Jack The Scribbler

Estimates vary of course. But when the Marcoses, their close relatives, associates, and assistants left Malacañang in 1986, the amount that they reportedly stole was estimated at $10 billion.

Based on informal calculations I made using wolframalpha.com — no fancy formulas involved, just a logical way of formulating a text-based question (not exactly rocket science) — $10 billion then is worth $19.7 billion now.

Multiply that by the current peso-dollar exchange rate — P46 to a greenback — and you get an estimated P906.2 billion.

How much is P906.2 billion?

More than half of the Philippine national budget of 2010.

Okay, let’s exaggerate a bit. It’s still more than half of the Aquino administration’s proposed budget for 2011, which is P1.7 trillion.

Let’s not even count cash they stole that remains unreported.

And let’s not even think about the “opportunity costs” lost — say, the economic multiplier effect had X amount of money been allotted to land reform — because the government failed to recover the wealth immediately.

In short, if the government isn’t going to do anything about it, or if they do so haphazardly, what Imelda Marcos once said when asked about ger family’s stupendous wealth might be proven true: that some are smarter than others.

I was once more reminded of the enormity — which has two meanings, both appropriate, look them up — of the Marcos’ ill-gotten wealth after I read the first chapter of Imelda and the Clans: A Story of the Philippines.

The 600-plus page book was written by Beatriz Romualdez Francia, who, among others, describes herself as Imelda’s “dissident niece.”

Here are some numbers I derived after reading the first chapter.

Number of the Marcos entourage members — including “hairdressers, gardeners, closest henchmen” — that left Malacañang in February 1986: 89

Height, in feet, of a Malacañang closet that stored Imelda’s nightgowns: 10

Number of gowns stored in said closet: 1,200

Number of shelves that contained unused Gucci handbags: 5

Total number of Gucci handbags stored in said shelves: 1,500

Number of black brassieres stored in the same closet: 500

Number of clothes racks that were empty: 67

Number of mink coats: 15

Number of silver fox stoles: 6

Number of parasols: 65

Number of scarves: 464

Number of handkerchiefs: 664

Number of sunglasses found stuffed in a chest: 71

Number of teddy bears with “loving words from George [presumably Hamilton]: 1

———————

Thanks to Michael Francis McCarthy for the photo of the book.

Thanks, Fotosearch

Guy walks into a bar, inspects whatever passes for the decor, and asks how much for a beer?

The waiter, all-too-accommodating, proceeds to give a number, which appears reasonable, so the guy — who is accompanied by an acquaintance — sits down.

Guy orders one round for both.

Suddenly, the speakers go full blast.

Guy is irritated because he may be unable to hear the story of his new-found acquaintance.

Fortunately, management has immediately deemed it fit to turn the volume down to a more tolerable level. After all, waiters are trying to listen into the exchange taking place at the other table.

Some white-haired, middle-aged geezer wearing a loose T-shirt, a pair of shorts and slippers appeared to have arrived late for his date, a young, female hottie with upper body advantages. As the middle-aged guy slips into a seat in front of her, they both smile and laugh.

Guy who just walked into the bar and asked for the price of a beer is not amused.
How come, he asks himself, he’s stuck with male acquaintances on a Saturday night while old geezers like this one — swift dagger look to his left — bags the babes?

He is mystified.

The mix of contempt and regret quickly evaporates as the ice-cold beer arrives.

Both guys proceed to exchange life stories.

First guy is drinking just a few hours of the night away until he gets lubricated enough to write something, he says, without mentioning that he maintains a website.

It’s far too complicated, he says to himself, thinking of some people whom he occasionally meets, asking him: “Website, what’s that?”

Meanwhile, during his turn to talk, his acquaintance tells him that he once drove a BMW out of a twenty-foot metal container.

He says he was assisted only by his wits and two thin planks of wood.

Two planks of wood, he repeats. Two planks of wood.

It happened twice, he says, forgetting the name of the other sportscar.

Guy nods.

Interesting life you’ve led, he says, as he catches old geezer and the girl get into a cab.

He takes another pull at his bottle of beer.

It’s cold and crisp, just about every bottle of beer he’s had since he started drinking regularly at the age of 20.

“At least you were good enough to bring the car out safely,” guy says to his companion.

“You don’t know half of it,” the other guy replies. “Two planks of wood. They were thin — like plywood.”

He nods. The other guy nods. They drink.

In a fit of inspiration, guy says to himself, “Hey, why don’t I write about this cool restaurant?”
———————
This piece of “fast fiction” — for the lack of a better definition — is an unpaid piece for Chickenalicious Restaurant, a newly-opened bar at 22 A Matapang corner Malakas Streets in Barangay Pinyahan in Quezon City. Forgot the price of the beer but you can call them up to ask 227 4323. It’s open Monday to Saturday from 10:00 AM to 9:00 PM. House specialties (which is served with rice) include Chicken Inasal (P83), Liempo Inasal (P70), Pork Inasal (five pieces P100), Grilled Boneless Bangus (P105), Pinaputok na Pla-Pla (P110), Sirloin Oversized Steak (P120), Pansit Canton/Bihon (P75). Chickenalicious Restaurant also takes bulk orders, its says in its flyer.
Just to make it clear: No consideration, financial or otherwise, has been made between the owner of this website and any employee, relative, owner, or stakeholder of Chickenalicious Restaurant.

Image from Altham.com

(This was published in the Manila Times in February 2005.)

At some point in our lives, when everything seems hopeless, when despair and desperation seems to be the order of the day, when pessimism pervades even the depths of our very souls, we are occasionally forced, in the words of Blanche DuBois, to rely on the kindness of strangers.
This is probably why we have something that is known as government.

We rely on a bunch of faceless, nameless bureaucrats whom we don’t know to run our country, even though their idea of public service involves taking coffee breaks every half-hour.

But before I get all too weepy by narrating tales of woe and thereby forget my point, I was forced to heed Ms. DuBois’ advice a few weeks ago at the post office.

This was because I had to immediately send off an item abroad, which I had sold via a popular auction site, and I was completely unprepared for the task.

Although the item was already stored in a box, which I had bought at the post office, I had no scissors, no tape, and no contraption whatsoever to ensure that the item would be secure and undamaged until it reaches its recipient in North America.

Fortunately, I chanced upon a middle-aged lady who offered me to use her pair of scissors and packing tape.

I seized this opportunity immediately, thinking that the kindness of strangers was not all-too rare, even in a society like this one.

By the time she was telling me that I should put the stuff back in her bag and hand the bag over to her when I was done, I already grabbed her scissors, pulled out some tape, and proceeded to seal my box.

I was desperate.

After all, it took me more than a month to consummate the sale of this item, no thanks to our poor infrastructure which is barely suited for e-commerce.

In my excitement to get the whole thing over with, I was cutting all over the place like a barber on Ecstasy.

I drew and cut a lot of tape until I had enough to make myself a modern-day mummy.

But then, the unexpected happened: I broke the brittle plastic handle of her pair of scissors.

I was using it regularly, just like anyone who uses scissors: insert thumb and two fingers in two separate holes, stretch, place item to be cut in between the blades, and squeeze.

But the damn thing just fell apart.

For about a minute, I just stood there, broken scissors in hand, awkward and embarrassed.

I then slid everything inside the bag and gave it back to her, thanking her profusely, without admitting that I may have, without intending to, left her an unpleasant surprise.

I then made an exit faster than when the Marcoses left Malacañang.

Since then, this single act of ingratitude and deception has tormented me no end.

Nowadays, whenever I visit a department store and find myself examining various office supplies — staplers and all that — my thoughts are occupied by the lady and her reaction upon discovering that her scissors had gone to pieces.

For this kind of atrocious behavior, all I have to offer is this hastily written apology, hoping that she will have lots of good karma.

And that she avoids trusting people completely.

Next time, she should think twice about lending her scissors to strangers.

After all, there are a lot of crazies out there.