Dear all,

Please check out my new book from Anvil Publishing, “I Do or I Die! RJ Ledesma’s Imaginary Guide to Getting Married and Other Man-Made Disasters (As Told to him by his Yaya” now available at National Bookstores and Powerbooks nationwide! Please buy a copy and help me pay for my baby’s diapers!

I am reprinting the foreword to my book written by my former Creative Writing professor and mentor Dr. Isagani Cruz.  Thanks again Dr. Cruz for the great foreword!

The forgettable 1921 novel Scaramouche opens with these unforgettable lines: “He was born with a gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad.” All Filipinos were born with a gift of laughter, but very few realize that the world is mad.

For the world – at least the world that Filipinos live in – is mad, not in the American sense that It is a Mad Mad Mad Mad World nor in the African sense that The Gods Must Be Crazy nor in the Latin American magic / magical / marvelous realist sense, but in a distinctively Filipino, laugh-while-your-house-is-burning sense, the only sense that has made Filipinos treat a coup d’état as a revolution and a fiesta at the same time, enjoying junk food while kicking out an acknowledged dictator or a perceived degenerate, later forgiving and forgetting all personal and political hurts, grinning while posing for photos with record-breaking thieves and erstwhile objects of collective hatred, lying down and enjoying being literally or figuratively raped and boasting about it.

You cannot get any weirder than in the Philippines, and RJ Ledesma (http://rjledesma.net/) knows it. Using the oldest trick in the literary book, which is to create a character who is a character, he has raised his nanny (called a yaya in the Philippines, with a complete subculture built on the name, including a language codified by professional linguists as “Yaya English”) to the level of an icon.

All this sounds much too serious in an introduction to a book that calls out not to be taken seriously, but comedy is much too funny to be left to people with a sense of humor.

Aristotle, the great brain that he was and even with his too-valued two-valued logic, could not make heads or non-heads out of comedy. He wrote some random notes, realized that his reputation two centuries hence would be ruined if the notes would be discovered, and promptly ate the notes. Yes, ate them. (Since everything he wrote was preserved by his followers, it is safe to say that, to prevent his fans from overzeal, he himself ensured the non-survival of his notes on comedy by eating them. It was the only way to frustrate those wishing to sink their teeth into everything he wrote. It was also a way not to have to eat his words in the future against his will. To prove me wrong, you would have to build a time machine and, even then, you would have to catch Aristotle at the very moment he was composing the missing treatise on comedy. I could have painted a more probable scenario, but it would be toilet humor, quite unbecoming a professor.)

A number of otherwise sober people have since pontificated about comedy, among them Henri Bergson, who famously quipped that man is the animal that laughs, conveniently ignoring the loud laughter of women at such a sexist, exclusivist, anti-feminist, politically incorrect outburst. Real-life life-and-death medical doctors, led by Robin Williams’ fictional Patch Adams (not the real Patch Adams, born Hunter Campbell Adams, who set up a very serious clinic in West Virginia that is leading a very serious war against very serious medical insurance but, yes, is better known for traveling around the world with his doctor-friends dressed up as clowns healing children just by looking silly), have also been continually coming up with evidence that laughter, as Reader’s Digest discovered zillions of issues ago, is the best medicine.

There is no end to writers that attempt to write comedy. Many comics are funny, but few are hilarious. Ledesma is, well, hilarious.

What makes him even more hilarious than most writers of comedy (and there are not, sadly enough, too many of them in the Philippines, at least not as many as the grim-and-determined, anti-feudalist, anti-capitalist, anti-imperialist, anti-Manila, anti-English, anti-Malacañang constipated types) is that he finds even things familiar to us funny.

Ledesma was my student in creative writing at De La Salle University. In the beginning, he fancied himself an economist, taking up an undergraduate degree in economics. I like to flatter myself by saying that I snatched defeat from the jaws of victory by making him go the route of underpaid, unpaid, unappreciated, unwanted creative writers instead of the yellow brick road leading to, perhaps, a reign as the country’s economic czar or even a small-but-terrible economics-major president (as you read the book, you will see how many times the most unliked president in the history of the nation gets ridiculed). Of course, Ledesma is not really small, unless you believe everything he says about himself.

In my creative writing classes, despite my having been educated as a poststructuralist, postcolonial, postfeminist, postmarxist, post-post-something or other, I revert back to formalism and recite as my mantra the underrated dictum of the Russian Formalists, namely, that creative writers should make the familiar unfamiliar (there’s even a long, coined word for it, but it smacks of pretentiousness, so I only whisper it to my students when I catch them texting or doodling or otherwise not paying close attention to every profound syllable I utter). “Defamiliarization” is a word guaranteed to make even the dumbest basketball player in class sit up and pretend to listen, if only because it sounds obscene.

Ledesma makes everything seem unfamiliar, from the conventional rituals of getting married to going on a foreign trip to realizing that one is balding. That is the secret of his humor: he makes his fellowmen (yes, men as in male gender, not men as in all men are created equal or are mortal) laugh at themselves. Not being a woman nor even inclined to become one, despite that being the fashion among macho men these days, I cannot even guess at how a woman will react to the continuous ribbing aimed at what we unreconstructed males used to regard as the gentle sex before a decidedly ungentle widow accused an even more decidedly ungentle woman of stealing the presidency not once, but twice. Hell hath no fury and all that, but why, in heaven’s name, can men no longer talk about women in disdainful terms without being hauled to court for sexual harassment, political discrimination, misogyny, or whatever? I am sure women, when they are alone, have all kinds of nasty things to say about men, but men, being the denser sex, do not have an inkling of what is really going on. But I am only guessing.

Ledesma is also always only guessing. His ribbing is never not in jest, but where there is comic smoke, there is bound to be tragic truth. Or so the philosophers say, or should say, or should have said. In any case, it will not pay to take Ledesma too seriously, though it makes perfect sense to pay for this book you are reading, in case you just borrowed it, or are just browsing through it in a bookstore, or stole it at gunpoint from someone not willing to give up a cellphone but willing to give up what gives much more pleasure than the latest ringtone or the received message “I love you too,” which happens to be a template on many cellphones (and like most templates, totally meaningless).

Not at all meaningless is the love that these pages clearly reflect, a love not three removes from reality (as that other Greek philosopher without a sense of humor liked to characterize anything he disliked) but very, very real, even more real than a reality television show. Ledesma’s love for his significant other oozes out of the laughter, exactly like the Tagalized Spanish “karinyo brutal,” a bit like imported, expensive chocolate that melts in your mouth and surprises you with some kind of nut inside. Not that Ledesma is a nut, though I suppose he himself would not hesitate to call himself that. As my student, he cannot not be a non-nut, since I always pride myself on being better than my students at anything, even in being a nut.

At the end of the day, I am very proud of RJ Ledesma, one of the best students I have ever had in my creative writing classes. I do not mean that in terms of grades; I do not even remember if he got a good grade, though he must have or he would not have invited me to write this foreword. What I mean is that he has parlayed the little he learned from my class into something I myself would never be able to accomplish – a set of lovely essays bordering on creative nonfiction, classic comedy, and – to use the L word – literature. Needless to say, I am sick with envy. I mean, I would do anything to have written this book, which is about how to live happily before, during, and even after a fairy-tale wedding.

Now that I am old and bald and living in surrealist Philippines, I still laugh out loud, and I laugh loudest when I encounter the comic spurts of genius that Ledesma exhibits in this book, as well as in his earlier book, in his columns, and in his blog.

What more can an aging professor want? Now, let me show you the first two hundred items in my bucket list, beginning with writing a book like this one you are holding in your hands …

Isagani R. Cruz
Professor Emeritus
De La Salle University

In line with the upcoming book signing at Fully Booked on November 22 (Saturday) or if you are interested to purchase a copy of “Lies My Yaya Should Have Told Me”, I am reprinting my Philippine Star article from December 26, 2007 which has several excerpts from the book.

If you wish to order the book online, you can pick up a copy from National Bookstore’s online store over here: http://www.nationalbookstore.com/shop/categs.asp?categ=95&mode=2&compact=1&page=6

Or you can also order the book online from Anvil Publishing at: http://www.anvilpublishing.com/bookdetails.php?id=2007000105

Thanks for the support! Namaste

I have an obsessive-compulsive disorder which yanks me out of bed thirteen times to relieve myself in three-second durations until I can finally go to sleep.  I resemble an elephant that has gone into a seizure when I attempt to play basketball. I walk with a hobbling gait that looks like I was jailed in a Saudi prison in my adolescent years. I pranced half-naked regularly in a late night comedy show in an effort to drum up controversy and resuscitate my dismal showbiz career (yet I can’t even guest appearance on Jojo A All The Way. After all the times I’ve plugged him in this column, hmp). And during one of those lazy Sunday afternoons when Lolit Solis was not dropping any bombshells, I was mortified to discover that one of my boys hung lower than the other (although after checking in with my neighborhood manghihilot, I was relieved to find out that this was perfectly normal). 

As you can see, shame has pretty much become a theoretical concept as far as I am concerned. But one of the revelations that I have blurted out in this column that has sent many a female reader scrambling to give the cellphone number of their psychiatrist is: Does he really have a yaya?

Does his yaya edit his work before he sends it into the Philippine Star?  Does his yaya even know that she is writing about her?  Does his yaya get royalties?  What does his yaya think of his fiancée?  Will his yaya be a bridesmaid in their wedding?  Will his yaya serve as a natural form of birth control and sleep in between them when they are married? 

And will my first book, ‘Lies My Yaya Should Have Told Me, RJ Ledesma’s Imaginary Guide to Whine and Women’ answer any of these questions. 

Hardly. 

But hey, it does make my yaya beam with pride when her name appears beside mine in documents other than police blotters.  I have purposely kept her image and likeness away from the prying eyes of the showbiz press until we finally get Marian Rivera to play her in the next Metro Manila filmfest.

And for those of you who would like to laugh at something other than the administration and are still wondering where you should fritter away your Christmas bonus on, I have asked my yaya’s permission to reprint some excerpts from the book. 

Lies about Boys’ Night Out:

‘What truly amazes me about my species is how we are able to rise above our mental capacity as slugs to prevail upon our significant others to visit a motel (and I say this in the most theoretical way possible).  I mean, don’t we already struggle with asking permission from our girlfriends to join the boys for a “night out.”?

In their more complex minds, women mistakenly equate “boys’ night out” with cheap beer, voluptuous women, and really lousy singing.  They’re wrong you know – the beer is hardly cheap. 

But with the impending threat of being reduced to self-love for the rest of the relationship, men ‘voluntarily’ choose to incarcerate themselves at home and watch the Maging Sino Ka Man Book One DVD with their women, when they could otherwise be enjoying really expensive beer.  ‘

Lies about Karaoke:

‘Far worse than our addiction to Sunday tsismis shows (You’re da best Kuya Boy) is the Pinoy’s inexplicable desire to sing truly sappy, romantic songs.  Admit it, my three female readers: during lull moments in the bathroom, your favorite pastime while staring at yourself butt nekkid in front of the full length mirror is to belt out a random cheesy song while singing into an imaginary microphone (my personal favorite is “Let the Love Begin.”)

Much like botched coup attempts, Pinoys have gained a level of immunity to cheesiness that would normally put other nationalities into a catatonic stupor. Think about it: We have kept Side A’s career afloat beyond an acceptable life span.  As a result, we often need a stronger shot of cheese to elicit any form of reaction. So we got Keith Martin to stay in the country for good.

However, I believe Pinoy men have merely rediscovered what our harana-warbling forefathers discovered a long time ago: truly mushy love songs have the ability to clog up the pathways to rational thinking AND cause hallucinogenic effects on both sexes (much like sniffing rugby or watching news on the government-owned stations).  If a man croons exceptionally well, despite his pockmarked and butt-ugly face, he envisions himself to be the spitting image of Piolo Pascual.  And if a woman thinks that he croons well, she then tends to reinforce the delusion.’

Lies about Comedians:

‘A May 2005 survey of more than 1,600 adults from the US conducted by Match.com, an online dating service, revealed that 70 percent of singles believe that they are most likely to fall in love with someone who could make them laugh.

In fact, it was sense of humor – not expertise in color coordinating one’s belt with one’s shoes nor building up one’s pecs so that they can use it crush castanas – that women cited as the No. 1 romantically attractive trait.

Now I know that God is just.

Because for every Marc Nelson and Will Devaughn and Derek Ramsey who have been cursed with sun-kissed skin, penetrating eyes, porcelain white teeth, rock-hard abs, and product endorsements that could pay off the national debt, there are the Vic Sottos,  the Michael Vs, the Vhong Navarros, and even – God help us – the RJ Ledesmas of this world who score with women who have recently collected beauty titles and high school degrees.  The average Pinoy must be doing anatomically improbable things, like kicking himself in the groin, asking himself how RJ had the gall to include himself in the list. Besides being awash with money, cars, and fame – save for RJ – what else do these funny men have going for them?

Apparently, “funny men” have the ability to boost the endorphin levels in women.  Endorphins are biologically produced chemicals that are probably the best way to achieve a natural high.  Endorphins produce four key effects on the body: they enhance the immune system, they relieve pain, they reduce stress and they postpone the aging process.  Endorphin levels increase when people laugh really hard or when they have scandal-video worthy sex – because of these experiences leave the person with a ‘blissful’ feeling. 

Endorphin production can increase to 200 percent from the beginning to the end of your sexual activity.  Since increased endorphin levels occur when you have sex and when you laugh, “funny men” hope to leave women temporarily confused and have them thinking that they are still laughing when they are already actually having sex.

But if you think about it, sex with “funny men” could actually be good for your health.  If he can make you laugh during sex, you might be able quadruple your endorphin production and end up becoming enlightened and immortal.’

Lies about Speed Dating:

The rules of speed-dating were fairly simple: Singles gather at a café or other venues where they will not be subject to much public humiliation.  Armed with a nametag, a “scorecard”, well-rehearsed answers to possible questions, pick up lines downloaded from the internet and a sparkling personality, the couples are paired off on their “first date”.  They are allowed to discuss anything except for their fetishes and whether or not they have been in long-term relationships with domesticated animals.

After three minutes of conversation, a bell is rung, and the coordinators tell the participants to move on to their next date or else they will be flogged until they have gone through twenty-four dates.  Think of this as fast-food dating. And the best thing about speed dating is that, unlike a vasectomy, you can always rejoin speed dating events as many times as your budget allows unless the organizers ban you for aesthetic reasons. 

Like prophylactics, the organizers assert that speed dating is safe dating because there are standards that must be upheld.  Women demand that the men participating in speed-dating are certifiably single, have a credit limit beyond P5,000 and have no criminal records. Men demand that the women have a pulse. 

Lies about Dealing with an angry woman:

‘Whenever my girlfriend gets angry with me, the image that comes to my mind is that of the Hindu goddess Kali.

In the Hindu mythological text Markanderya Purana, Kali springs forth from the forehead of the goddess Durga when Durga is in a fit of divine feminine anger.  The goddess Kali sports a frightening countenance.  She is dripping with blood and encircled with snakes while a necklace of human skulls carelessly dangles around her neck. She has a gaping mouth, a lolling tongue, pendulous breasts, and she looks just about ready to make this world her appetizer.  In this aspect, Kali is known as Bhairavi, “The Terrible”.  Thus, whenever my girlfriend gets terribly, divinely angry with me, it takes a supreme effort on my part not to soil my underwear and avoid making comments about pendulous breasts.

For my fellow males who do not want to become part of a necklace, there are certain rules that you must obey when confronted by female anger.  There are de facto rules that I discovered as I went through seventeen brief lives as a cockroach stain on my girlfriend’s floor.

The first rule is that she has the divine right to get angry at you about anything because it is entirely your fault.  Her problems at work, her lack of sleep, her constipation, her wrong shade of lipstick, her future wedding plans and her PMS – all these can and will be traced back to you. 

Complementary to the first rule, because your karma being born a man, the second rule is that you don’t have the luxury of getting angry right back at her (and she will remind you of this as she dangles her necklace of human skulls in front of your face).  Instead, you can just have the luxury of an aneurysm.’

I was planning to copy my book in verbatim and perpetuate disinformation for free, but my yaya made me kurot in my singit.  ‘Huy, mawawala yung aking commission.’    

But in the meantime, my yaya has allowed me to share some of the germs of wisdom that she imparted to me as a chubby,  pomade-wearing, baby cologne-drenched, khaki shorts-clad boy of twenty-one that would put Robert Fulghum to shame:

Do not touch yourself in public or else it might come loose and fly away.  Do not leave school until I pick you up or else a DOM might pick you up.  Avoid watching bomba movies or else you will lose your hair.  Always carry a panyo in your pants pocket. Always bring your ‘good morning’ towel if you are going to get pawis.  Always wash with soap and water after you make doodoo (If there is no soap, then you can use Wet Ones).  And, most importantly, whenever you leave the house always make sure your your t-shirt is tucked into your panty.