Women at Cannes: What do the numbers tell us?
The selection of films in competition at the Cannes Film Festival is one of the strongest for women so far, but there are…
If God had no say in the matter, people like Joseph Estrada, Juan Ponce-Enrile and Imelda Marcos would continue to defy aging and live on and on by the grace of the unborn lamb, whose freshly harvested heart is liquefied for the stem cells that will keep the human heart ticking until its owner says “when.” The same goes with the sacrificial lamb’s liver, intestines, etc., for the regeneration of their corresponding human organs.
One sure way to lure us out of the comforts of our castle, which is what home has become at the homestretch of our lives, is a call to lunch for a homecoming classmate.
I’m glad no one had asked me what I planned to do with my life before I knew any better, or I’d have felt forced to give the question serious thought; I might have even drawn a roadmap to success and happiness. How ridiculous that would have been—to think one could actually plan one’s life! Indeed, looking back on every turning point in my long life, I don’t know how I could have planned it as it has gone. All I can say is I’m happy beyond expectation.
“Ma’am kailan natin uumpisahan ang walang hanggan?” When do we begin forever? asks Greg, my hairdresser. Forever alludes to the once-started-never-ended treatment for hair loss using a minoxidil-based solution. That, everyone seems to agree, is the one, the only, the ultimate, desperate hope.
One of the best things about growing up Roces was having our own cinema, the Ideal, exclusive Philippine exhibitors of MGM (Metro Goldwyn Mayer) movies. Among the thrills it gave me and my cousins, aside from the obvious one of getting to watch movies for free, was meeting the likes of Charlton Heston, the epic star (“The Ten Commandments,” “Ben-Hur”), and the debonair Ricardo Montalban. They were friends and occasional house guests of uncle Marcos Vidal Roces, who himself rivaled them in looks.
In this country it’s a crime to be poor,” Dad would say, and proceed to challenge anyone to find him one inmate who was not. “So, kiddo,” he would tell me, “you just have to avoid being poor— like a plague.”
Baguio and I are not what we used to be, God knows. We’re both showing evidence of progressive abuse and neglect—denudation, for one thing. And for one who has lived as long as I, it’s definitely no small consolation that Baguio, as I, if I may carry on with the comparison, has remained loved.
When is the right time to tell children the truth about Santa Claus? For my own children, the telling was provoked by a question from a daughter—an innocent question that elicited a guilty, if untimely, confession from a parent whose own enthusiasm for the whole charade had been on the wane.
Her recipes will surely not disappear the way the legendary Food for the Gods of a dear departed friend did, never to be tasted again in its unrecorded original
Well, it was bound to happen, sooner or later. My five-year-old granddaughter sleeps over most weekends in our small condominium for two where bedroom doors are never locked.
