GIGI GOES GAGA

WHEN FAME IS A RAT RACE

We each might get only our 15 minutes but for a lucky few, that may be all what's needed to survive the rest of a lifetime mired in mediocrity. And in high-flying style, too.

Some people are famous for simply being famous; if they possess something else besides, say, a pretty mug or a propensity for outrageous behavior, they may even stick around a while longer. But while they're white-hot -- while they can sell newspapers and magazines and cause most folks to stop, pause, and take a second look -- each brief minute is worth way more than its weight in gold.

We all know about the free clothes and borrowed jewelry. We've probably all heard about the fabulous swag -- gift bags (performers and presenters at the 2005 Oscars took home $150,000 worth of free stuff!) and the gift lounges (Swagdance at Sundance!). And sponsored weddings (or better yet, of getting paid to walk down the aisle), too.

None of this was news to me. But this was (and here I was thinking I was already quite jaded): our favorite party girl, the ubiquitous Paris Hilton, can earn in 20 minutes four times the average American household income to do simply what she does -- to show up at a shindig and pose for the paparazzi. It appears we're so celebrity-obsessed that any business that depends on human traffic to survive will pay or do whatever it takes to bring in our already extraordinarily well-compensated modern Pied Pipers to lure us all and follow wherever they go.

And, yes, I happened to be watching -- oh, the irony of it all -- a television show about celebrities when I discovered that (lucrative) work can be play. And I'm not talking about simply having fun on the job, either; I mean that you can make a fortune from mingling, air-kissing, dancing, and posing the night away (or just a wee portion of it at least). According to the show:

Restaurants, clubs, stores and hotels are so anxious to get stars in their establishment; they'll indulge their every whim to get them there. From Jay-Z bringing his personal chicken wing chef to a London caviar restaurant, to Britney Spears shutting down a posh baby boutique in the middle of the day-no star request is too outrageous and no expense is spared. And if that's not enough, check out how easy it is for mega rich stars to get richer. Uber wealthy heiress Paris Hilton pockets $180,000 just for a 20-minute club appearance. And Britney Spears and Kevin Federline? They just got 2.3 million bucks richer, just for unloading a few of their wedding photos to People Magazine.

Hey, I'm not begrudging anyone's right to make an honest living or to take home amazing freebies for that matter. But I keep wondering what it says about us when the bright lights of fame can blind us so completely that we confuse celebrity with ability and excellence -- to the point where we, for instance, elect famous people into political office simply because we think we know them (or because they can play heroes onscreen pretty damn well). And in essence become much like the rats who followed the dude with the pipe all the way down to the river and drowned without so much as a struggle and definitely without a fight.

HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?

I just told my boss the news about dad. You see, I'm getting ready to pounce on her the other piece of news, the one that would actually mean something to her -- the one about my having to take a week off from work again, to attend the ceremony in June. But her face lit up, most likely because mine was beaming and radiant; she was merely feeling the warmth from my reflected light. And then she asked, in a half-statement/half-question sort of way: "This is a really big thing, yes?'

To which I answered, "Big. HUGE. " And quickly got back to work. She phoned me a few minutes later.

"I'm a bit confused," she said. "It says here your dad is also a poet?"

"No," I replied softly. My boss had been googling, and I understood her confusion. My father and his father have the same name; dad's his junior. "My grandfather's a poet, in Tagalog -- a Filipino language." I continued.

"Oh yeah, I saw that, something about the national anthem, too" she said. I uttered the universal sound symbolizing slow nodding -- "mmm hmm" -- then explained the best way to enter dad's name in search engines. She found him and started reciting back crumbs of facts Google threw at her.

"That's really impressive," she said. So I thanked her -- it was really quite sweet of her to spend her precious minutes researching my roots, after all -- and then mentioned (for no particular reason except that the thought occurred to me right then and there) that my maternal grandmother's brother was also a National Artist, but in Literature (with a Pulitzer Prize to boot).

"So I guess you'd better start cracking," she joked. Ooh, ouch -- it felt like the weight of my forebears just collapsed in a huge heap atop my head. I quickly made a feeble lighthearted attempt at humor (to disguise the heaviness I was suddenly feeling), something about how I'd have to lobby for an award honoring what the heck it is I do.

"No, no that's not what I mean," she clarified, "I meant you'd better get that book started now." And then I had a petrifying, numbing vision of library stacks of books falling down in a domino effect and then finally throwing all their weight upon me. Why, I've never even written a short story and here she was throwing a book -- my book -- at me.

My grandfather impressed upon my dad that it didn't matter what he did with his life -- as long as he was the best at what he did. It would be okay if he were a street sweeper, as long as he was the best at doing it. Now I do remember dad saying the same thing to us, too, but I don't think he actually enforced the rule. I don't know how my sisters viewed his expectations of us, but I don't believe he ever pushed us to dominate or win. Dad wasn't a motivational guru nor a cheerleader; he was often inscrutable, at least in my eyes (sometimes it was difficult to tell if he was pleased or disappointed in me).

Still, for as long as I remember I used to say I wanted to grow up to become a landscape architect just like my dad. (I also remember having to explain to my grade school teachers what exactly that was.) When I was knee-high I begged him to buy me a packet of Petunia seeds and show me how to plant them. Dad and I went to the backyard and he showed me how to scoop a bit of dirt from the ground, bury the seeds, and cover them with the soil I moved earlier. He told me I had to water the seeds and watch them carefully so they would grow into my Petunias . After a few days I became impatient; I didn't see a sign of leaf or stem and quickly forgot about them; I was convinced I didn't have dad's green thumb.

When I could, I would tag along with him to his plant nursery (where he tested and tinkered with various plants he collected from his trips all over the world to see if they could survive in our tropical Philippine climate), and while in the car I'd ask him to name all the trees and plants on the way to wherever we were going. Dad always referred to them by their horticultural names, in binomial nomenclature; it was more fun to listen to but impossible to remember.

But just like any child who pays keen attention to a parent, I listened carefully to everything my father said (at least until I got to that awful age when I refused to pay attention at all). The one thing I never forgot was one of his major pet peeves: Keep Off the Grass signs. He used to always say, "What's grass for if you can't walk on it anyway?" I reckon that was my first lesson in fulfilling one's purpose in life, and in the importance of not trying to be what we're not.

So one day I decided I wasn't going to become a landscape architect after all. Although dad used to tell me I was most like him, I knew I wasn't what he was. And more importantly, if I tried to be I'd only be going against what he and lolo said we always ought to be: the best. Not even close. So I figured I'd have to find my own road.

Which I really haven't found, yet, to tell the truth. I've been and done so many things all these years -- learned a lot, challenged myself, had a few successes, but definitely had a lot of fun along the way. But I don't know what my purpose is or what I'm meant for -- what kind of grass I am or if I'm grass at all. Still, dad's lessons haven't been for naught: a few years ago I learned how to plant and make a garden grow and thrive. I can even throw a few latin names out there if I want to (not to impress -- as I mistakenly believed was the reason dad used them with me -- but only because each word in those tricky multisyllabic horticultural names actually means something).

In other words, I can create a garden, I only have to figure out what kind of garden it is. And dad's planting lesson wasn't such a failure after all; I have learned that the best things are worth waiting for. All you need to do is plant a seed and commit to its growth, to have a vision of how you want each one to fall in place with the other, and then later enjoy the fruit (and flora) of your labor.

Dad's already done all that; it's time I got my fingernails dirty now.

A PORTRAIT OF THE FILIPINO ARTIST AS A FATHER

I heard the news from my friend John yesterday afternoon: my father has been might be named national artist for architecture (hours later the announcement was retracted, and then clarification issued that the list is not being reduced but added to). Truth is I'd been hearing rumors for a few weeks, but didn't want to assume anything until I saw the news in print. Which I did. And then didn't.

UPDATED May 24, 2006: It's official.

But I called my dad long-distance from work to congratulate him yesterday anyway; he and I spent a good part of our five-minute call laughing (I'd use the term "giggling" but the image of a 75-year-old man doing that might seem strange to anyone else but dad and me). He seems thrilled, especially since he's been receiving innumerable congratulatory phone calls from relatives and friends, colleagues, former students, and just about everyone else who knows him and has already seen or heard the news. Or the non-news, for that matter.

There was a quick moment during the conversation when I spotted the differences in our priorities arising from our stages in life. For instance, I was excited by the medical and hospitalization benefits he'd he may be receiving; dad said he was looking forward to the state funeral. Yet there were similarities, too: our delight over the cash prize, for instance (I told him not to go and spend it at the tiangge; I'm sure if I were receiving it instead he'd tell me not to blow it all on shoes).

It's obvious, I would think, of how proud I am of my father. Although this is how I feel about him, regardless of whether or not he's a national artist, I'm intoxicated with pure, unadulterated joy that he is being recognized for his dedication to the pursuit of excellence and ethics of his profession, his devotion to his work and in training future generations of landscape architects and, yes, for his love for his country.

It wasn't that long ago, after all, when folks would ask me what my father did for a living and after I'd tell them, they'd then reply,"So basically he's a gardener?" I remember answering once, "Well if an architect is the same thing as a carpenter, then I suppose he is." Just to clarify: I do have the highest regard for gardeners (and carpenters) and in fact, my dad is also a gardener in the sense that he has a profound, expert knowledge of plants and can make just about anything grow (in soil, water, and air at that). But gardening is not his profession and neither is it what he has taught his students all these years.

I asked dad yesterday how he felt about the announcement. He said he was still the same guy he was before he was told, and he was trying not to make a big deal out of it. So I suppose I've decided to whoop it up a bit for good ol' dad instead; after all, the realist (or cynic, depending on how you see it) in me knows that with FPJ being declared national artist for cinema as well, my dad's achievement will be buried somewhere in the middle of any news story hitting print, the airwaves, and the internet, his contributions receiving no more than maybe one line of description or two. But that's just the way it is -- celebrity and controversy always attract more attention and fanfare, and judging from the (woeful) state and fate of our parks and green spaces, I wouldn't bet on my father receiving much hype at all.

Which is just as well; dad's always been an understated kind of guy in public anyway (except for that one time during a neighborhood affair a few years ago, when in the spirit of competition he displayed a glimpse of the top of his red briefs to the entire assembly. The revelation of an old man with his shock of brilliant white hair and wooden cane wearing such flashy, hip underwear caused our normally calm monsignor to convulse and fall over in laughter, as well as scandalize a group of stodgy, proper church ladies. But hey, my dad's an artist after all -- unpredictable, eccentric, and idiosyncratic, among other wonderful things.). So he's not seeking a ticker-tape parade or anything of the sort.

And forgive me if I post this despite the non-announcement. You have to understand: I took up gardening as my personal way of honoring my father for the rest of my life. I suppose it's understandable if I write a few paragraphs about him in a blog post that will eventually be buried in my site archives. Daddy, I was always proud that what you did for a living added (much-needed) life to this world. Congratulations -- despite whatever announcement is eventually issued within the next few weeks -- and I love you.

SOMETHING ABOUT NOTHING

One of my favorite things to do is to do absolutely nothing.

Well, maybe nothing is an exaggeration of sorts. I mean, I love a day where I can wake up late, putz around the house looking like I'm doing something but not really (usually I'm just looking for something to snack on because I'm too lazy to cook or go out and buy something), sit in front of my Mac surfing the net as my cat begs for my attention (eventually I stick my foot in her cozy and she hugs it as she falls asleep), read a stack of magazines and books (I go back and forth without really finishing anything), and fall into long naps lulled by the white noise of the television.

On days like this the key is to get the husband out of the house. Now as much as I love the man I married, there are days (admit it, all you marrieds out there know what I'm talking about here) when he and I need to be on opposite sides of the planet. For no reason at all, sometimes, except that I or he or we need the same thing: to be left alone.

And also because I hate it -- HATE it -- when he sees me at 2:00 pm, still in my pajamas, lying in bed reading or sleeping or staring at the ceiling, and asks, "What are you doing?" Which really means: Why aren't you doing anything? And I especially get annoyed when I have to answer "Nothing" or, worse, when I have to make something up or look like I'm pondering over something intellectual or pretend I'm planning for the future.

So what I do on a day like this is drag my ass out of bed and look outside the window. If it's sunny and a perfect day to be outdoors (I'm not an outdoorsy person, you see, so when it's warm and sunny outside I usually take it as my cue to turn on the a/c at home and hibernate), I find him and say in my cheeriest, good-wife voice, "Hey honey, are you planning to go to the driving range today?"

Now my husband is a good husband, so he constantly worries about me; he even feels slightly guilty whenever he wants to just do his own thing and leave me alone. So whenever I ask if he's planning to hit a bucket of balls with a stick thing, he replies with another question: "Why, do you want me to drop you off somewhere?" And, yes, what he means is do I want to go shopping at the mall?

I love it when he does this because it's another golden opportunity for me to show him what a wonderful wife he married -- even if sending him away really has nothing to do with our marriage but more with me just wanting to be. And as he puts his putter into the trunk and gets ready to leave, I give him a tight hug and a kiss and I say, "Just have fun honey -- take your time and don't rush back for me, okay?" And he gives me the biggest, most grateful smile, and spends the whole day just being him without me (which I suspect he likes to do as much as I do, too, but neither of us will admit to it).

I feel one of those kinds of days coming on. Too bad the weather out here refuses to cooperate with me: a storm is coming, and it's likely to rain through the weekend. Maybe it's time for more creative strategizing: I'll Netflix a bunch of '50s and '60s Samurai flicks he loves to watch so he can veg on the couch downstairs for hours on end and forget that I'm upstairs in a world of my own as well.

Sometimes the best part about being a couple is being able to stay apart and look forward to being together again. Especially when we both know all we need to do is go up or down a short flight of stairs when we no longer care to be alone. Or when doing absolutely nothing by myself gets to be too much to bear, and doing something with someone special then becomes one my favorite things to do.

MATH 301: ADVANCED NUTRITION

When I got diagnosed with diabetes about a month ago I was under the (highly erroneous) notion that all I needed to do to fix my problem was cut out all sugar from my diet. It turns out that solution was way too simple (albeit in a horrible, not-worth-living sort of way).

I've since learned that sugar and diabetes do not exist ever-fixed in a causal relationship and so I can now stop blaming my sweet tooth for my current state. Diabetes is connected to genes, obesity, and/or lack of exercise, it appears. Where sugar comes into the picture is that it's a simple form of carbohydrate -- which causes blood glucose to spike up high and fast and then crash way, way down. If we keep doing this, if we keep it hurtling up and down as if it were on an endless rollercoaster ride then it takes revenge on us sooner or later. Wouldn't you do the same thing -- want to kill the guy with his finger on the power button -- if you were constantly dizzy and nauseous, after all?

What I'm saying here is that basically I knew nothing before yesterday, before I attended my second diabetes management class. For instance, I learned that not all sugar-free products are good for diabetics and that if I MUST indulge in ice cream, a high-fat variety would probably be better for me than a low-fat kind (although it's supposed to be reserved only as a rare treat. Rare being a highly subjective term for me, unfortunately).

I was also given a meal plan, a blueprint of how many servings (apparently dieticians like to use the strange term "exchanges") of protein, starches, fat, fruit, and vegetables, etc. I'm allowed to consume in a day. Great. Now I have to be a mathematician in order to eat, too (God forbid I hear anyone argue that no one needs math in order to be an actor or rock star, for instance. Most of these camera-ready folks are expected to be thin and thus need to follow a stringent diet, which requires advanced math skills apparently).

So now I'm one of these obsessive-compulsive folks in the grocery store who spend half an hour in each aisle reading all the labels on every single freakin' package (Okay, 35 grams of carbohydrates per serving. Not good. But six grams of dietary fiber. Very good. And I can subtract six from 35 which then gives me 29 grams of carbs. Now is that bad or good? Grrrr.). And I'm especially not looking forward to eating out at a restaurant, where I'll need to break apart each dish and try to figure out everything on my own; I mean, just how do I figure out a dish like kare-kare?

I'm highly tempted to sign up for this Zone diet home delivery service, just so I don't have to analyze each ingredient of every morsel I put into my mouth, though I suppose eating without thinking was part of what got me here in the first place (well, not so much as my parents' defective genes, of course). Or I could be like my neighbor Jay, who limits his food intake to no more than three tablespoons of brown rice and a few bite-sized pieces of meat per meal. That is, if he eats rice and meat at all.

I know I'll get the hang of this someday; I suppose like surgeons rely on their "muscle memory" I'll be able to put together a simple meal without charts, a pencil, and a calculator. In the meantime I'll have to remember that a 3 oz. portion of meat is the size of my palm (why oh why did my hand have to be so disproportionately small compared to the rest of my body?) and the thickness of a finger, and learn to use all the other visual tricks I was just taught.

Still, sometimes I wonder if what I learn today will only be replaced by new information tomorrow and I'll have to learn how to eat all over again. After all, what we know about food and healthful eating changes every decade it seems. Not too long ago we were taught to cut out all fat, until we learned there was good and bad fat but just no good carbs. And now it appears we need to add some carbohydrates back into our diets for balance.

I'm considering just sitting it out until someone figures out that bitter vegetables are bad for us and that white flour is good. Who knows, it probably won't be too long until that happens? We've just learned, after all, that (dark) chocolate is actually good for the body. The future is starting to look promising, I suppose; until then I think I just might have to take a basic accounting class to help me figure out how to balance my food groups. Or at least it might help me finally balance my checkbook -- which is another dilemma to discuss altogether.