Jack The Scribbler

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.

SCORE one for humans. And zero for the bees.
Or whatever insect it was which bit me on my neck Monday morning while I was out for a drive in those tight, two-lane highways in Quezon City where tricycles rule the streets and pedestrians casually walk along areas especially reserved for roadkill.
But then again, it was a good thing that the bee bit me when it did.
After all, this humble, patient, law-abiding motorist was at that time reduced to first gear, moving at the pace of a three-legged turtle. Because when I felt something sharp digging into the left part of my neck, I applied the brakes all of a sudden, putting the car at a full and immediate stop.
Had I been cruising along Commonwealth Avenue — by far, one of the most dangerous thoroughfares in northern Metro Manila — I would have created a vehicle pile-up from Tandang Sora to Fairview, elicited a special traffic alert on the radio, and incurred the perpetual scorn of irate motorists.
But since I was only negotiating a stretch of road filled with so much people it might as well be EDSA during any of the two peaceful revolutions, my sudden stop only caused the the tricycle driver behind me to grunt, curse, and spit (in that order).
Dismissing the thought that Count Dracula was in the back seat, I reached out for my neck, grabbed the creature with my fingers, squeezed it until it was sufficiently incapacitated.
In an unparalled stroke of genius, I threw the irritating insect on the floor, right by where my feet was, giving it another opportunity to have a go at my lower limbs if ever it decides to wake up from its coma.
Fortunately, the insect didn’t bother me any longer.
It either stayed dead, flew out of the window, or still trapped in all the gunk and caked dust collected by the car’s floor mat.
Meanwhile, the tricycle driver behind me revved up his engines, took a quick left, and sped on.
As he overtook me, the driver gave me a look usually reserved for cheapskate passengers and irritating people in general.
Nervous insect in hand, I forced an apologetic smile while pointing to my neck, a gesture which I knew he understood to be the universal sign language for either
a) “my neck hurts,”
b) “I have sore throat,”
c) “I have lost my voice,”
d) “I am thirsty,” or finally,
e) “I have swallowed an insect.”
Moral of the story: have the aircon fixed so that foreign objects — inanimate or otherwise — would be disallowed from entering the car through the open window.
Either that or simply close the windows and endure the heat.
Stupid bees.

———————

This was written two years ago in a separate blog.

And it’s not just for crewmembers of the USS Enterprise.
It’s also for every budget-conscious entity looking for decent living space within the areas near, beside, and/or adjacent to the University of the Philippines.
The task might not be as difficult as resisting the Borg but the challenges remain formidable enough to shock a starship captain into attention.
To stake your claim on a clean, well-lighted place that has a fully-functioning flush toilet within the UP/Teachers’/Sikatuna Village area, one must have the charm of James Tiberius Kirk, the fortitude of Jean-Luc Picard, and the balls of Kathryn Janeway.
Wily landlords, devious property managers, and suspicious building superintendents are all out there, offering monthly rents that would spark outrage among the Ferengi.
High prices are, of course, part of the overall strategy, a gambit designed to separate the insane from the desperate, the tightwad locals from the moneyed Koreans, many of whom have taken over pocket neighborhoods within the area. But that’s another story.

If you’re an apartment hunter looking for long-term yet temporary refuge within the area, it can’t hurt to have a little good luck and good karma on your side.
However, depending on them too often may result in consequences that can severely distort your time, space, and rent continuum.
More than five years ago, my wife and I found – and immediately took – a one-floor, two-bedroom affair within Teachers’ Village.
Situated within a gated compound, the unit sported new dark green tiles and a fresh coat of paint that was on the creepy shade of yellow.
Rent was reasonable for two adults and a fat cat. The fact that the owner’s son’s family lived right beside us left us with no doubt that we made the right choice.
But that was until we received the electric bill a month after.
It was huge.
We entertained the notion that our cat may have taken liberties with our airconditioner since he wanted to replicate winter weather to which he was accustomed.
An electrician my in-laws hired to check on our cables – and our power consumption – disabused us of our cat’s guilt.
He discovered that the compound’s water pump was directly wired into our apartment’s electric connection.
Our meter went full throttle everytime anyone staying within the six-unit complex peed or pooped.
As soon as we collected and secured evidence – colored photo print outs of our electric meter – we stormed into the landlord’s office, demanding reduced rent and an explanation.
We got the former, never really having cared about the latter.
Although the dispute was settled amicably, my wife and I decided to leave after the six-month contract expired.
Only after two big moves within one year were we able to find a place that suited us perfectly.
But then again, I may be speaking too soon.
After all, we might decide to move again and venture into places where no one among the three of us has gone before.