lozada. The mammoth starmaker’s flagship shows were Big Ike’s Happening on TV and Dambuhalang DJ on AM radio. The unholy coupling of these two spawned Apat Na Sikat (the Famous Four), a variety show brought to our living rooms by the manufacturers of cooking oil and condensed milk. Apat Na Sikat was sort of like the Donny and Marie Osmond Show without the Ice Angels, and Seeing Stars With Joe Quirino if the presenters had just sprouted body hair.

Winnie Santos, Don Don Nakar, Lala Aunor and Arnold Gamboa were the Apat Na Sikat. These four teenyboppers defined pop culture and fashion for my generation. And although I told my friends that I only watched James at 15, I was a closet fan.

The Apat Na Sikat were famous mostly for being related to bona fide famous people. Winnie Santos was the younger sister of Vilma Santos. She was the show’s resident mestiza. Her favorite shirt was a red blouse with butterfly sleeves, and the fact that I remember this makes me feel like a pathetic refugee from the Seventees. Winnie tried to be her sister’s clone: she did a TV version of Vilma’s hit Trudis Liit, and she sang the Ate Vi anthems Paper Roses and My Boy Lollipop. Unlike her sister, who is still a terpsichorean wonder, Winnie could only dance the Lady Bump. The more she copied her sister, the more she receded into oblivion.

Vilma’s career soared in the late Seventies and early Eighties. Winnie’s nose-dived with the lifting of martial law in 1981, because we no longer required the services of a 17-year-old mestiza to remind us of our miseries. She eventually migrated to the US and never came back.

Like Winnie Santos, Lala Aunor achieved stardom through cloning. Her famous relative was her “sister,” none another than Vilma’s arch-nemesis, Nora Aunor. Later it was revealed that Lala was not Nora’s sister, but her cousin. It didn’t matter because she was a carbon copy of the Superstar—if the carbon had been used 1,000 times previously. Lala sounded so much like Nora, it was as if she had been lip-synching to Nora’s records. The memory of Lala Aunor in a Minnehaha Indian costume by way of Disneyland, singing Karen Carpenter’s Top of the World, can only be erased by years of psychiatric therapy.

No one knows what Lala is doing now. I did a Google search for her and got exactly one hit. I had more hits with Eddie Boy Villamayor, but that is another story.

The boys of Apat Na Sikat led more interesting lives. Dondon Nakar, a.k.a. Guillermo Nakar III, was the grandson of the famous army general. A military camp in Laguna is named after him (the general, not Dondon). Of the four, Dondon Nakar had the most musical talent, which is to say that he could play the guitar and carry a tune. He was also the sexiest, and there was an edge to him. Dondon was a boy on the verge of manhood. He was quite a sex symbol; the problem was no one wanted him to be one.

Among his notable film appearances was Lipad, Darna, Lipad with the aforementioned Vilma Santos. His most famous line was: “Ate Darna, ang bato!” With his smiling almond eyes and his moreno looks, Dondon was an early Richard Gomez prototype. Too bad he never achieved Richard Gomez status. Over the years he’s figured in minor drug offenses and sex scandals duly reported in the metro sections—not a good place for an ex-teen star to be mentioned. In the Eighties he tried to revive his music career by recording the theme of the TV soap Flor de Luna, but it didn’t work out. He was sighted recently in a Catholic Charismatic Renewal concert.

I could compare Arnold Gamboa’s career to that of Mark Lester and Pepito Rodriguez. Arnold started out as a child star, and certainly was cute and innocent-looking. On Apat Na Sikat he was the resident mestizo, and was therefore paired with Lala Aunor. Of the four he had the longest showbiz career. He had a horde of fans, who lovingly called him Not Not. He was quite a looker, but in contrast to Dondon he always seemed to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He always looked nervous onscreen, and later in his career, spoke in a voice two octaves lower. That is where the Pepito factor comes in.

After about fifteen years in showbiz, Arnold retired to lead a quiet life of a hotel concierge and was regular fixture at the Manila Hotel. The last time I saw Arnold was at the Manila Diamond Hotel. This Arnold Gamboa is not to be confused with another Arnold Gamboa, a basketball player who played for San Miguel Beer and the Philippine National team. There are more entries on Arnold Gamboa the basketball player than Arnold Gamboa the child actor on Google; the ratio is almost 9:2. Ironic that you name your son after a famous child star, then he becomes more famous than the famous person he was named after. I don’t blame the parents. It was 1973 when Arnold the basketball player was born and it was 1973 when Arnold the actor was gracing television screens singing Wheeeeeere is Love? and other songs from Oliver! Daddy, he’s so cute let’s name our child Arnold!