Jack The Scribbler

Despite differences in age, class, race, and underwear, modern males everywhere pretty much share traditions and activities unique to their gender.
Besides being invariably predisposed to indiscriminate spitting and tasteless nose-picking (especially in public), most men at some point in their lives are required to choose, purchase, and wear formal dinner jackets.
Unfortunately, of the many useless talents I currently have at my disposal, none pertain to fashion, let alone anything vaguely relating to choosing and wearing formal outfits.
After all, since I will never be invited to parties organized by Manila’s well-connected impresarios — none of whom have the rare privilege of my acquaintance — I have chosen to believe that formal fashion apparel is merely a small and artificial aspect of human life.
An invention of the style police, fashion is a form of tyranny to which every teenager — male or female, gay or lesbian — have willingly succumbed, just ask Kuya Germs or Brother Mike Velarde.
However, a recent event has recently disabused me of this notion.
Not only did it make my attendance mandatory, formal clothing was also required, thereby forcing me to capitulate lest I lose my young, pretty, and talented wife to her coterie of male admirers.
So the minute C. received the invitation for a formal sit-down dinner with artists and intellectuals, she and I rushed off to the nearest department store and got myself the cheapest formal-looking dinner jacket that our small income could afford.
Despite its price, the blazer — a dark and handsome two-button affair — brought about my significant social transformation.
Previously a half-assed drunken bum with a crass sense of humor, I — with the jacket on — suddenly looked like I was a sophisticated, witty, and charming member of the Philippine intelligentsia, knowledgeable in the fields of industry and the arts.
But the delusion was short-lived.
The minute I tried the jacket on at home and took a long, hard look at myself in the mirror, I knew, without a doubt, that it was the wrong fit.
Although it was warm and comfortable, the jacket was one size larger, no thanks to shoulder pads the size of bread loaves.
In short, the jacket was the latest — and perhaps the most expensive — sartorial mistake I have ever made ever since I became obsessed with a pair of rubber-soled, tan-colored, faux leather shoes that looked fabulous while I was wearing it inside the store.
Which is why as soon as that dinner is over, I am going to have the jacket repaired.
Failing that, I’ll probably even consider selling it. Used clothes, anyone?
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From the Clarifications Dept. This was written more than two years ago in November 2007. Picture on the upper right shows the protagonist at the Malpensa airport, doing his best to make productive use of his time.