Culture in Two Cups

“ Look, that was no fight of the century. Somebody’s surely Php XXXX richer today. Tough luck”.

I couldn’t care less. I wasn’t very much into boxing - well, not while I was on official duty during the whole duration of the match. But surely, I was more into quietly observing how people discussed with gusto about boxing, and politics, and businesses, and healthy lifestyles - imaginary or real - , and who knows what, over sips of the brew Madge’s faithfully offers. This coffee shop has been a second home for everyone who would want to just throw their guards off, and bask the time away before the grueling Monday begins.

My trips to Iloilo are almost always redeemed by paying homage to one of the most enduring meccas for morning rituals. I often stay within walking distance from the La Paz Central Market for a cup or two of that good old morning brew and more . I take a brisk morning walk to what I call a time machine disguised as a three-block coffee shop.

Madge’s Coffee House is currently managed by Peter De la Cruz, of the third generation of the de la Cruz family who ran the business since the 1950s. It is all that one expects for a coffee shop located at the heart of the market. Brimming with folks from all walks, discussing topics from worlds both living and dead. I’m no coffee connoisseur, though I’d describe this Panay brew as rich tasting without being heavy on the stomach. The aroma is perfect recalling the commonly enjoyed brew passed through a kolador/colador (a makeshift pour over filter usually of cheese cloth ). For those opting for the creamed variant, it comes with evaporated milk.

I always go for the black brew (yes, no milk and sugar) , and with an hour and half to spend, I took the chance to capture the whole vibrant mix of aroma, elements and chitchat. Breakfast is perfect - pan de ciosa with poached egg sunny side up. By far, this is closest to how I think the bread should be made: A bit of crunch on the crust - just enough to hear the crack without hurting your gums - yet with a slight fluff in the body. Call me anything, but I see no difference with what regular Singapore hawker breakfasts have to offer.

Armed with five senses and a phone cam, I immerse in two cups worth of cultural dynamism. Memorabilia (pictures developed from film rolls), art (paintings),  contemporary hymnals discreetly flowing through the speakers, politics, ingenuity (a chandelier recycled from the accumulated empty milk cans) and a working man’s menu may seem a mismatch in the today’s marketing world - but work, it does - perfectly. Old news paper clippings featuring this coffee house in different angles, aged wooden frames and mesh screens conjuring images of the tiangge and the houses most of us grew in, various mugs displayed on shelves, the trusty old glass display shelf - all add up to the vibe,  taking me back to old homes and massive school buildings in art deco fashion. The mixed elements mysteriously work the same way Eddie Van Halen’s “Frankenstrat” or Brian May’s “Red Special” (for the uninitiated, these are DIY guitars which propelled the careers of the mentioned artists ). So does Madge’s magic brews.

Chandelier from used milk cans. Coolness

Perhaps it may pay to remember that great products + great service + gall + resonance are the essentials to survive in this current jungle of hype and marketing strategies. Printed cups and holders, gluta-toned endorsers, endless options and variants, posh interior design may always catch attention. Yet, in 2015,  attention spans are reducing by the alarming millisecond. Thankfully, Madge’s lingering brew never fails to take off where attentions begin to wane.

A Farewell to Inventions: Have you ever Surfed with an Alien?

Being a musician is a challenging path.

Now It is equally difficult to be alien.

When you’re both an alien and a musician, you do the math. Twice the gripe it is.

No, my musicianship won’t disappear. But it could use a good realignment and retooling, sharpened for accuracy.

Let me guide you as to what I think it is, by looking at what it is not.

It is not mainly for sustenance and income. Financial rewards are always a bonus. I have a day job to get my basic needs going, and in the process fund my endeavors with music.

It is not to entertain, but aimed towards communication. I may be entertaining to an extent, but I primarily play to tell stories. Those who don’t get should. That’s why bettering the craft is an ongoing pursuit.

Music is my language - a complex and sensitive one- but is never above the message.

I want it to reach to the inner listener. It may come initially as a form of entertainment, but my goal is to communicate.

What is my message? It is that It is  by grace to be alive and dynamic. That is, both spiritually and physically. To be alive is to be able to respond and contribute, rather than being reactive. Here is a true account:

I play while my gums throb because of an abscessed tooth. My music has no choice but to relay the pain of an undying throbbing which ticks like a never-exploding bomb. Now, communicating discomfort and pain doesn’t have to mean sounding sloppy or stepping on the wah and making crying noises in your instrument. I may approach it with a busy line as if I am attacking the source of the pain and go (mentally), “Take that, you abscessed tooth you!”. Or I may opt to do a monotonic phrase to tell everyone, “It’s hard to fight back, look at what it does to me. These flatlines are staying this way until the mefenamic acid kicks in”.

Music is not my life. Inversely, my music exists because I live. It will serve the purpose of carrying my stories across.

That’s why I refuse to be defined by genres and movements and inventions of man.

What are some of man’s inventions?

• This is camp rock, only horned salutes allowed.
• That’s too unjazz. Like, it ain’t cool bro.
• No countermelodies and sympathetic strings? Blasphemy!
• A three minute island-riddim’ song to sell shampoo, that’s what we need.
• 10 minute epic songs for radio? Look, we don’t need another Geddy Lee.
• C’mon - that’s two 45-min. sets while they’re on dinner and no one’s listening for (insert talent fee here).  Can’t get any better than that, huh?

And my favorite:

• Music - it’s the only gift I have. I can’t imagine what I’d be if one morning I’d wake up amputated/deaf/immobile. (That is, if you wake up at all).

 We are defined by the Creator. Not by any of His creations.

The world is now noisier. This small storyteller may need to step on the breaks soon and see the bleakness engulfing at an alarming rate. Perhaps we are no longer able to compete with the deluge of noise straight from the cyberspace to the earbuds, at unbelievable speeds.

Herald is a word apt - one who brings the message to the receiving end. In comicdom, a certain Norrin Radd had to take the role to save his planet Zenn-la from the cosmic planet-eater, Galactus. In doing so, Radd forsook his identity forever. As the Silver Surfer, the pursuit for consumable planets for his master is unceasing. It is tiring, but it has become him. There was no Radd to revert to, and no Zenn-la to go home to.

We may not be saving planets, but to an extent we all carry messages. We will see each other there, when we get there. If, we ever get there. 

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the characters and illustrations of the Silver Surfer and the Watcher. The illustration belongs to its rightful owners, and is shared for reference and information purposes only.

Farewell to Inventions 2015: Coffee Made Me Do It.

I’m debunking this as bluntly as possible - it is not the coffee. It seems that the black, bitter cup has nothing to do with why I love it so much. 

I am now hearing a rushing river underneath as I take this cup on a small store (tiangge) located at the foot of a steel bridge in Buenos Aires Mountain Resort, Bago City, Negros Occidental. ‘Kapehan ni Toto’ has gained notoriety among coffee hunters of all classes - bikers, trekkers, vacationists - in search for caffeine fix.  It is a cool morning, and with all the trees surrounding, the brew is magnified. It tastes better in higher places perhaps. By better, I mean a rich aftertaste, thicker concoction minus the slightly sour aftertaste common with wannabe-brews by wannabes (I left my phone in the room, forever losing the chance for a a snapshot - it would not come as a surprise if you'll have no idea of what I'm writing about)

But for all I know, it may not be the coffee.

I frequent Madge Coffee at La Paz Market in Iloilo when I can. Two - store -blocks of a time machine disguised as a coffee house. The family business has run for almost 60 years or so, handed down from generation to generation of the De la Cruz’. Clean, neat and unpretentious. It does not aim to dethrone the current trends of fancy coffee with creams whipped like Imelda’s ‘do. No. Yes, there are options for that type, but Madge’s thrives in the steady orders of ‘native’ coffee and local pan de siosa (local bread which looks like three-pack abs - seriously) with margarine. Their brew is lighter than Toto’s but still packs great taste. It passes on your tongue and most often, is misinterpreted by the brain as nicotine (No, I don’t smoke. But my brain has funny ways of interpreting senses and linking each, taste and scent, sound. etc.). I love the place, great customer skills, warm market vibe (sans the wet pavements i hate), and posters of products of yore. Okay, I’m hesitant - but I’m dropping this over-wrought and abused word just for that point - its purely vintage.

Now vintage has nothing to with coffee. I’m getting the hang of this.

I love early mornings in the local coffee stores. Fighting cock breeders, small groups after-morning-run sessions, the “kubrador” for the local lotteries, basketball, politics, boxing, networking schemes, tambays (a colloquial derivative of ‘stand-by’ or a bystander), drivers, pedicab drivers, basketball, art, music, plans, auto parts, more basketball, writers, blank drafts, thinkers and faux-thinkers, more and more basketball - name it. All of these and more, swimming in the endless flow of smoking black liquid poured ad- infinitum over swirling cigarette smokes cut by the morning light.

Coffee is the cushion by which all the dynamics and interactions of thoughts, arguments, and stories take off to insane heights.

The above meccas for coffee pilgrims do not have neon-lit signs, marquees, social networking approved pages (I may be wrong on this, as I write though) but their tables are filled while cups served always emptied.

The commoners - the grassroots - the bubbling dynamism - draw me to the endless cups and emerald glasses. The stories abounding, the place where people come as they are, slippers and sweat, greased hands or even those with expensive cars seeking the anonymity these places offer. In these crowds, there is no need to sport the latest iPhone. Fact is no one could care less if you whip out the 100^th incarnation of the almighty Apple box. Well, except for pickpockets.

Same act, different edit: Let us take the case of the fancy coffee culture. Espressos, drip, americano, macchiato, lattes, mochaccinos, camesa-ccinos - whatever. You spent a third of your days’ wages for that cup - surely there has to be something to go with a beverage that’s barely an ounce. How about a selfie? A Wefie? A snapshot for the food blog?

With it comes a culture of its own, a totally different world with its own set of rules. Yes, please come in slippers. But make them LOUD slippers - Havajavayamanas or whatnot, make it scream. Local neighborhood coffee doesn’t care if you come in shorts - fancy coffee welcomes you in shorts - the VERY SHORT shorts. To make the coffee experience complete, talk about stocks with hip back issue magazine at hand. Amidst the glaring mismatch listen to the talk about other people, auto parts, phone parts, latest downloads, basketball, books, vampires, witches, more basketball, exchange students, the exchange students on the other table, ideas, philosophies, gripes.

It is a parallel universe after all. We are basically drawn towards communities who stamp us a great deal of our identities by any means necessary: affirmation, confirmation, acceptance, empathy, sympathy, therapy couches, back-slapping, congratulations, families, affinities, free coffee, free-loading, advocacy, culture, and who knows what more. Take any of the elements and slap the final phrase “Coffee Group Meets Here Every (day/s of the week). We arrive and the smiles are familiar, the greetings programmed to be welcoming, the handshakes firm, and the coffee? Who cares? 

Coffee badly needs to take a backseat and get some rest it deserves.

Maybe it has been too hyped as the cure-all for know-it-alls. Multiple charges are filed daily in the court of the beverage kings. Counts on inspiring writers, artists, musicians, political leaders, making discipleship and fellowship better, creating revolutions and wrecking the status-quo, starting relationships, ending relationships, or fueling works to status of international awards.

Yes, it has switching and triggering capacities, but come to think of it : It was you who wrote the draft. Who pored through the problem and traced the flow and troubleshoot the things? You did. And - It is you who passionately spoke of boys, girls, cars, fishing, farming, deadlines, struggles, vampires, basketball teams, football free kicks, and who knows what else.

Maybe, at the other side of coffeedom, coffee beans convene too, over cups and chuckling: “Puny humans. So they REALLY believe we are primary responsible for their puny human activities?”

Wait - obviously coffee beans don’t drink themselves. Now if it isn’t coffee, anybody has an idea what’s in their cups?

Farewell to Inventions 2015: Who Changed?

There is nothing unique about today, being the first day of the year, in Gregorian timeline.   

The association we make and the dots we connect to describe seasons are purely subjective, at tad, personal. Some may ascribe hidden hints on this balmy morning (which is glaring, considering the stormy days before) as signs towards a better, brighter year. Whatever.

Take these, for instance:

• This is the perfect weekend.
• What a great day - a perfect vacation, by every inch of it.
• Really begins to feel like the holidays, doesn’t it?

These are the streets I grew up with. This small busy corner - which used to be the heart of the City, have cradled numerous parades, civic actions, political rallies, and too many a suburban rush. I took a snapshot of it - thirty minutes before an anticipated chaos. It is the late afternoon of the last day of 2014. It is the same scene though - like All Saint’s day, the local holidays, Valentine’s day, Christmas day, sale seasons, paydays. Come to think of it, the Christmas rush is exactly the same as people panic-buying in anticipation of a super typhoon.

The point? We provide the color and meaning into an otherwise steadily- moving and almost consistent flux called time, witnessed in silence by structures. We invented the rush, we came up with the negotiables - the pressures, the expectations, the madness - into the silently moving phenomena of life.

We may have celebrated, not celebrated, consumed in unholy volumes, got drunk, stayed sober, enjoyed, greeted, made up, stayed distant, been grumpy - the whole 24 hour lot and 365 days still rolled unperturbed. The same sun shone for all of us this morning because, like us,  it too does not have much of a choice.  

Yes, seasons and milestones should help us keep track of where we are, or hope to be in the future. Motion is beyond question, because it is meant to be. 

We move - but where to? Towards a past that we hope to redeem? To a future unseen? Or to a now, which waits for no one? We have progressed - in relation to what?

The street and its buildings remain inanimate. The ground, the sky, the stars, the sun, the moon - all quietly watch us fumbling moment after moment. It may help us to think that there is something immeasurable beyond. Something not measured by the Dow Jones, the GNP, the bank accounts, or the worldviews we possess. They say, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Lucky old sun.