GIGI GOES GAGA

THOSE PEOPLE

I work at a company where the majority of the employees are young and single. I usually spend all day cooped up in my office and socialize rarely -- and only with a handful of people at that -- not because I don't care to but because my relentless pace to keep up with my workload often allows me only bathroom breaks. I keep snacks and sweets inside the office not for myself (instead I subsist on diabetic-approved nutrition bars) but to entice the outside world to visit mine.

And when the folks from beyond my door come over, I hear stories. Oh boy, do I ever hear stories. Sometimes it feels like I'm in college all over again -- there's always a rumor about a hook-up or a break-up, so many accounts about unfortunate bets made during drunken moments or bad behavior during all-night revelry, tales of forbidden liaisons, budding romances and unrequited love. About "those people," as I jokingly refer to the youngsters with out-of-control hormones to match their apparently out-of-control lives.

But because I've been married and have been living a somewhat "typical" married life for so many years now, my present existence can be described as orderly, practical, and quiet. So different from the life I once had, the one I've almost forgotten about.

So yesterday I managed to pull myself out of my confines and have lunch with a few co-workers. We passed around a bit of office gossip, in particular about where "those people" have been caught in delicato around the workplace and thereabouts. Inevitably this led to a discussion about the strangest places we'd all had sex in.

On the beach in South Florida with her husband, said A. Inside the car when she was still in high school, said M. The lone male decided that it was at the back of a public bus, and the other A either flat out refused to answer or really has never done "it" other than on a proper bed. Then all eyes -- and ears -- turned to me.

"What?" I asked. "I mean, what's considered strange here?" I tried to twist my way out of a reply through strict semantics.

"Just give us one," they said almost in unison. So I threw out the first thing that came to mind. Which, given the previous discussion, was...

"Inside my office," I quickly replied. I suddenly felt the heat of four pairs of eyes opening up wide. "No, no -- not my office NOW, my old office, many years ago, before I worked here!" I struggled to clarify.

"On your desk?" asked M.

"Floor," I answered flatly. Then I turned to A, a germphobe, whom I caught with a budding sneer, "But it was clean! They had just finished vacuuming the floor, okay?" I lied completely. I had no idea then -- and neither did I care -- what bugs were lying in wait for me and my guy.

"With whom -- a co-worker?" M wanted to know.

"No, my boyfriend at the time, " I answered. "We'd been fighting all day and he came by to apologize, and it was really late..."

"Make-up sex!!!" they chorused in naked glee.

"Aw c'mon G," someone said, "You're holding out on us -- that seems a bit too tame to be the strangest place YOU'VE ever done it at."

"Well did I mention that the cleaners were just outside the door and I was screaming like a banshee so my boyfriend dug his palm in my mouth and there was a good chance that any of my co-workers could have come in because we didn't bother to lock the door?" I was now a bit defensive and slightly annoyed.

That seemed to shut them up; after all, the chance of being caught is always a mandatory element when it comes to having sex in strange places.

So there it was, out in the open. It turns out I was one of "those people," too, after all. And it's a good thing I've finally learned how to lock my door since then. I may have forgotten a lot of things -- but some things you just never forget how to do.

WHAT INSPIRES ME

Not much inspires me nowadays. Maybe because I'm not looking hard, long, or deep enough or maybe because I have my head permanently hidden under a rock while I focus too intently on mundane day-to-day things.

But I heard this on the news yesterday morning and was so touched and inspired that tears welled up in my eyes and I wanted to go and hug somebody, anybody. I'm sure there will be naysayers and cynics who will be wont to say why this is all just a bunch of hooey but I don't care: how many of us can sincerely say we would really give away most of what we own -- not to our relatives or people we care about, but to perfect strangers who may never even know the source of their new good fortune?

Following are excerpts from a Fortune magazine interview with Warren Buffet that was published on June 25, 2006 that explains why he's doing this (italics mine).

...We agreed with Andrew Carnegie, who said that huge fortunes that flow in large part from society should in large part be returned to society. In my case, the ability to allocate capital would have had little utility unless I lived in a rich, populous country in which enormous quantities of marketable securities were traded and were sometimes ridiculously mispriced. And fortunately for me, that describes the U.S. in the second half of the last century.

Certainly neither (his wife) Susie nor I ever thought we should pass huge amounts of money along to our children. Our kids are great. But I would argue that when your kids have all the advantages anyway, in terms of how they grow up and the opportunities they have for education, including what they learn at home - I would say it's neither right nor rational to be flooding them with money.

In effect, they've had a gigantic headstart in a society that aspires to be a meritocracy. Dynastic mega-wealth would further tilt the playing field that we ought to be trying instead to level.

But don't cry for his children just yet: they will be just fine. And who knows, they -- and their children -- could possibly live in a (slightly) better world simply because their father chose to leave them with much less than he could have?

I still believe in the philosophy - FORTUNE quoted me saying this 20 years ago - that a very rich person should leave his kids enough to do anything but not enough to do nothing. [The FORTUNE article was "Should You Leave It All to the Children?" Sept. 29, 1986.]

Party-hearty trust-fund babies are probably now trembling at the prospect of Buffett inspiring their parents to follow his lead. But that may be the best thing for them -- and most definitely for the world.

TICKET TRAFFICKING

I can still count on one hand the number of times I've received a moving violation ticket in my entire driving life. Either I'm a relatively obedient driver or my memory has already started failing me, but I'm fairly certain I attended traffic school only three times (although I once had guns drawn on me by two trigger-happy officers, but that's a slightly different -- albeit true -- story to be told another day).

I escaped a speeding ticket once while shooting down a tiny residential street in Venice, CA but the cop gave me a break because (1) I appeared petrified-pale and sincerely contrite (I was); (2) I spoke in heavily Filipino-accented English and showed him my international driver's license; and (3) he was a really, really nice guy.

But not so lucky many years later in Laguna Beach, CA at 6:30 am while coasting at 80 mph in a 30-mph zone on my way to work, although the also-nice cop wrote down that I was doing "only" about 50 mph because (1) I appeared petrified-pale and contrite; (2) there were no other cars or pedestrians at the time; and (3) I was driving a freakin' Saturn so he knew I couldn't possibly be speeding just for the thrill of it. It took me an entire day (plus about half of another) of hard labor to pay off my $300-plus ticket -- which just proves to show it sometimes pays to come to work late if there's no chance in hell you can get there on time reasonably (and legally).

But my bestfriend Rosanna got out of a ticket in Manila by begging -- no, harassing -- the cop to give her one.

She was driving along Greenhills in heavy traffic and made a slow right turn. Almost immediately we were approached by one of many cops standing at the corner, and I quickly noticed we were only one in an entire row of vehicles that were stopped for making the same turn. And although we later saw there was a sign posted, it was ambiguous; you really couldn't tell what you weren't supposed to be doing. So she wasn't exactly guilty, she was just confused (as was I).

In my life I've seen many drivers argue with traffic cops but I'd never seen anyone succeed; if ever, their sense of self-righteousness and argumentative behavior only makes it easier for the guy in the motorcycle to whip out his pad and bear down on it with his pen with too-lustful glee. So as my friend started telling the cop why it was wrong for him to cite her for the violation, I started slinking down my seat fast -- as the exchange went on I was sure we'd both end up in handcuffs.

I wish I had paid more attention then so I could tell you all now how the dialogue went, but I was ducking for safety, you see. There was something about how he couldn't cut her a break since none of the others got one, then something about her saying she would have shut up and taken the ticket if she knew she had done something wrong, then about him not wanting to argue with a lady, and then I realized something pretty amazing was now happening.

Suddenly the cop's voice took a pleading, softer tone, but by then my friend was too exasperated to care. Then he simply walked away from her, to join his other uniformed friends standing (waiting) at the corner of the two streets. I think he even pretended not to see her despite all her calls out to him. For what seemed to me a horrifying eternity she yelled at him to take her license and give her the damn ticket. And when I finally gathered my wits about me and realized our golden opportunity, I moaned (whimpered actually) for her to just get out of there and leave the poor man alone.

She later explained to me (when she had calmed down) that although she first got upset when he tried to cite her unfairly for something she hadn't done, she soon became enraged when she realized he was only waiting for her to slip him a bit of cash so he could let her go. And THAT she wasn't about to do -- now or ever.

So clearly my friend's need to do the right thing did right by her then, as it did again it appears. She recently wrote to me (all italics mine):

(Here's) my latest traffic adventure -- I was trying to convince the cop to give me the frigging ticket because "nagkasala ako (I was wrong)." And he insists on lecturing me and telling me what a hassle I put myself in having to collect my license from (the) MMDA. Of course all he's doing is stalling so I can whip out the cash. Of course I'm raising my voice and saying, "Just give me the ticket. Oo nga, sabi ko na, ako ang nagsala (Yes I know, I already said I was wrong)!" Then he walks away from me bewildered and I'm there "Hoy teka muna, hindi pa ako tapos magsalita, eto na ang lisensya ko kunin mo na (Hey there, I'm not done talking to you yet, here's my license, take it already)." But he was clearly running away from me!

I do worry about my incorrigible friend sometimes -- she lectures perfect strangers about littering on Manila streets and has stood up to even the high and mighty (and extremely well-connected) when they break the rules they're supposed to uphold and respect. But I'd worry more if I thought there weren't others like her who were willing to make a stand against chaos and lawlessness.

See, I habitually call her my bestfriend not only because we're so close we're really more like sisters, but because she truly represents the best of us. Traffic cops beware.

WE'RE ALL A LITTLE BIT COUNTRY AFTER ALL

There's not much that can make me laugh during a 12-hour flight to anywhere, not even when I'm sitting in a relatively comfortable business class seat (thanks to miles, not a trust fund, by the way). Still, I found myself chuckling out loud during this recent trip back to Manila via Tokyo -- and it wasn't because of an in-flight movie (the choices weren't the slightest bit tempting; I wouldn't pay to watch them and wouldn't do so now that they were free either). And so precisely because my personal video had little content to tempt me with, I decided to read the airline magazine instead.

Now -- just to back up a bit -- whenever I'm asked what kind of music I enjoy, I usually respond by saying, "Anything but heavy metal, gangsta rap, and country." And although the first two still grate on my ears, I've begun warming up to the third -- at least to perhaps crossover types of the genre such as country pop (and okay, I'll admit I can be shallow -- Keith Urban ain't so bad to look at -- er, listen to -- either).

So on this particular flight I found another reason to like country music: if the song titles entertain me this much already, then I can't wait to hear the lyrics. And as my ex B used to say, I'm a lyrics girl. I might like a melody, but if the accompanying words annoy me, then I tune out completely.

Anyway, I didn't bring a copy of the magazine with me so I can't reprint the article, but I found the titles thanks to this and this site. Here are a few that are so audacious, they make me think Marie was hipper than Donny all along, after all.

1. How Can I Miss You If You Won't Go Away?


2. If You Keep Checking Up on Me (I'm Checking Out on You)


3. If I Can't Be Number One In Your Life, Then Number Two On You


4. My Wife Ran Off With My Best Friend, And I Sure Do Miss Him


5. She Got The Gold Mine And I Got The Shaft


6. If You Don't Believe I Love You Just Ask My Wife


7. You're Out Doing What I'm Here Doing Without


8. Get Your Biscuits in the Oven and Your Buns in the Bed


9. I've Got You on My Conscience But At Least You're Off My Back


10. Does My Ring Hurt Your Finger (When You Go Out at Night)

GETTING OVER HIM

This afternoon, my young friend (YF) asked me, "Gigi, do you think I'm ever going to get over C?"

"Oh God, I sure hope so," I blurted out before I could slam on my mental brakes. She didn't expect me to say it just like that, even if she'd suspected for a long time that I'd felt this way. See, no matter how fed up I am of hearing something over and over again, when it comes to all matters of heartbreak and heartache I manage to summon almost-superhuman powers of patience, empathy, and restraint.

So I had to quickly shift to reverse and back up a bit.

ME: Look, do you really want to know what I think?

YF: (Nods slowly, with glistening eyes fixed tentatively on mine.)

ME: It all depends on you. You'll get over him as soon as you decide you want to.

YF: But I really want to -- I'm so tired of feeling this miserable! I'm tired of crying.

ME: No, you don't. You want to get over him only until he decides he wants you back. You want to forget about him only while he's forgotten about you.

YF: But I want my boyfriend back...

ME: See, there's your problem. You don't want to get over him, you just want the pain to go away. So if you keep seeing him when he wants to see you, or if you keep talking to him when he calls or if you keep calling him, then you're not going to get over him.

YF: But I want us to remain friends -- otherwise, it would be a total waste of the last six years.

ME: Oh sure, you can be friends. But later, not now. Right now you need to keep your distance from him. Because every time you see him, smell him, talk to him, you set off this thing in your brain that still remembers all these familiar things and craves it. It's chemical.

YF: I guess I don't want to stay away and have him give up on us.

ME: What, you think he'd forget about you simply because you're not around? If while you were away he then decided you're the best thing that ever happened to him, he'd know where to find you. It's not like you're moving to another country, you know. You'd still be here -- just not anywhere near him. If he doesn't come back looking for you then it's because he doesn't want to and he's moved on.

YF: But I don't want him to move on...

ME: Then you won't get over him and you'll always feel like this. You HAVE to make a choice: if you want him then you'll have to learn to live with feeling this restless and empty all the time. But if you decide you want to move on -- that you're ready to move on and get over the guy, then stay the hell away. It might take months or -- who knows -- maybe even a year, but you WILL get over him if you want to. But only if you want to. It's really very simple, you know -- just not easy. And it's all up to you.

SO REAL IT'S SURREAL

I'm back -- and what a week I just had!

In case you didn't already know, I flew to Manila last week to attend events at Malacañang Palace and the Cultural Center of the Philippines held last Friday, June 9th, in connection with the proclamation of this year's seven National Artists. I was there to cheer on my father (the fourth National Artist proclaimed for Architecture, but the first ever in the field of Landscape Architecture), who took home a hefty gold medallion and an impressive framed citation.

I found myself -- unexpectedly -- starstruck. I had been dying to meet BenCab, Bienvenido Lumbera, and Ramon Obusan; I had several opportunities to do so, as I found myself in the same private receptions with these legends several times. Heck, all I had to do was stand beside dad as he spoke with them throughout the day. But no, all I could do was stare at these men in deep admiration. The only explanation I have is that it was just too, too surreal, the whole day was quite a blur.

And life went right back to normal the following day. In the morning, dad went to the swap meet as usual, watched television and napped the entire afternoon, and sat at the dining table in his plaid shorts and tee at night, sharing photographs he took of the previous day's events with our family, which was complete for the first time in more than a decade. I think he was even happy.

I have lots of stories to tell, but now I have to try to sleep and beat jet lag.

*Photograph by Willy Perez, which appeared in the July 10, 2006 issue of The Philippine Star. Dad's the guy on the left shaking President Arroyo's hand.

COMING HOME 2006 - ROUND TWO

For the last 10 years straight, I've been escaping to Manila annually to visit my family and lifelong friends. It's been the same drill: once a year, usually in late Summer, and only for a week. This year I broke tradition and went home in March. And now I'm challenging the status quo yet again -- I'm going home tomorrow, too.

Anyone who knows me knows I don't do heat well. I consider temperatures over 72 °F tropical, with each rising degree signifying another descending step towards hellish territory, and when the thermometer starts approaching the three-digit mark I'm burnt toast. What can I say, I blister in the sun?

So I've been warned: it's hot and humid back home. It's a sauna, a good friend said, hoping the description evokes relaxing spa-like imagery in my brain. But as much as I love spas, I don't do saunas either -- especially if I'm fully clothed and have to keep stewing past the 10-30 minute recommended stay.

Still, there are many ways to beat the heat: wear loose, comfortable cotton clothing, keep hydrated, and find shelter from the sweltering sun whenever you can. Yet there's nothing that beats going home. Even if -- for me -- home can be found in two opposite directions, and I just happen to be headed for the other one.

See you when I get home.