Jack The Scribbler

Or in my case, notes—lots of them.

This is because I recently bought three black Green Apple Reporter Notebooks from a National Bookstore branch in Pasay City. (That, and another book, Augusten Burroughs’ Magical Thinking for P50, which I promise would be my last book buy for the year. But that’s another story.) [See: Magical Thinking]

It takes me three months to use up a GARN, which means I’m not going to have a shortage for the next three years.

This is because on top of the new three GARNs that I bought, I have eight in storage, bringing the total to 13, one of which I’ve used up—and also in storage—and another one which I’m using now.

I absolutely adore these notebooks (enough to blog about them) more than I do the soft-bound Moleskines I got abroad, some of which I had already given away. The softbound Moleskines also fell apart easily, which is unjustifiable considering its price.*

That’s not the case with the GARN.

It’s tough, durable, low-key, substantially cheaper than the Moleskine, and thanks to its color, unmistakably masculine.

I admit that I ignored the GARN the first time I saw it.

At that time, I was in my DIY notebook phase, a preoccupation that was short-lived because it was foolish, expensive, and time-consuming—just like hanging out with frenemies.

That phase ended when a new fountain pen came along, prompting me to get something decent to write on. [See: Lamy 2000]

The GARN was the natural choice.

In no time, I became addicted and bought them whenever I saw them.

Like the fountain pen, I bring the GARN everywhere.

Except that I am unable to maximize its availability.

People look at you strange if you write in a notebook. But not if you type on a laptop or a tablet.

If you’re seen clutching a notebook and a pen—two pieces of antiquated equipment—you’re considered a throwback of the 19th century, a fop, a dandy, a pretentious, artsy-fartsy pseudo-writer-slash-artist.

Fortunately, I’ve come to terms with my literary pretension and, as a result, have managed to get away with writing on the GARN some of the time.

On various occasions, I’ve written extensively in two different mid-end, mall-based Chinese restaurants, one of which had the temerity to charge me for house tea. (Which, come to think of it, I should have agreed to pay for since I’ve spent time writing there.)

I’ve even checked into a cheap hotel overnight, just to get a change of scenery.

Except that cable television got the better of me and all I could wrangle out of that episode was a page that was arguably worthless. That overnight stay also helped increase my debt whose interest could have paid for someone else’s country club membership.

So, kids, what kind of lesson can we derive from my notebook addiction?

Simple: I may go hungry, incur investment losses, seek bankruptcy protection, live on the streets, and eat off a garbage dump but as far as writing supplies are concerned, I’m A-OK.

———————

*I do have another Moleskine in storage—a hardbound Berlin City Notebook edition given by a journalism instructor who’s been there countless times as a birthday gift. I promise to use it once I get to visit that city.

The first time I heard about Ninoy Aquino he was already dead for a few hours.

My mother, my brother, our longtime helper Adeling (whom we called Sister out of respect for her and her strong Catholic faith), and I were trapped inside my aunt’s two-storey house in Sampaloc. (At that time, my father was abroad, spending the first of his only two-year stint in the Middle East.)

All four of us were invited to the fiesta that day—a Sunday—and at around seven or eight in the evening, the heavy rain forced my aunt to extend her welcome.

Having nothing else to do, I turned on a small color television set located near the living room and tuned into RPN channel 9.

It was showing the last half of a movie that I would find out later was Murder by Death. (How could I remember? I was a fan of the Pink Panther movie series, and by extension, Peter Sellers, who was cast as a Chinese detective in the film. I just added Google into the mix decades later.) [See: Murder by Death, Peter Sellers, Pink Panther]

While seeing the film’s last few scenes—a large suitcase being snapped shut by Truman Capote who played the eccentric millionaire—Sister ran up to me and told me that Ninoy Aquino was shot.

“Sino siya?” I asked her.

She gave me an explanation so colorful and detailed it must have been riddled with half truths and rumors.

But it was enough to keep Ninoy Aquino in the periphery of my imagination until next year.

In November 1984, I wrote a letter to the editor about Ninoy Aquino to Mr & Ms Special Edition, a weekly newsmagazine that was part of the mosquito press. [See: Mr & Ms]

The letter was handwritten on a lined piece of paper that I used for school. The document was folded, stapled, and was deliberately sent without an envelope—a tip I learned from a special portion of the GMA News program that asked viewers to send in their money-saving strategies which, at that time, was read on the air by Tina Monzon-Palma.

I then gave the letter to my mother who, now that I think about it, must have gotten a kick from sending stuff through the mail. (She forced us to write letters to our grandparents who were staying in California.)

The letter was later published, copies of which were shown proudly to relatives every time they visited.

It was the first time I saw my name in print.

Too bad the event was associated with someone who had to be assassinated, if only to bring us where we—as a country—should go.

We’re not there yet.

But I do hope that we get there wherever “there” is. [See: Raissa Robles’ take on Ninoy Aquino]

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From the On Another Note Dept. Been re-reading “The Public Has The Right to Know,” a book written by Bienvenido A. Tan, the public coordinator of the Agrava Fact-Finding Board, the body that investigated the assassination of Ninoy Aquino. Tan, father of Jose Ma. Lorenzo, who heads the World Wildlife Fund Philippines, would later become Cory Aquino’s tax chief. Tan’s book is candid, describing how certain individuals even said they were able to communicate with Aquino in the afterlife. And at one point during the proceedings, he became so frustrated with the assertions of Butz Aquino, Ninoy’s brother, that he bought himself a new set of golf clubs. [See: Tan on buying a new set of golf clubs.] Since we’re already on the topic, try visiting [Five things Donald Draper and Ferdinand Marcos have in common].

The PowerBook G4 was dead but its LED kept on blinking.

In better days, it meant it was in temporary hibernation and could be roused by a click of the trackpad or a tap on the keyboard.

Now it was a sign that it was headed to a place where all good computers go to die. (Please don’t ask where that is — I’m not a computer. And I’m not dead yet, despite appearances to the contrary.)

I decided to wake it up.

I stretched out my right index finger, pressed the enter button, and wished for the best.

If it was awake, it sure gave off a powerful impression that it wasn’t. It just lay there on the table, wide open, like a piece of discarded shellfish.

No light emanated from the screen, no hum of life, just the LED, blinking in a rhythm resembling the waves of the sea.

I gave it my one last shot.

I restarted using Apple Computer’s three-finger salute — I pressed the control, command, and power buttons all at once.

Again, nothing.

At that very moment, I became sure of one thing more than I have ever been sure of anything else before in my whole life: I was fucked.

My laptop, the most expensive tool in this blogging trade, the digital center of my life, had kicked the  bucket.

Can’t say I’m surprised though.

No PowerBook of mine has endured as much stress as this one.

I used it for everything — uploading, downloading, Facebook, Twitter, Google Plus, email, photo editing, podcasting, videos, storage, music, movies, and of course, word-processing. You name it, I did it with it.

Unlike my previous PowerBooks, which endured my company during a few trips abroad, this G4 only went out whenever it needed to be repaired.

It left my table many times, requiring reinstallation of the OS whenever it failed to sleep and/or shut down properly.

But things got worse.

During the past two years, the “C” key popped out, prompting me to use a full-size keyboard. Much later, the computer continuously typed the letter “d” by itself.

This irritated the repair guy so much that he asked permission to pop the key out. It solved the problem but only temporarily. To stop the typing menace, I banged on the spacebar so hard it occasionally woke up sleeping clerks at nearby city hall.

The last straw involved another adopted cat.

He jumped on my desk, climbed on the laptop, and used the keyboard as his scratching post.

The right command key surrendered shortly after the claw invasion and joined the c and d keys in permanent exile.

The computer then died a few days after that.

Whether it was the feline, old age, or misuse that did the PowerBook in, I don’t know for now.

I just need to get some files back ASAP so I can work on them using a newly-purchased but nevertheless pre-loved MacBook.

I guess I have to bring the PowerBook to the shop one last time before it goes to Macintosh Heaven.

Thanks, PowerBook G4. We had a good run. (And sorry about the cat.)