Snapchat

When Chini was little, she was fascinated with the app. Each time he came to visit and by the time he left, there would be a cache of photos of the two of them- all funny and endearing in that way that one looks at photos two or three decades later and thinking, 'my, how life had changed, how kids have grown'. And all of them- over 15,000 and taken with predictable regularity- preserved on the Cloud probably forever and ever. And of course, Chini clever as she was, soon learned on her own to take photos of herself without help and without prompting. Every child did, such were the days.

And then the technology leap-frogged in a way people didn't expect. One day, the app inventor thought that maybe it was time to take it to the next level. People had been flirting with hyper-realistic and enhanced images all the time that two-dimensionality had become boring and banal. 

Step out of the frame, the app inventor said, and at first, it was like a baby giraffe struggling to get up on its long, spindly legs. The materials that passed for skin either didn't have enough coagulation or enough adhesion. And the colours and textures- suede was easy enough (3,000 shades!), but crocodile skin with its lattice of armour-like osteoderms, or the smooth firmness of watermelon with the familiar flat styrations of green- how to replicate an endless variety as limitless as one's imagination?

The answer was the Cellular Codex that was secretly being used by the Chinese for the good part of a decade to 3D print practically anything they wanted. 

All it took was the threat of outing the Chinese government for printing agricultural and livestock products passed off as traditionally grown and reared to feed nearly half its population to acquire the technology- the app inventor assured them that he wasn't interested in using it to create stuff that could be eaten (there was virtually no research anyway on how safe it was, but it was probably proof enough that 900 million people eating the damned stuff were still up and about). The app inventor just wanted to create stuff that people could wear in a different way.

He remembered the year the beta came out, two weeks before Halloween. The costume shops were abandoned. Racks upon racks of latex masks, cardboard witches hats and superhero costumes were left unsold at department store aisles. All it took was choosing what you wanted to be, putting your head inside what looked like a vintage salon hard dryer and pressing the button on the app.

Looking back, the first generation of the app now seemed crude; the kooky disguises, the cartoon faces, the fantastical facial accoutrements of mythical creatures and beasts. It had quickly evolved of course into something else once people got bored of the mundane and the app inventor couldn't agree more. At this point, he was the richest person on earth and was building a home on the moon and couldn't care less about the raging social debates or the millions of electronic clucking that his people filtered and monitored every day. 

And so it came to be that governments had to regulate and legislate. No using the app when passing through airports and borders. CCTV had to evolve and be equipped with sensors that looked into and identified people on a DNA level. A black market sprung up (with the Chinese leading the pack) where the printing was bio-regenerating and it wasn't even that expensive. He got sick once and it was his kidney. The doctor's words were inoperable, acute and dialysis. But the doctor was also a mate and whispered 3BR (3D Bio-Regeneration). Sure, it would cancel his insurance permanently, but it was either believing traditional medicine and facing less than satisfactory results, or choosing this technological miracle- there seemed to be no other more appropriate word for it. 

Besides, he was never traditional to begin with. No family. Nothing to lose. 

And that was 30 years ago when he was 51. Today on some days, he could believe that he was 81. He would close his eyes for a few minutes and let his mind wander down the long dark corridors of the past, his path lit up by memories that were probably the only real things he had. Awake and looking at the mirror he sometimes struggled to believe the reflection; it was his face at 43 (which even then, could pass for 35 and a good one at that) and that's where it stayed. Indefinitely. 

Some people had gone too far and suffered horrific consequences; like you can't regenerate the entirety of your skin for example, or that brain cells were tricky, but that didn't stop people from trying. True beauty is on the inside he would remind himself and he stuck to this, as internal organs were regenerated keeping him at least in a state of statis. The science wasn't sure- it was too far mired in a social and ethical maelstrom as large (and permanent) as Jupiter's red spot.

But he couldn't care less as he had deliberately shied away from the internet and finally could say he had found the peace and rhythm he wanted- the (very) long ebb and flow of days spent reading, writing and drawing. He was 14 or 15 again, without a care in the world or a friend to his name and the truth was that you don't miss what you've never known or experienced. At least this was the state of his mind- most friends and family were either truly old or dead anyway.

He was alone and in this aloneness, the world seemed as clear and crisp as a sunny winter's day.

He dreaded it though when Chini came to visit and she always did with the regularity and devotion of his visits when she was a child. He dreaded it because he came face to face with the reminder that he could have chosen differently, and that now, looking at his reflection, he no longer had the heart nor the courage to change it. But Chini didn't judge, even as she was an Organic- untouched by the app, raised well by her parents who wisely resisted the technology, and now at 40, looking like them in every way, an amalgam of his sister's and brother-in-law's fine features as well as bearing the patina of her own journey in life as an architect and a mother to four accomplished children.

And yes, they go through their photos on some days- all 15,000 of them- with a glass of wine each and catching up on gossip, with updates on every one in the family.

But they have never taken another picture of them together.

That was the past and that man in the photos was no more.

No need to be convinced

I'm annoyed by people who thrust their grubby (mostly Android) phones in your face and extol the virtues of a better screen; a faster processing rate; short-cuts galore blah blah blah.

I DON'T FUCKING CARE.

I have better things to do than debate over the pointless techno-minutiae that passes for facts in most Apple versus Android discussions. Having started with the iPhone 3G and all through 4S, 5 and my current 6 Plus, along with two iPads, an iMac, a 15-inch MacBook Pro and an Apple Watch, I am not an Apple whore thank you very much- true whores after all, try everything and everyone.

I am wedded to Apple and my loyalty to the brand is borne by years of not having to think too much of them- the spare efficiency of the operating system just lets you do what you need to do without the tedious, annoying upkeep of Android (and Windows). And when it dies, it is irrevocably gone, and you move on, though lately, you no longer have to wait out till your device actually dies. There are various points of criticism there- the disposability of stuff, the deliberately planned obsolescence blah blah blah.

I DON'T FUCKING CARE.

I'm your typical consumer and my choices have not been made with a gun to my head, so it baffles me why people go out of their way to defend theirs by putting down yours. 

If there's one thing I regret about Apple is that I miss the days when its users were just a small, cozy bunch. Now, you have all these people who buy it for the very reasons Apple haters have hinged their vitriol on; that it's a status symbol created by a clever mega-corporation that's out to get your money. Well, it's no one's business as to how you spend your money- though I think there are exceptions, like when you go for cheapest (instead of cheaper) which is a waste of money cmon, or when you buy products designed by Kanye West.

Other than that, I can say from experience Apple is worth every cent and no, Apple hasn't paid me to say that.

“The iPhone 7 may look like the iPhone has for years, but it works better. Differently, too. It’s more seamless, more open to third parties, and more connected to the rest of the Apple ecosystem. More than anything, this phone is Apple’s acknowledgement that how an iPhone looks is increasingly beside the point. What matters is what an iPhone can do.”

— wired.com

Small things to live by

I read somewhere, this so-so fashion person who said that she buys this particular brand of jeans because they were ethically-made. She not only looked good, she apparently also slept really well at night. She probably ticks it all off- ethically grown coffee, artisanal produce with minimal carbon footprint, the occasional hashtag for currently popular causes. All sorted. Pats herself in the back for being an extraordinary human being.

But I should stop here and to remind myself that 'If you judge people, you have no time to love them'. To be honest, I wouldn't give this bitch the time of day, but it's true- judging is exhausting. It binds you in this tight, uncomfortable smugness that dampens your joy, zaps your energy. You end up doing things like yoga or adult colouring books which I suspect were invented specifically for judgy people.

It was Mother Teresa by the way who first said this and yesterday, she officially became a saint of the Catholic Church. I'm definitely not aspiring for saint-hood and on some days, I am shocked by thoughts that if the devil himself offered me fame and fortune ala the Kardashians by selling my soul, I would most likely tell him, give me 48 hours to think about it please.

But I'd certainly like to live a life as simple and true as one can possibly live it, without distracting novelties, complicated rationalisations, lofty philosophies or cruelty in any form, no matter how subtle.

My two most favourite human beings

Here are some quotes by Mother Teresa that I'm doing my damn best to live by:

1. “I see somebody dying, I pick him up. I find somebody hungry, I give him food. He can love and be loved. I don’t look at his color, I don’t look at his religion. I don’t look at anything. Every person whether he is Hindu, Muslim or Buddhist, he is my brother, my sister".

2. “Do ordinary things with extraordinary love".

3. “Love begins at home, and it is not how much we do, but how much love we put in the action that we do,”.

4. “Let us always meet each other with a smile, for the smile is the beginning of love,”.

5. “We fear the future because we are wasting the today,”.

6. “The future is so much in the hands of God, I find it much more easy to accept today because yesterday is gone and tomorrow has not come and I have only today,”.

7. "Be faithful in small things because it is in them that your strength lies".

Steak night

There are three beef dishes I long for, two of which I think I will never ever taste again:

1. Pigar-pigar; strips of beef, heavily seasoned with salt, pepper and MSG (!) at Dagupan's market stalls, best had starting at 11pm, fried with onions and mushrooms. And with a case or two of strong beer. Every time we try to make our version, it ends up being too watery and I think the problem is that we cook way too much of it in a small pan, with inadequate heat, and it ends up getting braised (you need a big wok, over gas flames). Looking forward to a kilo or two in December minus the beer probably.

2. Australian beef done ala Bistek Tagalog & done by my Tita (Aunt) Lita; the story if I can remember it right is that a maid of my aunt's married an Australian and that when she came back to the Philippines for a visit, she brought Aussie beef. And it was the best beef I ever had. I've heard the phrase 'melt in your mouth' so many times to describe beef and every single time, it was a flat out lie except for this one. And it wasn't just the way my aunt cooked it which was just a simple pan fry (I think), but it was also the quality of the beef itself. I've looked and tried and have eaten so many since then- in Australia and in New Zealand- and nothing has come close.

3. Beef steak as done by my dad; we've tried to replicate how he makes it but it's just never the same which begs the question, are we competing with a memory? The procedure is fairly simple; pan fry beef strips in oil until brown, add soy sauce and the finish off with the juice of calamansi. I remember grazing off the leftovers, cold in the refrigerator, with a fistful or two of rice. 

Living in beef country (where it's more accessible than lamb, ironically), I don't do that much beef, but when I do, it's a good slab of scotch fillet or sirloin. 

Here's a good way of doing one from the New York Times Food.

First day of spring

It's the first day of spring in the Southern Hemisphere and after eight years I'd like to think that like the natives, I can sense the change. There are days though washed out in spring rain that I get flashbacks of Pangasinan in June. Memory is so powerful that I struggle against the urge to just stay at home; to read a book (I haven't in ages); to go to the gym (I have yet to go full out for the new season); or make myself a comforting dish of shrimp or pork sinigang. 

'Spring cleaning' is such a cliche, but I think we need all the motivational metaphors we can get to push ourselves out of the lethargy of winter. I love the cold but I've realised that it has turned me inwards so much that the insulation has rendered me efficient but creatively lethargic. I've been struggling to write. I've been doubting my voice. I've spent a small fortune on winter clothing just so I could feel the way I look (now, that's sad!).

So yes- time for a (spring) clean. Bring on the cliches and the metaphors. 

Life goes on and you just have to deal with it the best you can.

Start of the day & you're already (possibly) f_cked

On some days, I would have hot water with the juice of a whole lemon in it. But most of the time, I'd rather have coffee- black, no sugar. And instant, I'm not picky. On occasion I would indulge in half a teaspoon of raw sugar and a splash of cream. But coffee creamers are the best like Coffee Mate. It dissolves better than real cream and complements coffee like a true soul-mate would- which is why in the real world, it's too good to be true. 

Apparently it's mostly sugar and partially hydrogenated vegetable oil which contains trans fats; you can read the entire rap sheet here if you're concerned that the half-teaspoon bit you had this morning has put you on the path to certain death.

And as for coffee itself, the latest news from the grapevine is that it cuts suicide risk in half. On one hand, having it hotter than 149 degrees puts you at risk for cancer of the esophagus. 

Eggs are the best. Easy and versatile; fried, scrambled, boiled, baked with avocado, in an Eggs Benedict, in a pie with bacon. And raw- when I started working out in my early 30s I swallowed the whites mixed with milk and used the yolks for omelettes. 

If you find yourself asking the question if eggs are bad for you, don't Google for the answers. Don't rely on the opinions of self-proclaimed diet/lifestyle gurus who end up cherry-picking second-hand sources to suit their arguments. 

Go to your doctor and get tests for your cholesterol and triglyceride levels; it's the only way to get a definitive answer as to how the food you eat actually affects your body.

Growing up, if we ran out of kitchen staples such as vinegar or cooking oil, we could buy some in doled out smaller quantities at the barrio sari-sari store. Kept in jars, it would be an unlucky day if you discovered too late that the oil had gone off. I was surprised that de facto Philippine national cooking oil, Baguio oil is still a booming business after 84 years. We grew up on this oil and if your family had it good, you always had a full can.

It was around the new millennium that we started getting canola oil in plastic bottles and my mom's perennial complaint was that someone was probably drinking it because the two-litre jug would be empty in the blink of an eye. But since my dad's death, the days of fried fish, fried pork chop and fried chicken have become fewer and far in between and suddenly, the 'no cholesterol', 'high in Omega 3' claims that made fried food seem safe felt like lies.

Here in New Zealand, we still use canola oil though in a given week, it's more for sautéing rather than actual frying. I would gladly switch to something like olive oil (which I have now that I flat) but if you were a family of more than four, the economics of using olive oil exclusively would be daunting. So what to do when canola is masquerading as a good oil; that coconut oil is not the miracle substance it's made out to be; and that ALL vegetable oils may have contributed to increasingly high rates of diabetes, heart disease and cancer?

“Consider that at the turn of the 20th century the amount of vegetable oils consumed was practically zero. Today the average consumption is 70 lbs a year per person.”

Ahhh, processed meats. I wonder if Rodics is still around, that bastion of comforting and nourishing (!) processed-meat meals inside the University of the Philippines' Diliman campus. After pork belly, my next favourite go-to meat would have to be a 2 kilogram pack of Purefoods German Franks which harks back to those student meals. It wasn't just fitting for breakfast (with fried eggs and fried rice), it was also lunch, an afternoon snack, dinner, and on a sizzling plate with mushrooms, a ton of white onions and birds-eye chilies, a perfect accompaniment to a night's worth of gin and brandy with the guys.

While I like the occasional sausage, I just don't get Kiwis love of butchery sausages- pale, flaccid things with no flavour, more fillers than meat, saved only at your neighbourhood sizzle by caramelised onions and tomato sauce (far better than ketchup actually).

It ranks last in a short list that's topped by bacon (the Signature Range is THE BEST), seconded by sinfully juicy Kranskys, and chorizo, the best one of which I've found at Farro Fresh.

But alas, we knew deep in our hearts that something so wickedly good must be bad. When the World Health Organisation (WHO) declared last year that red meat and processed meats were definitely carcinogenic, we all felt like jilted lovers.

Sure, we've been deceived- but it's so good, we know we're still going to be up for some every so often. 

I'll pass on the camo

'Is camo coming back'? is one question we should never ask, because it never goes away. I get my camo moments though I always stick to pants as camo jackets make me a bit paranoid. I have this fear that I might get attacked in public by some psycho who thinks I'm with the army or the police because yes, I've been mistaken as belonging to either too many times to count. So if I do some sort of print (which is actually rare), I will skip the one logo on the breast pocket (do hip people still wear Lacoste??) and go for hipster like an American West inspired cotton shirt (which if you squint, can actually pass for a camo print); or be nationalistic for someone else's country with a flag themed collar on a crisp white Zara shirt. But one of my favourites, perfect for Auckland's predominantly temperate climate, is a simple nylon jacket from Gucci sporting designer Alessandro Michelle's endearing signature bee applique.

Gucci Men woolen jacket with bee applique

H&M lands in New Zealand 1st October

The (trying hard) fashionista in me should rejoice but I had the chance to see what H&M has to offer when I was in Melbourne and I was shocked that 50-65% of its stock was garbage. Bad seams. Bad fabric; the kind that doesn't forgive you after one wrong cycle in the washing machine. Bad fit (especially if you're fat and bravely asking the sales associate if they had something in uhm, 2XL). For about 80% of the general population, when will we ever learn that we're just deceived by stylist's tricks, photoshop and even by our own sense of bad judgment? And mine is this unwavering belief that if I visualised it hard enough (which I do), I can adequately fill those sleeves and those pant legs as if I was six foot flat with perfectly proportioned limbs.

I mean I don't look that bad, but I'm definitely not six feet tall and for most of these clothes, an additional 3-4 inches in height makes all the difference in proportion and symmetry. Sure, it's definitely how one pulls it off but again, one could over exert one's self-confidence. 

Take your cue from H&M itself and the irony that while it purports to make high fashion accessible for everyone, the majority don't fit the physical template these clothes are presented in. 

A drag