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

I ONCE read this item in a newspaper about the IgNobel Award, a spoof of the Nobel Prize, which was given to the silliest, most useless, and ridiculous invention or idea of the year. At that time, it was conferred to this inventor of artificial testicles for neutered dogs that he called, and I swear I’m not making this up, Neuticles!

I remember that the Nigerians were given an honorary IgNobel for coming up with a creative literary form that publicly begs decent people to help ousted dictators, military strongmen and corrupt politicians launder their ill-gotten millions via e-mail.

Well, after reading and editing the stories for this Sunday’s Inquirer Magazine — on the provocative theme “Sex, Vice and Discipline on Campus — I thought there should be a local counterpart to the IgNobel Award in our schools. After all, some of the silliest, most useless and ridiculous rules I’ve ever encountered emanate from the cerebral cortex of our august academicians.

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

I WAS never the most enthusiastic person when it came to the first day of school. I was largely a bad student who only studied when I was fascinated by what we were taking up, which wasn’t often for most subjects, and never, when it came to math. I was also a kid with a history of being virtually impossible to drag away from the TV (I was a true-blue afternoon section guy), even if the school bus (ah, the immortal service) was already idling outside.

But there were things to love about the coming of school and most of it had to do with the new stuff we brought. There were the basics, like the stroller bag that went really fast. Those dismissal-time stroller races needed the swiftest strollers, after all. Everyone had new shoes but very few had new uniforms (usually reserved for Friday) so that was a wash.

It all boiled down to the glory of school supplies. From those days, I still carry with me an exultation that comes with staring at office supplies. Back then, it was all about the conspicuous stuff. Those were the 1980s, the heyday of the Trapper Keeper, those monstrous plastic-and-Velcro contraptions that were actually not very useful (too big, too bulky, way too noisy) but man, were they ever distracting. Mead (manufacturer of those Trapper Keepers) remains the grand poobah of binder construction today but has toned down the colors and dimensions to make tasteful and utterly practical wares.

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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

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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!

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