Floro Dery's TALES of TWO ARTISTS

2009-10-10T21:33:00.000-07:00

Chapter 19: SUPER KAPRE

As usual, Juan Tabagwang and I found ourselves at the Tomadors’ Tavern. We ordered 19 bottles of “Agua de Pataranta,” a drink. Honestly, this drink tastes terrible. But once one becomes drunk with this “agua” it tastes like the essence of “ambrosia.” Anyway, while we were drinking, I noticed Juan wiped his armpit with a tissue paper soaked in “agua” every time before Maria D’Kapri, the Super Kapre, checked on us.

“What’s wrong, Juan!?” I curiously asked.

“I-I have under-arm odor,” Juan replied, though embarrassed, “I don’t want Maria to smell it.”

“Definitely, she’ll be turned-off and gives you a PWE!!!” I remarked, and followed it with a loud, “BWAHAHAHA ….”

Juan looked at me annoyed, but it caught Maria’s attention and she gave us a suspicious glance.

“By the way, Juan, did you ever hear of the story of Kapre,” I asked just to make him more uncomfortable but mainly to boast his self-esteem, “not Maria, the Super Kapre?”

“Not interested,” Juan said, still disgusted with me.

“Just listen to this story; it’s good for your ego. But let me tell you the story in pilipino, it’s not funny in english,” I insisted. “Here goes the story EXACTLY as I heard it from the Genie himself.”

Isang araw, hindi isang gabi, lukotoy na lukutoy na lumalakad sa dalampasigan si Kapre dahil hanggan ngayon ay wala pang magandang chick na pumapatol sa kanya kahit na iyong busagra ang mukha na parang aswang. Bakit o bakit? Dahil meron siyang isang katangian na siyang kawsa para ma turn-off ang kahit sinumang tsika sa kanya, meron siyang ANGHIT na ang baho ay subra pa sa bulok na imburnal at ang amoy nito ay abot ng mahigit isang kilometro. Talagang lintik ang baho ano?

Ang pagmuni-muni ni Kapre sa kanyang buhay na masasabing tunay na kapalpakan sa kalungkutan ay biglang natigil ng mabundol niya ng hindi sinasadya ang isang botelya na kalahating nakabaon sa buhangin. Wala sa loob niya na dinampot ito at dahan-dahan na binunot ang tapon. PLOK! Anak ng kuting, may sound effect pa. At mula sa botelya ay lumabas ang makapal na usok. Unti-unting nawawala ang usok pero kasabay nito ay meron music background na TANG TARANG TANG TANG …. Teka, tekaaa …, bakit may music? Huwag kayong makialam, ako ang nagkukuwento at hindi kayo. Saka gusto kung meron MU-SIK ….

Kapre: Isang Genie!? …..

Genie: UGOK! Bakit, TIPAKLONG ba ang inaasahan mo!?

Ang lungkot sa mukha ni Kapre ay napalitan ng kaligayahan. Bakit biglang sumaya si Kapre? Hindi lang kayo pakialam, usisiro pa kayo. Makinig na lang kayo sa kuwento ko.

Kapre: D-di kung gayon bibigyan mo ako ng t-tatlo, tatlong mga kahilingan.

Genie: Sinong TARANTADO ang nagsabi sa’yong puwede kang humingi ng tatlong kahilingan?

Kapre: Eh, iyon talaga ang dapat! At saka ganyan ang palaging nangyayari sa mga stories at movies!

Genie: Anghit amoy ka na, utak KULUGO ka pa! Sa stories at movies lang iyon na hindi totoo! Iba ito, REALITY ito! Puwede ka lang sa ISANG kahilingan!

Kapre: HINDI isa, tatlo! At bilang Amo mo ay ako ang masusunod!

Biglang gulat si Genie, buldot ang mga mata, hindi makapaniwala sa kanyang narinig. At ngising aso na dinampot si kapre.

Genie: AMO mo!? TIRISIN kaya kita na parang PIGSA para sumambulat ka! O baka gusto mong ipasok kita dito sa loob ng botelyang ito na may takip na tapon, ibalibag sa dagat para matureta ka sa loob ng libo-libong mga taon?

Kapre: G-genie, b-biro lang, IKAW ang amo ko! Sige na nga, isang kahilingan!

Genie: Bueno, ano ang gusto mo? Hindi, dahil ako ang amo mo, hihiling ako ng kahilingan para sa’yo! Magagandang mga chicks na ubod ng seksi ang ibibigay ko sa’yo. Ito naaa ….

Ang mga mata ni Kapre ay biglang bumulwak sa tuwa. Bumulwak!? …. Sa dialogue na lang ay makakamot mo ang b-baya …, ang ano ang kakamutin? Bahala kayo kung ano ang gusto ninyong kamutin. Ang gulo ninyo, nalilihis tuloy sa ibang direksiyon ang storya ko. Balik kay Kapre. Subali’t ang kalibogan ni Kapre, ehe, kaligayahan pala ay napalitan ng hilakbot ....

Kapre: Aaaaaaah! Nanay ko pooo!!! Bakit ang dami!? ....

Sabay karipas ng takbo si kapre. Habol sa kanya ang ISANG LIBONG magaganda at seksing mga bebots.

Genie: Hindi ko kasi sinabi kung ilan, hehehe …. Huwag kang mag-alaala, TRIP nila ang may anghit na amoy imburnal na kagaya ng sa’yo, hihihiii ….

Kapre: Ikaw ang humiling para sa akin! I-ibaliiik mo sila, ISA lang ay TAMA na sa akin!

Genie: HINDI puwede! Hindi puwedeng bawiin ang kahilingan! Pagtiyagaan mo na lang sila! Saka iyong ISANG LIBO ay panghimagas lamang, meron pang ISANG MILYON na mas saksakan ng ganda at seksi pa ang susunod. Ito naaaaaaa….

KA-TSING, KA-TSANG, KA-TSONG, …. Walanghiya, parang cash register ang sound effects ng sunod sunod na paglabas ng magaganda at seksing mga pogitas.

Kapre: Aaaaaaaahhhhh!!!!! Saklolooooooo!!!!! ….

Genie: Hehehe …. Sa wakes, LIBERTAD!!! Libre na ako sa mga chicks na ito. Mantakin mo ba naman na ISANG MILYON at ISANG LIBONG tsikas ang hindi ako pinatulog sa mahigit na libo-libong taon sa loob ng botelya. Hahaha …, sa wakes, tunay na LIBERTAD!!!

Kapre: Ibalik mo silaaaaa ….

Genie: Sige mga GIRLS, habulin si Kapre! Hindi siya makakatakas sa inyo! Sundan lang ninyo ang amoy imburnal na anghit niya, heheheee ….

Kapre: Heeeeeeellp!!! …. Hindi ko kayaaaaaaa ……. isa-isa laaaaanng!!! .....

Girls: Hihihihihihiiiiiiii ………

Di iyon nga ang nangyari, isa-isa lang, araw-araw, bawa’t tanghali, gabi-gabi, bawa’t hating-gabi rin, saka oras-oras, minuto-minuto at segundo-segundo sa loob ng … teka, tekaaaaa …. Bakit, meron pa bang ibang pagkakataon? Hanggan dito na lang, pinagugulo ninyo ang storya ko.

“What’s the connection of your story with my ego!?” Juan asked me with his eyes open wide as he scratched his head.

“You have ANGHIT, so is Kapre,” I reasoned while I snickered.

“So …, everyone else has armpit odor, ANGHIT!” Juan insisted.

But before I could say anything, Maria who was passing by smacked Juan’s head. She mistakenly thought that Juan was talking about her body odor.

“Idiot!” She shouted at Juan in anger.

I calmly reasoned with Maria while hiding from her under the table but all to no avail. Juan and I ended up thrown outside the tavern in the chilly night but we brought the bottles of “agua” with us.

“It’s your fault,” Juan complained as he was rubbing his head, “your Genie’s story is MORONIC.”

“C’mon, Juan, I was just trying to boast your ego,” I said. “Everyone has ANGHIT, that’s why many women are using perfumes to hide their anghit, hehehe ….”

“Your story implies that ANGHIT attracts women,” Juan said as he glanced at me through the corner of his eye but with a slight mischievous frown on his face.

“Absolutely!” I agreed.

“You’re sick, maybe only those with cuckoo’s head,” he said. “Forget it. Instead, let’s just drink to it.”

“Yeah, to ANGHIT,” I shouted as I toasted up my bottle with Juan.

We drunk to it; and along the way we sung the drunken song of Super Kapre to somehow lessen the coldness of the bone chilling night. Our singing attracted the stray dogs and they howled to accompany our drunken singing.

“La la laaaaa ….. awooooooo …..”

2009-10-10T19:09:00.000-07:00

Chapter 18: IF ONLY I COULD HOLD BACK THE TIME

Juan Tabagwang and I found ourselves again walking aimlessly along the same dirty and crowded old street we used to pass by. We caught sight of the parrot, Periko, on his perch in the bird shop, Mga Ibon ni Adarna. He was drunk and singing a drunkard's song. Nearby was a bottle of agua de pataranta, boxes of crackers and many different fruits. He was fed lavishly by his owner who was afraid of Periko's attorney, the "Liar," who might demand more rights and benefits for his client.

We also happened to pass by the corner street where a little girl was selling sampaguita flower necklaces. Though very poor, the girl was spirited and cheerful. But it was her confident innocence that impressed me most. Not far from the little girl was a beggar, an old woman. She looked very sad, in pain and despondent. And her trembling hand held an empty alms box. I gazed for a while at the pitiful old beggar. But my attention was distracted when I heard the voice of the little girl.

"Mister …," she said smiling as she offered the sampaguita flowers to Juan, "fragrant necklaces?"

"Ok, give me one," Juan said.

"Just one!?" the little girl said as her smile suddenly vanished and became a frown. She gave the flower to Juan, and then she turned to me. "You two are cheapskates!"

"Only my companion," I said as I gently elbowed Juan who looked at me in disbelief, "we're jobless right now but once we have a lot of money, we'll buy all of your sampaguitas."

The little girl stuck out her tongue at me, took the money from Juan, and then she turned her back from us. As she swaggered away, she said, "hmph!"

I just raised my eyebrows as I smiled at her. But before we left, I looked at Juan through the corner of my eye as I smiled and pointed my thumb at the old woman. He knew what I meant.

"Now, who's the cheapskate!?" Juan said in a sarcastic tone. "Again, don't tell me you don't have any money?"

Juan was right. Nevertheless, he obliged me and he dropped his last money, a change, into the alms box of the old woman. And the sound of the coin caused a slight pained smile on her face, a token of gratitude for Juan's generosity.

As we walked away I turned to look once more at the old woman. Even after a week, her haunting very sad face still lingered in my mind. So I decided to capture that look on a canvas. With my oil painting box, brushes and a small canvas, Juan and I returned, and from a distance, unnoticed by the old beggar, we positioned ourselves. After three hours, I finished the oil portrait.

"By the contour of her face, she was beautiful when she was still young," Juan remarked as he admiringly looked at the painting.

"Yes," I agreed with him, "even after all those many years that had gone by."

"She reminds me of Mona," Juan said as he pondered, "and the only difference is that there's a pained sadness in her smile."

"Now, Juan, let's make her happy," I said as I tapped his shoulder, "you give your money for dinner as payment for painting her without her permission."

"Again!?" Juan exclaimed, aghast at what I said as he scratched his head. "How am I supposed to eat tonight?"

"Stop complaining, Juan," I said as I gathered my oil paints and brushes, "your generosity will be highly commended by someone above."

Though Juan whined and murmured, he again obliged me. A month after that, I entered the painting in a contest. I didn't win, however it was bought by a collector for a decent sum of money. Juan was extremely delighted when he knew about it.

"We can drink agua de pataranta everyday for three weeks with that amount of money," he said wide-eyed and looking up as if thanking someone above for the unexpected agua blessing.

"Yeah, right," I said, "and end up thoroughly burned inside."

"But there is enough money left over for our medical bills," Juan said, and then he roared with laughter.

I deadpanned for a moment as I looked at Juan, sighed, then just smiled at his idiocy. Actually, my plan was to give all the money to the old woman. Sadly, she died before I can give it to her. She was buried near the edge of a forested area in a nameless grave, at the government's expense, marked only by a cross made from two small branches which were tied together by a discarded plastic sheet. Nevertheless, dotting and growing on her grave and round about are colorful little wild flowers. The place was very peaceful, broken only once in a while by the chirping of the birds. Nearby were the garish graves and mausoleums.

"Why don't you just donate it to the religious charities?" Juan suggested.

"No," I said, "they have very deep pockets.

"How about giving it to the poor?"

"Maybe."

"We're poor and jobless," Juan beamed, "we can give it to ourselves and drown ourselves drinking the agua."

I almost smacked Juan's head with my hand for his stupid remark. "It's your fault Juan for being poor and jobless," I said with a grin, "why don't you go back and apologize to Ed A. D'tor, tell him that you're sorry."

"He won't forgive me," Juan said.

"No, he will forgive you," I insisted, "all you have to do is stop doing superheroes, it's simply not in our culture."

"Ed A. D'tor is a moron," Juan said firmly.

"No," I said, countering him, "It's your superheroes that are moronic."

Juan was too proud to apologize. Anyway, I decided to buy all the sampaguita flowers of the little girl. She couldn't believe her good fortune; she’s wide-eyed as she smiled at us.

"See, did I not tell you that I'll buy all your flowers," I said as I winked at the little girl, "now, you know who the cheapskate is."

Juan perked up, but he said nothing. He just scratched his head and sighed as he looked up. But as we were leaving, I sadly missed the old woman. Even the loud drunken singing of the parrot, Periko, in the bird’s shop as we passed by it and Juan's light-hearted jokes did not alleviate my sadness. We eventually ended at the cemetery where the old woman was buried. Juan noticed the gaudy, gated mausoleums.

"I bet you, during the resurrection, these people cannot get out of their tombs," he said looking at the gated mausoleums, "those concrete and iron bars will prevent them from getting out."
I looked at Juan as I marveled again at his idiocy. But just to humor him, I said, "they have no intention of getting out, they're so comfortable in their air-conditioned mausoleums."

Juan turned to me amazed. But getting the sense of what I meant, he roared into loud laughter. It distracted the two crows, Jack and Jill, feasting on the food offerings for the dead. They flew away carrying some of the food.

"Aren't those food offerings for the dead?" Juan asked, confused. "To be eaten by the dead in their reincarnated afterlife or resurrection?"

"Yes," I answered as I flippantly laughed, "and those two crows, Jack and Jill, are the resurrected dead.

Juan looked unconvinced; my foolish explanation caused him to scratch his head. Even at the grave site of the old woman, Juan was still thinking about the food offerings for the dead. His deep thought was only distracted when I draped the sampaguita flowers over the grave site.

"What use are these flowers for?" Juan queried. "These cannot resurrect the old woman, could it?

"No, Juan," I answered with a sigh of frustration, "It's just one last little obligation and respect for someone unrelated to us who has departed."

On our way home, we dropped by at the Tomadors' Tavern and ordered 18 bottles of agua de pataranta. After drinking several bottles, serious thought flashed in my mind when I glanced at Maria D'Kapri, the Super Kapre. She looked strong-willed, very sure of herself with neither care of the past nor the future. And Juan, just like me, was reckless and proud, eating, drinking, and enjoying the present as if there was also no tomorrow. The old beggar was the future, and it saddened me when I thought about her. But I longed for the spirited life of the past, the life of innocence, when I thought about the little girl.

The Sun was setting when we left the tavern. Neither I nor Juan was singing a drunken song that night. But our homeward bound journey into the darkness was inevitable just like the setting Sun which we have to face someday. Oh, how I wished that day if only I could hold back the time.

2009-10-06T21:44:00.000-07:00

Chapter 17: KONG, THE KING

With nothing better to do and to pass away my boredom, I visited my friend, Juan Tabagwang. I found him starring at a wall of his studio, he was holding a pencil in front of his drawing board with a blank illustration paper on top of it, but his face had a look of someone whose artistic creativity is drained out of him. Indeed, Juan was completely burned out with his last comics work. Unable to come up with fresh ideas, he asked me to accompany him to go hiking.

"Let's hike to the forest of Kang-Kong," he said dryly.

"What for?" I asked, mystified.

"You know …," he said, "somehow the refreshing breeze and beautiful scenery of the forest will reinvigorate my idea suffocated brain."

I looked at Juan through the corner of my eye with a slight mischievous smile. I was about to tell him that what his head needed is the spirit of agua de pataranta, however, I changed my mind because of the thought that hiking is a good cure for my boredom. Instead, I said, "Great, let's go and bring with us 17 bottles of agua."

So, the next day, early in the morning, we started our long hike. We reached the edge of Kang-Kong forest which is a snaking river overgrown with wild kangkong plants, the forest is known as Kang-Kong because of this plant. It was hot that day and looking at the river made us thirsty. Since we forgot to bring water, we drunk the liquor agua we brought with us.

Halfway in the forest we were already drunk and boisterously singing along the way. Our noise scattered away the birds and little animals, except one, an abandoned, hungry newborn baby monkey helplessly lying on our path. His eyes looked pitiful as if begging us to feed him. Juan picked him up and gave him a drink of agua. The baby monkey ravenously drunk it, afterward he gave us a drunken, innocent smile.

"He will be a great monkey someday," I said jokingly as I smile, "a drunkard in the making, though."

"Yes, he will be the great drunkard king of Kang-Kong," added Juan flippantly followed by a drunken laughter."

Anyway, we took the baby monkey along as we continue with our drinking, and once in a while Juan also gave the monkey a drink. That was when the spirit of agua started to really kick in and the three of us ended sleeping under the cool, shaded canopy of a huge tree. Unknown to us were the two malevolent crows, Jack and Jill, hungrily perched on a branch and eyeing the silently sleeping baby monkey, mistakenly thought by them as a cadaver for dinner. We were ignored by those two crows because Juan and I were snoring loudly.

Jack and Jill slowly circled the baby monkey, they were about to pounce upon him when I suddenly woke up with a shout because of a bad drunken dream. It scared and bewildered the two crows, and in their haste and confusion, they inadvertently grabbed the two open, half empty bottles of agua beside the monkey and flew away with it. After this incident we went back home, Juan is still artistically uninspired but at least well rested.

Juan adopted the baby monkey and fondly called him Kong. But Kong cost Juan too much money to feed him because he grew bigger quickly, and he also drunk too much agua de pataranta. To relieve his burden, Juan gave Kong to Maria D'Kapri, the Super Kapre, as a gift.

The first time Maria saw Kong, she exclaimed, "What a cutie monkey!"

Honestly, Kong is horrendously ugly. Nevertheless, Juan was relieved of his burden, he thought. After a month when Juan and I went to Tomadors'Tavern to drink agua, Maria confronted and shoved us Kong who was drunk.

"You drunken half-wits," she shouted at us angrily, "take back your drunken brother gorilla."

When Maria was angry, anyone was really scared of her. So, fearful, I tried to squeeze myself in a corner and Juan tried to hide under the table. We didn't dare reason out with her, she's not called Super Kapre for nothing with her powerful uppercut which was well-known among the drunkards in the area. Coyly, Juan took back Kong. And the three of us were thrown out of the tavern by her. Later, we heard from one of the drunkard customers of the tavern that Kong drunk all the aguas of Tomadors,' almost making the tavern bankrupt. This made Juan so depressed at the thought of the great cost of caring for Kong.

"Why don't we give Kong to the owner of the pet shop, Mga Ibon Ni Adarna," I suggested to Juan, "he might be trained as a scratch artist like the parrot bird, Periko."

Juan's face brightened and he added, "And Kong can support his agua addiction, great idea!"

Consequently, we went to the pet shop with Kong. The owner was delighted when he saw the monkey, thinking that he had another pet genius that he could train to be like Periko. Indeed, after a week, Kong became a scratch artist even greater than Periko. The problem was that every time he became drunk with agua, he covered with graffiti scratches the pet shop and even the neighboring stores to the consternation of the pet shop owner. And when Juan and I visited the pet shop, the owner, just like Maria, shoved Kong to us.

"Take back your monkey," the pet shop owner said in disgust, "he's a drunkard and a scatterbrained gorilla."

The infuriated Kong countered and gave the pet shop owner the finger. I was surprised because we did not teach Kong to do the finger; maybe he learned it from Periko. And Juan looked more depressed this time. He really "had a monkey on his back." Anyway, we took Kong back again.

Juan scolded Kong for his wild and drunken behavior. Kong's feeling was hurt. Sadly, he gathered his meager belongings from inside Juan's house, put it in a small bundle of cloth, tied it on a long stick, slung it over his shoulder, and then dejectedly he started to go away. Juan tried to stop Kong, but he turned around and gave Juan the finger, a sign that he was completely severing his ties with him.

After this we never heard from Kong again, not until when all the aguas in the town started to disappear, and we suspected him as the culprit. Our suspicions was correct when we learned that every night there was a drunken gorilla swinging around the huge and very tall bell tower of the church. Kong nightly drunken fooling around was later joined by the two drunken crows, Jack and Jill, who evidently had a liking for the agua also after they got a taste of it in the forest of Kang-Kong. To add to their nightly drunken escapade, they also rung the bells of the church as if to announce to everyone that it was party time again to the dismay of the minister.

Many curious people started to come every night to the church, not for religious reason but to watch the drunken antics of the trio who by that time were becoming well-known throughout the town and also in the towns nearby. Eventually, they became the tourist attraction and were advertised as the King Kong evening show by some opportunistic and enterprising businessmen. Many tourists gave donations to the church to care for Kong and his sidekicks, Jack and Jill. The donations made the minister very happy. He pocketed most of the donations, and knowingly, he condoned the bad agua addiction at the expense of the three drunken performers.

As the fame of Kong grew so was the popularity of agua de pataranta. People started to drink the agua, especially the rich ones who called it the quintessential wine to make it sound elegant; I called it the ambrosia of wines. Frankly, the agua is so repulsive in taste; its aftereffect is like being kick by a wild cimarron on the head. Anyway, the agua became very expensive; it was not good for the likes of Juan and me who had to work twice as many hours to earn money just to buy the agua. But the local manufacturer produced more agua, though greedy, he hired more workers which was good for the economy of the town.

Juan and I went once to see Kong and his sidekicks, Jack and Jill, in one of their ludicrous nightly shows. They even added a repertoire to their performance, Kong would mightily beat his chest like a drum as Jack and Jill squawked in rhythm as if they were singing a drunken song just like Juan and I used to do. Probably the two crows learned from us when they flew overhead while we were drunk and singing. There were many tourists eagerly ogling them, and they applauded the trio every time they gave them the finger.

"What the …," Juan said with a look of disbelief on his face as he scratched his head, "these tourists are imbeciles."

"C'mon, Juan, leave them alone," I said, "that's what fans are for."

"Well …," Juan said as he sighed, "I have a feeling that Kong will become very popular and he will be long remembered as King Kong." Then he turned to me with an inquiring look.

"Indeed," I said with a knowing smile at Juan, "stories will be written and movies will be made about him."

"But we starving artists who saved Kong from the forest of Kang-Kong will fade by time into oblivion," Juan concluded in resignation.

We left the place laughing, and as we faded into the night our laughter also receded into darkness. But who are we laughing at?

2009-10-06T20:52:00.000-07:00

Chapter 16: THE ART OF RESURRECTING THE DEAD

It was one of those dreary days, as I walked alone on the same old street I used to pass by, when the sun was not shining because it was cloudy and there was an intermittent rain. And to add to the gloominess, I saw a pair of crows perched high up on the branch of a tree with their hungry, fiendish eyes looking at me like I'm dinner and eerily squawking as if they were enjoying the dismal day. I tried to scare them away but instead they gave me the finger. Frustrated, I just ignored them and continued walking away. From afar I could still hear their infuriating, gleeful squawking. To remember those two malevolent crows, I christened them Jack and Jill.

It was almost dark when I eventually ended up in front of my friend's house, Juan Tabagwang. Inside, I saw him deep into spiritual inquiry. He was peering into his Holy Book.

"Juan, why are you into sudden spirituality?" I asked with amazement.

He just glanced at me without turning his back, and then continued with his spiritual searching. Suddenly, he exclaimed, "Eureka! I found it!"

"Found what?"

"The secret of resurrection," Juan replied who looked back at me, his eyes wide open as if he was hit by an instant revelation from above. And before I could say another word, he ran out of the house. I ran after him.

I called after him, still bewildered by his weird action, "Where to, Juan?"

"To the wake of my grandmother," he answered with great excitement.

"Why, are you going to resurrect your grandmother?"

Juan did not answer me. Rather, he gave me an irritated look. I responded to him with an impish smile. Anyway, we eventually found ourselves in the funeral home. There were many people, relatives of Juan. Many were crying, others were mourning, and some were giving eulogies and reminding everyone to always remember Juan's dead grandmother.

Juan greeted his relatives. For a while he listened to the eulogies. Afterward, he went to the coffin of his grandmother, he looked at her through the glass cover for a minute, and then slowly turned to the mourners.

"Idiots!" he shouted suddenly and irreverently at them. "All your weeping, praises, and exhortation to always remember our grandmother are worthless. Those cannot bring her back to life!"

All the mourners, including me, were stunned by what Juan just said. There was a long silence.

"When our grandmother was alive, you took her for granted as if she was a useless thing. You did not take good care of her," Juan continued with his scathing sermon. "Morons! You should instead be praying to God to remember our grandmother because God is the only one who can resurrect her … "

Juan was unable to finish his diatribe lecture, one of his uncles rushed toward him, and a fight ensued which degenerated into pandemonium. In the confused fighting, the coffin was accidentally overturned. It crashed to the floor, its lid opened. And Juan's grandmother abruptly perked up, her darkened hollow eyes were open wide and she looked ghostly in appearance.

"Impertinent pinheads!" the grandmother suddenly shouted angrily in her piercing and high-pitched voice as she looked at everyone who was fighting around her. "You mistakenly thought I was dead and put me in a coffin, and while I'm enjoying and trying to sleep peacefully in here in death, you woke me up by your noisy fighting!"

Everybody was shocked and froze with fright with the sudden coming back to life of Juan's grandmother. Then, except for me and Juan, they all stampeded out through the door, others through the windows.

Outside, on the roof were the two crows, Jack and Jill, squawking gleefully as they watched and gave the finger to the mourners who were running in different directions. The eyes of Jack and Jill had a diabolical look at the thought of a dinner, a feasting on a cadaver in a coffin.

Back inside the funeral home, Juan's grandmother, with difficulty, was trying to get out of the coffin as she looked at me and Juan. "Why are you two looking at me as if I look like a ghost?" she said impatiently. "Help me out here."

Gladly we helped her out of the coffin while at the same time Juan's relatives who had regained their wits, slowly and one by one, had returned. Though his relatives were astonished at what happened, it was apparent that joy could be seen on their faces.

"Grandma, you're alive!" Juan remarked, delighted.

"Stupid!" grandma exclaimed. "Would I be talking to you if I were dead?"

Juan blushed as he scratched his head. However, after a month, I heard from Juan that his grandmother is now being treated respectfully and kindly by his family and relatives.

As usual, Juan and I found ourselves again at the Tomadors' Tavern drinking 16 bottles of "agua de pataranta," the ambrosia of wines. But since Maria D' Kapri, the Super Kapre, was in one of her mood swings again, she treated us as if we were dead drunks that needed to be resurrected to soberness. So, even before we finished our drinks, she kicked us out of the tavern into the bone-chilling night. The cold somehow lessened our drunkenness a little.

And as usual, on our way home we passed by the house of Kurso, the Great, and his young beautiful wife. We stealthily sneaked under the crawl space of their house to check if Kurso is still alive. He's alive alright because we found out that their bed was noisily rocking and creaking. Afterward, we silently sneaked out of the crawl space.

And again, as usual, we sung the irritating drunken song of resurrection, "Lalala …, sing with us now all you alive but artistically dead artists of the world, lalala …."

But our singing was interrupted when we heard the arguing squawks of the two crows, Jack and Jill, flying overhead. They were angry and blaming each other probably because they missed again their cadaver evening feast. This time, Juan and I gave them the finger.

2009-10-03T22:45:00.000-07:00

Chapter 15: HOW TO DRAW WHILE YOU’RE SLEEPING

I met Juan Tabagwang in the busy street I used to walk along everyday near the Tomadors' Tavern. He was in a hurry, carrying a rolled up illustration board and a paper bag containing some pencils, an eraser, a bottle of white deleter, and an ink. From his look I noticed that he was very tired working very hard to come up with whatever drawings he can think of and that he also wanted to catch up with his many very tight deadlines. Anyway, he pretended to be just fine and even boasted that he can still draw even if he's sleepless. He also communicated to me his many weird dreams which are the results of his overworked mind during his erratic sleeps. I was about to humor him when a bum caught my eye, he was sleeping and snoring soundly under a cool shaded corner of a building.

I pointed the bum to Juan to call his attention. "Juan," I said, "you see that bum?"

"What about him?" he asked nonchalantly.

"If he's an artist," I answered, "he's an excellent example of an artist who's drawing while sleeping."

Juan looked at me with blank stare on his face. Countering me, he said, "But he's not doing anything."

I was about to explain to him when I saw Maria D'Kapri, the Super Kapre, beaming her winsome smile at us outside the Tomadors' Tavern. Though reluctant because of his deadlines, Juan obliged me and we went inside the Tomadors' to drink "agua de pataranta." I ordered 15 bottles of "agua." But Juan leeringly looked at me knowing that he's the one who's going to pay for it again afterward. Anyhow, with great gusto we drank the "aguas." We were already drunk when Juan started to open up with his problems.

"You know what …?" he asked.

"I don't know," I answered him to liven up our conversation.

"Stop being funny," he said, a bit irritated, "you know I'm too tired to draw, I have headaches, sleepless at night, and when I was sleeping I dreamed many weird dreams all because of my difficult "hanap-patay" style of illustration."

"So, your work is killing you," I said. "Why don't you instead try to draw while you're sleeping, that way you can catch up with your lost sleeps and be well rested?"

Juan deadpanned, and he was annoyed by what I just said. "Don't be a comedian," he said, "I'm serious."

"Me too," I said. "Let me give you an illustration how it's done. You see, I always dream of Maria …"

I was unable to finish my explanation because Maria, who was nearby, overheard and misinterpreted what I said, and she smacked the back of my head with her backhand.

"Pervert!" she exclaimed forcefully with anger.

"Far from it, Maria," I reasoned to her as I rubbed my aching head, "you misunderstood what I said."

But Maria wouldn't listen to me, she turned her back and walked away fuming mad. I turned to Juan who burst laughing.

"Indeed, you're a pervert," he said. "You deserved it."

"Aw, shut up," I said, pissed at Juan, "you pay for the aguas."

"Again …?" Juan said, wide eyed.

"You deserve it for siding with Maria," I said to even it up.

Anyway, Juan paid Maria for our "aguas." She didn't want to talk, nor look at me, though I coyly pretended to be sorry so that she would forgive me, but all to no avail. We exited the tavern and along the way we sing the irritating and out of tune song of the artists who draw while sleeping.

"La la la …, you sing with us now, all you lazy bum artists of the world who draw while you're sleeping, la la la …."

Suddenly, Juan stopped as we passed by the house of Kurso, the Great. "How come Kurso is not cursing us again?" he asked, mystified. "His dogs are also not howling, nor his cats meowing? Can we again throw rocks at his house to wake him up?"

"Leave him alone, Juan," I said. "He's working while sleeping, he's dreaming with his wife."

"Yeah, right … this dreaming with his wife I understand," Juan said with an impish smile on his face, "but this working while sleeping or this drawing while sleeping, you haven't explained it to me yet."

"I'm too groggy drunk, Juan," I said as I walked haphazardly due to drunkenness, "but continue with your weird dreams and, just like Kurso, you work and draw while you're sleeping."

Though Juan was still confused when we separated, for two weeks I hadn't seen him. But I met him later by accident at Luna's Park, the hangout of the kulapol group of painters painting always the beautiful scenery of the park. When I saw him he looked dejected as if the whole world crashed upon him.

"Juan, what happened?" I inquired.

"Your advice was stupid," he remarked with bitterness, "I slept most of the whole two weeks, and I hadn't done anything. I missed my deadlines, and they fired me all because of your idiotic advice to draw while sleeping."

"Juan, you're really an idiot," I said, "that's not what I meant."

"No, you're the one who's more than twice an idiot for not explaining clearly to an idiot," he countered forcefully.

"Nevertheless, you see those painters painting the beautiful scenery of the park?" I asked Juan as I pointed at the painters that dotted the park’s every corner.

He looked at me with inquiring eyes, then he said, "So …?"

"They are all wide awake," I said. "They get their inspirations and paint from what they see in the park."

"But I was sleeping," Juan said.

"Precisely," I said as I waved my finger at him, "you should get your inspirations from what you perceive in your weird dreams while you're sleeping, afterward when you wake up you draw your dreams. You also will get a good night sleep and you are also well rested."

Juan just scratched his head due to the convoluted logic of my explanation. "So, that's what you meant by drawing while sleeping … it sucks," he said, disgusted. Then he asked, "But what about Maria?"

"About her," I said with a smile, "I dream of her every time I want to draw a beautiful girl, she's my inspiration."

"Now I know why most of your beautiful drawings of girls all look like her," Juan said smiling but with a knowing mischievous look on his face.

"Let's go back to Tomadors' Tavern and you explain to Maria my dreams about her," I said, "and also to celebrate with 'agua de pataranta' our idiocy."

We were laughing while we were on our way to Tomadors.' Actually, we were laughing at the idiocy of those artists who don't know how to draw while they're sleeping.

"Bwahahaha ..."

2009-10-02T01:00:00.001-07:00

Chapter 14: THE ART OF LUNACY (the parable of the fleas and the carabao)

Juan Tabagwang and I had the most unusual experience ever in one of our drinking bouts over the drink “agua de pataranta” at the Tomadors’ Tavern. We were literally attacked by crazed, drunken, blood-sucking fleas. The attack started after we drunk 14 bottles of “agua.”

Though tipsy, Juan jumped out of his seat after being bitten by a blood-sucking bug. “I was bitten by a ‘super flea’,” he said, surprised, as he scratched his butt.

Though initially startled, I laughed at Juan. But I was also bitten by a blood-sucker and nearly screamed. The pain was like being stabbed by a small needle. Juan was right; they were “super bugs.”

“Let’s find those critters,” I said, irritated, as I also scratched my butt, “and catch them.”

Juan and I looked under our seats. He was lucky. He easily found and caught the flea that bit him and put it into his empty glass. It took me some time before I found the bug that bit me. I also put it into the glass where the other bug was. Then Juan and I examined the unusual fleas. They were huge, really super compared to ordinary fleas.

“They seem to be drunk,” Juan said.

Since I was also drunk, I humored Juan. “Probably became drunk from our ‘agua’ diluted blood,” I said. “Pour more ‘agua’ on them and let’s see what happens.”

I expected the bugs to drown but they didn’t. Instead, they seemed liked crazed drunks and tried to jump out of the glass as if trying to attack us.”

“These bugs are crazy,” Juan said. “Let’s squash them now.”

Before I could say anything, Maria D’Kapri, our pretty waitress friend, who’s known among the drunkards as Super Kapre because of her powerful upper-cut, suddenly butt in. “What idiotic things are you two doing again?” she asked suspiciously.

“I was just trying to drown these two fleas with our leftover agua,” I said as I pointed at the glass where the bugs were. I then scratched my head and at the same time I tried to shrink in my seat so as not to make her excited. “But Juan wants to squash them.”

“You two are very mean,” Maria said as she squinted her eyes. “Release them!”

Juan, who was so fearful of her, promptly complied and released the blood-sucking fleas on the floor. She left, but looked back at us, still suspicious, probably expecting us to do foolish thing again.

After Maria was out of sight, I asked Juan, “Do you know the parable of the fleas and the carabao?”

“Nope,” replied Juan, unconcerned as he looked at me with weary, drunken eyes. “First time I ever heard of such a parable.”

“It’s a crazy, but very interesting parable,” I said.

“Okay, let me hear it,” he said. This time his eyes showed a glint of interest.

I reclined in my seat to make myself comfortable, and then I told Juan the story.

Once upon a time, there was a group of ravenous blood-sucking fleas who gorged themselves with the blood of a carabao, a water buffalo. They bloated themselves every sucking session. For pleasure, they tormented the carabao by biting its balls. The carabao, in return hit them with the tip of its tail. Every time many of the fleas were whipped to death. The rest always fled and hid inside its butt crack. Two of the fleas, flea A and flea B, were enraged.

“We’ll teach the carabao a lesson once and for all time,” flea A said. “We’ll wrestle it to the ground.”

“Great idea!” uttered flea B with delight. “Let’s do it!”

“How are you two supposed to do that?” inquired flea C, with a look of disbelief on its face.

“Easy,” flea A said, “we’ll all go on top of the carabao while it’s lying on the ground, then wrestle it.”

“Excellent idea!” flea B declared with a wide grin on its face. “You’re a genius, flea A.”

But some fleas showed blank stares as they looked at flea A because of its moronic idea, but others thought flea A and flea B were loonies.

“Anyone care to join us?” inquired flea A, totally believing its idea was brilliant.

“Why don’t you two just go on with your screwball idea,” flea C said. “It’s safer for the rest of us here inside the butt crack.”

Flea A was disgusted at the other fleas for not supporting them. Together with flea B, they slowly sneaked out to wrestle the carabao. On their way out, another great idea hit flea A. “Why wrestle the carabao to the ground,” he said to flea B, “when we can destroy it instead.”

“Super idea, flea A!” flea B agreed with eyes wide, intrigued.

But flea A paused suddenly, another greater idea came to his mind. “Ah, it’s easier to destroy God,” flea A said with an evil smile. “Once we destroy God we can easily destroy the carabao. And then we become gods like God, or even greater than God.” Flea A then roared with wicked laughter.

“A most fantastic idea!” flea B exclaimed in total conformity with flea A. “How about if we made ourselves gods of God?”

“That too,” agreed flea A.

However the other fleas were jolted to their senses when they overheard the unbelievable, blasphemous idea of flea A and flea B.

“But God is not responsible for the death of our companion fleas. It's the carabao,” flea C protested.

“Why destroy God?” asked the other fleas, siding with flea C.

“If all of you don’t like my idea, then get off the carabao,” flea A shouted in anger at the other cowardly fleas.

“Indeed, we will,” countered flea C. Turning to the other fleas, “Let’s jump off and go to another carabao and not become partisans to these two demented fleas.”

One after another, the other fleas exited the butt crack of the carabao. Then they jumped off to go to another. But flea A and flea B chuckled with delight at the thought of their good fortune.

Flea A looked at flea B and said, “Now we have no competition. We’ll be the only two who will become gods after we destroy God.” Then flea A roared diabolically with laughter.

“Now, how do we destroy God?” flea B enthusiastically inquired.

“We’ll destroy Pedro, the master of the carabao, first,” flea A said with determination. “Then we destroy God afterward.”

“But how do we destroy God?” flea B asked insistently.

“We’ll destroy Pedro first and then worry about God later,” flea A answered with finality.

Just then, the two fleas spotted Pedro, who was about to ride on the carabao. They rushed headlong as fast as they could, then they leaped, jumped, and dived over the forest-like, hairy back of the carabao to stab him with their suckers. They reached him just as he’s about to sit on the saddle. Once Pedro’s butt touched the saddle, they sneaked under his butt and jabbed him with all their might with their suckers with the intent of killing him. Pedro yelled, but then smacked the two fleas flat on his butt. With its dying breath, flea A cursed and blamed God for their misfortune.

“Why curse God?” inquired flea B, who was also near death. “Why blame God?”

“It’s His fault for creating Pedro,” flea A answered, moments before its death. “Anyway, we can even the score. With our death, God will cease and is destroyed in our consciousness.”

Flea B is a fanatic believer of flea A. With their last breath the two fleas cursed and blamed God. They even forced themselves not to breath to accelerate their death in order to destroy God in their awareness, lunatics to the end.

But what happened to the other fleas? They were already on another carabao sucking its blood. However, they had learned their lesson not to torment it. And that concludes the story.

“What’s the lesson of your parable?” Juan asked as he scratched his head, unable to understand it.

“What a moronic parable!” joined in Maria who was nearby, listening all along to my story, but unnoticed by us. “Anyway, what’s the lesson?”

I glanced at Maria with a playful smile. “Well, flea A and flea B represent the insignificant megalomaniac madmen,” I explained. “A multitude of them want to be like God, like Adam and Eve, and also a great many of their descendants. Others think they are gods, the like of which are Caligula, Commodus, Nero, and also Alexander. Many want to be greater than God, doing things even God won’t do. These are people like Attila, Genghis Khan, Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot, and many more. A great number want to be gods of the God. These are the idol worshipers who are more powerful than their controlled idol gods. Finally, there are those who want to destroy God by denying His existence and saying all kinds of perverted things about Him. Many of these megalomaniacs are dead, like the two flattened fleas, undone by their lunacy. Their remains are trash scattered in the dustbins of history. Others, by time, will follow them.”

“Who are those who curse and blame God?” Juan asked, now showing great interest.

“These are the worthless human fleas,” I explained, “they curse and blame God for all the misfortune and calamities that befall them, of which the fault are their own. The same destiny also awaits them, like the crushed fleas.”

Maria seriously looked at me sideways. I sensed that she was about to lash out at me when suddenly a drunk screamed in pain after being bitten by a blood-sucking flea. This was followed by the scream of another drunk, and then another. Almost all the drunks in the tavern screamed. Juan and I also jumped out of our seats. We were bitten again, this time by more bugs.

“I think I was bitten by scores of bugs,” Juan said excitedly as he vigorously scratched his itchy butt. He even rubbed his butt against the rough wall of the tavern.

“So was I,” I said as I also scratched my butt non-stop. “I think these suckers are out to torment us. Something is driving them mad.” I stopped scratching and picked up an empty bottle of “agua.” I looked at it and just to make more fun of the situation, I said, “I think our blood diluted by this ‘agua’ made them crazy and attack us.”

“No!” Juan strongly disagreed with me. “Those two demented, huge fleas we released are leading the attack against us.”

I stared at him in disbelief at his loony theory. I was about to explain to him to prove him wrong when all of a sudden most of the drunks in the tavern run out shouting, “Run, hurry!”

Though taken by surprise, Maria quickly ran after them. She caught one of the drunks and gave him an upper-cut. The drunk flew up and then crashed to the ground, flat on his back, unconscious. Maria really deserved to be called the Super Kapre. Anyway, when the drunks saw what happened, they all returned to the tavern and paid Maria for their drinks.

Along the way home, though Juan and I were drunk, we did not sing the drunken parable song. We were busy scratching our itchy butts bitten by those crazy, drunken, blood-sucking fleas.

“I strongly believe that those two suckers we released, like the two demented fleas in your parable, lead the attack on us and on those runaway drunks. They want to destroy us,” Juan said. “We should have crushed them earlier.”

“C’mon, Juan, don’t be a loose screw like those two fleas,” I reasoned. “It’s the instinctive nature of the fleas, but those drunks used the bugs as an excuse and ran away from the tavern because they didn’t want to pay Maria for their drinks.”

Juan was still unconvinced. We argued all the way home. Even now we still don’t agree about what happened that night.

2009-09-28T21:34:00.000-07:00

Chapter 13: HOW TO DRAW WITH YOUR BUTT

With nothing better to do, Juan Tabagwang and I were walking again along the busy street where the bird shop, “Mga Ibon ni Adarna,” was located. We noticed from a distance that the talkative, foul-mouthed, cursing, and blasphemous parrot, Periko, was busy doing something. Out of curiousity we approached the bird. We were surprised to find out that it had a pencil tucked between its beak and was busy doing some unusual and interesting scratches on a pad of paper. For a time Periko ignored us. But when it noticed that we were intruding on what it was doing, it gave us a malevolent look and then the finger. We got the message and went away.

“Periko is a bird genius!” Juan remarked.

“With those scratches, Periko will go places,” I said in jest. Then I burst out laughing.

But Juan was dead serious. He looked at me and said, “And we’re going nowhere with what we are doing?”

“I thought your Super-Butt is doing great?” I inquired, a bit surprised.

“Nope!” Juan said. “And lately most of my super ideas were rejected, including the last one, The Super-Shit.”

“Same thing happened to me,” I said half-heartedly. “A guy I know advised me to use my left hand to draw, because they won’t hire me if I use my right hand.”

“What happened then?”

I did not answer Juan and instead gave him an impish smile. “Use your butt, Juan,” I said jokingly. “You’re a much better artist than me.”

A smile lingered on Juan’s face in reaction to what I said. After that I did not see him for almost three months. I was concerned that something may have happened to him. So I gave him a visit. Do you know what he had been doing all this time? He was literally drawing with a pencil taped to his butt when I found him.

“Juan, you’re an idiot!” I remarked, surprised. “That’s not what I meant when I said you should draw with your butt.”

“I know,” he said. “But this is the last of my butt drawings.”

While Juan was busy with his butt, I looked at all the drawings he did that were tacked onto the wall. “It’s similar to the scratches of Periko,” I said. “What’s the title for these butt artworks?”

“Super-Butt II,” Juan answered in laughter. “I want you to go with me when I present it to Ed A. D’tor, the editor and art director who rejected my Super-Shit.”

We went to this well known publisher and studio, and Juan bravely presented his buttworks to Ed.

“What is this?” Ed asked, his eyes wide and bulging in disbelief as he looked at the drawings. “It seems to be drawn by a butt!” Ed said in an insulting way.

“Absolutely!” Juan exclaimed as he looked down on Ed with an air of superiority. “You’re not worthy to behold my left or right foot drawing, more so with my left hand, and even more so with my right hand.”

“Get out of my office!” Ed angrily shouted. “And take your buttworks with you.”

“You can have it,” Juan remarked. “You deserve it. It’s for buttheads like you!”

“Get out!” thundered Ed.

“I’ve already been out for a long time now,” Juan countered.

We exited the building, still able to hear Ed’s shouting. But Juan was very happy. “Oh, I feel good,” he said. Then he laughed. “I feel like I’m as free as a butterfly, free from the tyranny of those editor and art director buttheads.”

“Yeah, you’re free, but jobless,” I said. “What now?”

“To Tomadors’ Tavern,” Juan said, excited. “Let’s celebrate my freedom and joblessness!”

“But we were ‘excommunicated’ by Maria, or Super Kapre,” I reminded Juan.

“Oh, she’ll forgive us once she sees us,” Juan said. “It has been a while and I have a feeling that she already misses us.”

Juan was right. Even before we entered Tomadors’ Tavern, Maria looked excited upon seeing us. I don’t know why. Probably she missed our foolishness. Anyway, Juan chose the center table of the tavern and we ordered 13 bottles of “agua de pataranta.” As the bottles were emptied by us one after another, the tavern was slowly filled with Juan’s laughter. I never saw him so happy in all the times we’ve been together. “Freedom,” in whatever form, is indeed “liberating.”

We were drunk when we left the tavern. Juan blew a kiss goodbye to Maria, who gave us a winsome smile in return. Along the way we passed by the bird shop, “Mga Ibon ni Adarna.” We noticed that people were lining up to get a signed print drawing of Periko, the parrot’s scratches.

“Look at that!” I exclaimed as I nudged Juan who was too drunk and could barely walk straight. “Periko is becoming a millionaire while we are becoming penniless.”

Probably out of envy, Juan curses Periko. The bird gave him the finger. I hurriedly pulled Juan out of the way because Periko’s fans gave us angry stares. Far away from the bird shop we noticed that the sun had already set. As usual, due to our drunkeness and also to somehow mitigate our misfortune, we belted with gusto the drunken song of “how to draw with your butt.”

“La la la, sing with us now all you buttheads of the world, la la la ....”

By the way, before you readers go to the next story, do you know what happened to Periko after it became famous and earned a lot of money? Lately, I heard that it was represented by a “liar,” the same guy who represented the monkey who won the art competition, because its master was only feeding it crackers and pocketing all the money. Periko, like Juan, wanted to be free from subservience to its master. The call for freedom is indeed also for the birds and monkeys, heh heh!

2009-09-28T17:06:00.001-07:00

Chapter 12: THE ORIGIN OF THE CROP CIRCLES

Juan Tabagwang and I could not go back to Tomadors’ Tavern. Maria D’Kapri, or “Super Kapre,” expelled or “excommunicated” us because of her misconception that we had blasphemed her religious beliefs. Instead, we went to “Kuwatro-Singko,” a tavern selling “kuwatro kantos,” a cheap and false imitation of the drink “agua de pataranta,” for 5 cents a bottle if you drink at least four bottles. Unluckily for us, the tavern ran out of “kuwatros.” But there was another tavern, the “Lasinggos’ Tavern,” selling “Lapad,” an imitation of “kuwatro kantos.” Since our throats were dry and the “spirit” of the “agua” beckoned to us strongly, we decided to go to Lasinggos even though it was a long walk.

Along the way, we passed by the house of Kurso, The Great. There was a celebration of Kurso’s wedding at their beautifully decorated guest house made of bamboo. We saw him in his tuxedo beside his radiant, beaming bride in her wedding dress.

“So, that’s the reason why he stole that money,” Juan said as he looked wide eyed at Kurso.

“Possibly,” I said. “I think he won’t be cursing us anymore during the night time.”

“How do you know that?” Juan asked as he looked at me not getting the meaning of what I just said.

I did not answer Juan. I just gave him a mischievous smile. We continued walking and we passed by the bird shop “Mga Ibon Ni Adarna.” As usual, the talkative, foul-mouthed, cursing, and blasphemous parrot, Periko, gave us all kinds of curses, expletives and blasphemies ever said by anyone. “!@#$^%*&,” Periko squawked rapidly at us.

“You know who reminds me of Periko?” I asked Juan.

“Kurso, The Great!” he answered.

“Right!” I said. “I think we should call Periko, The Little Kurso instead.”

“How appropriate,” Juan agreed. Then he chuckled.

But Periko gave us a malevolent look again. Juan gave him the finger and it cursed at us some more. We left the place, however, from afar, we still heard its curses, expletives and blasphemies.

At Lassingos’ Tavern we ordered 12 bottles of “Lapad.” Like a liquor famished drunks, we chugged the drinks so fast even though the taste was so horrible, and the side effect was like being kicked on the head by a wild cimmaron. Instead of seeing double, I saw triple. Juan saw quadruple.

“I think I am already drunk, Juan,” I said as I tried to stand up with my knees wobbling.

“I-I’m not!” Juan remarked. “It-It’s the tavern that’s drunk ....” He turned to the other drunks and said, “Right!?”

“Correct!” the drunkards roared back in agreement.

“S-see!” Juan said as he looked at me with drunken eyes. His pupils seemed to be moving from side to side, and up and down. Then he crashed to the floor. I picked him up. He was barely able to stand up. Before we left the table Juan grabbed a half-empty bottle of “Lapad.” “We need this to sober up,” he said as he looked at me again trying to open his weary eyes.

On our way home, we bumped into people and electric posts. We were ignored by everyone because of our drunkenness. We passed by the bird shop again. The parrot Periko lambasted us once more with curses, expletives and blasphemies. Juan was so irritated that he sneaked into the shop and forced the parrot to drink the “Lapad.” After a short time, it moved in circles in its cage, tumbled, and then collapsed. I thought it was dead, poisoned by the drink Juan gave it. Suddenly, Periko perked up and started singing drunken songs instead of cursing.

“W-What happened?” the shop owner inquired, bewildered. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” I uttered. “I think your parrot is drunk.”

We left the bird shop while Periko was still singing. The shop owner was scratching his head, confused by the sudden change in attitude of his bird. Juan and I could not control our laughter. We stopped laughing only when we passed Kurso’s house again. We noticed that everybody was still having a good time at the wedding celebration at the bamboo guest house, especially Kurso and his bride. It was almost dark, and stupid ideas suddenly hit me. I glanced at Juan and gave him an impish smile.

“Follow me, Juan,” I said.

Without asking and thinking, he followed me. We crawled under the basement of Kurso’s bamboo guest house. I looked for the main support, a huge bamboo, and found it. It was reinforced by another big bamboo brace for additional stability. I quietly beckoned to Juan to help me remove the brace.

“What are you going to do?” Juan asked in an undertone.

“We’ll shake the guest house,” I answered in a subdued voice.

“Then what?”

“You’ll see.”

With great difficulty we were able to remove the brace, and with all our strength we managed to push the main support bamboo back and forth, slowly at first.

“Push harder,” I whispered to Juan.

“Earthquake!” we heard Kurso exclaim from inside the guest house above us.

“Yeah, a small earthquake!” said one of the guests.

“Push harder Juan,” I said softly.

“The quake is getting stronger!!” some of the visitors remarked. They were starting to panic.

“The earthquake stopped!” uttered Kurso’s bride. There were sighs of relief from the people above.

“Now, push with all your might Juan,” I said in a low voice.

“The earthquake is getting stronger and stronger,” we heard Kurso say in fear.

“Here we go again!” I shouted very loudly as Juan and I pushed the main support bamboo of the guest house very hard.

“What!?” Juan exclaimed, baffled at why I shouted.

“This is no earthquake!” Kurso remarked.

“It’s a prank!” said one of the visitors.

“After them!” shouted another.

“Run Juan!” I said. “And fast!”

I ran out of the basement. Juan followed after me, still confused. Behind us were Kurso and his visitors with baseball bats and clubs. They chased us round and round in the cornfield of old Ago. Luckily for us we escaped from them. The excitement of the chase sobered my drunkenness. I lost Juan, but I found him later hiding inside a hollowed tree trunk. He was trembling with fear, but otherwise okay and sober.

“They’re gone, Juan,” I said. “You can come out now.”

Juan slowly came out of the trunk as he looked left and right, still scared. “You really are an idiot!” he remarked. “They could have beaten us to a pulp.”

“C’mon Juan,” I said. “I just wanted to scare Kurso.

“Yeah right!” he said indignantly. “They are the ones who scared the crap out of us!” Then he turned and gazed at old Ago’s cornfield. “Old Ago will be really mad at us. We made circles in his cornfield.”

“We’ll see him in a couple of days and apologize. He’ll understand,” I said. “You’ll pay for the damages to his crops.”

“Why me?” Juan asked, irked.

“I-I mean we,” I said with a smile as I looked at him through the corner of my eye.

After two days, we woke up early in the morning to see old Ago. Still at a distance, we were more surprised to see many people around the shack of the old fool on the hill. And many more were carrying gifts and going to his cornfield. Old Ago met us far from the crowd.

“We’ve come to apologize and pay ...,” I was unable to finish. Old Ago gave me a sign to shut up.

“I know, everything has been paid for, more than a hundred fold,” old Ago said. “ In fact, I’m mighty grateful for what happened.”

Before old Ago left, he gave us a wily smile and chuckled as he turned his back. I laughed, but Juan scratched his head, unable to comprehend why the old fool was happy. Anyway, Juan tried to be funny. “Isn’t it we’re supposed to be singing a song?” Juan asked. “We forgot to sing two days ago after the chase.”

“Don’t be a fool Juan,” I said. “We’re not drunk. Besides, it’s very early in the morning. People might think we’re nuts.”

With a mischievous playful smile on his face, Juan said, “Aren’t we?”

“Only you, Juan,” I said to to annoy him.

As we started to leave the place, I gazed back at old Ago’s cornfield one more time. I saw that the people were now placing their gifts at the center of the crop circles. We learned afterward that those people believed that the old fool on the hill had the good fortune of being the only lucky host of god-like alien visitors from outer space, who made the crop circles in his cornfield as a sign of a covenant between him and the aliens. How all these things came to be we had no idea. However, we found out even later that Kurso was hired by old Ago as his congregator.

That answers many of the questions. Recently, I heard that old Ago, the old fool on the hill, is now highly revered and believed by many as the old saint on the hill.

It is sad though, the old fool whom I highly respected was corrupted by money and human worship. He reminds me of the wise king and prophet of old who became a stupid fool in his old age.

2009-09-26T23:58:00.001-07:00

Chapter 11: "COMICS" IS A RELIGION
It was one of those days when everything seemed to be wrong. My friend Juan Tabagwang and I had nothing better to do but waste our time aimlessly walking along a dirty, noisy, busy, and crowded street. And along with that the air was full of smog, the people looked morose, and the honking of cars was very annoying. Even the trained, talkative, foul-mouthed, cursing, and blasphemous parrot, Periko, which we used to annoy in the bird shop, “Mga Ibon Ni Adarna,” did not return our greetings as we passed by it. We noticed that the shop owner had tapped its beak. Unable to curse us, the bird gave us a malevolent look instead. We ignored it and continued with our desultory walking. Suddenly, we heard shouting and commotion. We saw the guy who was always cursing us, the great Kurso, running very fast and carrying a big, bulging bag. His face looked almost white with fear and his dogs were running with him. Right behind them was an angry crowd.

“Hey, what’s the big hurry?” I asked one of the men chasing Kurso.

“Kurso, our shepherd and congregator, stole the money of our congregation!” the man answered as he ran with the crowd.

Juan turned to me as he scratched his head. “He’s a congregator!?” he said in disbelief. “Unbelievable!”

“Yeah!” I said. “He blesses his god in the morning, steals money from his faithful in the afternoon, and curses us in the evening.”

“Great guy!” Juan remarked.

“Indeed!” I agreed. “He’s not Kurso, The Great for nothing.” Juan and I then chuckled.

“I think we can go back now to Tomadors’ Tavern,” Juan said. “Kurso and his dogs are not around.”

We jogged to go to Tomadors’, excited at the thought of drinking again the strong drink, the ambrosia of wines, the “agua de pataranta,” which we haven’t tasted for quite a while. It was the only good thing that happened that day, or so we thought. At the tavern entrance we were met by Maria D’Kapri, or Super Kapre as she was popularly called.

“What apocalyptic winds brought the two of you here?” Maria greeted us in an unpleasant voice. She must be in one of her moods again.

“C’mon Maria,” I said. “By now you should know that it’s the spirit of the ‘agua’ that beckoned us to come here.”

She pouted at us. Anyway, we discreetly went into the tavern so as not to upset her, and we ordered 11 bottles of “agua.” After we got the drinks, we immediately chugged two bottles and became tipsy. That was when Juan started to talk about religion.

“I am averse to religion and everything about it,” Juan said. He looked serious.

“Oh, you’re just jealous of other religions,” I remarked nonchalantly.

“Why should I be?” Juan asked, a bit agitated. “Why should I be jealous of other religions like that of Kurso’s? He’s despicable!”

“I know,” I said. “You two are of the same kind, but of different religions. Yours is 'comics'.”

“Comics!?” Juan exclaimed in amazement, unable to comprehend by what I meant by it.

“Yes, comics!” I said as I looked at him straight into his eyes. “ 'Comics' is a religion, your religion.”

Juan pushed his chair away from the table to get a good look at me, and then he put his hands on his hips. In a sarcastic voice he said, “I think you’re drunk!”

“You’re the one who’s drunk with your obsession with your comics religion,” I countered. “Let me elaborate. You’re a comics ‘creator,’ a comics ‘god.’ You created the Super-Butt. Your comics stories were compiled into one big book and became a ‘bible.’ Your Super-Butt is a superhero with superpowers to help the oppressed and battle the bad guys. He is one of your ‘canonized saints.’ Your ‘believers’ or fans love your saints and idolize them. They go to comics convention pilgrimages as a kind of gathering of the faithful.”

Juan looked at me with his mouth open, aghast.

I continued with my sermon, “The comics stores are your ‘churches’ where your believers ‘donate’ to get a copy of the Super-Butt comics. Actually, you are similar to Kurso. You also stole the donations from your believers since you give them trashy and worthless stories. Your diehard believers become your ‘disciples' and 'preachers’ who propagate your comics stories, your ‘teachings.’ Other comics creators are your rival gods. Not only their comics religions but other spiritual religions are competitive to your religion. That’s why you don’t like them and are jealous of them. In other words, you’re protective of your comics religion.”

Juan was exasperated and unimpressed with my preaching. “How about you?” he asked. “What’s your religion?”

I did not answer him. Instead I said, “Actually, anything that becomes an obsession becomes a religion. For example, the love of money is another form of religion.”

“I am not interested in those things,” Juan remarked. This time he was really losing his patience. “What’s your religion?”

I chuckled. “My religion is also another one of your religions,” I answered.

“I don’t have another religion!” Juan countered.

“That’s the problem with you,” I said. “Yours is a case of ‘agua’ induced amnesia.”

“What!?” Juan said with a confused look on his face.

“You desire and obsess over something and you practice it, but you’re not conscious about it,” I explained. “That’s because of the effect of the spirit of the agua in you.”

“Whatever,” Juan said, impatiently. “Let’s go back to your religion.”

“This is my religion!” I said proudly as I put a bottle of “agua” at the middle of the table. “Agua de pataranta! It is also your other religion.”

“I think you’re really drunk this time,” Juan said as he looked at me through the corner of his eye.

“Hah!” I exclaimed as I gestured my hand to brush Juan off. Then I pushed the bottle of “agua” closer to him and said, “Drunk or not drunk, this is our religion.” And I quickly emptied the contents of the bottle, wiped my mouth dry, and reclined on my seat. Then I burped, farted, and let out a contented sigh as I slid down the seat. “That, Juan, are the blessings of the ‘agua’,” I said with a smile. “Aside from the hangover and swirling head that I get as the side effects.”

“Are you a moron or what!?” Juan remarked as he gave me a blank stare. “The ‘agua’ probably fried your brain already.”

“Far from it! It’s you, the ‘agua’ reduced your head to a pinhead,” I said a bit irritated. “Let me explain it to you in simple words. You see, the Tomadors’ Tavern is our church, the spirit of the ‘agua de pataranta’ is our god, and these good for nothing drunks here, including us, are the faithful. And our donations are the money we paid for the ‘agua’.” I then turned to the drunks around us who were listening to our conversation and asked them, “Right?”

“Absolutely!” all the drunks answered in chorus. Then they raised their glasses of “agua” and roared together, “A toast to ‘agua,’ our religion!”

“See Juan!” I said as I looked at him with my glazed eyes and pointed at the drunks around us. “And Maria ...”

“What about Maria?” Juan asked nonchalantly.

I moved closer to him and whispered, “Maria is our religious minister.”

I did not realize that Maria was behind me. She overheard what I said and gave me a whack on my head. “Idiot!” she exclaimed.

I turned to her as a I rubbed my head. “What did you do that for?” I asked meekly.

“You are not only blasphemous like Periko, you are also trying to influence all those half-wit drunks here,” Maria remarked angrily.

“It’s just a harmless joke, Maria,” I reasoned.

“Silence!” she said forcefully. This time she really lose her patience with us. “You two pay up now and get out of the tavern!”

“B-but...,” Juan complained.

“I said pay up now!” Maria insisted.

“Juan, pay up,” I said. “Hurry!”

“How come I always end up paying for our drinks?” Juan said sulking. “For once, you pay up and change your bad habit.”

“Remember, I am an absolute fool,” I said, “and absolute fools don’t change.”

Anyway, Juan paid for our drinks and we were expelled from the tavern, “excommunicated” by Maria for our irreverence. However, we did not easily give up. We belted our out of tune, drunken, penitence song for forgiveness in front of the tavern. It made Maria angrier. She came out of the tavern and threw empty bottles of ‘agua’ at us. It missed me but hit Juan. He woke up in the hospital with stitches on his head between the eyes.

“W-what happened?” he asked wondering.

“You were hit by Maria’s ‘celestial lightning bolt’,” I answered.

As we walked home, from afar, we looked like repentant sheep. But up close we looked like humiliated drunken goats humming the “comics" is a religion song to somehow lessen our longing and desire for “agua de pataranta,” doused by Maria’s “excommunication” of us from the tavern. For a time after that, we were branded by most drunkards in the neighborhood as the “atheistas de agua.”

2009-09-26T22:19:00.000-07:00

Chapter 10: THE ART OF CATCHING THE CROSS-EYED SHARK

It was a perfect, lazy afternoon. Juan Tabagwang and I were eager to go to Tomadors’ Tavern, but we were afraid of Kurso’s doberman who bit Juan’s butt. Instead, we decided and bought 10 bottles of “kuwatro kantos”, a fake imitation of “agua de pataranta,” from another tavern. Then we went to a perfect secluded spot with an excellent view of the sea. Many colorful fishing boats along its shore were haphazardly parked. We made ourselves comfortable under the shade of the coconut trees. After drinking several bottles of “kuwatro” we became tipsy and our noisy laughter competed with the ocean waves breaking on the sandy shore. Eventually, the gentle breeze from the sea made us drowsy. We didn’t notice the calls of Itay, Juan’s father, until the last minute.

“Tabagwaaaang!” Itay called. It sounded like a sudden booming crack of thunder.

Juan reacted with surprise. He turned around, trying to find out where the voice came from, and saw behind him his aging father standing with his hands on his hip and with a look of displeasure on his face. “Dad, it’s you!” he uttered with eyebrows raised and a slight smile.

“Who did you expect, you drunkard!?” roared Itay. “You watch over our boat! The rising tide might carry it away.”

“Don’t worry Dad, I’ll watch it,” Juan said coyly as he scratched his head.

“And you two lazy drunk bums,” Itay said in a commanding voice as he pointed at us, “before the sun sets I want you to stop drinking.” He turned but gave us a sharp glance and a parting warning to Juan before he left. “No foolishness this time, Juan!” he said. I don’t know if Juan understood what his father said, but he looked at me and gave me a drunken smile.

We continued with our drinking. Once in a while Juan watched the boat of his father. But the boat was slowly being carried away by the tide, until it was a good distance from the seashore. Juan climbed halfway up the trunk of a nearby coconut tree, still watching the boat.

“Juan!” I called to his attention. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“I know!” Juan answered. “I’m watching the boat.”

“I don’t think that’s what your dad meant.”

“He told me to watch the boat. So that’s what I’m doing.”

My jaw dropped in disbelief at Juan’s idiotic remark. “You’re already drunk Juan,” I said. “Let’s go swim after it while it’s still nearby.”

“No! I have to watch it, as ordered.”

I sighed and said, “You know what, Juan?”

“What?”

“You remind me of a guy who did the exact same thing that you are doing now.”

“If you’re referring to John Dokling, then I’m different,” Juan said. “I’m watching.”

“He was too,” I insisted.

“Yeah, he was watching,” Juan said. “But, he covered his eyes. He’s a moron.”

“That makes two of you.”

Juan ignored me. Instead he climbed to the very top of the coconut tree to get a good view of the boat being carried away by the rising tide. “Omigosh!” he suddenly exclaimed. “It snapped the boat in two.”

“Who snapped the boat?” I asked.

“A shark!” Juan answered.

“That’s Duling!” I exclaimed. “The huge cross-eyed shark.” I then hurriedly left Juan without waiting for him to come down from the coconut tree. As I ran toward our house I shouted, “Duling has been spotted! Duling is here!”

I reached our house and took from the wall two of my fifteen feet long spear guns. Each one was powered by four pairs of stretchable bands of black rubber. When released, the force of the spear is enough to penetrate an oversized unhusked coconut. At the tip of the spear was a moveable hook secured by a ring and at the other end it had a long rope. The other end of the rope was usually tied to a boat to make sure that a big fish quarry cannot escape.

As I came out of our house, I saw a horde of fishermen carrying their long spear guns and excitedly shouting like crazy. Though the sea of other nearby towns were shark infested, almost all the sharks in our area were hunted to extinction by these hungry fishermen. The only one left was the elusive cross-eyed Duling, fondly called “Moby Dick.”

I found Juan coming down from the coconut tree. I tossed him the other spear gun and we ran to one of the fishing boats. We pushed it to the sea, jumped in, and paddled furiously toward Duling. Other fishermen on their boats also converged toward Duling, who burst out of the water as if daring everyone to come and get him.

“Why you and these fishermen are obsessed with Duling?” Juan asked.

“Duling is food for these fishermen,” I replied. “Me, I just want to get my other spear stuck to its tail when I hunted it 25 years ago.”

Juan had a blank look on his face. He couldn’t believe what I just said. “I think you’re the one who’s drunk,” he remarked. “Why kill that thing for a worthless spear?”

I gave Juan a serious drunk look as I pointed to Duling. “That thing destroyed your father’s boat because of your foolishness,” I explained. “That shark is food for these hungry fishermen. And it took my prized spear.”

Our attention was suddenly diverted due to the commotion of the hunt. Duling was cornered. Being cross-eyed, it charged every which way. It smashed our boat and we were thrown overboard. Underwater, Duling bore down upon Juan, who was tangled in the rope of his spear gun. Juan panicked as I aimed my spear gun and fired. The spear hit Duling’s fin. I vigorously pulled the rope attached to the spear. This prevented Duling from snapping at Juan. It then violently veered, breaking the rope I was pulling. Duling swam away toward the deep blue sea as the spears of the fishermen criss-crossed the water, missing it.

Juan was glad because he was saved from his close encounter with the shark. He untangled himself from the rope of his spear, and we swam to the seashore. The excitement of the hunt sobered us up a bit. I sat on the shore a few feet from the water while looking at Duling, whose still visible fin was fast receding away. Meanwhile, Juan stretched himself out comfortably on the sand. And from afar we saw the fishermen discontinue their hunt.

“Good!” Juan exclaimed. “I’m happy that the cross-eyed shark escaped.”

“Yes, it had to escape,” I said, agreeing with Juan.

Juan turned to me with a quizzical look on his face. “I don’t get you,” he said. “I thought you and those fishermen wanted to catch it.”

“Yes, but that cross-eyed shark gives us reason and hope,” I explained. “It gives your father reason to keep building fishing boats and hope that you, Juan, are going to stop your foolishness. It also gives the fishermen reason to continue fishing and hope that someday they will catch Duling, the biggest shark of all.”

“How about you?” Juan queried.

I gave Juan a mischievous smile. “That cross-eyed shark gives me reason, after 25 years, to go back to the sea again and hunt it,” I answered. “That time I hope I’ll get my two spears stuck to it. So Duling has to escape, otherwise...”

“Otherwise what?” Juan asked.

“Otherwise, everybody will know that after all these years, they are also cross-eyed like Duling.” Then I laughed.

Juan betrayed a blank stare. He didn’t understand. I elaborated, “Otherwise Juan, everybody will realize that there is just no reason and hope in everything. That is, everything is just foolishness.”

“So, if everything is foolishness, then there’s no need for me to change my foolish ways, right?” Juan asked with a leering look on his face.

“You see Juan, with or without Duling, you are unreasonable and hopeless,” I answered.

“You’re worse!” Juan remarked. “You’ve known this all along.”

“I know, but you and all the others don’t,” I said. “That’s the difference. Besides, I was drunk.”

“Me too!”

“But I drank to it and played along all this time, because I can’t do anything about it,” I said. “Anyway, knowing it or not, all of us are actually unreasonable and hopeless fools.” Then I roared into laughter, and so did Juan.

The fishermen, on their way home, passed by us. They laughed with us. But old Ago, the fool on the hill, was among the fishermen who made the loudest laugh of all. He also knew. Even before the fishermen were gone, Juan and I belted the cross-eyed shark drunken song.

“La la la, sing with us now all you unreasonable, hopeless, and foolish cross-eyed sharks of the world, la la la.”

2009-09-20T23:16:00.000-07:00

Chapter 9: THE ABSOLUTE ART

It had been a while when Kurso and his pitbull chased us. I had assumed that he had forgotten the rock I threw at his house. So, my friend Juan Tabagwang and I were back again at Tomadors' Tavern. After nine bottles of "agua de pataranta" we talked about a very difficult topic. It was about the artist's dream of the possibility of creating the most beautiful art ever, the absolute art.

It all started after I drank another glass of "agua", when Juan asked, "I bet it tastes good?"

"Are you kidding me?" I answered back. "You know that it tastes exquisite in our palate. But once in our stomach, it rumbles like a volcano. It sucks!"

"But the look on your face shows absolute contentment," Juan said. "The outside betrays the inside, huh!?"

"Correct!" I agreed with Juan. Then I took a bottle of "agua de pataranta" and looked at it. "This drink is definitely going to burn us someday," I said.

"But we love to drink it," Juan remarked. "And it's like the love of an artist for his artwork. Initially he is full of exquisite inspirations, only to find out in the end that his work sucks. And some eventually 'burn' themselves figuratively to oblivion."

I looked at Juan as I grinned. "You never stop to amaze me with your incredible comparison," I said.

"And I also never stop trying to achieve the most beautiful artwork ever," Juan added. Then he asked, "How about you?"

"Nope!" I replied. "I never tried because I believe in the philosophical idea that beauty, in art or whatever, is the standard by which ugly things are measured. That is, by comparison, the greater the beauty of a thing, it lessens the greater ugliness of the other. Similarly, the less beautiful the thing is, the less ugly other things are compared to it. Eventually, at a certain point, what is beautiful and ugly becomes one, implying that the most beautiful thing is also the ugliest.

Juan's face portrayed a blank look of confusion. He could not comprehend the philosophical idea I just articulated. So I simplified it.

"Either all are beautiful, or all are beautiful and ugly, or all are ugly," I explained. "It depends on how you look at things. If you choose to believe the first possibility, then you can say that just like the flowers in a garden, anyone is the fairest of them all-all are beautiful. In other words, Juan, every artwork you conceived, or any artist's artwork, is the most beautiful."

"Okay. Granted that you are right," Juan said. Then he asked, "But have you ever found the most beautiful thing ever, unchangeable by time, and lasting for all eternity?"

Juan's question was now in the realm of the absolute. I gave him an appropriate poetic reply,

"I have found it.

In the labyrinth of the perfect and sublime.

I have seen it.

Its beauty is beyond description.

My brush is unworthy to paint it.

My canvas cannot contain it.

And I have lost it.

In the wilderness of my dream."

"So, you're implying that the absolute exists," Juan commented, "but only among the perfect and sublime, and in our dreams."

Before I could say anything to Juan, Maria D'Kapri, or Super Kapre as she is popularly called, dropped by to check on us. "Wasting your time again talking about idiotic things," Maria said. "You two never change. You guys are really incorrigible, absolute fools."

"Maria, I agree with you," I remarked. Then I elaborated to her the philosophical meanings of the 'absolute' and 'change.' "The absolute never change, but it causes change. And change cannot cause something to attain the absolute because there's an infinite of transformations and an eternity just to reach the threshold of the absolute. Moreover, if there's no absolute, there's no change. Besides, change implies imperfection".

My mistake, she didn't like philosophy. "Spare me you absolute philosophical foolishness," she remarked. "You're not only an absolute fool; you're also a perfect absolute fool through and through!" She then left us abruptly and looked at me through the corner of her eye with disdain for my philosophical idea.

Juan burst with laughter. Then he said, "Maria proves you wrong. An absolute does exist, not only among the perfect and sublime, and in our dreams."

"You're right Juan, the absolute does exist among us," I said with a mischievous smile of assent.

"Aside from you being the absolute fool, I bet the absolute art exists also?" Juan teasingly asked.

"I need an actual demonstration to show it to you," I replied. "Right now I'm too drunk. You pay for our 'agua', Juan."

"Why me again!?" Juan asked, slightly annoyed.

"Because Maria said that I am an absolute fool, an absolute fool doesn't change his habit of not paying," I replied. "Besides, I have no money."

Juan grudgingly obliged and reached for his wallet. "Omigosh!" he exclaimed. "I accidentally left my wallet at home." He became very uncomfortable as he looked around and didn't know what to do.

"Definitely, Maria will not let us wash dishes this time," I said flippantly. "This time she is going to give each of us an uppercut. Anyway, you order a steak."

"What!?" Juan asked, his eyes wide open with disbelief. "This is serious! Are you kidding!?"

"I'm not, I need time," I replied. "Just do what I told you." I then picked up my canvas and oil paints in a box which happened to be with me during that time.

"What are you going to do?" Juan asked again. This time he was really nervous.

"Just get that order of steak from Maria. I'm going to do an oil portrait of her," I answered.

Juan called Maria and ordered a steak while I painted her. I tried to be as inconspicuous as possible so as not to arouse her curiosity as I looked at her once in a while. After a short time, Maria served the steak before us. Juan ate all of it, possibly due to fear of Maria or hunger. At the same time I finished the portrait.

Juan tried to hide under the table when I called Maria. I showed her the portrait oil painting. I said, "Maria, I did this painting just for you as a token of our appreciation for putting up with our folly all this time."

Initially, Maria was suspicious, but when she looked at her portrait, her face lit up with absolute satisfaction and delight. She then showed it to all the drunks in the tavern. All exclaimed in admiration. She then came back to us.

"Thank you very much," Maria said with a great smile on her face. "How much will it cost me?"

"Nothing!" I replied.

"I won't take it for free!" Maria insisted. "In return your orders are on the house. I'll cover for it."

"That includes our tip?" I asked.

"Yes, yes!" she answered.

"And how about additional free agua?"

Maria gave me a very sharp look and then said, "Don't push your luck too far!" But she left us absolutely glad.

I turned to Juan, who raised his head up from under the table and made a deep sigh of relief.

"That painting, Juan, is a good example of an absolute art," I explained. "It captures the beauty of Maria in a brief moment of time. She will change and grow old. I will change, and so will you. But that portrait of Maria's beauty will last a long time. Also, it satisfies one of her innermost desires, it makes her absolutely happy."

It was very late, past midnight, when we left the tavern. We were jolly, due to the effect of the "agua", as we walked the dark, same, old street we always passed by. As usual, we sung our broken and irritating drunken song of absolute art when we passed by the house of Kurso, the Great. But after we finished singing, I stopped walking because I noticed that there was no cursing from Kurso and also no howling and meowing of his dogs and cats.

"Let's go back," I said to Juan.

"For what?" Juan curiously inquired.

I did not answer him. We went back to the house of Kurso. I picked up three big rocks and hurled it, one after the other, to the wooden door of his house. The rocks made terrible crashing sounds. Kurso shouted his cursing and profanities. Also, his dogs and cats howled and meowed.

"Run Juan, quick!" I exclaimed while I was running very fast. However, Juan ran faster.

"You really are an absolute fool!" Juan remarked. "And what you did is absolute stupidity."

"Blame it on the absolute drink, agua," I reasoned.

However, this time Kurso chased us with his Doberman. The dog bounded past me and bit Juan's butt. He ended up in the hospital with a lot of stitches on his butt.

"Why did the dog pass you and bite me instead?" Juan asked.

I did not answer Juan. Actually, he was bitten because he seldom changes his briefs. Dobermans don't like smelly butts. Hehehe.... Besides, he is not a "Tabagwang" for nothing, which also means "the absolute father of all those with smelly butts."

2009-09-20T22:19:00.000-07:00

Chapter 8: THE ART OF THE FOOLS ON THE HILL

My friend Juan Tabagwang and I did not go to Tomadors' Tavern for a while until Kurso's anger cooled down. Actually, we were afraid of his pitbull. However, we went to another tavern which offered their customers a drink called "kuwatro kantos," a fake imitation of the "agua de pataranta." We drank eight bottles of it. It was past midnight and we were intoxicated when we decided to go home. We walked along a deserted street with houses far apart. To sober up, I challenged Juan to a race. He accepted my challenge, and we raced. After a while we stopped, catching our breaths. It didn't do us any good because we were still drunk. Instead, the race made us exhausted and hungry. Luckily, we passed by a wild guava tree heavily laden with ripe fruits. I picked up some ripe fruits and sat on the green grass under its canopy. But Juan, who was exhausted and extremely drunk, just threw himself down beside me. He stretched himself comfortably as if the grass was a cushioned bed.

Far from us, up on a hill, we saw the silhouette of a shack with a flickering lamplight through its slightly opened window. It was the abode of old Ago. He was known throughout the area as the old baldheaded fool on the hill. And his lifestyle is an art of "quixotic" living.

"The old fool is still awake," Juan said, "this late in the night."

"Like a king, with the shack as his throne, the hill as his palace, and surveying his domain with regal boldness. Probably pondering endlessly again upon the foolishness of the world and calling everybody fools," I elaborated. Then I asked Juan, "Is he really a man of wisdom or a charlatan fool?"

"What do you think?" Juan asked back.

I did not answer Juan. But I said, "He reminds me of one of the great prophets of old who said that all the wisdom of the world is just foolishness. And he was also called the old baldheaded fool."

"C'mon, not all baldheaded men are wise," Juan remarked with a look of doubt on his face.

"We'll know tonight if old Ago is wise or foolish," I said.

I then offered some guavas to Juan. He declined. However, he positioned himself and opened wide his mouth directly beneath a very ripe, big guava.

I curiously looked at Juan as I scratched my head. "What are you doing?" I inquired.

"I'll just wait for the guava to fall into my mouth," he answered, "then eat it."

I burst into laughter and almost spit out the guavas in my mouth because of Juan's ludicrous answer. Nevertheless, I was not totally surprised by his antics. I've known many drunks who did idiotic things due to the effect of "kuwatro kantos," compounded by hunger and exhaustion. Since I was also drunk, I just played along.

"Why don't you just pick it?" I asked Juan. "That would be easier."

"That, my friend, is not interesting and everybody is doing it that way, including you," Juan explained. "I want to be different. Besides, eating guava is an art."

I suddenly laughed. "Your foolish art of laziness," I commented. "This reminds me of Juan Tamad. He did exactly what you are doing now."

"No. What I'm doing is different!" Juan countered.

"Nonetheless, you're worse by imitating him," I said. "No wonder your family name is Tabagwang, the mother of all plain laziness."

"I beg to differ," Juan protested. "Mine is artistic laziness, while Tamad's was just plain laziness." He then chuckled. "Mine is also scientific, discovering the intricacies of the time involved in the falling of the guava into my mouth, like Newton's banana."

This time I really exploded into laughter and almost choked and gagged on the guava I was eating because of the amusing and foolish rationalization of Juan. I recovered and gathered myself. "Newton's apple, not banana," I corrected Juan. "Speaking of time, you're not far off from the likes of Berto and Carlos, who formulated their time related scientific theories, which are actually more of an artistic semantic under the canopy of stars and fossil bones. Their foolish endeavors are also the consequences of laziness."

"Now you're talking like old Ago," Juan remarked, "the old baldheaded fool."

"I'm not yet bald," I countered Juan. "But because I said that the works of the likes of you are foolish, you compared me to old Ago to silence me. Most are humiliated to be branded like old Ago and be called a fool."

"Whatever. But how can you prove that my theory of artistic and scientific laziness is just foolishness?" Juan asked, still testy.

"Your theory is similar to some extent to the theories of Berto, Carlos, and others," I expounded. "But yours is easier to comprehend and an excellent illustration of foolishness. With just a little pushing and shaking here and there, your theory will fall like a house of cards."

"Then prove it!" Juan said.

"Simple!" I remarked. I then pushed and violently shook the guava tree. Practically all the ripe fruits fell and crashed on Juan, splattering all over him.

"What did you do that for?" Juan asked as he suddenly jumped up. He then wiped off all the guava pieces all over him.

"That, my friend, is to make you come to your senses," I answered. "It is also to show you the foolishness of your theory of artistic and scientific laziness under the canopy of a guava tree."

The cold, late night sobered us up, and the guavas somehow temporarily relieved our hunger. We resumed our homeward journey. We passed by the shack of old Ago.

"Fools!" shouted old Ago from somewhere inside his shack.

"Thank you!" I shouted back.

We then heard some laughter from old Ago.

"Now what!?" Juan inquired.

"His laughter is a compliment," I answered Juan. "He's happy that there's someone passing by who understands him."

"How come you know this?" Juan asked. "Is he really wise, or a fool?"

"You haven't figured out yet why your comics illustration sucks, remember?" I replied. "If you can figure it out, then you can figure out the answers to your questions." And I added, "In this foolish world, Juan, sometimes there are those who are branded fools but are really wise. And there are many, many more who are called wise, but are fools." I then roared with loud laughter.

I was joined by the laughter of old Ago, the old baldheaded fool on the hill. Juan laughed with us also, though he was still confused. Our laughter reverberated throughout the hill. Then to liven it up more, we sang the song of drunken fools.

What happened that night became a recurring story which became bigger and weirder by time among the nearby townsfolk. It eventually became the legend of the drunken, laughing, and singing "headless" midnight fools.

2009-09-20T21:51:00.000-07:00

Chapter 7: ABSTRACTION

Once again, my friend Juan Tabagwang and I were in the same old Tomadors' Tavern where we used to pass away our negative time. How long ago? I've forgotten. But this I remember, every time Juan was very drunk, he blurted out this poetic refrain,

"Agua de Pataranta, the ambrosia of wines. You can find it in Tomadors' Tavern. It is somewhere, someplace. If you seek it, you cannot find it. If you ignore it, it will seek you. It is whispered by the wind, announced by the faint, distant thunder, and carried by the wings of dreams; drunken dreams."

Yes, the 'agua’ .... We were waiting for our order of seven bottles from our pretty waitress friend super Maria D'Kapri, or super Kapre for short. But even before we were drunk, funny and foolish ideas started to play in our minds.

As I looked around the tavern, I saw a framed painting. I called Juan's attention, "See that abstract painting?"

"Oh yeah!" Juan exclaimed. "It won first prize in the contest sponsored by the Pintor Kulapol Art Society."

"But they took back the first prize from the winning artist," I added. "They found out that the artist didn't deserve to win."

"Why?" Juan asked.

"It was painted by a monkey," I answered. "The other artists complained."

"The other artists are also monkeys?" Juan asked again.

"No!" I answered. "They are humans, so are the judges."

"Hahaha!" Juan roared in laughter. "They made gorillas out of themselves, particularly the judges."

"They discriminated the monkey," I said mischievously. "The last I heard, the monkey was represented by a 'liar' to get back the award. Heh heh!"

Juan also chuckled. He then said, "You know what!?"

"No, I don't," I answered suddenly as I smirked.

Juan looked at me with a grin, slightly irked, but amused with my answer. Nevertheless, he continued. "I heard there was this elephant that could also do an abstract painting," he said. "And now the elephant is being trained at a university."

"To become a professor of humans!?" I asked to tease Juan.

"No, no!" Juan protested. "A professor of other elephants." He then exploded into loud laughter.

By then, Maria arrived with our orders. "You two haven't drunk your 'aguas' yet," she said, "but you already look drunk by your abstract screwball conversation."

"C'mon Maria, be nice to us," I complained in a soft, friendly voice, so as not to make her excited and unleash her powerful uppercut. "We're just enjoying ourselves. Besides, 'screwballs' like us are what make the world go round."

"No! More screwed and flat!" she said firmly, contradicting me. She then left us.

Juan winked at me and then looked at Maria. "I think she is still angry with you," he said. And then he turned towards me. "You haven't given her a tip yet. That's why!"

"No, we look like abstract screwballs to her," I countered in jest. "Anyway, let's go back to our conversation ..., foolish joking aside, you know I like doing abstract painting. It's easy to do. Realistic painting is difficult to execute and it's killing me."

"That's probably the reason why many artists are fascinated by and into abstract art," Juan reasoned.

"Or probably, they are bored at looking at anything that's realistic," I said. "They then break, reduce, and rearranged the forms and colors to arrive at the profound and ultimate essence of art."

"It follows that abstract art is associated with intellectual art," Juan concluded. "Essentially, it has a deeper, more symbolic meaning than realistic art. So ...," he paused and scratched his head as he got the sense of it, "that's the reason why I can't understand it."

"Or is it meaningless?" I asked. Not waiting for Juan's answer, I propounded an alternative philosophical idea. "Take for granted that the reality is the abstraction of something perfect and sublime. Consequently, the abstraction of reality is a gross abstraction, a corruption! And so, if it is a corruption, then it is worthless and it is not worth your time. Therefore, it is meaningless."

Juan scratched his head again as he grasped the other meaning of abstraction. "That's another reason why I can't understand the meaning of abstract art because it is meaningless," he said. "What then is the difference between artists and monkeys who do abstract paintings?"

"That's an interesting question," I answered. "Obviously, abstract art has either profound meaning or it is meaningless. Anyway, some artists like me who love to paint meaningless abstract paintings must have something in common with 'monkeys' who can paint." I then burst into impish laughter. "Which brings to mind Charles. We are indeed related to monkeys!"

"Not me!" Maria, who suddenly butted in, remarked with an angry tone in her voice. "Maybe you two abstract screwballs are related to Charles' monkeys. I have had enough of your idiotic talking. Pay up! The two of you go home and sober up."

"But we haven't finished our drink yet," I complained.

"That's your problem!" she firmly said. "Pay up, now!"

I didn't want to argue further with Maria, who took my jesting so seriously, and who strongly believed otherwise. Also, her powerful uppercut can sober any drunk to dream world. I reached for my wallet, but I couldn't find it. I nervously looked at Juan and said, "I lost my wallet."

"Don't make a joke like that!" Juan said, concerned. "I don't have any money either."

"Aha!" Maria threateningly exclaimed. "Don't give me that crap!"

"We'll pay you when we come back Maria, please," I begged.

"Yes, Maria! We'll pay you double plus tip when we return," Juan said fearfully.

"No! I wasn't born yesterday!" Maria said forcefully to put an end to our pleading. "To the kitchen. Wash all the dishes as part of your payments."

We silently and meekly did what we were commanded. Inside the kitchen we saw a mountain of dishes. Juan was aghast and speechless at the sight of the great amount of washing we had to do.

"Let's start Juan," I said. "If we're fast enough, we'll finish by morning."

Juan reluctantly obliged. "It's all your fault!" he exclaimed.

"I know," I said. "I'll make it up to you and Maria next time, okay?"

Juan made a deep sigh of frustration, and said, "I don't believe you. Your promises always come short."

"I will, someday," I said.

"Yeah right!" Juan countered, still unconvinced.

"Well ... anyhow, what we are in right now is a good lesson for us," I said, "an abstract situation."

We finished before the sun was up. We exited the tavern and slowly walked down a dark and quiet street. We were too tired to sing our abstract song. Besides, it would be daylight soon and we wouldn't dare sing. People around might know who were the singers with broken voices that sound like drunken croaking frogs in a waterless pond.

The sun could barely be seen above the mountain tops. Juan noticed it and appreciatively said, "What a beautiful, quiet, and peaceful morning; the start of a perfect day!"

We passed by the house of the guy who was always cursing us, and throwing empty cans, bottles, and rocks at us. We fondly called him Kurso, the Great, because of the great amount of cursing and profanity we get from him. I picked up a big rock and hurled it toward the wooden door of his house. The rock made a loud noise as it hit the door. It awakened Kurso, his dogs, and his cats. The perfect day was ruined by his loud cursing and the howling and meowing of his dogs and cats.

"Run, Juan!" I hurriedly said as I ran. "Faster!"

Juan ran after me. He couldn't believe what I just did. "What did you do that for?"

"I wanted to get even with Kurso, by disturbing his sleep," I explained. "Also, it's a non-artistic illustration to finally make you grasp the meaning of abstraction; the abstraction or corruption of a perfect day."

"I knew already!" Juan exclaimed. "You're really, reeeeaaaaally nuts!"

"Again, it's the side effects of the 'agua', you know," I reasoned as I ran very fast. Juan was right behind me.

Chasing after us was the angry and cursing Kurso and his snarling, vicious pit bull. Though we were drunk, we outran him and his dog. It was the fastest run for our lives. I called it abstraction in motion.

2009-01-12T19:35:00.000-08:00

Chapter 6: SUPERHEROES

My friend Juan Tabagwang and I were forgiven by our dear, pretty waitress friend, Maria D'Kapri, for giving her a 5 cent tip. So, we were back again in the same old tavern we used to go to for the past many years. By the way, the name of the tavern is the Tomadors' Tavern. It is the hangout of lazy drunken artists who have nothing better to do than philosophize, or make simple things complicated and complicated things simple. This time we were drinking six bottles of "agua de pataranta", a strong drink. Funny, last time we drank five bottles. Our drinking of the "agua" was increasing every time we met.

Anyway, after becoming tipsy, Juan proudly told me about the first issue of his superhero comics. "You know ... my editor loved my Super-Butt," he said. "We got a lot of great comments about my story and artwork."

"That's great!" I exclaimed. "Good work! Keep it up and you'll be like the great artist Sik Sikat someday." Then I asked him, "What's the power of Super-Butt?"

"Oh, he just flattens his enemies with his extremely powerful big butt," he said.

I smirked at Juan, trying to control my laughter at his idiotic idea. But, I played along and inquired, "Who are his enemies?"

"Arachnid-Butt, XYZ-Butts, Bat-Butt, etc.," he said. Then he burst into loud laughter. The drunks around us overheard him and they also laughed.

"See," Juan said, "they like my funny Super-Butt."

But one of the drunks, a big bully, who sat near our table, said, "No, you are funnier, butt-head!" Then he made an irritating chuckle.

"Ignore him," I told Juan. "He's too big for the both of us."

But Juan felt insulted. To divert his attention from the big bully, I asked, "Do you know where and when the idea of superheroes started?"

"I have no idea where and when it all started," Juan said, "or why many are fascinated by this superhero thing. Do you?"

"Yes!" I answered. "This superhero idea started a long, long time ago. It was recorded in a Sumerian mythological epic, called 'The Epic of Gilgamesh', about 2700 B.C. Gilgamesh was a superman, half-man and half-god. He was a legendary hero of Sumeria."

"Interesting," Juan said as his face brightened and he began to show great inquisitiveness. "Tell me more!"

"But 'The Epic of Gilgamesh' was predated by oral traditions and preserved accounts of Noah by the Hebrew people, which went back to about 4000 B.C." I elaborated. "In about 1500 B.C., Moses compiled these into parts of the Hebrew Scriptures. In Genesis, he wrote about the Nephilims."

"Nephilims!?" Juan suddenly said with curiosity. "First time I've ever heard that word."

"They were the superheroes of the ancient world, before the Great Flood," I explained. "They were giants, bullies, and very violent. They were the hybrid sterile sons of the wicked rebel angels and the daughters of men. These angels were superbeings who forsook their heavenly realms and made themselves gods on earth."

"Fascinating!" Juan exclaimed. He totally forgot about the big drunk bully in the tavern and asked me to continue.

"The Greeks have similar stories in the 'Iliad' and the 'Odyssey', by Homer. He probably got the idea from Hebrew accounts," I continued. "Remember Achilles?" I asked.

"Yes," Juan answered.

"Achilles was like the Nephilims. He was the Greek superhero of the Trojan War," I said. "He was the son of the god, Zeus, and a mortal woman. Other cultures also have similar stories."

"Very interesting observation!" Juan remarked with a sparkle of keen interest in his eyes. "But tell me, why many are fascinated with god-like superheroes with super powers, and the reason for its comics conception."

"It all started from the story in the Garden of Eden, from Genesis," I explained. "The serpent deceived and seduced Eve and she seduced Adam, by saying that they would become like God."

"Then what?" Juan eagerly inquired.

"Just like Adam and Eve, history is replete of records of people striving for power and immortality, to become just like God," I said. "Similarly, many subscribe to the belief that man comes from nothing to something; from monkey to human, and finally a super being, like God."

Maria passed by our table and picked up the empty bottles of "agua". She sarcastically said, "You two never stop talking about 'moronic' ideas, do you?" We did not answer her, so she left.

"What about these 'moronic' ideas?" Juan said jestingly. "I mean...what then?"

"What she meant was that they were brilliant," I remarked as I looked sideways at Juan, and laughed. "Nevertheless, just like Adam and Eve, who did not become like God, the same is true for everybody. Though frustrated, but still the desires for power and immortality lingers in the subconscious mind of many. So, some vented their frustrations by conceiving a make-believe world in comics. Consequently, they resurrected the idea of superheroes with superpowers like God. Then they called themselves creators, just like the Creator God. And others, with similar subconscious desires and frustrations, are delighted by their god-like superheroes with superpowers."

"Now I get it!" exclaimed Juan. "Obviously, the fascination with god-like superheroes with superpowers are just the facade of their frustrations. Heh heh!" Then he added, "They really are going to hate your 'moronic' or brilliant ideas."

"I know. Nonetheless, you and I, to some extent, are one of them," I said. "But the difference is that we and many others are fascinated and just do these superhero things for a living and fun."

"Still, it's scary!" Juan said. "Imagine, I also wanted to be called a creator, remember?"

But before I could say anything, the big drunk bully suddenly butted into our conversation again, and said, "Yeah, it is scary butt-head!" And then he let out a derisive laughter.

"Ignore him," I said. "There is nothing to be gained if you put up with his kind."

Juan is really pissed off with the bully. "He thinks he's a big superhero, but the bigger they are, the harder they fall," he whispered. "Who knows, I could clobber him like David clobbered the Philistines' superhero, Goliath, you know."

"He's like Goliath, but you're no David, Juan," I said, in a very low voice, trying to remind him.

The big bully overheard us. He lunged and grabbed Juan's shirt and raised him off the floor. "So you want to fight me, pip-squeak?" he arrogantly asked.

I tried to pacify the big bully to let go of Juan. "He's just kidding. He doesn't mean it," I said.

The big bully also grabbed me by my shirt and threw me like a rag across the floor. I made a loud thud.

"Stop it!" Maria said in a commanding voice. "If the three of you want to rumble, do it outside!"

However, the big bully pushed Maria away. This angered her. She then pulled the bully toward her and gave him a powerful uppercut. It sent the bully upward, then down, crashing toward the floor on his stomach, flat and cold.

Maria wiped her hands as she dismissively looked sideways through the corner of her eye at the bully. "Don't ever, ever push me again!" she shouted.

What Maria did was really impressive. It scared Juan, who gave her a very big tip. The other drunks in the tavern did the same. From then on, Maria was called Super Maria D'Kapri, or Super Kapre for short.

It was already very late when we left the tavern. Along the way, Juan curiously inquired, "You're the only one who did not give Maria a tip. Why?"

"If I did she would be very happy," I said. "She looks prettier when she's angry, right?"

"You're reeeaaally nuts!" Juan remarked.

"Again, it's the side effect of the agua," I reasoned.

"Ouch!" I said, as I was suddenly hit by an empty can thrown from out of nowhere. I looked around. More empty cans and bottles rained down upon us, followed by cursing, the howling of dogs, and the meowing of cats.

"Ouch! Agh! C'mon, cut it out!" I yelled. "We haven't sung our superhero song yet."

But still more empty bottles, cans, and now rocks were thrown at us, along with more cursing, and louder howling and meowing from the dogs and cats. We had to run away super fast. That night we had lots of bruises.

2008-10-31T17:34:00.000-07:00

Chapter 5: THE 5 CENTS ARTWORK

Again, in a tavern, my friend Juan Tabagwang and I were drinking over five bottles of a drink called, "agua de pataranta." Though most of the time we talk about absurd things, somehow, this time, probably due to the effect of the cold weather and the rain, we started talking about things that made more sense.

I was unaware that Juan looked at my manner of drinking the agua. "I like the way you drink," he said. "First, you looked at the "agua de pataranta," you smelt it, licked your glass slowly, and finally, you suavely drank it in style." Then in a flattering tone he remarked, "Exquisite to look at!"

"Aww … cut it out!" I exclaimed.

"Anyway," he said, "it reminds me of the great artist Sik Sikat."

"What about him?" I asked.

"His artwork is somewhat like your way of drinking," he replied. "His illustration is enthralling to look at. You can almost smell the flowers in it, taste the tantalizing fruits, and the whole panorama envelops and absorbs you. It’s simply marvelous!"

"Hahaha!” I blurted out. Then, as I scratched my head I amusingly said, "What an incredible comparison. However, that's the reason why your artwork sells for $50, sometimes for 5 cents, and Sikat's sells for $5,000,000."

"He's an amazing artist," Juan said. "He deserves it."

"I know," I said, "but that's not the whole picture. He's big and artists like you are the ones who make him bigger. And the publishers, galleries, museums, collectors, and others make him huge."

"Hmm ... you're jealous of him!" Juan remarked.

"Nope, never!" I exclaimed. "Far from it, I never even think about him. That's why my artwork sells for $500."

What I said made Juan think. "Hey, it puzzles me why your artwork sells much higher than mine!?"

"Because I don't idolize Sikat and his kind," I explained. "I don't talk about them the way you do. Instead, I advertise my artwork. However, you advertise them, instead of your work. You make them more popular, and so their artworks command higher prices. You are also indirectly helping the publishers, galleries, museums, collectors, and others increase the value of their collections, their investments."

"But, I have to talk about Sikat. I always copied his artworks," Juan reasoned.

"There's nothing wrong in copying other works," I said. "But, the problem is that the more you talk about Sikat, the more insignificant you'll become. On the other hand, the less you talk about his works and more about yours among your friends and other artists, the more popular you'll become and the greater value your artworks will have." Then I bluntly added, "The more you talk about other artworks, the more you slowly start to die. The less you talk about their works, the more you slowly start to live. You cannot live under the shadows of the great artists. You need a little portion of the sun's rays."

"You are right!" Juan exclaimed. "From now on I will advertise and talk only about our artworks. Besides, artists like Sikat already have tons of money."

"Sikat is lucky!" I remarked. "He is still alive and enjoying his millions. But many of the great artists are dead. When they were alive, many lived in poverty. Their artworks sold very cheap, sometimes for free. The collectors are the ones enjoying the millions of dollars that should have been enjoyed by those artists. That's why they vigorously advertise the works of the artists in their possession to make more millions. And you, Juan, are helping them."

Juan considered what I said. With a discerning look on his face, he said, "Well ... though they did not enjoy the millions due to them, still they are enshrined as the lions of the art world."

"But a living dog is better than a dead lion," I said with a mischievous smile. "Besides, dead lions don't need honor or money. There is no glory and wealth in the world of the dead."

"Are you implying that we are dogs?" Juan asked, slightly ticked off.

"No, we are just puppies," I answered. "We still have a lot of eating and learning to do. But, we puppies are much better off than those dead great lions. We are alive. We can enjoy the little money and honor we have, more so if we are like Sikat."

Maria D'Kapri, our waitress friend, suddenly popped in out of nowhere and said, "Okay puppies, closing time! Pay up!"

"You really don't like us, do you Maria?" I asked.

"Yes!" she answered emphatically.

"But, if we don't come here anymore, then you lost us as your customers," I said, "and you might lose your job."

I'd rather lose my job than wait for the two of you," she said irritated. "You and Juan never give me a tip. Cheapskates!"

I turned to Juan and said, "Pay up, Juan! Give her a tip."

"Why me?" Juan asked. "You earn more than I do." Anyhow, Juan dug into his pockets and paid Maria, plus tip. Then he hurriedly pulled me out of the tavern.

"Why are you in a hurry?" I inquired.

Before Juan could answer, we heard Maria's angry voice. "5 cents! Cheapskates, don't you two ever come back!"

You gave her a 5 cent tip?" I asked Juan. "You ...." But before I could finish, we had to run away from the screaming Maria.

"At least I gave her 5 cents," Juan reasoned. "You gave her nothing. You're so stingy! You're ...."

"Okay, the next time we return to the tavern I'll give her a big tip," I said, just to mollify Juan. "She deserves it. She's a great waitress though."

"Hah!" Juan exclaimed. "So that's why you ignore Maria, the same way you ignore the great Sikat."

"Nope! Sikat is different," I remarked. "I ignore her to make her angry. She looks prettier when she's angry, you know."

"You're a nut case!" Juan said.

"It's the effect of the agua de pataranta," I reasoned.

Funny though, along the darkened street there were no howling dogs and meowing cats. No empty cans and bottles thrown at us, and no cursing voices either. Well, we did not sing our 5 cent song. Anyway, nobody can hear our song if we did sing because it was raining very hard. Besides, the thunder was extremely loud and scary. Soaking wet and cold, we vanished into the night.

2008-10-27T23:17:00.000-07:00

Chapter 4: MY BLANK, MY NOTHING, MY MASTERPIECE!

Again, in a tavern, my friend Juan Tabagwang and I drank over four bottles of "agua de pataranta," a drink. This time we talked about the most absurd thing ever. The absurdity was compounded many times over by the effect of the "agua."

Anyway, after drinking many glasses of "agua de pataranta," my tipsy friend casually asked, "What's your best work, your masterpiece?"

It so happened I was carrying a canvas. I slowly raised it and showed it to him. "This is my masterpiece!" I answered with great air.

My friend looked at it. He was speechless with an incredulous look on his face. "Where is it?" he inquired.

"It is already exposed. You just can't see it," I replied. "Also, the medium is undefined and the dimensions cannot be measured. The canvas is unworthy to contain it."

Juan was really bewildered. He asked again, "That's your masterpiece!?"

"Yes, this blank is my masterpiece," I responded. "Human eyes are unworthy to behold it. Even the mind is baffled by its simplicity. It is the essence of all colors."

"But, there's nothing there!" my friend exclaimed.

"I know," I said. "It's nothing."

Suddenly, a very drunk guy butted into our discussion and looked at my empty canvas. He blurted out, "F-fantastic! I-I am blank with admiration. W-what can I say? Wow!" Then he went into a discourse. "However, do we have to look at beautiful colors and composition to appreciate art? Sometimes, our eyes deceive and manipulate us, and we can see only up to the surface of the canvas. On the other hand, our mind is not limited by the canvas. If there is nothing on the canvas to distract the mind, it can range to infinity and can reach the far reaches of all conceivable realms. It can even perceive divine beauty and perfection." He paused and then glanced at me with a mischievous look in his eyes. As he turned away he said, "Your blank gives me that opportunity. M-marvelous! Best work I've NEVER seen!"

Maria D'kapri, our pretty waitress friend, picked up the empty bottles of "agua de pataranta." Then she said, "You two are not only wasting your time drinking, you're also wasting your time discussing foolish things."

As Maria is about to leave, I said, "But it's the best use of our negative time." She ignored me and I turned to my friend, asking him, "What do you think of my masterpiece?"

Juan still looked perplexed, he scratched his head and responded, "I ... I have no words. Really, I have no words, none with your blank-nothing." But my friend regained his wits and he then asked, "What's your point?"

"Well, I was invited to give a lecture on art," I explained. "One of the art students asked me how he could become a creative painter. So, I put up a big piece of white paper on the board and asked him what he saw. He said he saw nothing, just a plain white piece of paper. In answer I told him that he could only paint what he could see and nothing extraordinary would come out of it. But another artist told me some incredible things that he imagined from the white paper. I told him that he would become a very creative and extraordinary painter."

"Are you implying that I have no future as a comics illustrator because I did not see anything in your canvas?" my concerned friend Juan inquired.

"Most artists have the same reaction as you," I said to assure him, "and some become great creative artists later on because they learned their lesson to be perceptive."

Suddenly, from a dark corner of the tavern, another drunk shouted at me, "Hey man!"

I turned toward him and retorted, "What!?"

"No offense," he said, "but I think it’s a little overworked. I happened to know that your entire non-piece idea was similar to Salvador Ukalili's, when he was a lad at an art institute."

"It's different!" I shouted back. "My BLANK, my NOTHING is the essence of ‘everything.’ In other words, the ‘everything’ exists only because of the NOTHING. Ukalili's nothing is simply nothing. And my NOTHING is in capital letters, and Ukalili's nothing is in small letters. Also, NOTHING = O and nothing = o. Obviously, O > o; that is, NOTHING > nothing." Then I sarcastically chuckled.

Juan laughed and remarked," I love your tortured logic."

"I know," I said, agreeing with Juan. "It will take him a while to figure it out."

"Your logic aside ... your blank, your nothing set the standard for the philosophy of art," Juan said amusingly. "It defines one's perception and creativity."

Then we both made hearty, loud laughs.

"Confusingly, I mean s-seriously," I said, "my blank, my nothing is a philosophical and artistic idea that tickles the mind and draws out anybody's innermost latent creative abilities. It can test the depth and range of anyone's perception, from blank to infinity."

"Heh, heh .... It can even separate the extraordinary from the ordinary," my friend added. "I think we already drank enough. It is time to go!"

"Yes," Maria said from behind us. "You two are too drunk. You waste your time talking idiotic things. Go home!"

"Do we really waste our time talking nonsense, Maria?" I asked her, not expecting an answer. Then I turned toward the other drunks in the tavern and asked, "Do we really waste our time talking nonsense?"

"No!" the drunks roared. "We love your nonsense!"

We left the tavern, and along the darkened street we sang our rambling song again, accompanied by the howling of dogs and the meowing of cats. But we ducked, because as we sang, empty bottles and cans flew toward us amid the sound of angry cursing and shouting.

"You people! Sing with us! Sing our blanks, our nothings, the greatest masterpieces of the world! La, la, la..."

2008-10-25T22:04:00.000-07:00

Chapter 3: COMICS CREATORS!? NO, COMICS GODS!

I would like to introduce you to my friend, Juan Tabagwang. You already met him twice. Anyway, my friend and I talk about a lot of things. Sometimes we also talk about "nonsense" just to entertain ourselves. Now, let me share to you one of our most recent "empty talks."

When we were in a tavern, we drank three big bottles of "agua de pataranta," a drink. As usual, my friend poured the "agua de pataranta" into his glass and emptied its contents in the blink of an eye. He poured one after the other. After chugging the last one, he lets out a Tarzan-like cry, "AAAAGH!!" Everyone in the tavern were distracted from their drinking and looked at him. We ignored them.

I turned toward Juan and asked him, "Tastes terrible, huh?"

"Y-yep!" he answered. "T-this drink is going to kill us someday."

But the effect of the drink gave him the courage to show, again, his published drawing to me and brag about it.

"Look!" he excitedly said as he pointed to something on his drawing. "The publisher gave me credit as a comic creator!" And he proudly added, "Isn't that something!?"

"Comic creator!?" I asked as I looked at him through the corner of my eye with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah, comic creator!" he answered, with emphasis.

"Comic creator!" I said. Then I asked, "You want to hear an idea of mine that has something to do with comic creator?"

Though still dizzy from the effect of the "agua de pataranta," he said, "Okay, blurt it out!" He then reclined in his chair and pushed it away from the table.

"You know Kubita?" I asked.

"That's toilet. You know that I know what that means," he answered with a bit of annoyance. "What's the big deal about it?"

"Well...it is somehow indirectly related to comic creator."

My answer aroused his interest. He moved closer to the table to hear more of what I was going to say.

"The word 'kubita' is not a nice word to hear," I said. "So, it was changed to 'toilet'. Still not good, so it changed to 'men's or women's room'. It still doesn't sound right, so it was then changed to 'comfort room' and then 'lounging room'. Now it's just perfect. But really, what's the difference? Even the word 'janitor' was changed to 'building custodian', then 'building manager,' and finally 'building executive.’ Again, what's the difference? Both 'lounging room' and 'building executive' sound great; whereas, 'kubita' and 'janitor' aren't nice to hear. But, respectively, their meanings are the same."

"Similar reasoning applies to comics," I continued. "The word 'drawer' sounds naive and dreary. ‘Inker' is messy. 'Penciller' sounds rough. 'Comic artist' is educated. 'Comic illustrator' is sophisticated. 'Comic designer' sounds great and fantastic. But, 'comic creator' is tickling to the ears and egos. If it is reduced to 'creator', it is spine-tingling. But what's the difference between all those words? Nothing! Everything is about complicated words and egos. Once things are simplified, there is really nothing there. Same thing goes for 'comic creator'. Once you simplify it, it boils down to the word, drawer."

"So, you and I are drawers?" my friend asked.

"Yes!" I answered.

"What if I hire someone to work for me?" my friend jestingly asked me once more.

"You are not a drawer anymore." I smiled at him and then said, "Now you are a master of the drawers."

Then we laughed at ourselves. The others drunks around us curiously looked at us, distracted by our laughter. We turned to them and raised our glasses of "agua de pataranta."

"Toast with us, my friends!" I said. "We are the drawers laughing at ourselves."

They toasted their drinks with us and in chorus they said, "A toast to you and all the drawers of the world!"

The whole tavern erupted with laughter. As it started to die down, my friend looked at me with excited eyes, and said, "But I really like the word 'creator'. It sounds like something great."

"If you want to go all out why not, 'comic god' or 'god' simply," I jestingly remarked.

"Omigosh, that's too much already!" my friend said. "It's getting scary! I'd rather stick to drawer. But since it sounds so dreary, I'll settle for creator."

"Right you are, my friend Juan," I said. "But the master of the drawers is also the master of the creators. Or, if you settle for god, then the master will be the master of the gods."

"Now we are going into a foolish discussion," my friend said, as he scratched his head. Then he looked at the bottle of "agua de pataranta." "Amazing," he exclaimed, "how this drink affects our minds! And we came up with all that nonsense about comic creator."

We drank the last drop of "agua de pataranta" from our glasses and exited the tavern. Along the dark street our out of tune singing could be heard, accompanied by the howling of dogs and the meowing of cats.

"We are the drawers, comic creators, and comic gods of the world. Sing with us! La, la, la ..."

Out of nowhere, we heard, "Shut up!!!"

2008-10-24T21:04:00.000-07:00

Chapter 2: HOW NOT TO INSULT AN ARTIST

Again, in a tavern, my friend Juan Tabagwang and I drank over two bottles of "agua de pataranta," a drink. After gulping several glasses, the drink began to take effect and we became dizzy. Stupid ideas began to spin around in our heads.

My friend called my attention, "Hey pal!" Then he said, "You know what!? There is this guy who is such a great artist. I am jealous of him and I want to break his ego by insulting him."

Even though I was a bit drunk, I was taken aback by what he said. I looked at him with raised eyebrows and exclaimed, "Huh!?"

"What should I do?" he asked.

"Are you nuts?" I inquired.

"Maybe...," my friend answered. Then he looked at his glass of "agua de pataranta" in his hand. "Probably, this drink makes us crazy." Then he made a hearty loud laugh.

"Not me!" I said. Then I laughed also.

"Seriously!" he said as his face changed to an earnest look. Then he asked again, "What should I do to insult him?"

Just to humor my friend, I said, "Well...you can tell him that his artwork is similar to such and such, or insinuate that his artwork is not an original, just a copy from someone who is a great artist."

"Just like that?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered, "but be very tactful. He might turn the table against you."

"How?"

"Let me tell you one of my experiences and learn from it," I said. "I know this guy, Luk Luko, who was very jealous of me and he told me that my style is similar to this very popular and world-class artist, named Sik Sikat. So, I told him that I never heard the name Sikat. Probably he is the one who copied my style. To rub it in, I added that the level of my artwork is world-class also, because it is similar to Sikat's."

Then I asked my friend, "You know what?"

"What?"

"It really pissed off Luko and he went away fuming mad."

"Do you know of another way of insulting an artist if you are jealous of him?" my friend asked again.

"Usually, not only because of jealousy, but also because of insecurity and inferiority, artists are asked most often ‘who were the other artists that influenced them.’ Though it is true that all artists were influenced by other artists, the question is insulting and it implies that the artist being asked is just a copycat."

"So, if you are asked that kind of question, what's your answer?"

"Most often, I answer that I copied from everybody."

"Then you are also a copycat," my friend remarked.

"Partly, but the difference is that the artist who copied from all artists is the best of all artists. He knows all the styles of all artists. Whereas the artist who copied from just one artist is always second best to that artist and he knows only one style."

My friend nodded in agreement and then took one big gulp of "agua de pataranta." After he wiped his mouth clean, he asked me another question. "Do you still know another way to insult an artist?"

"You're weird," I said. "Why do you want to insult all those good artists? There are so many of them. You'll be making a lot of enemies."

"It makes me feel good!" he exclaimed.

"You really are an idiot!" I said. "Anyway, here's another one. If you are jealous of another artist, praise his artwork to high heavens. Don't tell him his weaknesses so that he will never improve." Finally, I added, "If you really want to trash an artist's ego, tell him straight out that his artwork sucks. Then duck."

"Why?" my friend quizzically asked.

"He is definitely going to punch you!" I answered.

We then boisterously laughed. Afterward, we emptied our glasses of "agua de pataranta." We exited the tavern drunk and along the dark alley we sung a noisy, rambling song accompanied by the howling of dogs and meowing of cats.

"Sing with us the song of insults to all the artists of the world ... La, la, la ..."

2008-10-17T12:00:00.000-07:00

Chapter 1: YOUR COMIC ILLUSTRATION SUCKS!

There are three things any artist must strive to do to figure out why his comic illustration or his artwork sucks. To find out what are these three things, read my story, which follows:

Many years ago, when I worked as a comic illustrator, a friend of mine, Juan Tabagwang, proudly showed me his comic illustration.

"What do you think?" he asked me.

"Your work is great!" I answered. "It is wonderful! It’s great indeed, fantaaaaastic!"

It really boosted his ego and made him very happy. From then on he kept showing me his artwork, expected me to praise it, and give comments that would tickle his ears.

Once we drank over a bottle of "agua de pataranta.” By the way, "agua de pataranta" is a kind of drink. "Agua" is water, and "pataranta" is "to make confused." Anyway, let's continue with my story.

After chugging a glass of "agua de pataranta," my friend showed me again his work.

"This is my masterpiece!" he said. "What can you say about it?"

I glanced at it nonchalantly and remarked, "Your comic illustration sucks!"

He was shocked and a look of disbelief flashed on his face. Then he immediately picked up his drawing, and left without saying a word. He was terribly hurt.

After a month, he had forgiven me for what I had said. And again, in a tavern, we drank over a bottle of "agua de pataranta."

"How come my comic illustration sucks?" he asked.

"How come you're asking me?" I asked back. "You know the answer. You'll figure it out."

Quizzically, he looked at me as he scratched his head. I ignored him, and instead I sipped from my glass of "agua de pataranta." But he tried to get even with me.

Probingly, he asked, with a sarcastic tone in his voice, "Does your artwork also suck!?"

"Yes," I answered, "I found out why my artwork sucks a long time ago. But you, you still have to figure it out."

He looked at me through the corner of his eye and tried to glean something out from my answer. He then drank a full glass of "agua" and he turned toward a drunken guy sitting at a table not far from us. He made a stupid remark that actually should have been directed toward me, but he directed it to this guy.

"He's ugly! He sucks!" he said.

"No!" I countered. "He's ok! There's something in him that is very interesting. Look carefully."

"He's really ugly!" He emphasized it by adding, "Looks to me he’s like a frog! Palaka!"

"But the more I look at him, the more he looks like Adonis!" I said.

He turned to me and said, "Something is wrong with your eyes!"

"No, something is wrong with yours. You just drank the "agua" not the "pataranta," and you can't see what I see!" To drive home my point, I added, "Now, you know why I know why my artwork sucks, and you don't know why your artwork sucks! Instead of one, you now have two things to figure out. And there's another one at the end..."

We continued arguing until we emptied the bottle of "pataranta". We left the tavern, but along the way, through a dark alley, we still continued to differ.

"Though I don't know why, your artwork doubly sucks!"

"Yours sucks three times more than mine!" I countered.

"Four times!"

"Five times!"

"Six times!"

"Seven times!"

"Eight times!"

"..................."

"All the times!" he exclaimed.

With finality, I said, "But you must figure out two things, one at a time, and after that it will take you a lifetime!"

Now, what are those three things? YOU, out there, also figure it out!

2008-10-10T20:00:00.000-07:00

INTRODUCTION

Most of the stories are based on the true experiences of the author which have been fictionalized to make it entertaining and funny. As seen through the eyes of the two struggling and drunken artists, it is a critical and philosophical look at human follies, with art as the backdrop.

Each chapter is an independent story but they are interconnected to other chapters in the form of a single never ending story. Though initially about art, it becomes more diverse and complex as the story goes on.

CHAPTERS

Chapter 1: Your Comic Illustration Sucks!

Chapter 2: How Not to Insult an Artist

Chapter 3: Comics Creators!? No, Comics Gods!

Chapter 4: My Blank, My Nothing, My Masterpiece!

Chapter 5: The 5 Cents Artwork

Chapter 6: Superheroes

Chapter 7: Abstraction

Chapter 8: The Art of the Fools on the Hill

Chapter 9: The Absolute Art

Chapter 10: The Art of Catching the Cross-Eyed Shark

Chapter 11: "Comics" Is a Religion

Chapter 12: The Origin of the Crop Circles

Chapter 13: How to Draw With Your Butt

Chapter 14: The Art of Lunacy

Chapter 15: How to Draw While You're Sleeping

Chapter 16: The Art of Resurrecting the Dead

Chapter 17: Kong, the King

Chapter 18: If Only I Could Hold Back the Time

Chapter 19: Super Kapre