By Ruel S. De Vera
Associate Editor

WITH my addiction to the glorious liquid perfection that is Mountain Dew, I basically have caffeine running in my veins, to the point where it really doesn’t have any discernable effect on me—except when I wake up early in the morning.

Like many others, I wake up a clean slate, a blank page, a husk of a person until I grab breakfast and my first drink of MD. Then, I feel myself steadily becoming human, like the caffeine is unlocking that part of me that makes me who I am. I like that state of semi-buzz, and I like to be in it the whole day.

Because I already imbibe so much caffeine through my MD dosage, I don’t drink coffee. In fact, I never did, but I hold coffee drinkers in affection because they basically go through the same things I do, except their drinks are steaming hot, come in a size called venti and sometimes even have warning labels.

Watching someone take their first drink of coffee in the morning is the perfect example of a BEFORE and AFTER ad. It’s like a zombie literally waking to life, complete with the grunts and moaning, the shuffling and the lack of normal human faculty until that first cup.

When I was younger, coffee was virtually forbidden for kids. Back then, our coffee was different—it came in Nescafe, Blend 45 and Great Taste varieties only. We would be surprised to find out anyone our age drank coffee. It was something only grownups did. Even in college, few of us drank coffee. Hot Milo or Ovaltine was much the preferred drink in the morning from the vending machine or, if you had the time to get it, that piping hot chocolate from McDonalds. There was nothing the least bit glamorous about coffee.

How times have changed. Today, grade school children quaff coffee (in frap form) like it’s water. People nurse their grandes at coffee shops the same way other people nurse a bottle of beer at bars. It is a mark of class to be carrying around that distinctive paper cup while you carry out the day’s duties.

Coffee is here to stay and in the process, we see a society changed as well. We are now a 24-hour culture, people by call center employees as well as coffee consumers. Coffee is now taking all times of the day, for waking up, staying up and, well, for any other reason.

I’ll stick with my MD. Coffee never agreed with me, but I own up to being one of the coffee generation. We are caffiends, every single one of us, and the world is our cup.

Read about the joys of coffee in the August 16, 2009 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.

By Pennie Azarcon-dela Cruz
Executive Editor, Sunday Inquirer Magazine

“WALANG alam.”

The derisive words were part of the voice-over for the political ad that run again and again on television at the height of the 1985 snap elections, with shots of Cory Aquino caught unawares to match.  Former strongman Ferdinand Marcos had seen fit to harp on his opponent’s lack of political experience, her being “a plain housewife who knew nothing,” and was therefore ill-equipped to run the country.

But the feisty housewife fought back.  She countered in that flat guileless monotone: “Oo, wala akong alam. Wala akong alam sa pangungurakot, sa pang-aabuso, sa panglalamang ng kapwa.  (Yes, I know nothing—about corruption, abuses and hoodwinking the people).”  Or words to that effect. Then as now, the widow in yellow knew how to turn the tables around, just as the mammoth crowds who turned up for her wake and funeral proved that, contrary to the government’s perception that hers was a spent force, President Cory could still summon hundreds of thousands to the streets, all marching under her banner..

At any rate, in 1985, when she was known mainly as Ninoy’s widow, the women’s groups saw fit to give her some support. The Marcos ad after all insulted not just Cory, it also pricked our then-budding feminist sensibilities.  What’s wrong with being a housewife?  Who said women didn’t know anything? Why should men make all the political decisions in this country?  Women make up half of the state, so why aren’t we being heard on affairs of the state?  we bristled.

So off we went, this small collective of women from several NGOs, to the weekly Kapihan sa Manila Hotel, ostensibly to sip coffee and partake of the subsidized breakfast that media people enjoyed while discussing with prominent news sources the issues of the day.  I no longer remember what the issue was at that time, but I recall that at a previously discussed appropriate moment, we dug into our bags and unfurled streamers denouncing Marcos and voicing our support for the plain housewife, while cameras clicked and recorded our faces for the Marcos minions to take note and compile dossiers of.

It must have been risky back then, given the countless presidential decrees and subversion laws that the Marcos military regularly plucked out of thin air to stifle dissent.  But all I remember now was the exhilaration, the giddy feeling of relief that we could now raise our fists and voices higher because post-Ninoy assassination, the swell of our collective voices could no longer be drowned out.  Cory had changed the face of dissent.

True, there were a lot of rallies as well before Ninoy, mostly from militant workers, farmers, students, sympathetic religious groups, the whole Leftist spectrum that most of us were proud to be members of.  But with the active participation of the so-called Middle Forces—the formerly apathetic (or scared) business sector and complacent middle class—the rallies assumed a more concrete sense of solidarity and validation. We felt invincible.  With virtually all sectors echoing the same sentiments, the feeling was that we could do no wrong and could therefore not be defeated.  The fact that most Cory rallies started out as prayer vigils didn’t hurt either.

Call us shallow, but the fun factor helped as well. The intent was protest, but the mood was almost always celebratory: yellow ribbons, rain of yellow confetti, cheeky songs and creative chants, the rich and famous marching with the urban poor and the militants, wacky costumes and varied themes. It was like going to a party all the time.  In fact, food was a recurring theme.  The breakfast forum organized by various colegiala cliques served up coffee and politics, and made sure that the middle forces—here meaning us working stiffs—could still make it to their office on time while digesting the issues of the day.  There were lots of lugawan, fund-raising dinners meant to shore up the funds of the opposition and their beloved candidate.  Fishball stands, nilagang mais on kariton, taho vendors and assorted food hawkers marched along, a conjoined spectacle of commerce and causes.

I remember all these when I joined Tindignation’s women’s rally against Con-Ass on July 26, barely a week before Cory headed home to Ninoy..  It was going to be a fun run, the invitation said, although it might as well have read “Tindig, takbo, gapang,”  considering that we middle lifers were not exactly in the best running form.  The run, the invite said, was from 7 a.m. to 12 noon which impressed my boss, a regular New York marathoner, to say, “Wow, that’s a long time and quite a distance.  How many kilometers are you running?”

Two-three kilometers, just about, the hubby said, when he learned we were going to walk-jog-run from the Quezon Memorial Circle to Miriam College.  Still, I stayed up half the night checking the provisions from the list my runner-boss so excitedly provided me with:  Water? Check!  Gatorade? Check! Dried fruits and nuts (in lieu of power bars)? Check! Extra shirt? Check! Moist towelettes? Check?  Soon enough, my back sagged from the weight of my pack but I wasn’t complaining.

When we took off in a leisurely pace, I knew I wouldn’t have any problem.  Even a septuagenarian grandma could have outpaced us, the way we ambled along, waving our yellow flags and giving out yellow ribbons to passing motorists. It was bracing, never mind that thanks to senior moments, I managed to forget the chant when we got to Miriam. It was something-something, “Con-Ass, Tutulan!”  I do remember what the young women behind us were chanting though: “Con-Ass ni Gloria, No Not Now!”   But some of us missed breakfast and from where we stood trying to still the rumblings in our belly, the last words sounded like, “Donut Now!”   Ahhh, for a cup of coffee!

But the fun really started when we got to Miriam.  There were several short speeches from notable protest personalities, and the best I thought was from Ging Deles of the Hyatt 10 group (remember those GMA Cabinet members who resigned in disgust following President Arroyo’s “Hello, Garci” scandal?).  Why were the women protesting the Con-Ass and GMA’s term extension, she asked. Because, she continued, GMA owes us women a lot.  “She stole a lot from us.  She stole the people’s trust in the capacity of women to govern.”  That GMA did.

As in most yellow rallies, there was music, this time by Leah Navarro and Pinky Marquez whose voice we don’t hear often enough. The best part of the program though was Juana Change who, on this particular rally, showed up in an Assumptionista uniform and proceeded to do her skit that informed the crowd about what the Con-Ass was all about, before engaging the entire gathering in a cha-cha dance-along session– complete with a DI showing us the moves.  A conga line of cha-cha dancers, virtually the entire house, danced to the beat and gave themselves cause to sweat at last.   It was fun, it was invigorating, it was informative and definitely effective. You can be sure that joining rallies just became one important entry in those young people’s list of cool things to do in college.

Just last weekend, the Concerned Artists of the Philippines proved once more how protest can be creative as well.  This time around, they organized a wake for the National Artists Awards, a protest on GMA bestowing the honor on four dagdag-bawas “artists,” among them Cecile Guidote, Executive Director of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA, the same body along with the Cultural Center that deliberates on the nominees), who should have declined the honors out of delicadeza, and “Panday” creator Carlo J. Caparas who got the award for Visual Arts when he didn’t draw, and for Film, when he is best known for his awful massacre movies.

It was a solemn wake, but the mood was hardly funereal.  Outrage rippled through the crowd with every reminder of how GMA’s DNA (Dagdag National Artists for the four people she awarded despite their not being in the original list of contenders) killed whatever prestige, dignity and honors went with the Awards. But the presentation was riveting enough: mourning women in black veils marching up the CCP ramp like your worst nightmare, several respected National Artists burying their NA medallions in protest and Juana Change again performing before the appreciative audience of artists, writers, and assorted culturati. A funeral procession to the NCCA offices in Intramuros followed, with the intent of laying a giant funeral wreath at its doors.

What was striking was how fresh and novel the artists’ protests were—from songs to poetry to enacting out the rites of burial. One visual artist poured ash upon himself to symbolize how the NA awards were now entombed, candles were lighted and black roses offered to remember the dead,  participating vehicles pressed their horns to protest this untimely demise, while posters and streamers showed wit and humor. “Huwag babuyin ang National Awards” went one, with the protester putting on the snout of a pig to stress the obvious.  Our favorite:  “Si Carlo Caparas, National Artist na? / Pwes, eto ang listahan ko/   Xerex Xaviera- Literary Arts/ Tita Maggi- Culinary Arts/ Agent X-44- Martial Arts/  Si GMA kasi, tema-arts!”

Contrast this to the NCCA. To drown out the voices of protests and the chants (“Artista ng bayan/ ngayon ay lumalaban!), it played a succession of folk songs at full volume because, as its controversial head Cecile Guidote said in an interview, they only wanted people to have fun and to be happy.  Right!

Even more distressing was how the NCCA positioned a crippled guy in a wheelchair and two blind men (members of her choir, we heard) before the protesters.  Was this a play for sympathy?  A bid to stop protesters from going into the NCCA office by putting up this disabled barrier?  Didn’t they think that these people could get hurt should any skirmish break out?  Or perhaps that was the idea.  The three men were the shield behind which crouched the NCCA should any skirmish happen.

Actually it did, when a shouting match broke out between NA for Literature Bien Lumbera and a stage actress who now works for the NCCA, and who had resorted to that very cliché and unimaginative catchall expression of protest: flipping the bird.

Too bad.  Protest is one of the best forms of expression.  And it becomes even better when it’s original, creative and fun. Let’s not let Tita Cory down.

By Ruel S. De Vera
Associate Editor

EVERYONE needs to remember their first time. Drinking iced tea, that is. This beguiling cocktail of the good and the bad, the real and unreal, the pedestrian and the unexpected, really is a drink that escapes easy classification. It’s both thick and thin, sweet and sometimes tart, smooth and yet filling, something to long for and look forward to and then is finished so quickly you didn’t notice; yes, it’s a lot like romance.

Even what to call it is a matter of some dispute as the term “ice tea” had gained wide acceptance. While it is acceptable, it isn’t as accurate, as prevalent or as evocative as the term “iced tea,” which means tea with ice, after all.

It’s a pretty safe bet that whoever it was who first mixed ice cubes with tea (most likely in India or China sometime before the 19th century) knew immediately this was going to be a pretty good drink. The variety of tea doesn’t even really matter but the key is the presence of ice, and lots of it. It might, however disturb some people to find out that sweetened iced tea is a much later creation, a very recent one, in fact.

But for me, iced tea was a discovery that came with many other things during college in the early 1990s. At a time when it was a rather hard to find drink in restaurants, an iced tea stall appeared in our cafeteria, serving up a very subtly sweet and clear iced tea that we fell in love with. That stall stayed in our cafeteria for several years until it was driven out by the fact that all the food stalls had started serving iced tea as well.

Since then, I’ve been driven to distraction looking for good iced tea wherever I was in the world. The United States is a strange case. Even just a few years ago, ordering an iced tea at McDonalds meant a gigantic, frosty cup of tea which was unsweetened and—believe it—seemed to consciously resist any attempt to sweeten it, no matter how many ounces of sugar and honey is dumped into the thing. It was really cheap though. I kept running into that problem, in both East and West Coast, a strange thing considering that all the iced tea served in the South is so sweet, it’s basically sugar with a straw. Now, many restaurants offer a sweet and unsweetened iced tea, many of them still rather bland. That’s a bit of a conundrum, consider that it is also in the States where I discovered my favorite form of iced tea evolution: Nantucket Nectars Half & Half, which is a ridiculously good mix of iced tea and lemonade, all natural and awesome.

Every country now has its own way of taking iced tea. In the Philippines, our iced is uniform in two things: it’s wildly sweet and lemon-flavored, which is a very accurate description for Nestea. Nestea is so dominant that it has practically become shorthand for iced tea in some cases. It’s available in bottles as well as in powdered form, which explains its occupation of household pitchers and individual Coleman jugs. Its ubiquity, particularly as the bottomless iced tea of resto vintage, and dominance has led to the fact that it becomes the default iced tea. Plus, Nestea’s kalamansi flavor is pretty good and Nestea’s brand new Real Leaf iced tea in Honey Lemon flavor is wonderful.

The chase for the choice iced tea thus leads to restaurants and cafes, with the overwhelming majority carrying Nestea and the rest bravely and innovatively coming up with their own iced tea derivation. Here are my five favorites:

1. My all-time favorite iced tea is, like many of our fondest memories, anchored to things that no longer exist. The iced tea in my college cafeteria and the patiently prepared concoction at the much-missed Prospero’s are simply the stuff of legend. The fact you can’t have them anymore makes them all the more desirable.

2. The iced tea at the original Penguin Café in Malate was a murky treat, all blend and somewhat creamy, inviting thoughts of everything for vanilla to mocha. Good stuff. This I also found in the iced tea of the defunct Eyrie Café in Katipunan. The closest approximation would be the iced team at the Good Earth Tea House.

3. The iced tea at Cibo is the perfect refreshment after a day at the mall. Tall and sweating, this lemon-infused (you really can tell) is a treat I begin thinking about the moment I actually set foot in the mall. And it’s really tall.

4. Kitchen used to serve a refreshing Pandan-infused drink called Leaves of Grass that I thought was the closest thing to an indigenous iced tea. The repeat trips to the bathroom due to the cleansing effect was worth the amazing taste of this drink.

5. The getaway version of iced tea that lives forever in my head is a summer wonder. All the fruit shakes at the amazing Jony’s Beach Resort in Boracay are works of art, but the tall drink of frozen water (with infused flavor) that is the frozen iced tea is the stuff of dreams.

Which are yours?

Read all about the newest iced tea on the racks on the August 2, 2009 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.

By Ruel S. De Vera

Associated Editor

ASIDE from being a fantastically funny TV show, the Big Bang Theory, I’ve always found, was best represented by the break in a billiards match. First, all those super dense particles forming a solid mass before suddenly expanding and flying apart, flying into each other and then flying in all directions.

The billiards break is, in my mind, one of the most powerful, violent moments in sports. The player leans in, throws the cue forward with such ferocious velocity that the spinning balls seem to want to get into the pockets to hide there.

I was never good at it. Growing up in the 1980s, billiards was not the global, made-for-TV spectacle that it today. It was the street smart man’s game, burdened with connotations of illegal activity, the kind of thing played in dark, smoky places where money changed hands. We all wanted to be the kind of man who played it.

The popular place to play back then was literally a bahay kubo. It was a cogon-roofed structure that was perpetually dark. The bad boys already played there regularly. I went once and discovered that I have absolutely no aptitude for it. Today, that hut is gone, replaced by a Jollibee and a Greenwich.

But even back then, Efren Reyes was a legend, just not as big as he is today. That distinction went to Amang Parica. But even then “Bata” was beloved for his crooked smile, his winning humility and of course his wicked table manners.

When billiards exploded as a sport, the speed with which it spread would give you whiplash. This secret craft of the rogue had gone mainstream.  It was on every TV it seemed. Countless billiards halls sprouted all over. Countless more people learned to play it. I actually believe at this point that most Filipinos under 40 are pretty good at it. Whoever is adept at it may surprise you.

But that unique skill set and ironclad concentration required to be truly transcendent remains ever so elusive. Those who do have it have emerged from the shadows and into the floodlights to become household names: The aforementioned Reyes, Django Bustamante, Alex Pagulayan, Dennis Orcullo, Ronnie Alcano, and so on. They have their legendary quirks (Reyes, for example, known for removing his dentures for matches) and their tales of adversity (Bustamante valiantly making it to the finals of the World Pool Championships after finding out his daughter had died back home).

In many ways, billiards is a sport that Filipinos truly have dominated like no other country. With the emergence of some guy named Pacquiao, boxing has returned to being the Filipino’s preferred sporting spectacle. But it is in billiards where we not only have had a long tradition of beating the world, it is a sport where we continue to do it regularly and will most likely continue doing so. Rubilen Amit’s ascension to the title at the Women’s World 10-Ball Champion means we have a new world to conquer.

I remain useless with it. I know it’s not genetic because my youngest brother is an astonishing player.  There’s no telling if boxing will remain as hot as it is now once Pacquiao retires but it’s clear that billiards as a sport is now ubiquitous and here to stay. Everyone knows the top talents and naturally expect them to do well. Like music, it’s become something Filipinos are synonymous with, even as the world keeps on spinning.

Read about the newest Pinoy billiards phenomenon in the July 26, 2009 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.

Ruel S. De Vera
Associate Editor

I tried it, didn’t like it. Everyone wants to learn how to drink but the bizarre truth is, not everyone can. In high school, I posed as hard as I could. I’d nurse a San Miguel Pale Pilsen forever, surreptitiously emptying it out however I could when the people around me turned away in the darkness. Beer just didn’t do it for me no matter how desperate I wanted it to. I was the same way with smoking—all smoke, no inhaling.

I guess that makes me a square but I always missed the easy camaraderie that came with a midnight round of drinks, the funny drunken stories and the surprise revelations.

To this very day, the cozy, inebriated atmosphere or sharing a round or two evades me, makes me wonder. But I have come to accept that not everyone is built to drink, especially someone whose strongest preferred tipple is a Mountain Dew.

The few times I have endeavored to try them, each alcoholic drink I’ve sample tasted like what I imagined witches’ brew to taste like. Beer in particular, no matter what variation touched my lips, tasted uncompromisingly bitter and I couldn’t keep it down. Wine tasted, in all honesty, like fortified grape juice. The only wine I took a fancy to was the amazingly sweet mompo we used to steal sips from when the priests weren’t around.  And those pretend drinks like Cali Shandy and coolers always felt more like posers than I did.

Add to that the fact that I get antsy when I’m out past midnight—or 11 p.m. for that matter. I remain in awe of people who start drinking at 9 p.m. and then, as the alcohol start flowing, keep on drinking and talking until 4 a.m.

These days, those tendencies of mine have only gotten much stronger—as has my wonder for the mysterious allure and texture of cocktails. I remain envious of the shared secrets and confidences between drinking buddies out on the town for a night out. Even the vocabulary sounds enticing.

I actually believe my metabolism now actively rejects alcohol—and maybe even the actual ability to withstand a night out on the town. Beyond increased age and the wish to retain my ability to walk a straight line, I like being able to keep my secrets and, from what I hear, a good drink and good company are the fastest way to loosen any tongues. Or so I’ve heard.

Read about the best drinks and the nightlife in the July 19, 2009 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.

Pennie Azarcon-dela Cruz
Executive Editor, Sunday Inquirer Magazine

WE all have them: habits we relish in private but would be too embarrassed to admit in public.  You know, like watching Maricar Reyes in that Hayden Kho video so many times you’re actually growing hair on your palm just as the good nuns warned in grade school.

Or hiding the mic when you go to the restroom so you can have another go at “My Way” at 3 a.m. before your host hurriedly packs the videoke and call it a night.  Solving Sudoku puzzles during a serious management meet because the financial reports are just too boring. Surfing your Facebook account in the middle of a tight deadline in case someone tagged you. Taking too long in the Starbucks bathroom flossing your teeth even when there’s a long queue out there. Texting a dirty joke just as the light turns green because your BFF has to hear it from you right now.

You know, stuff we do despite them being shamelessly crass, inconsiderate, politically incorrect, in poor taste, self-indulgent, downright stupid or wicked.

“Don’t tell my mother,” this guy says on cable TV, as he traipses over to the Amazon to brave the piranhas and ogle bare-breasted tribes.  And we all feel that way as we indulge our secret pleasures, habits that could indict us before a jury of grim-faced teetotalers but which we consider as endearing evidence of our splayed feet of clay.  They humanize us, make us accessible social beings, give us enough fodder for the confessional, and future material for a memoir or a book’s back cover.  Who knows, when we get famous someday, “Entertainment Tonight” can do one whole segment on it.  And yes, even talk show queen Oprah admits to enjoying a whole season of “Grey’s Anatomy” in one sitting, even as her Save the World “to do” list piles up.

Most of all, we indulge them because they feel good, damn it!  People call them guilty pleasures, hinting at vague feelings of discomfort, that tiny squeak of conscience smothered in the full volume sounds of MTV.

I call them Giddy Pleasures, my Type A competitive personality finally subdued by this very visceral need to enjoy life while I can.  So here’s my top 10 list of giddy pleasures, no apologies:

1. Cheesecake. You’d think that because I bake this stuff, I would know there’s enough butter, eggs, cream cheese and heavy cream in here to tip the cholesterol level among the starving kids in Ethiopia or Calcutta.  Not to mention clog up my severely-challenged arteries.  But well, like someone said, life’s short and unpredictable so eat dessert first. And always.

2. Lapid’s chicharong may laman. Go bite into one. Let’s see you fight the urge to finish the whole pack.  Just keep telling yourself: the acid in the spicy vinegar neutralizes the fat while the vinegar’s garlic, ginger and finger chilis provide enough heat to melt the cholesterol.  Yeah, right!

3. Reading Dave Barry or David Sedaris in the middle of a tight deadline for a serious story.  Part of research, right?  Just trying to find the perfect phrase to describe the human rights violations I’m writing on at the moment.

4. Reading Edna Buchanan crime novels and Dominick Dunne roman a clef novels.  Fast-paced writing and plot-driven whodunnits from Miami Heralds’s top crime reporter, and the thrill of guessing the identity of infamous society figures in Dunne’s true-crime novellas.  What’s not to like?

5. Watching “Seinfeld” and “Sex & the City” replays.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

6. Coffee, especially flavored coffee. Never mind the caffeine overload, this is the inseparable companion of number 1.  After all, life comes in complementary two’s:  yin and yang, night and day, sinner or saint, fat and blubber…that’s just about the long and short of it.

7. Reality Shows: “Amazing Race,” “Wife Swap (Trading Places),” “Top Chef,”  “Project Runway.”  Just for the pleasure of feeling infinitely superior to this bedraggled batch who’d do just about anything (mainly land on their ass) on national TV for 15 minutes of fame.  And yes, hear some colorful bitching around that this time, isn’t coming from me.  And hey, the recipes and the fashion styles aren’t bad either.

8. Watching “Air Crash Investigation” or “ Seconds to Disaster.”  People at home hate me for this, especially since they usually fly with me on out of town vacations.  The scolding goes:  “Why anticipate the tragic?  Do you have a death wish?  So what’s the point?  When the plane crashes, you die. End of story.”  Aha!  But there’s the rub, I say.  I watch because I learn survival tips from these shows: why you should run downwards during a fire, especially inside a tunnel or constricted space.  Why you should never inflate your life vest until after you’ve exited your plane that’s now sinking into the water.  And so on.  It’s pure logic dramatized and proven right by survivors.

9. “The Simpsons” and “South Park.”  Witty parodies of serious issues du jour.    Now you know where to lay the blame for my juvenile sense of humor.

10.  Sleeping in on Sundays.  Granted; I’m not your regular 9 to 5, 40-hour workweek Jane, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be a fulltime sloth on weekends.  Let the kids eat take-out one more time. Give the dust mites a break. The helpers can look in the freezer and decide what’s for dinner.  Not picking up after the hubby today.  No, I’m not getting up earlier than 12.   Why, even the Lord rested on the 7th day.  So there.

Now go away and let me stew in guilt.  That little pang of unease is worth all the pleasures that provoked it.

Ruel S. De Vera
Associate Editor

THE very idea of the guilty pleasure is an exercise in wonderful indulgence. After all, the point is to be enjoying something that other people would frown upon—thus we don’t want to admit to it, thus we feel guilt at savoring such an experience. Yet the indulgence, the extravagance lies in the fact that a guilty pleasure is a continued activity. In other words, we enjoy it so much that the guilt and the implied subterfuge fail to end it.

There is also the added dimension of the guilty pleasure being something contrary to the way other people perceive us—but not how we view ourselves. It is a tantalizing glimpse of the secret, authentic you—and it happens under everybody’s noses, bwahaha.

Now I suppose one person’s guilty pleasure is another person’s regular pleasure depending on the thickness of your skin or relative indifference to how others perceive you. I guess it also has all to do with the relative level of sophistication (or lack thereof) you believe yourself to possess.

Truth be told, I find it very difficult to conceive why any pleasure should be seen as a guilty pleasure save for the fact that some of these things are so awful they should cause guilt. But still, I believe I have observed enough of these so-called guilty pleasures in our fellow Filipinos to list a few:

1) Archie digests: It is odd that so many people feign not to read them, but I have it on very good authority that Archie digests (which of course also star the other denizens of time-lost Riverdale, Veronica, Betty, Jughead and even later member Sabrina the Teenage Witch) sell like hotcakes to this very day. Where are they? Well, they are stacked willy-nilly in our bathrooms, many of the Double-Digests bearing the telltale warped cover from having been wet and then dried after.

2) Barry Manilow songs: It is really eerie how the lyrics of every single Barry Manilow song seem to have been hard-wired into the brain of all Filipino babies. This becomes evident when a Barry Manilow song comes on—be it on the radio, videoke or Myx—and then we find ourselves unconsciously singing along—YET CORRECTLY SINGING EVERY SINGLE LINE! This is particularly effective when the songs “Somewhere Down the Road” and “Copacobana” come on. Eerie.

3) Movies shot in the Philippines: No matter how bad the movie is, we can’t tear our eyes away when it is clear the movie we’re watching was shot here in these tropical isles, even if they are standing if for another Southeast Asian country, most often Vietnam. Sometimes, it is very cool, such as Oliver Stone’s “Platoon” or Francis Ford Coppola’s “Apocalypse Now,” but sometimes it can be B-movie territory such as the gloriously over-the-top Chuck Norris flick “Missing in Action.” It feels like a somewhat twisted sense of national pride even if our country is standing in for some other nation. It gets even weirder when we watch another country being passed off as the Philippines, as was the case with the latter parts of the Edsa 1 movie “A Dangerous Life,” which featured Sri Lanka because the filmmakers weren’t given permission to shoot in Malacanang.

4) Filipinos in foreign movies: This is an extension of the previous one, and it can be fun, such as catching Tetchie Agbayani in the bizarre Tom Hanks bomb “The Money Pit” or Cesar Montano in “The Great Raid.” Sometimes it is a startling celebrity sighting such as Donita Rose in the David Hasselhoff film “Legacy” or a downright alarming yet hilarious portrayal such as the mail order bride with the propulsive talent played by Julia Cortez in “The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.”

There are more, I am sure, but what strikes me is that these are actually pretty fun and self-aware pleasures by themselves. They’re pretty guilt-free, if you ask me.

Check out other guilty pleasures in the July 12, 2009 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.

By Ruel S. De Vera
Associate Editor

MY father is many things—engineer, businessman, intellectual—but he is also something rare: a connoisseur of bad action movies. That’s rather unexpected because he is also a devoted viewer of good movies, period. Growing up, we were treated to a regular feast of great films, first in movie theaters then on TV and later on Betamax and VHS. We discovered the essentials, such as the musicals (Not just “The Sound of Music” and “West Side Story” but “The Fiddler on the Roof “ and “Oklahoma!” as well) and the great epics (“Gone With The Wind” and “Ben-Hur”) which came distinctly in two tapes instead of just one.

But it was also uncanny how my dad would be able to visit a video shop and patiently peruse the selection and emerge with the strangest movies available. His best (or worst) genre: action movies. We watched the best first, of course, with us developing our own James Bond preferences (I liked Roger Moore, my dad preferred Sean Connery, nobody liked Timothy Dalton).

Things got interesting when we stepped into B-movie territory. Chuck Norris was the tip of the iceberg, moving on to the cream of the bad movie crop: Michael Nouri, Michael Rooker, Michael Dudikoff and the immortal Jeff Fahey. These were ridiculously thin plot devices often with roman numerals attached to the end, or things like Dudikoff’s “American Ninja” or “Rage of Honor.” The Asian action movies were better, because the stunts were good and there really was some kind of a plot. The American ones were so bad they were good. The bad acting was not as bad as the array of naked and half-naked women producers inserted into every movie with as many gratuitous scenes as possible.

But my dad enjoyed the sheer lunacy, often watching intently and laughing out loud. He savored the really bad stuff, which explains his preference for Charles Bronson.

In that way, I learned that there was nobility in enterprises that did not boast a staggering budget. There was a joy in starting small.

Today, there is a nebulous territory called straight-to-DVD, what used to be called “straight-to-video,” where wannabe big movies get demoted, and where B-movies continue to live. It has made a semi-star out of unlikely lead actors such as Mark Dacascos, whose “D.N.A.” in my mind is the single worst action movie ever made—which is why I like watching it.

Like several other B-movies, “D.N.A.” was shot in the Philippines, another strange distinction for our country. I owe my father my twisted and yet unbridled love of cinema in all its forms, for my sense of irony and love for the intentionally funny. Now if only Michael Ironside made more movies.

Check out other thoughts about action movies in the July 5, 2009 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.

Pennie Azarcon-dela Cruz
Executive Editor, Sunday Inquirer Magazine

YUP, this is one of those times when I’m actually glad I’m ancient and have committed my share of youthful indiscretions way way before video cameras made them easy fodder for the Net.

Not that the Katrina-Hayden video is anything new.  Marcos started it all in the late ‘60s with his croaky “Pamulinawen” caught on a tape recording that his inamoratas, Dovie Beams, so generously shared with an amused nation.  Then there were those betamax tapes—notably Vivian Velez and former Ilocos official Rudy Fariñas– the Dumaguete tapes, and of more recent vintage, the cellphone cameras showing Ethel Booba in flagrante delicious and Mahal in the shower (barf!).

So why all this chest-thumping rage on the one hand, and such furiously titillated downloading from the Net on the other?

Well, I guess people have had enough of the swine flu scare, and the peccadilloes of this male chauvinist swine was a welcome change. Which explains why this dangerous liaison has been hogging the headlines for three days now.  Then there are the conspiracy theories and how Manny Villar had so wanted a distraction from the Senate, uhm…probe of his pork insertions (that image again), that he leaned on good friend Bong Revilla to spill the beans on the Katrina-Hayden video.  What excelling timing, observers note, considering how rumors of the video’s existence have been floating around since December last year.

And of course, admit it, we’re all prurient creatures deep down despite our window-dressed Catholic upbringing, and can’t stop our raging hormones from seeking out the lewd, lecherous, libidinous, lusty and lubricious in our quotidian lives.  Given all that, we’re just waiting for the honorable Justice Secretary to weigh in on the issue with his uniquely out-of-this-planet perspective before we lay it to rest.

In the meantime, what’s the full-blooded Viagra-energized couple to do when the urge to copulate strikes?  Is that a smoke detector on the motel’s ceiling or a hayden camera? How are those sweet young things to know whether their Prince Charming of the moment isn’t really a pervert who’s recording all their thrashings for future gain? What are the new ethics on lovemaking in these times of covert recordings and instant downloading?

A few suggestions:

1. Make sure to conduct all lovemaking under a blanket.  Take care that no heaving chests, throbbing appendages, slick and sweaty limbs and hirsute nether parts are visible to avoid any impression that you’re doing anything other than sleeping on that bed. You don’t want to give the bishops more nightmares than they can handle.

2. To save energy—in all sense of the word—turn off the lights before you so much as unhook a bra or slip into pajamas.  To further frustrate the hayden camera that might have night vision capacity, cover up with a thick blanket as well, never mind if it feels like a sauna.  Think of all the pounds you’re bound to lose the morning after.

3. Invest in masks and complete anonymity and turn foreplay into fun and games.  A bayong like the Makapilis used during the Japanese occupation, or a Ku Klux Clan head cover might be a good idea for your mate, just in case he turns out to be a toad later.  (Hah, let’s see how the DVD pirates are going to title that:  Porky Pig and Minnie Mouse sex scandal?)

4. Be considerate of minors who might later be watching your video.  Before starting anything scandalous, be sure to hold out a notice reading:  “The following scenes contain adult material and may not be suitable for very young viewers.  Parental advice is encouraged.”  Due diligence is always appreciated.

5. Be sure to give credit where it’s due.  Couldn’t Hayden have pentel-penned on Katrina’s perfectly flat tummy the words she was paid to mouth at every instance, i.e. “Body by Belo” ?   He could have made a game of it, right?  We’re sure Vicky would be grateful.  Sayang! What a missed opportunity that was.

6. And finally, if you strongly suspect there’s a hayden camera but can’t locate it, relax, lie down and make sure you look really good.  Check that your make up is flawless and that your undies are billboard-worthy.  The whole world may be watching.

By Eric S. Caruncho

The smell of frying bananas (or hearing the Beatles’ “I Should Have Known Better”) always takes me back to a specific time and place: that summer when I was nine and I discovered the comic book rental place just a short hop from our old house.

In those days, there were parlors where you could rent comics for five centavos a read, and the one I frequented was right next to a banana cue stand and a jukebox blaring the hits of the day (hence the smell and sound associations).

The place was usually packed, with students goofing off and catching up on the latest issues of “Aliwan” or “Pilipino” comics, but the wizened old man who ran the place also had a pile of English-language comic books.  This was where I discovered Batman (still making the transition from “Detective” comics to his own title) and Superman (ditto from “Action”), as well as the Justice League of America and the Legion of Superheroes.

Actually, I only kept up with the DC titles to fit in with my peers.  Marvel was always more my speed: the Mighty Thor, Spiderman, Namor the Submariner, the Incredible Hulk and my favorite, Doctor Strange, then being drawn by the immortal Steve Ditko.

After they had made enough for him, the old man was willing to part with certain titles for ten centavos each, and this was how I came into possession of “The Incredible Hulk” No. 1 (doubtless worth something on eBay today if only  I still had it).

Anyway, I soon began amassing my own collection, mainly titles acquired by harassing my grandfather into taking me with him on his daily run to the dental laboratories on Florentino Torres (he was a dentist) so we could pass by the magazine stands on Avenida Rizal and I could wheedle him into buying me one or two new comic books.

One day, however, I struck gold.  While playing in the attic of my grandfather’s house, I stumbled upon treasure: a hidden stash of EC comics dating back to the 1950s—before the Comics Code Authority enforced its stamp of approval (i.e., censored) all comic books finding their way into young hands.

It was a revelation.  Not only was the artwork in “The Vault of Horror”, “Tales from the Crypt” and “The Haunt of Fear” distinctively graphic and grisly, but the pre-code stories were dark and cynical in a way that I had never encountered in the sanitized offerings for normal boys and girls.

I had always been a fan of the Universal horror films, which were afternoon matinee staples on TV then (“Frankenstein meets the Wolfman”), but the EC stories went much further.

Case in point: “The Basket”, featuring a village hunchback who always carried a basket on his shoulder.  He has violent mood swings, however: sometimes gentle and playful, other times insanely violent.  The villagers soon notice than when he’s in a good mood, he carries the basket on his right shoulder, and when he’s bad, the basket is on his left shoulder.  Inevitably, they discover the reason: the man has two heads, and two personalities—the basket merely hid one or the other.

“Good Lord! (Choke!)” was the horrified reaction on the final panel of nearly every EC story.

Another story put a new twist in the classic horror story “The Monkey’s Paw”: a woman loses her fiancée in an accident.  She makes a wish on a magical object to bring him back from the dead, and it works.  But her fiancée continues to decompose, until she can’t take it anymore.  She takes a kitchen knife to him, and in the final panel, the neighbors break into her apartment to find her frenziedly hacking her fiancée into tiny pieces, each still writhing with life!

“Good Lord! (Choke!)”

Many many years later, I found myself working in the same newspaper as Nonoy Marcelo.  He had a side project going at the time, producing two titles for a venerable local comic book publishing house which he managed to convince to try something new.

The idea was to produce two “wakasan” titles—one horror and one romance.

I recognized a fellow EC aficionado in Nonoy when, apropos of nothing, he happened to utter the immortal line “Good Lord! (Choke!)”, and “Argh!” Comics, the horror title he conceived, had a distinct EC flavour to it, but with a modern twist.

The idea behind “Argh!” was to employ the talents of some of the artists who gravitated around Marcelo’s peculiar genius, among them Jose Tence Ruiz, Ludwig Ilio, Dante Perez and Roxlee—distinctive illustrators all.

I was press-ganged into producing a couple of scripts for “Argh!”.  I was of course thrilled to be working in comics—a childhood dream fulfilled—but apprehensive about never actually done it before.

How hard could it be?

Drawing on my recollections of the EC stories (which I soon discovered had been indelibly stamped in my brain), I managed to assemble a cast of putrid protagonists in two twisted tales of revenge from beyond the grave!

In the first one, “Salvage”, a pair of rogue cops make a habit of dumping their salvage victims in the same garbage heap.  One night when they’re disposing of a fresh kill, a grisly decayed hand suddenly breaks out of the muck.  The dead are rising to wreak their terrible vengeance on their killers.

“Good Lord! (Choke!)”

In the second one, whose title escapes me now, the lead singer in a struggling punk rock band makes the classic deal with the devil for fame and wealth, and his band soon rises to the top, with the attendant sex, drugs and rock’n’roll.   But soon, the devil wants his due, and our hero soon finds himself being dragged into the flaming pits of hell.

“Good Lord! (Choke!)”

I was paid the princely sum of fifty pesos per page for my literary efforts, but the thrill of finally seeing my name in a title panel was the real reward.

Sadly, “Argh!” was either 30 years too late, or perhaps 30 years ahead of its time.  It ceased publication after only two issues, both of which are doubtless worth something on eBay today—if only I had a copy.