Dropping by

From a Facebook mobile upload of somebody so dear to me:

On the overuse of ‘though’, though

“Let’s meet at Glorietta?”

“Sure, I love it, though.”

“Will you be able to make it at 5? I’m thinking of dropping by the office first.”

“That’s fine. I’ll just wait for you at Starbucks, though.”

“Great! See you then.”

“I can’t wait to tell you about it, though.”


I do not know if it’s only I who notice it but it appears that there is an oversupply of uncalled for “though” in almost all conversations in any workplace that require English (or at least a tinge of American/British/English accent), especially in high-rise offices along Ayala Avenue, Ortigas, Alabang, or Libis in Quezon City.

“Though” may function as a conjunction as in ‘in spite of’ or ‘despite the fact that’, or as an adverb as in ‘nevertheless’ or ‘as though’. But it may also function, informally, as an intensifier.

Of the three ‘thoughs’ in the conversation above, only the second ‘though’ is closest to any of the possible meanings of though, that is, if it means “I’ll wait for you not in Glorietta but in Starbucks.” But the problem with this is that the speaker is referring to that specific Starbucks located in Glorietta which makes ‘though’ here unnecessary.

Language is dynamic. One day, this proliferation of useless ‘thoughs’ may eventually be acceptable. But that’s going to be one day. Hearing these inappropriately used ‘thoughs’ irks me, though.

Enraged by the utter lack of common sense of CineEuropa’s Organizers

The Devil of St Petersburg

The Devil of St. Petersburg

I am clearly aware that I have virtually no rights to complain since I was there on my own accord, I expended nothing but my time, and for events like this, I knew at the very onset that my fate is at the mercy of whatever organizing committee tasked to manage the event. I expected little, except to watch really good films that are sadly not shown in mainstream theaters in the Philippines because of the alleged inability of the viewing public to comprehend European films’ complex postmodern themes and western perspective. So given the rare chance of watching them on big screen, I cleared my entire Saturday just so I could partake on this artistic fiesta.

I arrived at Shangri-la Cineplex seeing the line snaking down up to Starbucks. It’s nothing unusual because this also happened during the Japanese Film Festival and worse during the French. I waited patiently thinking that the line would get cleared an hour before the screening allowing me to have coffee for an hour.

But I was wrong. I waited for an hour but the line seemed no plans to move. It even extended outside the mall, amid the light downpour. It was insane. The crowd in the entire floor was already out of control. The entire place was like an evacuation area. People are literally camping before the ticket counter.

But the organizers of CineEuropa were unfazed. The man who, it appeared to me, is the head of the team walked to and fro marveling at the scene of people who were standing there for hours. He feigned preoccupation. He counted heads as if this act was relevant. Some people who are vocal enough verbalized their complaints. But the man seemed more concerned with following their stupid rule of releasing the tickets thirty minutes before the actual screening than seeing the grim sight of the growing crowd.

I felt like a postmodern Frenchman with a German angst-ridden temperament. I felt like showing to that man my middle finger and curse him in Vietnamese. For why in the world couldn’t they release the effing tickets?

Did the organizers have painful childhood and that they derive pleasure from seeing other people suffer from their pathetic policies?

Is the organizing committee of this year’s Cine Europa, probably made up of Filipinos, a bunch of complete morons who have suffered a lot from workplace discrimination that causing inconvenience on people whose only desire is to experience Art is their only way of retribution?

The event will be until next week. I know that the festival shall remain true to its objective of bringing the European culture here in the Philippines. And the local viewers are more than grateful for this chance, but please, we ask the organizers to show us a little common sense.

A before-sahoor talk with playwright Rogelio Braga

Rogelio Braga


It was around 10:30 in the evening, I had just arrived at my place from an evening drinking coffee, alone, at Shangri-la when I texted Ogie if he was still in Manila. He texted back yes, and before I could start reading the books I bought that night I was already preparing to meet him at Shangri-la. The mall is a short walk from where I stay, roughly. But I decided to take the train from Boni to Shaw. What should have been a 15-minute walk or a five-minute bus ride turned out to be a thirty-minute wait for the train. I already finished the short stories Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman and Airplane: Or, How He Talked to Himself as If Reciting Poetry by Haruki Murakami while waiting on the platform with other passengers for the last train trip from Taft to North Avenue station when I saw the lazy train approaching like the first light of dawn breaking the horizon that was Guadalupe Bridge.

Rogelio Braga was in Manila to attend the awarding for this year’s Palanca. This is his first time to win the award. And although he is known for his plays, he copped the award for best short story written in Filipino.

I met him more than a month ago at the Cultural Center of the Philippines during the 5th Virgin Labfest. Two of his plays were being performed that time. I was doing reviews of the plays for this blog when I happened to watch his play Ang Bayot, Ang Meranao, at ang Habal-habal sa isang Nakababagot na Paghihintay sa Kanto ng Lanao del Norte. I did not like it in the same way that I like sipping melon shake on a humid and hot afternoon, but I understood what the play wanted to say about the place where I come from, the Mindanao I never bothered to understand. He made a lengthy response to my review of the play. The following night I met him after watching his play So Sangibo A Ranon Na Piyatay O Satiman A Tadman. The meeting was brief. I introduced myself; we shook hands; I left.

He arrived at Starbucks earlier than I did. He was coming from Tandang Sora in Quezon City, almost ten times the distance I traveled. I tried looking haggard and apologetic to rationalize my tardiness upon entering the coffee shop, but I did not see him inside. He initially escaped recognition because of his cropped hair. The last time he was sporting an Afro-like coiffure minus the really kinky hair. This time he seemed to have looked more mature. Only when he waved at me did I recognize that it was he.

I suggested transferring to the Starbucks beside EDSA Central because the one in Shangri-la closes at midnight. While walking our way we talked about our academic backgrounds. It surprised me to know that he finished his undergraduate majoring in Political Science in 2000 from the University of Santo Tomas, making him 29 years old based on my calculation. I thought we were batch mates. They say writing makes one look more mature than his real age. It has an opposite effect on Ogie.

He ordered chamomile tea. “Gusto kong makatulog.” It was interesting because as far as I was concerned that time, I intended to extend the talk until dawn. And talking to somebody who was sleepy might prove a challenge. I asked for any drink free from caffeine because I already had a big tumbler of cappuccino several hours ago. And the conversation continued.

As an artist and a writer, I expected him to have a high regard for truth. He did not fail to deliver. He is passionate, almost to a point of obsession, to tell about the truths he believes in. He hates almost as obsessively people who lie to themselves. He dropped names, names I know and read about, who according to him spread bull shit. He expressed his disappointment, his disillusionment.

Still his passion for his Art remains as true.

He corrected, “Di ako taga-Mindanao.”

“I thought you were. Andami mong alam about the place.”

He gave me a full-dentured smile. He worked for an NGO based in Iligan long enough to understand the place and its people. He left in 2007 to return to Manila after an experience that caused him to be bitter about the place. This same experience pushed him to later embrace the place and use this as an inspiration for his plays and fictions.

He believes in the Moros’ fight for a Bangsa Moro. It was something I was not ready to accept having come from a family of Visayan origin that was transplanted in Southern Mindanao. I cannot think of calling any other place home other than Mindanao.

This is the complexity of our idea of a nation. For Ogie, nationhood is a “Grand Manila Project” and the Philippine government’s non-recognition of the Bangsa Moro is a manifestation of this. He dismisses this concept of a nation as a mere hegemonic battle. I got his point. Clearly because he has been to the place and saw the daily struggles of the Muslims to live like second-class citizens in their homeland inhabited by the more politically powerful “Filipinos”. “Only when we give Mindanao back to the Moros will we be able to put an end to this war.”

Yes it makes sense, I said. But it’s impossible in this lifetime. I thought that the solution is more complex than that. Mindanao is a part of the modern puzzle. It cannot anymore live on it glorious past. The island is a dynamic multicultural place that can only exist if it incorporates diversity on all the facet of its development.

I envy him because he was able to make his opinion regarding the place, write about the people of Mindanao with sensitivity and sympathy. He is a reminder of what I am missing.

We talked about our work, writing, existentialism, French films, his being “French”, and life in general. He is currently based in Cebu and is working as a Human Resource manager in a BPO.

It was almost four o’clock in the morning when we left the coffee shop. “Sige I’ll treat you for breakfast. Sabi kasi nila you’ll be blessed daw if you share during Ramadan”.

I almost forgot that he’s Muslim. It was his last meal before the start of fasting.

A conversation with a reader of my blog

I smiled when I saw my favorite table unoccupied. I placed a copy of Inquirer, a book by David Sedaris, a mangled paperback Crime and Punishment I started to reread two days ago, and a hardbound, original edition of Portnoy’s Complaint on that table and ordered a tumbler of cappuccino. I was 10 minutes early.

I sat there oblivious of the Saturday crowd at Starbucks in Shangri-la, unmindful of the noise and the cheerless chatter of people about their busy work week, concerns, and relationships.

Eavesdropping has lost its appeal on me a long time ago. Whatever transpires in conversations gleaned from overhearing them is dubitable, questionable, if not outright lies. So I shut my ears and went on reading features on the paper of the previous day instead.


Except for some occasional standard spiel, more like a refined scream, belted by a female barista at Starbucks for calling customers’ names, the noise inside the coffee shop was tediously repetitious whose monotonic quality was only shattered by loud laughter made by some people who got lost in the hilarity of their talks or the comedy of seeing other people forcing themselves inside a packed cafe on a supposedly fine Saturday evening drinking a dumb-looking transparent tumbler of iced robusta topped with an equally stupid-looking strawberry syrup.

I forgot how it happened but he came in rushing, placed the two books which I recognized as mine on the table and excused himself. He approached the counter to order something then returned with an unblushingly decadent cinnamon roll. I don’t know how he recognized me, probably because he saw his books stacked on top of the wooden round table.

A month ago, we exchanged books without having to see each other. I was doing a part-time job then so I left them with the condominium guard at the lobby. He also left his two books with the guard which I found inside a paper bag of a popular local clothing brand. Mine were carelessly presented with a note written on a tissue paper inserted between the pages apologizing for something I already forgot what. The contrast of our books was glaring. His were well taken care and looked almost brand new. Mine looked like they’ve been through a lot.

I do not usually lend my books because I am obsessed with annotations; whatever comes in my mind while reading (the more wicked, insensible, profane, self-deprecating or selfish they are, the better) I write them on the margins.  My books are my diaries. But it was already too late. I already made a promise to this reader the titles. After all, the probability of our paths crossing again in the future is miniscule, I reasoned. Furthermore, whatever he gathered from my random thoughts would be knotty at best and nonsensical at worst.  So I went on and lent them.

It was a fatal mistake.

We started awkward and talked about things he already knew about me. I asked him questions often asked in the first day of class. I was speaking in a clumsy Tagalog when he reminded me that we are both Ilonggos. He asked a lot of questions, as if he was trying to establish something. But generally our topic circled on writing and the books we read. For an accountant, I was surprised to know he reads canonical texts usually read in a Literature class. I didn’t get his reason for this but I sensed his disdain for whatever popish. I was amused at how he corrected himself and verbalized his contempt on his overuse of the adverbs ‘actually’ and ‘basically’ whenever he begins his sentence, as if the ghost of his college grammar teacher was seated beside him that time, hounding him.

Aren’t you scared?

Of what?

Of exposing so much of yourself in your writings?

Sometimes. There is nothing I have to hide. I am writing for myself.

I looked at my books that stayed with him for a month. I was horrified and almost fell from my seat. They were wrapped in transparent plastic cover. It was the last thing I would do to my books. The last time I remember covering my books was when I was in my elementary; that made sense because we were using government issued books for public schools which means that we have to return them by the end of the year as they will be used by incoming students the following year.

But my books since I entered college until this time are never covered. They all maintain a rugged look caused by being subject to relentless wear and tear aggravated by my sweaty palms, not to mention them being used beyond their intended function: as pillows, sun and rain covers, pot holders, notepads, fans, and my favorite — to shoo dumb people away by feigning I am deeply caught with what I am reading.

I sincerely appreciated his extra effort to cover them. It was thoughtful of him. I sounded robotic when I thanked him every time my eyes landed on the neatly covered books.

And once again, the lingering contrast. His books I kept for a month direly needed attention for they exhibited signs of misuse, warped pages, and a small tear in the blurb of Portnoy’s Complaint. I cannot impose my values on other people and their possessions. I apologized for their near-sorry state but if there was anything I could assure him, I valued his books and enjoyed reading each page. We buy books to read and to let them become a part of us, figuratively and literally.

He is a perceptive man who silently makes commentaries on the events occurring before him. And it was a fatal mistake to lend him my books with all the annotations because it meant exposing myself to a stranger I’ve never met before and whose only image I have of him is through the books he reads.

Again I reasoned, I have nothing to hide. Here’s a reader who knows me more than the people I physically encounter everyday. Nothing is wrong with writing about the life I live if it means being understood and along the way understanding myself by looking at myself being reflected in somebody else’s eyes.

He reads my posts regularly. This for me, is more than enough a reason to continue writing.

Falling in and out of love in 9 minutes

I stood there stoned, reading a book of essays on Ernest Hemingway’s works, firmly holding it with my left hand; a black sling bag was hanging on my right shoulder; and my right hand is holding a tumbler of cappuccino. I was doing all these while humming the refrain of “Bohemian Rhapsody”. I know I looked like a poor student eking my last, hard-earned peso bills to pay for the train ride from my condominium in Boni just to watch a free Japanese feature. For indeed I am, except that I am not anymore a student.


Still you stood next to me and even mustered the guts to ask me a stupid question which I only responded with an indifferent no. A response that articulately told you “I am not interested in commencing a conversation. I have far more important things to do.”

You hesitated a bit then turned your back on me. And in the tradition of bodily movements only admissible in the theater, you made a 180-degree turned, gave me a half smile then politely asked me to watch your line.

A more inert “Sure” was my answer this time.

You came back after two minutes with literally nothing added or deducted. I could not think for the reason of that action you did. But I felt it meant nothing. So there we were again with the dumb silence patiently waiting for our thinning chance to enter the cinema.

After a while you gave up standing like lame and left. I followed suit, but did not really follow you. In fact I walked too fast, too fast that I failed to notice that I overtook you. The last time I would see you, I thought. I took the escalator, descended to the ground floor, and bought my favorite un-dough-nut-like dough nuts there. Then I took another escalator up to the MRT station on Shaw Boulevard. You were on your way down. I acted as if I didn’t notice you. I did, but oh how I hate theatrics especially if they’re outside the theater.

I knew it would be the last time I shall see you.

And so here I am writing about what happened and looking at all the angles of my thoughts that time, asking myself why I did not try to be more earnest, why I did not allow a conversation to take place and from there to just let the moment take its course unbarricaded by our all-to-human tendency to shrink whenever we confront the unknown.

Muling Pagbisita: Rebyung Panteatro ng Tatlong Dula

Ang rebyung panteatrong ito ay aking iniaalay sa kaibigan kong si Nikos na ngayon ay nasa bansang Thailand upang pansamantalang iwanan ang Maynila at kung anumang mga bagay na may kinalaman sa lugar na ito.

Bagama’t kadalasan ay nagkakasalungat ang aming mga opinyon sa mga bagay bagay, sisikapin kong maging obhektibo, ngunit alam kong ito’y imposible, nang sa gayon ay magkaroon ng atmospera ng pagkakaroon ng distansya at hindi iisipin ng aking kaibigan na ako’y gumagawa na naman ng isang editoryal patungkol sa mga bagay na dapat sana’y panatilihin na lamang sa kung ano at saan sila, gaya ng mga usapan sa Starbucks.

Binalak naming panuorin ang set na ito, subalit sa isang di inaasahang pagkakataong dulot ng di-miminsang pagmamadali at hindi pag-anda sa mga mumunting detalye ay iba ang set ng mga dula ang aming pinanuod. At dahil na rin sa pagkagusto kong ma-i-share sa kanya ang aking karanasang panteatro noong nakaraang gabi, minabuti ko nang sumulat patungkol sa tatlong dulang iyon na hindi na naming napanuod na magkasama.

Masasabi kong hindi nasayang ang ginawa kong paglalakad galing estasyon ng LRT sa Buendia papuntang Cultural Center of the Philippines (kulang-kulang ay tatlong kilometro) malapit sa Roxas Boulevard at ang di ko pagkain ng agahan at tanghalian upang makabili ng ticket na nagkakahalaga ng 200 piso. (Ang una’y hindi po pagmamalabis at naglakad talaga ako ng ganoon kalayo; ang ikalawa’y pagbibiro lamang po!)

Sa pagsulat ng mga rebyu sa ibaba, naisip ko ang kahalahagahan ng pagganap ng mga tauhan sa isang dula. Ang kagandahan ng kwento o kawalan nito ng kwenta ay nakasalalay ng malaki sa ng mga tauhan. Sa gayon, ang mga rebyung ito ay pagsibad sa kwento sa kabuuan at pagtingin sa pamamaraan ng actor at aktres sa tatlong dula.

Ang Kalungkutan ng mga Reyna (by Floy Quintos, directed by Floy Quintos)

Kung ako ang tatanungin, sa lahat ng mga napanood kong mga dula sa Virgin Labfest V, ito na siguro ang pinakamahusay ang pagkasulat at pagkaganap. Ang karakter ng reyna na si Yolanda Cadiz ay parang hinugot sa katotohanan ng bawat isa sa atin, isang karakter na puno ng buhay who can inspire pathos, rage, pity, pagka-inis at kung anu-anupang gamut of human emotions.. Isang lider na nabitag sa pagpapasakanya ng sobrang kapangyarihan, at ang pagdiskubre na hindi lamang magandang motibo ang kailangan upang mapatakbo ang isang bansa.


Lubhang makatotohanan ang kanyang pagganap na kung ilang beses akong nakaramdam ng paninindig ng balahibo – paano kung ganito nga mag-isip ang mga lider natin? paano kung itong mga bagay nga mismo ang kanilang itinuturing na pinakamahalaga: ang bagay na hairstyle sa kanila (apple cut ba o ang wastong tawag dito na bob cut)?

Ito’y kwento rin ng beauticiang si Marcel na iba ang pananaw sa kanyang trabaho, na ito ay isa ring bokasyon, na sa kabila ng “kabaliwan” ng reyna ay nanatili pa ring matapat hanggang sa huli. Lubhang kumplikado ang mga emosyong pinakita ni Marcel, mula sa kanyang pagdadalawang isip, pagkwestyon sa mga kakaibang pananaw ng reyna patungkol sa konsepto ng monarkiya, ang kanyang pagka-awa, hanggang sa kanyang lubusang pagkawak bilang tao sa katapusan ng kwento.

Bagama’t puno ng katatawanan ang kwento, ito’y umaapaw rin ng mapapait na parodya ng pulitika sa Pilipinas. Na sa huli’y di rin nakasalalay sa lider o sa uri ng pamahalaan mayroon ang isang bansa upang ito’y magbago at maging maunlad, na sinumang magmadali na baguhin ito gamit ang mga mababaw na pamamaraan ay naitadhanang mabigo, na ang mga mamamayan pa rin nito ang magdidikta kung kailan at sa paanong paraan nila gustong magbago. Sapagkat ang pagbabago, sa monarkiya man o demokrasya, ayon kay Marcel, ay nangangailangan ng libong taon at hindi ang basta-bastang pagbabago ng istilo ng buhok, pagpatong ng koronang hitik sa hiyas sa ulo ng isang isang reyna, o pagtugtog sa marching tune ng kantang Somewhere Over the Rainbow ni Judy Garland.

Bukod sa paraan ng panulat, maingat at detalyado rin ang paggamit ng direktor sa ilaw. May mga puntong nagdudulot ng takot ang mukha ng reynang si Yolanda dahil sa ilaw na nakapwesto sa bandang paanan niya, at sa ibang panaho’y awa o dili kaya’y pagkatuwa.

Ang dulang ito ay naging epektibo dahil sa magaling na pagsasama ng katatawanan at opinyong pulitikal. Ito’y epektibo dahil sa paggamit nito ng naratibong alam nating interesado tayong lahat, kwento ng mga taong naka-upo sa trono. Ito’y epektibo dahil sinagot nito ang ating mga mabababaw na katanungan: ano kaya ang mga pinag-uusapan ng mga lider? ano kaya ang laman ng mga matters of state? ano kaya kung magkaroon ng reyna sa Pilipinas?

Parehong mabibigla at matatawa kayo sa mga kasagutan.

Uuwi na ang Nanay kong si Darna (adapted by Job Pagsibingan of the original Uuwi na ang Nanay kong si Darna by Edgar Samar, directed by Catherine Racsag)


Ang dulang ito ay mga kaganapan sa pantasya ng batang nasa elementarya patungkol sa kanyang nanay na nagta-trabaho bilang domestic helper sa Hong Kong o Japan. Masining ang ginamit na pamamaraan sa pagbuo ng set kung saan sa isang bahagi ng entablado ay nagku-kwentuhan ang mag-ama samantalang sa isang bahagi naman ay ang nanay na nakikipaglaban sa mga ‘kalaban’: mikrobyo sa bahay, dumi sa mga damit, at pagpapatahan sa kanyang alagang bata.

Simple ang kwento at walang masyadong aasahang pagsibad sa mga kwentong panlipunang kinakaharap ng pamilyang nahiwalay dahil sa pagta-trabaho ng isa o parehong mga magulang. Ang ganitong treatment ay husto lamang para sa isang kwento nagaganap sa pantasya ng isang paslit, sa ganang akin.

Ang pinakamalaking puna at ang mismong pinakamabigat na kahinaan ng dulang ito ay sa teknikal na aspeto. May mga pagkakataong wala sa tamang timing ang pag-iilaw, o ang pagtunog ng mga sound effects; kung minsa’y ang mga effects na ito’y di lumalabas kung kailan pinaka-kailangan sila ng tagpo. Lubhang mahaba at paulit-ulit ang mga labanan sa pagitan ng nanay at nang kanyang mga kalabang mikroboyo at dumi sa damit na sa huli pagkaumay na lamang ang mananatiling reaksyong makukuha mula sa mga tagapanood.

Isa ring malaking hadlang sa tuluyang konsumasyon ng dula ay ang kahinaan sa pag-arte ng lahat ng mga tauhan. Ang batang tauhan ay di-miminsang nauutal at halatang nakakalimot sa kanyang mga linya na buti na lamang ay ginagiya ng karakter ng kanyang ama. Hindi rin masyadong nagpakita ng emosyon ang nanay, na kung hindi sa kanyang maputing kili-kili na kung ilang beses pinakita, ay mananatiling flat ang karakter sa kabuuan.

Nangangailangan pa ng ibayong ensayo ang dulang ito.

Ang Bayot, Ang Meranao, at ang Habal-habal sa isang Nakababagot na Paghihintay sa Kanto ng Lanao del Norte (by Rogelio Braga, directed by Nick Olanka)

Para sa isang galing sa Mindanao, aaminin ko pinaka-kritikal ako sa dulang ito na tinangkang sagutin ang mga tanong patungkol sa kinalalagyan ng Mindanao sa Pilipinas at ang naratibo ng diskriminasyon sa pagitan ng mga Muslim at Kristiyano, taga-itaas at taga-ibaba, taga-bundok at taga-patag, taga-Mindanao at taga-Maynila, mga bakla at straight.

Ang dalawang tauhan: si Bambi at Christian o Jamid, minsan sa kanilang mga buhay, ay parehong naging biktima ng diskriminasyon sa iba’t iba nitong mukha. Si Bambi bilang bayot na taga-labas, at si Christian bilang Muslim na Maranao. Isang araw habang naghihintay ng masasakyan si Bambi papuntang opisina ng kanilang NGO sa itaas ng bundok ay nakilala niya ang mapilit at gwapong drayber ng habal-habal na si Christian. Sa pagpupumilit ng drayber na pasakayin si Bambi sa kanayang minamanehong sasakyan ay nauwi ang kanilang usapan sa mga isyung kinakaharap ng Mindanao, ng mga bakla, korupsyon sa pamahalaan, at mga pangmamata sa mga Muslim.

Lanao Lake

Sa kalagitnaan ng dula habang kung ilang beses bitawan ni Bambi ang katagang “putang ina! O puke ng ina!” hindi ako mapakali sa aking kinauupuan sapagkat nakaramdam akong sumobra yata sa dami ang pagkabanggit sa mga salitang ito. Kailanma’y di ako tumutol sa pagiging prangka ng mga tauhan sa pelikula man o dula, siguro’y dala na rin ng pagiging daynamiko ng midyum, subalit sa mga pagkakataong iyon ay hindi na naging kaayaayang paulit-ulit na marinig ang mga salitang iyon na binibitawan kung kailanman naisin ng tauhang si Bambi. It has completely dulled the effect of the otherwise emphatic expletive. Sa kabilang banda, magaling ang pagtangka ng karakter ni Christian na ibitaw ang kanyang mga linya na may tonong Maranao. Oo nga’t may mga pagkakataong eksaherado na ito subalit nagbigay ito ng kapansin-pansing contrast sa paraan ng pananalita ng dalawang tauhan.

May mga pagkakataon nawawala ako sa daloy ng kwento dahil sa sobrang daming isyung pinagpilitang ipasok ng manunulat ng dula sa kanyang dulang may isang tagpo. Ngunit masasabi kong mahusay pa rin ang kanyang paghabi sa kwento ng dalawang tauhan at kung paano sila nauuganay ng isang bagay: na sila’y parehong biktima ng diskriminasyon sa lipunang kinabibilangan nila.

Isang linya sa dula ang para sa aki’y lubusang inilahad ang tema ng gawang ito, na “sa buhay, may mga bagay na hanggang sorry na lamang talaga”. Na gaano man kalakas ang katagang putang-ina mo! upang daut-dauting ang isang putang nasa itaas ng puno na ang pangalang ay Gloria o maki-usap at magpumilit si Bambi na i-konsider ang application ni Jamid o Christian sa pinagtatrabahuhan niyang NGO, sadyang sorry na lamang ang makukuha nilang kasagutan.

Ang dulang ito, na halos ay magborder na sa pag-mo-moralize gaya ng karamihan sa mga dulang may kalakip na komentaryong panlipunan, ay nanatili pa ring matapat sa kanyang layunin – ang ilahad ang mga kwentong hindi na kadalasan pinakikinggan dahil ang mga taong kasangkot ay mga simpleng tao gayan ng isang bayot na naka-pink sunglasses o isang habal-habal driver ng isang motorsiklong Kawasaki na flat ang gulong.