Drunken Talk

So I just came back from Cebu. While I was there, I managed to squeeze in a few bottles of beer with three of my fraternity brothers who work there. One of the, Tuting, has already settled down there with his family while the two others whom I had the chance to know back in college, had just moved there less than a year ago. As usual, most of the conversation revolved around life back in college, reliving the times and experiences of the fraternity in 3 generations from the early 90’s, late 90’s and early part of 2000 only to be intermittently interrupted by our harmless advances on the “lovely” waitress who served us our beer and egged us to order appetizers. (which we stingily kept on asking for free)

Those are the nights worth cherishing, having conversations in a not so familiar place with people outside your regular circle. Quite enlightening to find different lives and experiences, and refreshing as well to hear other voices and faces.

Coincidentally, I find our little foursome among the pages of the book that I am currently reading (well, re-reading actually). “You Lovely People” by Bienvenido Santos. The author belongs to that generation of Filipino writers in English among which are F. Sionil Jose and NVM Gonzales who have spent much of their lives studying and teaching in America and have written about the Filipino experience both from their memory in the Philippines as well as their travels abroad. His book revolves around the travels across America during the second world war of a young Filipino scholar and the Filipino and American characters whom he meets along the way. Of course, I in our group I imagine myself as the main character, and the three others my kababayans who I meet up with in my travels.

On the flight back to Manila, as I was finishing up the last remaining chapters of the book, I realize that I too could write a book such as this one. It would probably have the same tone too as I have adapted my writing to the style of this particular generation with their flowery and descriptive prose and subtle interjections, reflecting my fondness for their work. I put down the book and looked at the picture of the stout and balding author looking all snazzy in his amerikana and leaning against very academic looking banisters. If I should write a book, I would probably prefer my portrait not to be in it, I thought to myself.

The thought of the content of that future book comprised most of the hour long flight to Manila. It would probably be chapters upon chapters of drinking sprees across the country. From painting the town red in Baguio with a stranger I picked up in a bar (Boy Baguio I call him) to drinking Chaktung (I can’t remember the exact spelling) inside a classroom high up in the remote mountains of South Cotabato among indigenous villagers who warn me not to venture outside as bandits abound.

So the next time you see me in a drunken haze and slurring with a bunch of strangers in some sleazy bar someplace remote, I’m actually gathering more fodder for my book. Hahaha!