The return of the pompadour
Grease is the word. No, not the musical, but the actual stuff it was named after, the oleaginous medicated goo your lolo used to plaster his hair down with until it shone like Kenkoy’s mirror-finish dome.
Grease is the word. No, not the musical, but the actual stuff it was named after, the oleaginous medicated goo your lolo used to plaster his hair down with until it shone like Kenkoy’s mirror-finish dome.
AT Branch 165 of the Pasig City Regional Trial Court, folders bursting with papers are stacked in two messy piles on the floor. Both are at least knee-high and are grouped into folders by volume. Transcripts of stenographic notes—also called TSN—can be found on top of the piles.
It would be easy enough to conclude that having grown up in Biri, an island in Northern Samar known for its towering rock formations, he might have been inspired to lay mortal hands on wood, loam and stone by the natural monuments sometimes described as having been sculpted by the gods.
Last night, my wife began the ultimate journey of her life. I can only imagine the marvellous things she is seeing right now. My life with Clem has always been marked by journey, travel, adventure, and exploring. While we both grew up in Manila and studied at the University of the Philippines, we met in Mindanao where she was pioneering a hotel institute and I was working with the Mindanao Regional Development Project.
I was the coolest kid in class the day I got my Nokia 3310. My classmates clambered all over each other just to get a glimpse of my gadget. They oohed and aahed at the tiny LCD screen, the slick silver keys and the handsome blue trim. I even heard audible gasps when I played the now-iconic Nokia ringtone.
The café is called Schooner, and after a week of unremitting ramen and sashimi—sold half price at a nearby supermart 30 minutes before closing—I was craving some distinctly Western food. A ham and cheese sandwich, perhaps a pizza, and Schooner sounded promising.
When he was a kid, Jeffrey Tarayao had the loftiest of dreams—to become Pope. He had read about the lives of popes at fifth grade and decided early on that should he become head of the church, he would be called Pope Francis, a carry-over from the Franciscan-run school he had attended.
Christmas being just around the corner, that annual challenge of throwing a dinner or finding the perfect Christmas food gift is upon us again.
You can find a lot of things crammed inside David Hontiveros’ head. His cranium holds worlds within worlds, the past and the future, the divine and the cursed, technology and magic. Perhaps no other Filipino writer has built a career so heavily immersed in genre writing: horror, science fiction, fantasy and comic books. He lives in a universe that he helped create.
“You know me on the boards as ‘Jim Crack,’ but my real name is Pequé.
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