TWO MONTHS TO JAPAN

I first came to Japan on November 2006, many years before the Kuala Lumpur Forum got mired in a grant number generation process as the Bali Assembly is being assembled for procurement. 

I remember being ushered to a taxi with self-operating doors that brought me from Kansai International Airort to the JICA International Center in Osaka, a memory harvested from a pensieve of mourners and eavesdropping Monday callers that a death in the Kingdom of Pee convened.

In two months time, there will be beer-tasting in Osaka in memory of a 4-hour chartered bus trip to Nagoya, a full two decades  before the introduction of the ASEAN Gender Week in Manila as the impact story of Business Development's second session to punctuate a rote email exchange with Melbourne.

The Nagoya Castle will be revisited, perhaps Atsuta Shrine too, but Mt. Fuji will have to give way for the confirmation of a budget reallocation as reported to The Line Manager 3 days before Hogwarts huddled with The Congressman from Tulat. 

Nagoya was the base of the 2006 intrusion to Kyoto before the advent of the Ironman whose box clean-up inspired fair finance advocates to book a reservation for the Kyoto Imperial Palace where the Phantom Biker can cook buridibod for a haircut and trade kare-kare for a monthly power usage after the usual "tapon basura" rides.

For the 2026 episode in Japan, a day in Nara and sake-tasting in Kobe were inserted as a way of soliciting a fresh interpretation if it is indeed a case of Severe Obstructive Sleep Apnea.  

Maybe, the sleep doctor just wants a commission from the sale of a continuous positive airway pressure machine.

Maybe I'll buy once advance payments to the hotels in Kyoto and Nagoya are settled.

The monhtly phone bills were paid instead which is why the fried tilapia tasted like kwek-kwek, the sisig overpowered Bikol Express, and inihaw na hito made the black cat bite a finger that resembled a piece of litsong manok.

THE YEAR OF THE RED HORSE

The Rapid Engineer Deployable Heavy Operational Repair Squadron Engineers, collectively, is the Red Horseman of the Apocalypse who with a Lakota Chief waged war in the Battle of the Greasy Grass amidst the din of Philippine rock music. 

All are associated with the Fire or Red Horse who at 6.9% alcohol by volume will make 2026 a year of Tadalafil-induced vitality and passion, and Rivotril-tempered nocturnal dynamism and radiant energy. 

But in lieu of the Happy Horse's extinction, a faction of the Thursday Group opted for Barreto, Roxas, and Kiene's tamer pale pilsen brew to welcome the Year of the Fire/Re Horse.  

Whereas a pale lager dinakdakan evolved an agenda for the Bali Assemby and moved money for the Kuala Lumpur Forum vis-a-vis an extra-strong lager adobo that telephatically inserted the Ironman of Bakal 2 into the dreams of the Night Hag during Witching Hours for a sinuglaw.

Actually, the Phantom Biker is a Red Horse on a blue bike, the central character of a developing impact story, the first session of a business development marathon, and the first hour of a boring training on project closures that will be featured in the Footprint Report app of a task force's biweekly meeting about the Santa Marta Conference.   

For his sake, the bike trails opens at daybreak depsite the absence of fresh sayote shoots and a headlamp as provided by two reviewed papers from Phnom Penh that were emailed to the Senate of the 20th Congress and to ASEAN Watchers as Docusigned requests for payment.

There was a concern about low burn rates that screamed of headlines from the Manila Convening, preliminaries to a line manager's induction to the new Cigna Health Benefits+ app that the Phantom Biker QR-coded for someone's aspiration in New Zealand.

Then there's Bacolor, an old town buried in lahar.

There is a half-buried ancient church dedicated to San Guillermo, the faithful's safeguard from calamities, and host to the Shrine of the Nuestra Señora del Santisimo Rosario – La Naval de Bacolor.   

 

There's the contemporary Sunken Shrine of Our Lady of Lourdes whose image arrived in Cabetican in 1906, also buried in lahar and partially excavated.

We came to pray, to plead for divine intercession.

And there's lunch.

Plain hot rice with kilayin, tidtad, and fried hito and buro rolled in fresh lettuce leaves would have been perfect because Bale Kampampangan's adobong balot exudes a stong feathery taste, the sisig has the texture of coagulated oil, and the pindang damulag glistens with the hue of a Red Horse. 

THE MANILA CONVENING

They came draped in flags.

But the minister, she booked a Grab taxi to The Venetian but did not appear despite the confirmation of the Manila Meeting's condensed report.

So the session plan was reviewed before a final coordination was convened  over breakfast to address the missing shuttle and extend a pep talk on Just Empowering Transition before the setting sun set Manila Bay ablaze.

At the Manila Convening:

• the Phantom Biker discreetly glided through integrated inclusion huddles while posing for photos and expediting a virtual discussion on banning dirty coal to shift the spotlight to a feminist talk during mocktails;   
• the youth committed to reach for the stars and demand social accountability, require rare earth investors to regard the First Nations and tacticize why Greek food should not be served in solidarity dinners;
• single red hearts screamed with call to actions from a communique forged in an exit meeting.

In retrospect, Diwata's Pares Overload paired with the Sunset Bar's extra strong beers would have been the perfect reception dinner but imbibing images of the Mall of Asia in ramen bowls of shoyu, Osaka-style Volcano, Nagasaki Champon, and tsukemen will do.

After all, Japan has been breached and booked, finally.

They all took off on Friday except for the Phantom Biker who stayed to monitor the post-convening chatter that indicated the initiation of an impact story development session in Manila in preparation for a South-South Project in Kuala Lumpur and the ensuing massive purge of an inbox. 

A credit card bill, not yet due, was impulsively settled to protest SOME THAI's misrepresentation of a beloved crab omelette, the bastardization of a spicy beef salad, and its Thai milk tea concoction that tasted like a laminated multi-layered sachet.

So much for a Bib Gourmand and much ado about a polysomnography that stole dsleep on the eve of St. Valentine's Day to finally retire a military cap...