The other night I discovered JEEPNEY on 1st Ave and the yellow
light that pulsed at me like a memory of a PAROL in that
cold ass degree weather told me that this place was a Filipino
gastropub. What the MADAPA KA is that?
Do you pollow?
I mean do you follow?
What is a JEEPNEY?
Well, there were these jeeps left over from WWII that were transformed into…
I remember I left Tondo in the front seat of a jeepney. I woke up on my uncle’s shoulder and would not remember that I had been crying and why until decades later in New York.
SUSMARYOSEP NA MAN, you are so MAARTE!
Inside JEEPNEY was a ghost of a place and I wasn’t sure if I belonged.
(Class, today’s words for LOSS are: automobile and traumatic. Put them together and you get AUTOMATIC).
There were white people eating my pood, I mean my food.
And every time someone ordered fertilized duck egg, everyone singsong-yelled BALOT! like on Morong Street where we were on our terrace and some MANONG or MANANG down on the pavement announced what they were selling and our mouths watered.
Well I did not have DINUGUAN at JEEPNEY. Do you remember what DINUGUAN is?
Ay, susmaryosep na man, don’t give me that pork meat in boiled pig’s blood.
But it’s so good! Try it. TIKMAN MO!