Biatch Beneath a Cantilever

Last night, I renewed my ties with fellow servants of the arts, people of the letters, by attending my housemate's book launching at the Cultural Center of the Philippines. The last time I was hobnobbing with the culterati, from Irma Potenciano to Dennis Marasigan, was July of 2004. My ex of 8 years, let’s call him Ryoichi, and I were invited to attend a concert. We were sitting two seats apart. We weren’t talking to each other. Go figure.

I've been going to CCP at least once a month but not for its cultural values but rather for its socio-gastronomico-anthropological attraction: the Filipinos' penchant for lutong-pampabata whether served in posh Glorieta food court or the lowly carinderia, no matter where, in this case nestled right next to the Philippine International Convention Center. Talk about showcasing authentic Filipino heritage - goto, adobong atay, barbekyung pusit, mangga’t bagoong... salty… greasy.

Way back last January, a childhood activity brought me to CCP. My recent ex as of this writing, let’s call him Tamburong, would drag me there to jog around the complex. Hmmmm, so matrimonial... There seems to be a correlation between jogging at CCP during my childhood and that of so recently as January. Well, the former is my childhood. The latter is my ex’s. Ahm…go find somebody from Iloilo who works in the sewer. Ask him what's Tamburong.

Perks of being single -- the unchallenged gut feel that some people favorably sight you across the room. In a gathering of writers, more than half of the male literati see themselves as not only bitten by the muses but are rather muses themselves. Now, they want to bite each other. As a copywriter, I dared to be different by being the damned muse of the bastardized linguistic arts, all in the name of money. A sophist? No. A biatch.

If you're engaged, you wont notice your adoring admirers. You're more preoccupied admiring your, ahm, lover. That's just because at the back of your mind you know he will leave you the moment you take your eyes off him. And he surely will.

While I and my housemate, let’s call him Rollo Dolphino, were burning lung cells outside the lobby underneath Locsin’s Hukosaic cantilevers, one of the featured writers, a boy from Dumaguete approached us. I don’t know, he looks like a boy. Anyway, he merely wanted Rollo to sign his book. When Rollo took the book and went aside, the boy turned his attention on naive me.

Aha, a muse amused with moi! He said, you look familiar.

I flicked my stick. I smiled theatrically. And said, “If you’ve been watching porn… It’s probably not me.”

Damn, he’s such a cute boy. But I just gotta’ do my number.