Why five? I dunno. To tell you the truth, it just might be all I can think of at the moment (excluding personal triumphs that you wouldn’t care to hear). Any list of this sort is always subjective. I trust, however, that those devoted readers that I’ve come to know last year will agree, having gleaned some sort of kinship with this monster. It’s those letters that you’ve sent (I wish I could thank you all personally; I’m so sorry for being delinquent in my correspondence) that make writing this column worthwhile. The fact that I know there are people who actually give a damn about and are passionate in their responses to this quixotic quest of mine is one more thing — and probably the best one — to be happy and grateful for. Come to think of it, I couldn’t ask for anything more.
Booktopia is just such a place. Naturally, it boggles the mind why anyone in their right mind would put up a bookstore that carries titles other than Mitch Albom’s Tuesdays With Morrie, Paolo Coehlo’s The Alchemist and the Chicken Soup for the Soul series. Haven’t they heard that Filipinos don’t read? (And with the just mentioned titles, who can blame them?) It’s such a riddle that even one of its owners Rowena Dimaguila can’t give an answer. (Nor can Robert, one of the staff – er, actually he’s the only one.) Of course, she believes that – contrary to popular belief – there is a market out there. But what happens if the three people who’ve actually heard of Theodore Sturgeon, Kobo Abe and Richard Matheson start to conform to bad taste in literature, immigrate or disappear into one of the worlds of their favorite fictions? (And, again, who can blame them?)
Rowena is equally stumped when I ask why Filipinos like such dreadful books. "People need books like that, I guess," she says, almost breathing a sigh of relief. Of course, you can find the offending titles at Booktopia, but they’re sold behind the counter and not from the shelves, almost like an illegal drug or pornography. (In a sense, they are.)
So, why start a business from something as unpopular as well-written books? The answer may lie also in fiction. Perhaps on the shelves of the shop lies a copy of the adventures of the Man from La Mancha, off fighting impossible battles against gigantic Windmills?
I just terrorized a five-year-old almost to tears. You see, he just got two chicks for his birthday, his first pets. He had already given them names and was quite diligent in looking after them, attentive in their feeding times and the cleanliness of their space. "They’re called Dog and Doggy," he told me, pointing out that the one with a greenish mohawk was the latter. (I got to concede that the kid has got a peculiar sense of humor.)
"You know what?" I began with all the relish of a storyteller about to pour ice-cold terror down his audience’s spine. "I’m going to show them to Joel Torre."
Of course, the joke was in bad taste.
That’s something that can’t be said for JT’s Manukan Grille which serves probably the best Bacolod chicken in the country (and only equaled, I guess, by the best in Bacolod). From pakpak to pecho to baticolon, Torre sure knows his chicken. Every dish is succulent, flowing with juices sure to satisfy the discerning chicken lover that wants the real deal. Without disease. (JT’s gets their chicken from local growers only; the ones with avian flu come from Vietnam and are sold at the market. That’s what those text messages are telling you to stay away from.)
Of course, there is an assortment of other dishes on the menu also as delectable like their spare-ribs and their Bacolod version of that old favorite bulalo. (Our preference at the moment though is the bangus.)
What’s more aside from Torre himself, you find a crowd of celebrities and artists from the independent film community including maverick directors like Lav Diaz and Cesar Hernando to walking film libraries like Teddy Co dining and enjoying their nth round of beer.
(Interesting tidbit: The US magazine Film Comment has just named Lav Diaz’s Batang Westside as one of its 10 best films. It starred Joel Torre and is the first classic Filipino film released this century.)
JT’s Manukan Grille is located at 4 Granada St., Ortigas Ext., Bgy. Valencia, Quezon City. Their number is 721-9025.
The hero of the film is a charming lass who likes cheesy ’80s Pinoy flicks, playing Megajoy and killing people. Still with me? Just so you don’t think she’s a serial killer with no purpose, she’s actually taking revenge on the fraternity boys who killed her boyfriend and love-of-her-life PJ. Of course, the body count in the film is high enough to attract attention from the cops, namely one in particular named Jason. Now if only he can solve the killing and mend his broken heart then he would be happy. The answer of course is that same one word.
This is Quark Henares’ second feature and it ups the ante from his previous effort, 2002’s Gamitan. The wry black humor and cinematic pranks are still quite evident but the sophistication and assured direction show how Henares has indeed matured. He manages the difficult task of making this admittedly sordid tale genuinely uplifting and damn funny. Since when did romantic comedies have a lot of murder in them and work?
The only complaint I have against the film is the poor sound design that is just bad and totally lacking in subtlety and artistry. I encourage Henares to sack the sound designer and tie him to wild horses that will drag his body over nails and burning coals to pay for his sins.
These days it’s surprising how many artists have albums out. No matter the genre from sunshine pop to the downright noisy, as long as they can scrape enough money and gain access to a microphone and a computer, you can record an album. And this isn’t a bad thing.
We live at a time when anyone with a broken heart finds empathy with the caterwauling of "divas"; where men try to project sensitivity by singing wimpy songs on an acoustic guitar; and sex is presumably bopping along to the banality of a drum loop. (The latter most likely overlaid with a sing-song rip-off of a children’s lullaby – disturbing given its implications.)
Fortunately, "indie" artists are here to offer an alternative. Anyone in need of assuagement of a mended heart can listen to cathartic blues of Lampano Alley’s Ganyan Lang; sentient misfits can rejoice in their alienation with Ciudad’s Dessie Belle; and sensuality follows the rhythmic breezes of Orange and Lemons’ Kailangan Kita.
Without them, the world would be a poorer place indeed.