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

REMEMBER that old saw about making sure you’re not hungry when you go shopping? Well, my corollary to that is, never never watch “Eat Drink Man Woman” when you haven’t had a meal.

The first time I caught this Ang Lee movie on late TV was way past dinner, so that by the end of the opening scene where this longtime widower is shown filleting fish, blanching vegetables, chopping squid, delicately twisting siomao wrappers and deep frying the Peking duck that he had just blown up like a balloon, I felt like licking the TV screen, drooling desperately for some Chinese food.

How can you resist such a tempting premise? You know that the deft slicing, chopping and kneading of meat, vegetables and dough are a prelude to something even better. Like the isolated notes on a music sheet, you just know there’s a symphony waiting to float out into the air once those notes are strung together on an instrument. The promise of several sumptuous dishes are evident behind all that steam and sizzle and in the furrowed brow concentration that the aging Chinese chef invests on his kitchen labor.

[Read the rest of this entry »]

By Eric S. Caruncho, Staff Writer
Sunday Inquirer Magazine

PIONEERING radio disc jockey Dante David, better known by his on-air monicker Howlin’ Dave, died last May 26 after suffering multiple organ failure. He was 52.

David was best known for having championed Pinoy rock on “Pinoy Rock and Rhythm,” his radio program on DZRJ, in the 1970s.

It was on this program that local audiences first heard the music of the Juan de la Cruz Band, Anakbayan, Mike Hanopol, Sampaguita, Asin, Heber Bartolome and the other acknowledged greats of Pinoy rock’s first flowering, in between Howlin’ Dave’s inimitable free-associating spiels.

[Read the rest of this entry »]

By Ruel S. De Vera, Associate Editor
Sunday Inquirer Magazine

WHENEVER I ask people what their all-time favorite movie is, they will invariably respond with “There’s just too many.” Now, despite the clarity of my request and the frustration I feel whenever someone can’t give a simple answer, I actually completely understand this feeling. Our favorite movies are so important to us that to name one haphazardly feels unfair not only to that movie but to the other movies which might have been overlooked.

So let us change the question. If you were a movie, which one would you be? Now there’s a compelling quandary.

I’d like to think of myself as a biopic, like one of those movies where a damaged person overcomes everything somehow, like “A Beautiful Mind” or “Seabiscuit” (yes, he’s a horse, I know that). Sometimes I’d like to think of myself as someone overflowing with snarky dialogue and observations, like “Juno” or even “Iron Man.” I’d like to imagine I have a powerful sense of wonder, like “Finding Neverland” or “Shakespeare in Love.”

Luckily, my all-time favorite movie remains the one I identify with closest. The Wachowski brothers’ masterpiece “The Matrix” has received many brickbats, most having to do with its (in my mind, underrated but certainly) inferior sequels. But the core of the Matrix, about choosing to wake up even if the dream is bliss, of fighting back when you discover the deception, especially when others decide to go on with the subterfuge, is so authentic, the movie still matters. It’s a remix of so many elements (comic books, cyberpunk, anime), all of which I love, but it’s also about choosing to be an individual, not just different, amid a world of sameness. That’s something I can really believe in, a pill I’m most willing to swallow.

For more on movies — memorable movie lines, the Filipino as moviegover and great Pinoy moments in global cinema — check out the June 1 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.

By Pennie Azarcon Dela Cruz, Executive Editor
Sunday Inquirer Magazine

ONCE, while watching “Lost” with family and friends, the question was raised: if we were stranded on a deserted island, what two items would we bring? It took me less than three seconds to come up with my answer: loads of books and White Flower!

Yup, White Flower embrocation, that tiny vial of eucalyptus oil that comes in this white and green (or white and blue) box bedecked with Chinese characters that has crossed over to respectability from the quaint drugstores of Chinatown. Now even Watson’s stocks it, along with its twin, Polar Bear.

I don’t remember exactly how I discovered “White Flower.” Could it be during one of those relentless migraine attacks when the mere whiff of menthol provided relief? Or once when a hacking cough persisted and could only be tamed by rubbing some of the stuff on my chest and back? Who gave it to me?

[Read the rest of this entry »]

By Ruel S. De Vera, Associate Editor
Sunday Inquirer Magazine

BOY, some of those home-brewed cures can be scary. The ones I like are those that make a weird kind of sense, and are a combination of the modern and the mythical. Take for example that great idea if you have a bad cold or fever. Get hold of that immortal Vicks VapoRub (in the little blue jar, for tradition’s sake), spread it all over the bottoms of your feet and cover with socks. It sounds awesome and I have heard people swear by this.

But my favorite cure has to do with that dreaded scourge of the mouth — cold sores or singaw! Singaw can be excruciatingly painful. Every bite, every sip can be torture. There’s no telling how long it will last, and in the summer it can be interminable.

But the cure makes sense. Take a bottle of authentic Tabasco sauce (not one of those watered-down substitutes) and pour a couple of drops straight into the sore. Now, it is going to hurt like crazy and you’ll feel your eyes rolling back in your head with the world turning white. But the right amount right on the money will burn that sore into submission. One imagines that a stronger sauce (like those scary Mexican and Asian condiments) would be even more effective but also exponentially more painful. Besides, it’s an improvement over pouring poison into your mouth. At least if any of the sauce drips into your tongue, it will remind you of tacos, not the dentist’s office.

For more cures — natural, bottled or mythical — check out the Sunday Inquirer Magazine’s Going Natural issue on May 25.

By Leica Carpo, Publisher
Sunday Inquirer Magazine

FAMILIARITY breeds contempt and with music, this is most painfully true. Here’s a short list of my all-time pet peeve “overplayed” songs in random order of disgust:

1) “Just Got Lucky” (JoBoxers) — Which I sort of liked until it became the noontime anthem of “Eat Bulaga!” (a guaranteed song killer)

2) “Macarena” (Los Del Rio) — I had a classmate named Macarena in grade school who seemed nice enough with a few odd traits. This song just reminded me of her “weird” side. The funny dance steps which were aped by everyone from 2 to 80 did not make the song any cooler.

3) “Funky Cold Medina” (Tone Loc) — I actually remember people attempting to dance “their version of the wild thing” in a few clubs in San Francisco and to this day, the memory still makes me ill.

[Read the rest of this entry »]

By Eric S. Caruncho, Staff Writer
Sunday Inquirer Magazine

AIR SUPPLY — Come What May

Air Supply — Even The Nights Are Better

Air Supply — Every Woman In The World

[Read the rest of this entry »]

By Pennie Azarcon dela Cruz, Executive Editor
Sunday Inquirer Magazine

Whom the gods wish to destroy
They first make mad with really bad songs

NO, I haven’t heard a banshee, this female spirit whose wailing, according to Irish legend, warns of a death in the family. But I’m positive that Anita Ward is a banshee. How else explain that excruciating, keening, shrieking anthem of hers, “Ring My Bell”?

That song, I’m sure, foretells of a death in every family that must have had the misfortune of hearing it. The first time I heard it, I swear all the dogs in the neighborhood suddenly whimpered in fear, tails tucked limply between their legs. For once, I was thankful human ears can’t always hear what dogs can. Well, except for “Ring My Bell,” which must have been specifically written to torture dissidents into betraying even their mothers.

Imagine a fingernail grating across a blackboard while the banshee coaxes: “You can ring my be-e-ell, ring my bell…” Since you’ve probably become catatonic after hearing these words a gazillion times, the banshee turns ballistic and orders you toward the end of the song to “ring it, ring it, ring it, oww!!!” Alright already!

[Read the rest of this entry »]

By Ruel S. De Vera, Associate Editor
Sunday Inquirer Magazine

DAMN Last Song Syndrome (LSS). It is a nefarious condition, often choosing the yuckiest song possible for you to hum all day long. It is particularly effective when you’re taking public transportation, especially when the jeepneys (check out the speeding Montalban ones) feel like discos, playing non-stop remixes of the Carpenters’ greatest hits.

But even in this day and age when heavy rotation usually gets us used to certain songs no matter how horrendous, there remain the ultimate ugly songs, songs so bad they still give us sonic nightmares, gooseflesh and sweating.

Now, there remain many songs that automatically qualify as radio terrors, such as anything by Lito Camo (”Boom-tarat-tarat” has got to be some kind of karmic retribution) or one of these unintelligible disco songs from Asian countries (”Aringkingkingking” and “Dayang Dayang” prove that some things are better off left local). But there are international hits that just cry out for billboard euthanasia. Here are the worst three offenders:

1) “Love Hurts” by Nazareth: Hearing this song always makes me feel like it’s 1978 and the workmen next door are taking a break while listening to the radio. Maybe it’s the fact that the singer sounds like he’s going through a case of hemorrhoids, a case even worse than that of Michael Bolton (who deserves a category all to himself), or maybe it’s the fact that the song has like four words you can understand (”Love hurts love hurts”) and everything else is gibberish, but man this is a horrific song. It’s so bad that nobody has successfully remade it. Some things are beyond the powers of P.Diddy.

2) “The Coconut Nut” by Smoky Mountain: I realize that Smoky Mountain (the first version with Geneva, James, Jeffrey and Tony) is an important group and this song is written by Ryan Cayabyab. But not only is the song silly, its rhythmic progression makes it unforgettable (”The coco fruit/of the coco tree”). Remember the group’s grass-inspired outfits? Ugh. It’s enough to make you swear off this product of the coco palm family.

3) “Big Girls Don’t Cry” by Fergie: First of all, let me clarify that I think the Black Eyed Peas are really good and that Fergie has really good pipes among other good things. But I believe her strength lies in the hip-hop fusion dance element that she does so well (”Pick It Up” is sonic pop corn and even though it’s really slutty, “London Bridge” was really accomplished as a piece of ear cotton candy). But The Dutchess’ anthem to keeping it all in is all wrong. Its acoustic nature saps it of any originality and, oh my, those lyrics are really, really stupid. “I’m gonna miss you like a child misses their blanket?” Seriously? And that video, with the hat and the stool and the contrived intimacy? It makes you feel like you got dumber just by watching it.

For another look at music and the good folk who make them, check out the May 18 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.

By Leica R. Carpo, Publisher
Sunday Inquirer Magazine

I COULD never sit still as a child.

I had to be literally strapped into my high chair and force-fed to eat. As I could run and chew at the same time, I did not see the point of sitting down to digest my food. Belonging to a fairly active family, I was perpetually influenced to get involved in one form of physical activity or another since the age of 3.

My dad had me waking up at 6 a.m. for swimming lessons in Wack Wack with Pete San Pedro before I could barely walk. My mother’s crush on Jimmy Connors prompted her to enroll me for tennis lessons with Manila Polo Club’s pro Tom Falcis at age 9. Then one summer, my uncles and aunts got it into their heads that we all needed to learn some “self-defense tactics” so I and my clan of 30+ cousins found ourselves taking Tae Kwan Do lessons three times a week with 7 degree black belter Mr. Hong. From there, I expanded my sports’ repertoire to other fields to include Jane Fonda/Hot Legs aerobics, Billy Blanks’ taebo, Bela Lipat’s Ashtanga and Pye Trinidad’s Bikram yoga, as well as golf, badminton and even boxing. I had become not so much a sports addict but a workout fanatic.

[Read the rest of this entry »]