Cory, Obama, Carlo, SONA and the leaks... in her mind
Here I go again. My thoughts swirling and jiggling like my Scotch against the glass walls of my jigger. What’s happening to me? I’m waxing philosophical and even turning poetic! OMG! I can’t seem to stop my mind from spinning. And this is only my first shot. All the strong feelings are so mixed up. I thought I was immune from that. These excruciating moments of introspection are getting more and more frequent. I must pump up the nightlife or travel more, to silence these niggling thoughts. This must still be the residual influence of Sunflower’s lot (sings “If we hold on together...”). Oh, shaddap!
The clock is ticking louder. D-day is knocking at my door. The handwriting is on the wall. It says: “Time to pack up.” Maybe it’s a typo error. And what it’s really saying is: “Time to stock up.” There are enough projects in the pipeline. Surely I can still stock up. This terrible global meltdown has reduced my nest egg. My house army has its tail between its legs. They are afraid of the people’s wrath. Hah! They should be more afraid of turning vegan, i.e., pork-less, ha ha ha! Two hundred fifty-one days to May 10, 2010. The political landscape is foggier than ever. I don’t know if I should clap my hands in glee or weep because I’m blindsided. And it’s all because of her.
Why can’t PGMA ever top PCCA? Why am I always in her shadow? We have the same pedigree. My father was popular just like her husband. Why? She used to support me. She even helped me get installed in the Palace. Then, just for a little lapse of judgment, a teeny-weeny phone call to Garci, she asked me to resign! Tama ba ’yon? I already said sorry, what more did she want? She sided with the Hyatt 10. Even jokingly apologized to Erap for her role in bringing him down. Que horror! She fought Cha-cha, even when I swore a million times that it would not be used for my term extension. Hmm, could it be that she didn’t take my word for it? Grabe!
Then, when she got sick, I thought PGMA would finally get ahead of PCCA. Of course I made the right sympathetic sounds but secretly felt relieved. She was like a conscience that wouldn’t shut up. But you know the worst thing she did to me? She passed away! And the whole nation exploded in yellow! I hate that color! It reminds me of jaundice and hepatitis! But it seemed like all the Filipinos caught those diseases. There was an epidemic of yellow! I stopped counting the number of cars and houses with those stupid yellow ribbons. It felt like each trimming was a slap on my face. Hu-hu-hu! I told myself not to take things too personally. But the torment was unbearable. And even when I practiced wearing a sad, long face at her wake, I still felt the endless line of sympathizers silently taunting me, thumbing their noses at me, and hating me!
Now the People Power virus is reawakened. After eight years I thought I had killed it once and for all. But it’s back with a vengeance and I am afraid this new strain has mutated into something deadlier for me and my cabal. I have never felt smaller in my whole life than now. Why can’t I be loved like her? Why? Why? Why? She’s even more formidable dead, when she was already so large alive. Stop thinking of her! Erase. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. The shrink said stop competing, stop comparing. Think of all your recent accomplishments.
I had the most wonderful time with President Barack Obama, the man of the hour! After months of stalking — I mean, trying to set appointments — I finally got the photo op — I mean, the meeting with the guy! It was such a thrill. We exchanged pleasantries and praises. He said this; I said that. I don’t really remember word-for-word what we told each other, but a picture paints a thousand words. And I had pictures galore! These will go down in history! I will have this memory for all my life. Even if the whole event was finished in eight minutes flat, while the pestering took all of six months! Nakakainis. I even had to promise I was stepping down at the end of my term. Well, he’s not that smart if he believes everything a politician says. If Obama were meeting PCCA, I wonder … would the meeting have lasted eight hours instead? Boo-hoo-hoo! Stop it! Think positive.
My inner circle feasting at Le Cirque was pure bliss! It was even better than the steaks at Bobby Van’s. The Wild Golden Osetra caviar was divine; the Torchon de foie gras was celestial; and the wild burgundy escargot chased by Krug Champagne was just heavenly! Of course I got hell for splurging $20K on the dinner, but it was in celebration of my Obama coup and in preparation for the mourning I would have to go through when I came home. Give me a break! It’s like the Mardi Gras before the Lenten season, di ba? What do I have to do to show my sympathy for the bereaved? I offered a head-of-state burial, declared 10 days of mourning, even offered to build a monument. All I got was thanks but no thanks.
At least my personal National Artists are more beholden. The Supreme Court is really getting too big for their britches! They seem to be forgetting who gave them their robes. Ingrates! What nerve they have, to TRO my proclamation. These artiste types are so sensitive. They are such purists and elitists that they might as well hold hands with the Civil Society! What’s wrong with Carlo J, Pitoy Moreno or Cecile Alvarez being acclaimed by moi? I did the same thing in 2004. I proclaimed myself winner by almost one million votes. No one could stop me then, too. My word is the last word.
The last word. Reminds me of the last SONA. Boo-hoo-hoo! I’ve just perfected saying “pussyfoot,” not “fussypoot,” and it’s already my final SONA? How fast good times fly! My best friend Miriam said, “Fiery but done in good taste,” and she’s an authority on that. I was interrupted by thundering applause 127 times. Although once or twice they missed their cue! But now everyone expects it to be my last SONA. Even my con ass-ers are quietly distancing themselves from me. To make matters worse, the media compared my last SONA to her farewell SONA even if hers was not applauded as much. But I’ll keep them guessing to the very end. As I always say, “It’s not over till the little lady sings.” Hic! Why? Why can’t I be loved like her?
I must have dozed off. Whew! For a while there I thought there was another leak, but it was just the last few drops of my drink accidentally pouring out. I can imagine the media frenzy if a second blowup happens! My hackles still stand up when I remember how my bosom buddy handled the first burst. To disprove the suspicions that I had implants in the ’80s, he showed an old photo of me clad in a bikini on national television! Then with a smug face he blurted out, “They speak for themselves!” Boy, I really had to stop myself from strangling this court jester or showing him out the door. I had to keep reminding myself that canine devotion is hard to replace and IQ is overrated anyway. Eventually the homicidal instinct subsided. After all, this one loves me!
Two hundred fifty-one days to go. I have to pack up soon — for London and Dubai, that is. And I have to stock up from the big projects that are coming soon. Dam, Laiban Dam, I’m good! (Sings “And now, the end is near and so I face the final curtain…”)
We’ll see about that. Hic!
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