THE RICE BASKET

The rice baskets were invisible on that particular day, sheathed in cheap Christmas wraps to be traded as gifts.

Large baskets for a tub of pinispisan na kambing and a drum of inihaw na bangus, medium sized for a pot of sinigang na hipon, and small ones for a case of  light beer and a flask of Irish whiskey, refreshments shared with friends as antidotes for a scuttled  meeting in Bangkok that exposed the fickleness of the RoP and rudderless boats lost in cash strapped currents that should be enough reason for tansformative partnerships to step in as the EU trends and cuts for Asia loom.  

Strava worked once but went kaput thrice despite a precautionary safeguarding broadcast of a late night JET narrative to a community of practice about a case and and a scoping, synonyms of weekly and fortnigtly meetings that were convened to ritualize a change prospectus, accept edits to an influencing strategy, and address the remaining vestiges of Kuningan.

There was an extension before the interview on how Malayantoc's crisp currency teleported a case of red wine to Lupao.

Christ's blood drawn thrice not from green bottles but tubed as glycated hemoglobin, fuel for an azure beam of light that burned glaucomic eyes with the aroma of toasted leftover lechon and kaldereta in Bakal 2, gaudy as the Munoz holiday lights but fatal like fried siomai, cheese sticks, flavored french fries, dull nachos, reheated barbecues, and pretentious shawarma.

Thousand bills were disbursed from city hall on Sunday but one is not enough for a rice basket of a month's medication that a lotto win can have by the truckload, ample like a butcher's mammary glands, flavorful like a chauffeur's nilagang baka, haunting like a headmaster's carnal soft lips...   

KUNINGAN, OUR 27th YEAR, AND CHRISTMAS IN LUMANG BAYAN

Kuningan is a soft rain accompaniment of the Merokok Man's ballad about how a Lucky Cat licked foams of Bintang and Prost from the food stalls at Plaza Festival where residents of the Menteng Pulo Public Cemery confer with financial managers while rifling through the 8th ASEAN Energy Outlook for 6 shots of  Teacher's Highland Cream and a power map as the ladies in Luang Prabang  disrupted an MCP review learning trajectory with a computer handover that is the public narrative of two Padang dinners, a dessert of sate kambing, and an Indonesian carnivore set. 

Sleep is a teen-faced Eurasian (most probably Spanish with Filipino ethnicity) whose ancient wrinkled hands slithered from JS Luwansa's Room 910 to race with a Bluebird to CGK, a red eye flight to Manila, and a morning bus trip to Tuguegarao.

27 is "100 years of Solitude", not in Macondo but in Bakal 2 where the Ciencias not the Buendias scrambled to rescue a failing structural engineer through Oplan GSIS by deploying a barrage of emails from the turrets of a team collaboration app that fired 100 sandwiches and juice packs to appease 100 recruited liberal conservatives, not from Macondo but those gathered in Hogwarts where happy hocruxes were relived 27 years after Fr. Apolo not Fr. Nicanor served potent undiluted mompo, to Baby Liza not Ursula, 27 years before the nights of patatim and inihaw na bangus in Bakal 2. 

There  might have been incidents with a horny capidua but not with Pilar and Amarantha, and there will be "tapon ebak" rides but not being restrained under a chestnut tree.

Lumang Bayan is almost Macondo and pogaca can pass as Pancit Cabagan, not the steamed rice for the adobo and pinakbet-flavored ice cream that were manually cranked in Bakal 2, hollowed concrete blocks of waknatoy for the Christmas lunch, snack, and dinner of aging once upon a time dreamers of Hogwarts whose ultimate thrill is concocting kalderetang kambing from a magically real potion of soju, pinot noir, and merlot.

It's almost like the chikin melting with the sun as gifts were traded for bluetoothed music that ignited the holiday lights in Munoz and stories of love found and lost...

 

A CHRISTMAS IN BALOC

Lugaw is perhaps the most popular Filipino comfort food, and Marilou's delectable goto and A&M's tangy arroz caldo from Baloc are it's ultimate representations.

Lechon too, of the suidae and bovidae families, for St. Ambrose's Christmas feast that was celebrated in Baloc through a pinky swear with the gentlemen of Pantabangan.   

Like the signed-off way to power and invoice for  November.

Or acing the Jakarta bookings and COP 29 reporting back. 

But the Aussies want an audit and D is likely to extend me. 

That's why S appears confused as the quill was being filled with ink. 

And the due dates, these were mostly met and tucked into a purple hot pants as whiffs of sardinas na bangus, lumpiang shanghai, and leftover kaldereta and dinakdakan.

They were non-lugaws, like Emong's pandesal or Lucky's egg caldo or an overload at 24/7 before a partnership conversation and a Saturday morning meeting with the guardians of the rainforest.

Or a coffee bar where the parseltongues are barred from mixing beer with wine and whiskey because only those who are loyal are allowed to share their stories around the Chirstmas buffet table in Baloc on the eve of PR 535's flight to Jakarta...    

THE NARRA TREE

We were Batch 89-B, saplings like the narra tree.

The narra tree that accepted us after the final initiation.

An initiation that relegated the 7th edition of the AWG to a welcome slap to the face and a paddle upon the posterior thigh where purple theories of change popped out.

Changes that drew carnage from my palms and cultivated bruises in my back as the ASEAN was spoken to about JET and civic space.  

Spaces, like a 2-minute station for catching up on SP that was rewarded with a royalty of $1,650 as full payment (October) for elevating the I-JET project. 

Projects that are the equivalent of a mental torture prompting refreshers on the code of conduct for an Indian Run and a GDPR package.  

A package that smelled of Samar burning from 5 biking raids to the dilapidated park and a barrage of pledges for a catered lunch codenamed Oplan SSS for me and her. 

Her unemployed, my stale peanuts, reheated paksiw na bangus, tinned corned beef, a birthday party for the dead, and deep fried lapu-lapu  within the vicinity of Bakal 2. 

It's been 46 years and the Narra tree has matured.

Matured and dead but not the old friends I met again after 5, 10, 15, 20, 25 or even 30 years.

Years of absence that were crooned by a fat pussy singing into half-empty brandy bottles amidst the crunch of danggit from Lubang Island, the sweetness of patupat from Pozzorubio, and the acidity of kinilaw na bangus from Manaoag...

MALICO AND NIGHTS OF THE CHESTNUT HORSE

The Secretariat is a Big Red equine head chilled in the ancient icebox of a street corner store in Bakal 2 where the Clark Gable of Horses sell tall frosty bottles of liquid gold that Pugad Baboy recovered from an impulsive weekend  raid of Malico.  

A chatter about the Nepal Payment Transaction, the Myanmar Question, the Australian Inquiries, and the Jakarta Booking choked Microsoft Teams with chewy fried pork, pressure cooked sinampalukang manok, a pack of complex  Australian cheese, the sights and sound of passing early evening traffic, and a day-old boiled egg that were all branded with the severed head of a chestnut horse.

The volume of communications through Whatsapp that was intercepted at Salacsac Pass revealed that the Villaverde Trail was actually traced by Fray Manuel del Rio in 1739 from Maliongliong in Pangasinan through the Caraballos to the Ituy Valley, a goat path nicknamed Little Burma Road in 1945 that the 32nd Red Arrow Infantry Division, the Buenavista Guerillas, and the retreating guardians of the Yamashita Ridge paved with the bones of 6,575 dead fighters and transcripts of the catch ups with RAN and the ASEAN Secretariat between heaven (Sta. Fe) and earth (San Nicolas) in Malico.

But the American did not show up when the agenda for the 7th AWG Meeting was drafted with sections on taxonomy, consumer empowerment, and coal retirement that got lost with the Riders Den in Imugan amidst a sea of clouds from Bangwah, a job application update, a PMU meeting, and a barrage of short message services about a presumptive congressman and an anniversary.

In the aftermatch of three conseccutive typhoons, the Phanthom Biker barged through the gates of Hogwarts, his newly minted Barong Tagalog embroidered with splashes of the kalderetang kambing in Tulat, the stains of wine and cantaloupe from Calabalabaan, and blots of whiskey, inihaw na hito, and pee that splattered in Calisitan.

The junk is a Sherman Tank according to Balong and we intend to suck the marrow out of life to fill our Cup of Stories that now include a layer of Malico on a day when traffic was diverted to allow the religious throng in San Nicolas to celebrate Christ the King.

Thus was how a red horse ushered the freezing winds of Malico to reheat leftover proteins from the Eagle's Nest...

3 TYPHOONS AND A WEDDING

Toraji is "a beautiful Korean flower that blooms unnoticed" along the by-pass road to the sanctuary of Mary Help of Christians, a variance from the Asia-wide caucus about an influencing strategy that extended a contract until New year's Eve in Jakarta where the roasted chicken from Bakal 2 will roost like a recorded webinar on safeguarding the bike trails of Calabalabaan.

Nika is a goddess and a very good grandfather.

Usagi is the Japanese "rabbit" described in an email thread between an early morning security induction in Vientiane to a late night narrative of grilled pork belly form Bantug in lieu of an advocacy training on Day 2 of the University Games that featured a race between a milky stew of gastropods and a school of marinated tuna. 

Ofel is a nickname. 

Man-Yi is a "satisfied" Chinese, the centerpiece of an azure wedding near Sta. Arcadia where pizza is not sliced and chicken wings are rendered in a universe of red wine and adobong kambing.

My father's name is Pepito, and Ms. Aya Long's instigated submission is a fallback in case my preference is blown away by the November typhoons...

TWO BIRTHDAYS AND A FUNERAL (HAI[na]KU 68-73)

Menes morphed as Ra

"Good Morning to All" he said

premium safeguarded 

Buttons and gallons 

bland beer boiling in Guimba

red eggs at Old Town

MA in Laos?

Trump is an expired account

JET but not a plane

Last night's buxom band

a cavalcade of mourners

bills RAN, peer reviewed

Old bike, a chopper

Jollibee, Tonton, the bank

a college top up

TCF again?

highway beers and a breakfast

past, present, future

THE HAUNTING (not the movie)

The first half was reviewed but the saints were furious because those in purgatory were omitted in the plan for the next 6 months. 

That took two days of talking to a computer but instead of honoring saints and praying for souls, tombs were scrubbed after a year of neglect.

Candles, flowers, coffee and tupig, and a CALP survey were offered to ghosts as some sort of remembrance.  

Unseen spirits were placated with tiny flames, long enough to have a billing invoice inserted into the first acquittal.

More than a top up,  A$130,00 rehabilitated a mediocre case study but possessed and befuddled a Thursday morning meeting.  

Thus was how old friends pulled an atang of igado from a puddle in Calisitan, the prologue to an assembly of loyal friends and lasagna in Sarrat, and the epilogue for a dinakdakan seasoned with good friends in Bical.

There are serpents in Baloc clad in white, black as the declined birthday tinumis in Bakal 2, turncoats like a roadside tapa that that actually is daing na bangus.

A death in the ICU hurried delayed wellness checks that were stamped with the ressurection of the Iron Man who paid for the monthly bills but not for a round trip to Manila.

Traces of booze burned, the market and a drugstore were raided, a puppy was almost crushed for a Mexican legacy --- the annual haunting of burning candles, wilting flowers, and GCash for the dead...

THE CITADIN IS A CICERONE

Citadine is a French feminine word for citadin that roughly translates as "townsman" or "city dweller" in general, while a cicerone was once some kind of a tour guide, an Italian word that now refers to someone who "evaluate and select beers to  pair with food or recommend to customers".

I was both for 6 days at Room 1021 of the Citadines Bay City where I exrocised ammonia from the fly area to the crotch point with drops of shampoo for holy water and a hairdryer for a crucifix, the consequence of a supersaving bamboo paper towel's failure to absorb beer-induced urinary incontinence. 

Monsieur Citadin went to a bilateral meeting, intervened in behalf of taxonomy and APAEC 3, and was indifferent on tansition mineral mining.

Afterwards, Signore Cicerone led a lightning tour to Luneta, Binondo, and Escolta where Pinatubo IPA is brewed in Zambales  according to the German Purity Law unlike Engkanto's automated Green Lava Double IPA from Cavite and Crazy Carabao's IPA in Laguna that are nouveau indeed but easily toppled by a parade of San Miguel's canned high-alcohol, pale golden, and light lagers.

Surprisingly, Basque burnt cheesecake turned out to be an excellent pairing to all.

M. Citadin orated on how gender can be transformed, fired emails while consumers were being empowered, and walked around transition impacts on livelihood.

By 6 pm, Sig. Cicerone called on the Ilustrado's captain  to serve chilled bottles of Cerveza Negra dark lager, San Miguel Super Dry light amber lager, and San Miguel Premium all-malt to pair with the paella and rellenong bangus.  

Typhoon Kristine blanketed Manila in an Orange Alert as M. Citadin tapped through a midterm review and operational updates, docusigned and submitted a W-8BEWN during a digital hackaton, and put on a mask for the virtual discussion on the India situation.

Kuanzhai Alley's Laoshan and Snow Beer lagers are terribly flat and served with ice, the shame of Qingdao and Shenyang respectively, but Sig. Cicerone saved the chug with an excellent pairing of Sichuan braised soon hock fish with sour and spicy sauce.

M. Citadin's two Rivotril nights are not the reason for two late breakfasts but the bilaterals before the closing speeches. 

Sig. Cicerone then took it from there through a single speed bamboo bike race in Intramuros with stages at the Japanese naval gun near Baluarte de San Diego, the sealed Puerta Real, the founding fathers of the ASEAN at Revellin de Parian, King Philip II's sad statue at Plaza de Espana, the sorbeteros at Manila Cathedral, the haunted dungeons of Fort Santiago, and an epilogue at San Agustin Church. 

The tunay na beer at Gerry's Grill is properly chilled and came in buckets, the perfect pairing for an all-Filipino dinner of lumpiang shanghai, sizzling sisig, bangus ala pobre, crispy pork kare-kare, and sinigang na pampano.

There will always be restaurant hostesses dressed in an ao dai-style skirt and waitresses with dental brace who will always return excess payment but the lingering image is the silohuette of a slinky black thong...