Jack The Scribbler

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.)

I was sitting on the bar, waiting for Red Constantino to come back and play loquacious host on the other side of the counter when all of a sudden, a man barged in with the urgency of a spy on a secret mission. [See: Red Constantino]
“I think I forgot my wife,” he said, pausing for effect.
It wasn’t exactly something I was expecting to hear, especially not at ten in the evening after I’ve had my third beer.
I was half-expecting someone to ask me whether I belonged to Manila’s Finest because I was either too noisy, too rude, or too inebriated.
But to listen to someone say that he had forgotten his spouse in a bar — that nearly shook off all the good spirits I had imbibed that night.
I understood the guy’s situation somewhat.

I had lost things too throughout the years: a Montblanc Meisterstuck 146 fountain pen which I bought really cheap in a Manila antique shop, a length of white cord that my late Lola Vita told me to hang on to upon arrival from a vacation in Canada (I didn’t know what it was for but I never heard the end of it), and the occasional expensive, push-button umbrella in taxicabs.
I haven’t lost my wife in a bar however. (She got lost somewhere else but that’s another story.)
Now here was this guy, standing three feet away from me, telling everyone within earshot that he had forgotten his wife in the very same bar where I was.
He then hunched over the counter and pointed to a black bag on the floor.
The guy — obviously a professional photographer — had left his camera behind.
As if on cue, Red showed up behind the bar and handed him his equipment.
After they exchanged pleasantries, Red returned to his other drunken guest without bothering to bring up spouses unaccounted for.

All throughout the night, Red and I both drank and talked shop with hardly anyone volunteering to explain why the photographer had forgotten his camera, which was so vital to his profession and livelihood.
We didn’t bother with that at all.
But then again, come to think of it, the photographer’s senior moment could be the result of the food, the beer, or the bar itself. Who knows? It might even be the combination of all three.
If true, then the bar’s proprietors could never be happier.
Because this is exactly the feel that they want the bar to have. They want it to be a home, especially for sincere drinkers.
The bar’s name?
Fred’s Place, the newest establishment in Cubao X that aims to be a tavern, a bar, and a place where people can get their hair — and their guard — down.

Besides seeking to recreate a homey, cozy atmosphere, Fred’s seeks to have its own set of habitues, whether loners, social butterflies, or regular barflies.
“You can come here and you know all the assholes — just don’t pet the pets,” said Red Constantino, who’s part of Fred’s Revolucion, the company that runs the bar. No one among the owners are named Fred though.
Although menu items may be added in the future, a few things are already definite: Fred’s will serve cold beer, a few classic cocktails (daquiri, margarita, manhattan, dry martini), and brewed coffee from the provinces.
The first batch of brewed coffee will be from Jolo, said Regina Abuyuan, one of the proprietors. [See: Regina Abuyuan]
As to the food, Derek Soriano, the chef, has promised not to cook for health but for taste.
Feedback has been positive so far.
Just a week ago, one dish impressed a guest so much that he called the chef Fred.
No one complained.
After all, everyone was home.

(N.B. In a recent email sent to me by Gina, she listed a few items that may be served, depending on availability. These are:
1) Smoked Blood Sausage with sticky rice and Tomato Salsa. Traditional Tuguegarao smoked Dinuguan, topped with Chicharong Isaw — crunchy and salty isaw bits.
2) Kuala Tripa. Fred’s answer to Chicharong Bulaklak. Deep fried slices of tripe sprinkled with chili.
3) Smoked Porkchop with Mashed Potatoes and Gravy.
4) Hum-beer. Traditional Cebu Humba simmered for a day in Coors beer and spices. Download Fred’s menu here.)

From the Usual Disclaimers Apply Dept. No financial nor promotional consideration was offered nor received for a favorable review of Fred’s place. The proprietors are my friends though.

Gays have gaydars.
It’s useful for checking whether a man’s interest in Broadway musicals and/or Barbara Streisand has gone beyond levels generally acceptable for his gender.
However, no such devices are available for drunkards (or, for that matter, lesbians).
But of course, I may be wrong.
Which is why I was amused when an acquaintance from eastern Metro Manila managed to track me down and asked me to have a beer with him on a day when I was doing exactly nothing.
The government agency that hired me a year ago as a consultant was shuttered by no less than the President.
With the shutdown, I wasn’t expecting checks to arrive anytime soon from the Aquino administration.
As expected, for the next month or so, budget for beer would be tightened, if only to cover life’s non-essentials like food and rent.
In short, on that day the guy tracked me down, I had very little to look forward to. So why stay sober at all?
I agreed to drink, even with someone who was practically a stranger.
A few text messages later, we met at a hole-in-the-wall in Quezon City.
After the pleasantries — which took about six bottles of beer — he then popped the question: Was I willing to blog regularly for this Tumblr.com site that he was putting up?
It’s called Drunken Dispatches, a blog about anything vaguely related to drinking. [See: Drunken Dispatches]
“It’s not literature. It’s a blog,” he said, wolfing down our pulutan like an Islamic guy on the first sundown of this period when they don’t eat during the daytime.
At first, I wasn’t too impressed.
Sure, I probably drank more regularly than the regular drinker and therefore had more material to offer and perhaps even blog about.
But I needed cold hard cash, which he didn’t offer.
In any case, money didn’t matter eventually.
Just being asked to join was an honor. Or so I found out later.
The quality of the blog’s content exceeded those found on other websites, such as, for instance, this one.
One entry talked about a breakup, another dealt with about liquid courage. The latest, as of this posting, discussed the perils of commuting while drunk.
So now, I’m waiting for him to allow me to post my own entries on the website.
I guess he better do that soon before a real day job gets in the way of my drunken dispatches.