'Tis the season for frozen margaritas

From left: Vergel, Rolly, Chit and the blogger Photo by Kai Mykonos

We had dinner a few nights ago at The Manor's Le Chef restaurant with our journalism confreres from Manila, Vergel Santos and wife Chit Roces. It's almost an annual tradition for them to come up to Baguio for a whiff of our rarefied air in the few forested parts of the city.

Rolly Fernandez and Vergel have a history -- they worked together at the post-EDSA 1986 Manila Times and Manila Chronicle. They never run out of subjects to talk about when they see each other which is yearly. So their conversation goes on and on from the appetizers to post-prandial coffee and on and on until the waiters are already preparing the tables for the next day's buffet breakfast.

What are the waiting wives to do? Drinking ourselves blind is out of the question because we were still under the vigilant eyes of our partners. Chit has a history of passing out when under the influence while I tend to be a rabble rouser once the alcohol kicks in.

Lightheaded Chit

We settle for a strawberry flavored frozen margarita, a huge one, enough to be shared with Chit's son Tex and his wife. We each take turns scraping the mountain of ice and tequila with our respective teaspoons. Soon I complain about brain freeze quickly creeping from the front lobe of my brain to the back of my neck. Soon Chit is lightheaded with laughter. Vergel's eyes just grow bigger. Rolly is as usual silent.

Chit and I decide to quit early and leave the young couple to finish the rest of the margarita.

The guys get the hint. At close to midnight, very late by Baguio standards, we break up our little party, they to return to their rooms, we to drive home.

The first time I saw Monica Feria

These remembrances were read last night at the memorial for journalist Monica S. Feria at the rock garden of the Church of the Risen Lord, University of the Philippines, Diliman, Quezon City. Monica died at age 62 on Dec 30 last year. Her ashes will be brought to Cabangan, Zambales, today where these will be buried.

The first time I met Monica formally was at our employer's office, Philippine Daily Express in Port Area, Manila, in 1976. I was a new reporter assigned to the Life and Leisure section. Newspaper people in those days were mainly made up of men, the unfriendly sort whose noses were close to the grindstone. Monica went out of her way to welcome me to the team.

What bound us, apart from the Express, was we were both working students at the UP Institute of Mass Communication. She enjoyed a celebrity status there because of this and because her byline appeared with some frequency on the front page.

But she wasn't a total stranger to me. She was friends first with my older cousin, Allyn Lolarga Valdellon, a broadcast communication major. Binilin ako ni Allyn kay Monica since Express was to become the first of my many journalism jobs.

In the newspaper then, we only enjoyed one day off. Mine fell on a Thursday so it would allow me to attend classes. Saturdays and Sundays were slow news days. Nonetheless, I reported for duty to close advance Leisure pages for the Monday and Tuesday issues.

One early Saturday afternoon when the slots of the all-male news desk were unoccupied, Monica sashayed by my cubicle wearing a pair of batik wraparound pants. Then her pants, held together by a fragile string and the tiniest of safety pins, fell, revealing to me her white-as-snow panty. I half hugged her from behind and helped put on her pants back with one eye cast on the rest of the newsroom.

Monica gasped, "Mabuti ikaw lang ang nakakita, Babeth!"

I suspect that the boys in the newsroom, from the copy boy to the editor in chief, were half in love in Monica. In love but not in the leery or lustful sense, more of what William Butler Yeats wrote in his poem "When You Are Old and Grey": "How many loved your moments of glad grace / And loved your beauty with love false or true / But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you / And loved the sorrows of your changing face."

Monica and Gigi on the Bob Feleo bed at the launching of the book The First Eye

I'm grateful to Monica for agreeing to read aloud my poems at the launching of my first book, The First Eye, on Oct. 15, 1990, traditionally observed as World Poetry Day, when she was big with child. She shared, along with our actor friends Dodo Crisol, may he also rest in peace, and Gigi Dueñas, a big four-poster bed, handcrafted by Bob Feleo. Monica surprised everyone gathered at Hiraya Gallery with her passionate reading of some erotica despite a belly so huge she seemed ready to pop anytime.

Monica was also my editor when I contributed to the now defunct Mirror Magazine. I was encoding and composing at the same time my profile of then senatorial candidate Haydee Yorac in one of her office's computer terminals. Monica understood the "messiness" of the writing process. By 9 p.m., which was late, I still wasn't ready with my copy. She said she needed to go home to her daughter Jasmin and her family. Not once did she lean over my shoulders to check on the progress of my work. There was that trust between professionals that yes, I would be able to deliver.

Because she didn't apply full-blown pressure on me, I was more relaxed and reached my story's end, appending a hashtag after the last period.

One last memory of Monica: In February 1997, we attended a meeting of women cultural workers called by the National Commission for Culture and the Arts. After about an hour or so of grim and determined brainstorming about arts-related projects that would benefit women (there was a budget that ran into millions), Monica raised her hand from where she was seated and said, "Bakit hindi na lang natin paghati-hatian yung pera? Happy pa tayo!"

Of course, that was said in jest and Monica meant to lighten the mood.

Ngayong gabi, paghati-hatian natin ang kalungkutan sa pagpanaw ng mahal nating Monica sa pamamamagitan ng pag-alaala natin at pagtanggap na bumalik na siya sa Dakilang Kaliwanagan sa langit. Maging happy tayo.

Monica believed in and worked for the liberation of Filipino women, of the Filipino people. Let up rejoice that she is now liberated from the world of pain and suffering, from the dailiness of deadlines.

Thank you and good night.

A despedida for Gabo

Yes, we were close in a thick way. Thanks very much to his books. It was my late journalism professor Raul Rafael Ingles who lent me his copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude in the late '70s when I was newly graduated. It was from my editor Rosario A. Garcellano that I was able to borrow her copy of Chronicle of a Death Foretold. I remember her miming that scene where the target of assassins walked stoically, trying to stanch the flow of blood from his deadly wound with his hands and to find a place where he could bleed to death with some dignity.

As for the periodic sentences in Autumn of the Patriarch, they intimidated me so, but I'll pick up where I left off one of these days.

But it was Living to Tell the Tale, a secondhand copy of which I bought either at Book Sale or Mt Cloud that made me fully appreciate Gabo (or Tito Gabo, as fictionist Geraldine C. Maayo and I secretly call him).

In it he tells of how his long stint in the burrows of journalism gave him all the materials he needed for his fiction. He was present at civilian uprisings, he covered crime and politics, was at the scene immediately after a massacre, interviewed the mighty and the lowly, reviewed books and film, put out supplements, wrote editorials, filled up space when advertisements were pulled out at the last minute, missed some deadlines, got berated by editors. He experienced all these everyday stuff in the life of a journeyman. In between he learned how to listen to music attentively and to read the masters from Dostoevsky to Faulkner.

I emerged from that book with a realization that all the training a writer needed could be found in old-fashioned journalism.

Here are some of Gabo's words, excerpts from "The Art of Fiction," an interview Peter H. Stone did for The Paris Review.

Garcia Marquez (1927-2014) Photo from Esquire


INTERVIEWER

Do you think the novel can do certain things that journalism can’t?

GARCÍA MÁRQUEZ

Nothing. I don’t think there is any difference. The sources are the same, the material is the same, the resources and the language are the same. The Journal of the Plague Year by Daniel Defoe is a great novel and Hiroshima is a great work of journalism.

INTERVIEWER

Do the journalist and the novelist have different responsibilities in balancing truth versus the imagination?

GARCÍA MÁRQUEZ

In journalism just one fact that is false prejudices the entire work. In contrast, in fiction one single fact that is true gives legitimacy to the entire work. That’s the only difference, and it lies in the commitment of the writer. A novelist can do anything he wants so long as he makes people believe in it.

INTERVIEWER

In interviews a few years ago, you seemed to look back on being a journalist with awe at how much faster you were then.

GARCÍA MÁRQUEZ

I do find it harder to write now than before, both novels and journalism. When I worked for newspapers, I wasn’t very conscious of every word I wrote, whereas now I am. When I was working for El Espectador in Bogotá, I used to do at least three stories a week, two or three editorial notes every day, and I did movie reviews. Then at night, after everyone had gone home, I would stay behind writing my novels. I liked the noise of the Linotype machines, which sounded like rain. If they stopped, and I was left in silence, I wouldn’t be able to work. Now, the output is comparatively small. On a good working day, working from nine o’clock in the morning to two or three in the afternoon, the most I can write is a short paragraph of four or five lines, which I usually tear up the next day.

To Oscar, happy trails

"There is protection accorded by the bill of rights not just to freedom of the press, but to freedom of expression in general." - Harry Roque

I'm always on the lookout for a boost that'll put me on the right track for the rest of the day. Or even for just this new morning. Attorney Roque's latest commentary in Vera Files has just given me the boost I need that caffeine no longer can give because I am slowly lessening its intake until my system fully rejects it. Aging requires some changing.

Because the day is new and ripe with possibilities, I am reminded, too, that it is right to put a song in one's heart when one wakens. Puwede bang bumati o magpaalam man lang kay Ginoong Oscar Dipasupil?

Oskie, bro and friend to Ester, skipped this life on the 24th of January and has become a heavenly intercessor to his two surviving sisters (the other is Dipsy who's from Oz) and other beloveds. Today is his cremation and inurnment day.

I have good memories of that chap, among them how he carefully read the lines, especially those in the newspaper his sister continues to work for. He was doing the Reader Advocate's duties unofficially. To Oskie, now that you're beyond the bluest sky, thanks for the times I hitched a ride in your car, those times you pointed this and that out in my article in your quiet, measured tones while I sat in Ester's garden or your living room while I waited for her to waken.

More than anything, thank you for being that old reliable steadfast pillar in Ester's life. She'll be all right in time and back to doing the work she loves in the hallowed Dipasupil tradition of being press guardians and fighters.

Some trees my Dad and another old family reliable, Mang Cabiz, planted. Blogger sends thoughts upward to mingle with The Saints and Intercessors. Photo by Babeth Lolarga

Paris Review - The Art of Journalism No. 1, Hunter S. Thompson

Paris Review - The Art of Journalism No. 1, Hunter S. Thompson

Choice quotes from K.A. Porter

That's Katherine Anne Porter (KAP), of course--the same woman behind the short fiction "Flowering Judas," "Pale Horse, Pale Rider," the novel Ship of Fools.

This blogger is leaning hard on this forebear, KAP, although I would've wanted to begin my beguine with Cole Porter instead. If I'm sounding a tad irritated on this holiday, it's because some colleagues, even younger ones still green in the game, tend to denigrate and dismiss journalism for the kind of race-against-the-clock writing that my friends and I do to tie and ribbon the shredded edges of our dignity.

Most times we're dismissed as hacks or masters and mistresses of "fluff writing" or "the quickie" or non-writers not quite able to rise enough to some literary standard or persons/perverts vulnerable to the temptations of various handsome Satans and cohorts (some public relations practitioners and/or spin doctors who think the Truth is a commodity as easy to purchase off the shelves like Argentinian corned beef).

A wise older daughter always likes to remind me, "Nanay, don't make patol." It's her way of encouraging me in the work I love and revere, in the profession that has almost caused my life partner, her father, Rolly Fernandez, to lose his eyesight.

I have a hunch, yes, a hunch deep in my gut that is protected by belly fat, that our writings in the near future will be more heightened, enriched by detail. And it all has a lot to do with choosing to be reporters for life.

That said, I dust off my imaginary top hat, put on my tux and soft shoe my way to a late lunch. God continue to give me and my supportive family our daily rice and fish. AMEN!

Take it away, Ms. Porter:

"A cultivated style would be like a mask. Everybody knows it's a mask, and sooner or later you must show yourself--or at least, you show yourself as someone who could not afford to show himself, and so created something to hide behind.... You do not create a style. You work, and develop yourself; your style is an emanation from your own being."

***

"They had both noticed that a life of dissipation sometimes gave to a face the look of gaunt suffering spirituality that a life of asceticism was supposed to give and quite often did not."

All images and two KAP quotations from the creative commons in the World Wide Web

Fearless Eggie

Here's the entire article on Ms. Eugenia Apostol, founding chairperson of Philippine Daily Inquirer, part of which appeared in today's issue of the newspaper. The piece was cut due to space limitations. Chelo Banal Formoso, editor of PDI's Learning section, gave me permission to reprint the piece in this blog.

She kept her speech short and sweet the way she once wrote the breezy headlines and captions on the newspaper and magazine pages she closed. She went about the task briskly and snappily in the same way she decided to open the publications (Mr. & Ms. Special Edition, Philippine Daily Inquirer, Pinoy Times) and start advocacy work (the Education Revolution) that would alter this nation’s life.

This year’s recipient of the Ateneo Parangal Lingkod Sambayanan (public service award), Eugenia D. Apostol, 82, looked back during the awards ceremony on a make-or-break moment in her early childhood.

Apostol said when she was around three or four years old in Sorsogon, her mother left for church and her physician-father for work. When she saw the coast was clear, she decided to follow her mother, somehow losing her way. A kind woman offered her candy. Touched, young Eugenia followed the woman to the Albay-bound bus and sat with her. The conductor recognized the child as the daughter of the sanitary inspector and hauled her out of the bus, returning her to her father.

“Where would I be now without that alert bus conductor?” Apostol ended her spiel with the audience in stitches.

Vicente Tirol, whom she invited to be Pinoy Times publisher, asked her this before considering her offer: “Do you have any sacred cows?”

“Should I?” she shot back.

He said, “True enough, she never asked me or any of Pinoy Times’ editors to treat anyone in that manner. She was one for issues and causes, like the levy that (former President) Marcos imposed on coconut farmers. She not only wanted a story done on the issue right away, but she asked for follow-ups and expected the editors to stay with the issue until action was taken on it. Principle and persistence—these were her hallmarks as a journalist.”

Inquirer art director Lynett Villariba’s first encounter with Apostol was a case of mistaken identity. Her University of the Philippines professor told her to go to the Chronicle Bldg. where, she said, “the displaced (by martial law) news people were setting up a tame women’s magazine right under the noses of the military guards who were securing the place to ensure the printing plant was only taking commercial, not subversive, jobs.”

She went past labyrinthine corridors and checkpoints before knocking on a door. A gentle voice asked her in. She found a petite lady behind a big desk covered with papers and magazines.
“I am looking for Mister Eddie Apostol,” Villariba announced.

Ms. Apostol’s assistant put the young applicant in her place. After a brief exchange, the lady behind the desk told her to get started right away.

“That was how I was initiated into a media guerilla operation which marked Ms. Apostol’s ventures,” Villariba said. “She required a name plate, logo design or layout started on the spot, right after discussing how she wanted a publication projected in street sales, how it would be held in commuters’ hands on their ride to work. She waited for your creative juices to flow, telling you ‘No rush,’ but actually meaning in an hour's time, ora mismo, or the next day.”

Villariba said the Apostol publications (Woman’s Home Companion, Mr. & Ms., Philippine Daily Inquirer, the EDSA books) where she participated in are marked by “a spontaneous look, no feasibility study, just social sensitivity. She had a keen instinct. Her instant critiques were capped by generous praise, a warm pat on the back for a job well done coupled with a bonus. She made me know that she was happy with my work. That to me is the mark of a great life coach and career mentor.”

Lorna Kalaw Tirol, another baby of Tita Eggie (colleagues’ endearment for Apostol), said, “I met her when I was a senior journalism major at St. Theresa’s College. Bibsy Carballo, my teacher, told my class that the editor of Woman and Home magazine, Sunday supplement of Manila Chronicle, was looking for young contributors. Whoever was interested could go see her at the Chronicle building in Intramuros. I was the only one who was interested. I went to see Eggie (with my mother!), she asked me a few questions, then gave me an assignment.

“That first assignment led to others,” Tirol continued. “When I graduated, Eggie took me in as an apprentice. I was hoping to be hired as a staff writer. But the apprentice’s pay was measly (P25 or P50 a week) so I left after two months to teach at STC high school. I started writing for Eggie again when I went back to the Chronicle as a desk editor. When Vic and I got married in 1971, she was a logical choice to be one of our ninangs (godmothers) because she was my first media boss. Vic got Johnny Mercado, his first media boss.”

She said Apostol was “an out-of-the-box thinker even then. That’s why she gets along with Gilda Fernando. She’s a real maverick who likes to explore, blaze new trails and see how far she can go. A fearless risk taker, she dared take on Marcos and then Erap, no matter what doing so cost her. She just laughed off threats of libel suits, prison and being fed to the crocodiles.”

Tirol said, “She was also exacting and demanding but never arrogant and mean. She was thoughtful and considerate of her staff. Pusong mamon (soft-hearted). She would give generous help to those with sob stories. Pero nakaka-tense at nakakaloka kung minsan kasi makulit (she could make you tense and crazy from her demands). She wanted things done right away. Or started yesterday and finished tomorrow.”

From Apostol she learned “how to work with heart and soul; with integrity and an independent mind and courage. Her whole professional life, as a journalist, and now as an advocate of people power and of every Filipino’s right to an education, has been a priceless gift to the nation. Ateneo must be congratulated for having chosen wisely."