Because I am a shameless self promoter, I would like to repost in my blog several of the full book reviews I came across of ‘Lies My Yaya Should Have Told Me’ that came out both in print and online.

And hopefully, this gets you excited enough to show up to my book signing at Fully Booked, Bonifacio Hi Street, Taguig on November 22 (Saturday).

Thanks again for the support! Namaste.

From Carlomar Arcangel Daoana of The Daily Tribune (originally published on February 14, 2008) 

RJ Ledesma’s take on love and all things similar

Since the publication of Kitty Go’s two delightful volumes on the foibles of high society, there has been no “funny” read to emerge that can actually balance the tightrope between acute observation and simply rollicking humor, that is until RJ Ledesma’s Lies my Yaya should have told Me was launched last Thursday in Archeology in Rockwell.

The book, published by Anvil, is something we have been expecting from RJ all along, if I may hazard a guess. His must-read ruminations on love, dating and things similar in the 21^st century, as chronicled by two dailies, plus his energizing touch that  transformed Manual into the only irreverently smart men’s magazine in the country, had left us guessing what RJ can do with the format of a book.

Lies my Yaya should have told Me is, simply put, a suave masterwork to this juggler of many careers. The first chapter “Love is a Four-Letter Word” blurts out what may be a fundamental truth about men: “They confuse sex for love.” From here, the author darts toward assembling objects that curiously set the mood for sex, which men believe they have wrapped in smokescreen. The author, as a fact-seeking journalist, takes a quick jaunt to Victoria Court and cyber-cruises in dating sites to report first-hand the nitty-gritty of love’s nether regions.

 His vivisection of Christian Bautista’s “Hands to Heaven” is, however, the crux of this chapter, as it betrays the underlying message in the song’s refrain repeated five times: “Tonight I need your sweet caress,/Hold me in the darkness/Tonight you calm my restlessness/You relieve my sadness.” What looks like an innocuous string of words is actually deceptive. Warning the “three female readers of my column,” RJ decodes the lyrics as: “I want to go at it with you five times but I hope you don’t make me feel guilty in the morning when I give you a call.”

The second chapter, “The thin line between love and insanity,” ventures into terra incognita: the wrath of a woman.  The “rusty pliers,” a character that will evolve to Darth Vader proportions as one reads along, makes its initial appearance here. Essentially, the stories in the chapter are meant to make sense of woman’s a senselessness when she is fuming mad. RJ, in a stroke of genius, realizes that “she has the divine right to get angry at you about anything because it is entire your fault.”  He spirals into another Dante Alighieri hell by knowing the fury connected with PMS and ovulation. I have never read anything as reverential when it comes to woman’s body rhythms.

Dating, as seen through the eyes of RJ, gets demystified in the third chapter, “Mating Games.” His almost anthropological approach to the anatomy of flirting (ditto the svelte seduction of stilettos), which RJ concludes as a failure of interpretations, is juxtaposed with a she says/he says repartee on the nature of woman’s weight, all meant to save a man’s precious extremities once the conversation actually creeps up. Describing blind dates as “the Russian roulettes of the courtship world,” RJ reasons that “men shouldn’t be allowed to go on speed dating without a license” and “women shouldn’t go on speed dating without alcohol.”

The raison d’etre isn’t served until the last chapter, “The Parent Trap,” which reads like a somnambulist’s recollection of a guy meeting his girlfriend’s parents for the first time while simultaneously glimpsing a vision of his death. It’s incisive, not to mention hilarious, in a way that it exposes the nuances of the uniquely Pinoy phenomenon called dalaw, the prelude to the actual pamamanhikan.

“According to the book The Filipino Family,” the author writes, “tradition dictates that parents command their daughters to stay in their rooms and plug their ears full of cotton so that they can face the young man and pulverize him without restraint.  And, even if your dangle has yet to cause collateral damage, the Q&A serves as a preemptive strike to ensure the preservation of virgin territory.”

 In Lies my Yaya should have told Me, RJ’s strength lies more on hyperbole than irony. There’s nothing to read between the lines and all the scenes are meant to be imaginatively relished (yes, even the dog fornicating with the author’s leg in a beach) and in some instances, cringed upon, especially when rusty tools creep up as a warning against men’s nonsense and such. It’s evident that the author dips his foot into the territory of fiction, but not only for effect: he finagles truths about the human condition—chiefly, the eternal interplay between a man and a woman—by enlarging and sculpting situations to suit his end.

 As the book engages with Philippine contemporary life, the reader will not miss the deft tirades of the author on politics. RJ describes GMA’s approval ratings as “scant as the outfits” which “nubile starlets” wore in his TV show.  It’s commentary that doesn’t leave a bad taste in the mouth, but interests just the same because it is so left-field, so dripping with humor.

For some, the author may even be considered as a feminist—a self-deprecating figure prostate on the altar of Venus. But he is, deep down, just an ordinary bloke who is man enough to admit, recognize, even celebrate the importance of women—not merely for pro-creation purposes, mind you. Because of this, RJ may come across as merely earnest. But if earnestness is his vice, so be it.

From Paolo Lorenzana of Philippine Star’s Supreme (originally published on March 1, 2008)

Randomonium

Welcome to the 21st century, where the sexual revolution has revolved off into absurdity—and where a Pinoy guy in his 30s can unflinchingly write about his inadequacies and pay homage to the woman who constantly provides him wisdom, mis-education, and towels to wipe his pawis: his yaya.

Sure, any guy would have reaped emotional scars from hawking Royal Tru Orange in an ‘80s commercial that takes totoy to an unprecedented level, but that colorful blip in a man’s life only proves to add to the wisecracking, utterly self-deprecating persona of Rene “RJ” Ledesma, which is what prodded me to purchase Lies my Yaya Should have Told Me: RJ Ledesma’s Imaginary Guide to Whine and Women over Pulutan from the Soldier’s Kitchen, a bar chow cookbook compiled by two Oakwood mutineers-turned-gourmands who’ve whipped-up productivity from incarceration—the former, way tastier than a serving of adobong hito sa gata.

A collection of his columns from the Manila Times (“Playing With My Tools”) and The Philippine Star (“Pogi from a Parallel Universe”), Lies my Yaya Should have told Me chronicles its author’s testicle tickling—and kicking—travails in the savage lands of the female species; one presided over by a girlfriend who’s privy to the law (she’s a barrister) and won’t think twice about pummeling his man-parts with a gavel, a mother who’s amusingly overbearing, and, of course, a yaya who acts as the cackling entity looming over his manhood and the bastion of his subservience to the fairer sex.

No, the holy trinity of girlfriend-mother-yaya doesn’t really stand behind RJ holding cold gun barrels against his head as in Iraqi captive execution, but all the campy imagination makes for a riotous read, anyway; RJ writing of the 21st century Pinoy man’s concerns (Victoria Court motels and chloroform, boys’ nights out and KTVs, and all the blood-pumping dilemmas of having a d*ck) from the hazards of dating and the task of appeasing girlfriends we don’t seem to deserve, no matter how smart, funny, and rightfully geeky a man is. Whether it’s weathering women through “permissible manslaughter” (PMS) and irrationale (“She has the divine right to get angry at you about anything because it is your entire fault”) or having to learn the secret art of listening, RJ channels Steve Martin, Dolphy, and pre-Duplex Ben Stiller—especially when he meets his girlfriend’s parents in an essay entitled “Let Sleeping Pickles Lie”, an allusion to slipping some discretion to a mate’s parents to avoid the pickling of one’s testicles.

We’re all pretty much on the same train to men-only Auschwitz when we deal with the women in our lives, but with RJ as our crash test dummy fumbling for propriety and his girlfriend’s graces, we can stand at the sidelines rubbing our bellies and laughing nervously at how much of an absolutely clueless and lesser sex we are. Ledesma’s Lies makes for great pulutan for the imbecile’s soul (that means all hetero wielders of the schlong) and it’s good to see one guy, as they say, taking it like a man.

From Rome Jorge of Manila Times (originally published on April 3, 2008)

RJ Ledesma tells all about his Yaya, The Tru-Orange kid and his expose about his nanny

He started his literary career here at The Manila Times. His column, “Playing with My Tools,” reintroduced Filipinos readers to RJ Ledesma, then better known for being that kid, Joey, in the Royal Tru Orange commercial (if you’re old enough to remember, you’re old—like RJ and I are) who was sent by his mommy to buy some suka [vinegar, not puke].

He also co-hosted for that FHM-like TV show Men’s Room. In his column entries, he intimated: his fixation with supermodel Phoemela Barranda; his dependence on his yaya [nanny/wet nurse], belying any similarity of television commercial persona with his true self—that of a scion of real estate development empire, Ledesco; and his supposedly henpecked and Catholic-guilt-stricken relationship with Vanessa, now his wife. Read it and weep:

The Comet that Killed the Dinosaurs [RJ Ledesma’s pet name for his girlfriend, specifically when she’s pissed at him]: Why do you keep writing about Phoemela Barranda!? You think I find that funny!? Every week it’s Phoem this and Phoem that! It’s enough already that I have to compete with your yaya sleeping beside you at night, then Phoem pa!

RJ the dead idiot: What does this have to do with what we’re talking about? Love, you know I’m just writing about Phoem for humorous exaggeration, and you didn’t have to let the readers know about my yaya . . .

- Playing With My Tools, The Manila Times, May 29, 2005

Later, Ledesma became Editor in Chief of Manual Magazine. And then he left to us to write for that other newspaper filled with star columnists. Arrgh. The turncoat! But we know the dirt on Ledesma. And so does everyone, thanks to his new book, Lies My Yaya Should Have Told Me: RJ Ledesma’s Imaginary Guide to Whine and Women.

They say it’s a bestseller, most especially after it was allegedly mandated as required reading for the rank and file of Ledesco. Friends of Ledesma (as well as complete and utter strangers) can expect to receive copies of his book for Christmas, Valentine’s, Halloween, and on their wedding, baptism, confirmation and circumcision. Sources allege that this is but the first in Ledesma’s quest for ultimate power.

Rumor has it that a movie musicale based on the book (starring Barranda no less and the dashing Andrew E as Ledesma) is set to be released shortly before the campaign season of the next elections, where Ledesma is said to run for President under a platform of free government-subsidized soft drinks, a ban on all meat products and calls for an orange revolution.

Oh, about the book. It’s kind’a funny.

Be on the lookout for special copies with centerfold spread photos of Ledesma and nanny. Do not open—not unless you value the meal you ate beforehand.

In it as well are insights into the Pinoy psyche—at least the psyche of Pinoy who’s a vegan yoga instructor, real estate magnate, Couples for Christ member and men’s magazine editor. Definitely, the author is your typical guy.

Already, literary critics have lavished praise on the book:

“It made me cry.” -RJ Ledesma

Kidding aside, the book delivers oodles on the science behind romance such as the biochemistry of pheromones and oxytocins. It also delivers realistic situationers about romance and relationship for 21st century Pinoys—like Catholic guilt about premarital sex and skulking about drive-in motels just the same.

It’s a must read, especially for employees of Ledesco.

From Gmeleen Faye B. Tomboc of Clickthecity.com (originally posted on February 11, 2008)

Lies My Yaya Should Have Told Me

If you walk into a book launch graced by Mayor Binay and members of the diplomatic corps, you could have mistaken it for the launching of a coffee table book. However, once I spotted Gary Lising and DJ Mo Twister milling around, I knew there was something else to it.

On a Thursday night, RJ Ledesma (aka that guy in the Royal Tru Orange commercial) unveiled his first compilation “Lies My Yaya Should Have Told Me: RJ Ledesma’s Imaginary Guide to Whine and Women.” Gary Lising, DJ Mo Twister, Nancy Castiglione, Sam Oh, and Jojo “All the Way” Alajar were on hand to read out excerpts. Those familiar with his late-night show with stand-up comedian Tim Tayag (“The Men’s Room”) would definitely know what to expect from this paperback – tongue-in-cheek humor.

The book is a compilation of his essays from his previous column in the Manila Times called “Playing With My Tools,” and his current column for the Philippine Star called “Pogi from a Parallel Universe.” The observations on pick-up lines, dating, courtship, and certain life-changing events, such as dealing with the parents of your girlfriend, are razor-sharp, laugh-out-loud (not just chuckle) funny, and most of the time, embarrassingly true. How else can you explain this passage: “In their more complex minds, women mistakenly ‘boys’ night out’ with cheap beer, voluptuous women, and really lousy singing. They’re wrong you know- the beer isn’t cheap.”

Surprisingly, there’s a fair amount of research that went into each column- RJ cites sources running the gamut of the president of the American Board of Sexology to books such as “Shoes: A Celebration of Pumps, Sandals and Slippers.” There are also sprinklings of political innuendo thrown in: “(My) girlfriend informed me that I had first to ask her parents’ permission to accompany her to the United States. If there’s anything that scares me more than GMA’s mole, it is her parents.”

Of course, the evening could not have been complete without RJ’s yaya, who gamely hammed it up for the camera with her ward. There are more observations on everything else than on what RJ’s yaya actually told (or did not tell) him. But after going through all 107 pages, you wouldn’t mind.

This paperback is a fun read because RJ isn’t afraid to poke fun at himself; in one essay, he describes himself this way: “I was already a thirty something who had suffered his first bald spot (oh, the indignity!) and finally gained the privilege to watch porn movies guilt-free (but I still lock my door).” RJ shares, “The nice thing about humor is that you’re able to tell the truth in a way that you can accept it. Luckily I’m someone who has a very low threshold of embarrassment.”

His yaya made him do it.

As a chubby be-pimpled teenager slash 80s pop icon slash alpha-nerd, RJ Ledesma was the laughingstock of his peers because his Yaya Cora was with him wherever he went, be it to the disco or to a soiree or the banyo.

RJ with his Yaya Cora

After several years and extensive psychological counseling, the tables are now turned and RJ struck back at his detractors.  Newspaper columnist and magazine editor (but now a fading 80s pop icon) has written a best-selling book (his mom bought a lot of copies) from Anvil Publishing entitled “Lies My Yaya Should Have Told Me, RJ Ledesma’s Imaginary Guide To Whine and Women” about his ruminations on dating and mating in the 21^st century, which collects his columns from Manila Times (“Playing With My Tools”) and the Philippine Star (“Pogi From A Parallel Universe”).   

RJ takes his brand of irreverence to new lows with a book signing at Fully Booked, Bonifacio High Street, Bonifacio Global City, Taguig on November 22 (Saturday) at 5pm.  “Your yayas are welcome to come.” RJ added.

As a special treat, RJ will not only be reading excerpts from “Lies My Yaya Should Have Told Me” but also from his next book “I Do or I Die: RJ Ledesma’s Explosive Guide to Getting Married and other Man-Made Disasters (As told to him by his Yaya)”.  He will also be delivering a short lecture on humor writing.  As of press time, it was not confirmed if his yaya would be making an appearance.

Rj with spiritual adviser Gary Lising

Come to the book signing slash indoctrination and find out why everybody’s jumping into the yaya bandwagon!  Just check out these reviews:

“The book chronicles the author’s travails in the savage lands of the female species; one presided over by a girlfriend who won’t think twice about pummeling his man-parts with a gavel, a mother who’s amusingly overbearing, and, of course, a yaya who acts as the cackling entity looming over his manhood and the bastion of his subservience to the fairer sex…All the campy imagination makes for a riotous read…RJ writing of the 21^st century Pinoy man’s concerns, from the hazards of dating and the task of appeasing girlfriends we don’t seem to deserve, no matter how smart, funny, and rightfully geeky a  man is…RJ channels Steve Martin, Dolphy, and pre-duplex Ben Stiller…with RJ as our crash test dummy, we can stand at the sidelines rubbing our bellies and laughing nervously at how much of an absolutely clueless and lesser sex we are.” – Paolo Lorenzana of Philippine Star’s Supreme. 

“In Lies My Yaya Should Have Told Me, RJ’s strength lies more on hyperbole than irony.  There’s nothing to read between the lines and all the scenes are meant to be imaginatively relished and in some instances, cringed upon.  It’s evident that the author dips his foot into fiction but not only for effect: he finagles truths about the human condition – chiefly, the eternal interplay between a man and a woman – by enlarging and sculpting situations to suit his end…It’s commentary that doesn’t leave a bad taste on the mouth but interests just the same because it is so left-field, so dripping with humor.” – Carlomar Arcangel Daoanna of Daily Tribune.

“One might be fooled into thinking that the anecdotes and annotations are purely anchored on his yaya’s wisdom and female intuition…Whether it’s a sacred subject or not, RJ boldly explores the female figure in such a way that female readers are sure to get self-conscious, if not embarrassed, after putting down the book…Women, too, should pay heed to the author’s informational, albeit amusing, insights which our moms forgot to teach us in our formative years.” -  Candy Veneracion of Manila Bulletin. 

“The observations on pick-up lines, dating, courtship, and certain life-changing events, such as dealing with the parents of your girlfriend, are razor-sharp, laugh-out-loud (not just chuckle) funny, and most of the time, embarrassingly true.” – Gmeleen Faye B. Tomboc of ClickTheCity.com

“Rumor has it that a movie musicale based on the book (starring no les than the dashing Andrew E as Ledesma) is set to be released shortly before the campaign season of the next elections, where Ledesma is said to run for President under a platform of free government-subsidized soft drinks, a ban on all meat products and calls for an orange revolution…Kidding aside, the book delivers oodles on the science of romance such as the biochemistry of pheromones and oxytocins. It also delivers realistic situationers about romance and relationship for 21^st century Pinoys – like Catholic guilt about premarital sex and skulking about drive-in motels just the same.” – Rome Jorge of Manila Times.

“It made me cry.” – RJ Ledesma.

Shock jock Mo Twister, stand up comic Tim Tayag, Dirty Old Man Gary Lising, Dirty Young Adult RJ, tv host Sam Oh, and 80s icon and Tiger head Jojo Alejar

And, what perhaps is the most important lesson RJ has learned from his yaya?  According to Carlomar Daoanna. “He spirals into Dante Alighieri hell by knowing the fury connected with PMS and ovulation.  I have never read anything that is as reverential when it comes to woman’s body rhythms.”

His yaya has trained him well.

Please come to Fully Booked and buy a book, RJ needs to pay for his credit card bills.  

For more information on the launch, you can call Fully Booked Bonifacio High Street at (632) 858-7000/858-7036/858-7037/858-7038.

Lies My Yaya Should Have Told Me is now available at Fully Booked, National Bookstore and Power Books. 

So there we were, last place starters on the Samsung Innov8 Race, armed only with a good insurance policy, empty bladders and Amazing Race Asia’s Rovilson (or his prison nickname “Rovi”) Fernandez’s crumbling ego.  Our four man team, composed of a Samsung representative, a cell phone dealer, a good-looking member of the press and a scalp-deficient celebrity, were off on an eight part race where each consecutive task grew exponentially difficult: take pictures using our Samsung cell phone, perform a series of tai-chi movements, scurry up a fifty-foot high wall, drive three laps down a championship race course, explain the concept of double insertions to the Senate minority, overthrow the administration, bring about world peace, and watch an eighteen hour DVD of The Best of Kris Aquino’s game show hostings.   

There were three things that would propel us to victory in this contest: an intimate knowledge of Metro Manila’s eskinitas, a mutant ability to interface with the Samsung Innovate i8510 cell phone and the bile-forming fear that we would lose to our evil counterparts, those two whose names should be uttered only if you want to induce loose bowel movement: STAR columnist JR “good things come in small packages” Isaac and the Jon “my package is bigger than your package” Hall.  

For our team, this was a chance to each score a free i8510.  But it was much more for the geographically-illiterate Rovi: this was his chance for redemption from his lackluster Amazing Race Asia finish behind a well-groomed of Singaporean gymrats and a team of perky Malaysian mestizas (Rovi’s strategy: If you can’t beat them, make one of them your girlfriend). He was determined that we would be the first team zipping away from the starting line until my mutant ability to urinate every thirty minutes forced our team to make a last minute detour to the restroom. 

“You guys are a bunch of wimps!” Rovi wailed as we squeezed into the pick up.  “This never happened to Marc and I when were on The Amazing Race Asia! We did what we real men do and wore adult diapers!” Rovi folded his arms and started talking to himself. “Do you think you could do that Jon Hall! Do you!  All you can do is use your pectorals to crush chestnuts!”

“Uhm, Rovi, do you any last minute advice for us before we zoom off?” I asked.  “Should have a game plan? Should we pack extra underwear?  Should we have last rites?  Should we replace you with Marc Nelson?” 

“The most important thing in this race is,” Rovi cleared his throat, “To think of witty banter with your partner so you get more face time when they edit the show for tv. Or just cuss a lot.  Remember – controversy equals ratings!  Now let’s go speed racer!”

GO, GO SPEED RACER

For our three female readers who want to risk trauma, dignity and scalp exposure in a reality tv-inspired show race, here are a couple of our uninsured tips:

1.      It is best to have a driver who is a theoretical physicist.  Our driver believed that counterflow, tailgaiting and, most importantly, a red light – were all theoretical concepts.  Once we figured out that our first task was to find the quickest route from The Peninsula Hotel in Makati to Rajah Sulayman in Manila, we plowed through several orange cones, cement barriers and MMDA representatives.  We drove so fast that I think we left my testicles behind along the stretch of Roxas Boulevard.  However, speed alone is not enough when you might potentially lose to your imperfect duplicates JR and Jon.  Careening down Metro Manila streets on warp drive means that you will possibly break the law.  And to be able to break the law effectively, you need to enlist the assistance of law enforcement.  Note the proper way of how to go about it.  

“Bulag ba kayo (Are you blind)!?”   barked the portly MMDA traffic enforcer who had more chins than Chinatown, “Can’t you see this is a one-way street!?”  

“Sir, sir, ok lang yan (Sir, sir, it’s all ok).” I smirked.  We’re celebrities competing in a reality tv show inspired race. May k kami (We’ve got the power).”

“At may k akong ilubog kayong lahat sa pink urinal (And I have the power to dunk all of you in the pink urinals).” The MMDA representative grunted, “Saan yung lisensya ng driver ninyo (Where’s the license of your driver)?” he motioned with his fingers. 

“’Di mo ba ako naaalala (Don’t you remember who I am)!?” I was aghast.   “Ako yung sa Royal Tru-Orange noon? (I was the one from Royal Tru-Orange before)” the enforcer scratched his head (of course I am sure he merely feigned ignorance).

“Ikaw ba yung softdrink machine na nagiging robot (Are you the softdrink machine that turns into a robot)?” he sneered.

“Ako si Joey (I’m Joey)!” I growled while whipping out my wallet sized reproductions of all my fifteen commercials, three posters, and newspaper articles to refresh his memory.   

The MMDA enforcer was about to put his batuta to good use when Rovi interrupted.  “Officer, don’t you know who I am?” he mugged a smile.  “I’m the reason why the Philippines lost in the Amazing Race Season Two?”

The enforcer’s face lit up like a congressman who just got his pork barrel. “Woooowww, seerrr!!” he shrieked and clapped his hands.  “Mas-kyut ka pala sa personal.  Pahengeng awtograp (You’re cuter in person. Can I have your autograph)!”

Two minutes later, we were racing down Roxas Boulevard with a bevy of MMDA escort vehicles helping us wang-wang our way through traffic.  Despite being sardine-tight inside our pick up, our sumo-sized traffic enforcer insisted that he sit beside Rovi for the duration of our trip. “Bosing, baka pwede mo akong batiin sa teevee?” (Boss, can you greet me on tv?)” he giggled while gently sliding his arm around Rovi’s waist.  “At pa-keeees naman jan (And can I have a kiss).”  Rovi clenched his teeth. “This never happened to Marc and I when we were on the Amazing Race Asia.” he sighed.

Because of Rovi’s tongue-in-cheek sacrifice, we were the first ones to arrive at Rajah Sulayman. We bounced out of the vehicle to start our first challenge while we left Rovi inside the pick up to gargle with lighter fluid. And by the time Rovi had emptied the contents of the car deodorant into his mouth, we had completed our first picture-taking challenge on the i8510. 

“Take that Singapore!” Rovi raised his fist in his defiance while we received our next clue. When we zipped away from Rajah Sulayman, we spied the arrival of our imagined arch-rivals JR and John at the stop.  “And take that Jon Hall.” Rovi muttered under his breath.  “Your underwear contract is mine, b&*^%.”

2.      Hey Peydro, hows my Tagalog?  Although the featured mugshots of Sam Milby, Will Devaugh and Mo Twister appear on the Most Wanted posters for the atrocities they have committed against the national language, my name and Rovi’s name have managed to sneak into the poster as repeat offenders.  We have been guilty of mangling the vernacular beyond recognition, so much so that anybody within hearing range of us when we speak Tagalog have their heads spontaneously explode.  Among the many crimes perpetrated against the language include invented Tagalization, sentence and grammatical de-construction, misplaced inflection and enunciation, and, the most horrible of them all, vowel pronunciation.  Witness a crime in progress:

Still giddy from breezing through our first challenge and with only a hint of the MMDA enforcer’s smell on his breath, Rovi and I struggled to decipher the directions of our next stop. 

“Where the hell is this Taylo street!” Rovi screeched. “You guys are such race amateurs!  This never happened to Marc and I when we were on The Amazing Race Asia.” He folded his arms, closed his eyes and lifted his nose. 

I elbowed Rovi on the nose.  “The cell phone’s global positioning system (GPS) says that there are three possible locations for Taylo in Makati.” I continued to fiddle with the cell phone.  “There are two Taylo streets and one Taylor street.  Maybe the GPS does not understand the concept of an eskinita?”

“We’ve asked several tricycle drivers and they have no clue where that street is!?” Rovi ranted “All they did was ask for my autograph and a beso-beso on the cheek!”  he said while suppressing a grin.

“Rovi, maybe the organizers made a mistake we’re supposed to look for a Taylor street?”

After fifteen minutes of driving around aimlessly and giving away free autographs to tricycle drivers, we were forced to make a pitstop at a neighborhood police station.  Rovi and I were initially reluctant to enter the station because the only times we have ever been inside one was when we were asked to join a police line up.

“Officer, alam nyo ba kung saan ang Taylo (Officer, do you know where Taylo street is)?”

“Ano (What)?” he was visibly annoyed that we had interrupted him from completing his Sudoku puzzle.

“Tay-low.” I enunciated.   

The officer furrowed his brows, “Jay-Low?”  

Dear Lord in heaven, help me because I want to decapitate a police officer. “Hindi po. Tay-low (No, sir.  It’s Tay-low).”

“Niloloko mo ba ako (Are you making fun of me)?” The cop’s nose flared. “Baka naman yung hinanahap mo ay Tay-lo (Maybe you are looking for Tay-lo)?”

“Tay-lo?”

“Tay-lo yan, hindi yan Tay-Low. Para ka namang ‘kano kung magsalita (It’s Tay-lo, not Tay-low.  You’re pronouncing it like an American)!” The officer rolled his eyes “Yung tamang pagbigkas ng ‘a’ sa ‘Tay’ ay hindi parang play.  Ang tamang pagbigkas ng ‘a’ sa ‘Tay’ ay parang patay.” (The right way to pronounce the ‘a’ in ‘Tay’ is not like how you pronounce it in play.  The right way to pronounce the ‘a’ in’Tay’ is like how you pronounce patay)

Patay kang bata ka.  (Uhm, you’re a dead child)

“Ipaplantsa mo nga yung dila mo (Get your tongue ironed out)!” the cop pursed his lips and used it to point left, “Doon lang yung Taylo (Taylo’s just over there).”

I bit my tongue in disdain while Rovi punched his fist against the wall.  “Damn you Jon Hall!  Damn you!”  After that impromptu grammar session, we tried to dash out of the police station.  But the officer grabbed ahold of Rovi’s disproportionately large right forearm.  “Huy, kalbo (Hey bald man)!” he sniggered, “Pa-keeees naman jan (I think you know what this means already)!” Rovi dropped his head.  “This never happened to Marc and I when we were in the Amazing Race Asia.”

And just like most US investment banks, everything went downhill for our team from there.

Our loose vowel movement had done its damage.  When we finally arrived at the second stop, our egos evaporated when we discovered that our team had dropped to fourth place.  And despite how many times Rovi had to give mouth to mouth to law enforcers, despite the number of times we had to explain that there was nothing anomalous about double insertions, and despite watching eighteen hours worth of Kris Aquino, we never regained our first place standing.  By the time we had clawed our way to the last leg of the race, there was a mad scramble between three teams for second place finish.  Which, incidentally, leads me to the last tip on how to lose with dignity on a reality tv show inspired race:

3.      When in doubt, protest.  It happens in beauty contests, it happens in national elections, and it happens in jack en poy:  We Pinoys never really lose.  We just get cheated out of our victory. And we re-lived this proud tradition when the other teams wanted to urinate on, what appeared to be, our second-place finish.  Some of them complained to the organizers that we had not yet completed one task before moving on to the next one, some of them complained that I had left my testicles along the stretch of Roxas Boulevard, and some even had the gall to complain that Rovi and I should be arrested for acts of lasciviousness during the course of the race. How dare they accuse us of acting!  If they have any complaints, I say tell those teams to elevate their complaints to the Comelec. I’m sure the Comelec will render a fair and impartial decision by the time that we have grandchildren. 

In the end, the anti-Christs JR Isaac and Jon Hall clinched first place in the race.  Congratulations JR and Jon!  You deserve the first prize as much as GMA deserves the presidency.  Meanwhile, our team ended up in third place.  “Oh well.  At least I’m consistent.”  Rovi sighed “But your underwear contract will be mine one day, Jon Hall.”  

But even with our third place finish, the lower ranked teams persisted with their complaints.  One of the teams even accused us of doping.  “Look,” I fumed. “We weren’t doping!  I know that Rovi has a disproportionately large right forearm.” Then I whispered loudly, “But is it his fault that he was single for such a long time!?”

Hay naku, don’t those lower ranking teams realize that they didn’t lose to doping?  They just lost to a couple of dopes.