General Admission
You say it’s your birthday
By Al S. Mendoza
(HAPPY birthday to Ilak M. Sadiwa, who turns one year old today. He is the son of Ricky and Ayapot and the brother of Mayasoh. To Mayor Teddy Cruz of Mangatarem, too, who celebrates on April 27. Cheers!)
* * *
A DEAR friend celebrates today [April 19].
Isn’t every birthday always special?
Even crooks, thieves and murderers celebrate their birthdays. Ceasefire on their evil deeds, eh?
Ate Glue had just celebrated her 62nd [April 5]. Much fanfare, I surmise, or she’d be accused of being un-presidential?
Also, Garci, Teehankee and that Joc of all Jokes celebrate theirs.
It spares no one.
As the Good Book says, the sun shines on everybody, sinners included.
As the Good Book says, the rain is for everybody, weeds included.
Thus, no one is deprived of that singular moment that happens only once a year: birthday.
Jalosjos must have Al Capone, the celebrated gangster, for an idol: Even inside his cell while still in Muntinglupa, Jalosjos threw lavish parties on his birthdays.
It doesn’t pick a time for it to be remembered. Not the non-Chinese: It’s the same every year – celebration.
I celebrated mine once with a family-size Coke and three monays – one for the missus, one for the son, one for me. Just plain monay.
We prayed first and that was it. Done. Thy will be done.
The Chinese supposedly pour it on three times: the first birthday, the seventh birthday and the 27th birthday.
A lavish party for each of the three would be an understatement.
Different folks, different strokes.
But the main thing is, for most races, every birthday is a big day – including even to the Tasadays.
My friend’s, too.
“What’s your pleasure this time?” I asked my friend when he called up to invite me to his party.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just come, be happy, and that’d suffice as your gift to me.”
That was the same line he uttered last year, the other last year, and the many other last years.
No frills. No fanfare. No nothing.
To him, never has there been a menu to feast on to highlight the party. The day is simply an occasion to commemorate.
No laureate.
One time, he prepared pakbet and grilled bangus. He did the pakbet, the missus the bangus.
Another time, a bowl of pancit and pan de barra.
Yet another time, spaghetti with meat balls and pan de sal (it would graduate another time into French bread).
My friend tells me of his missus playing Beatles songs at the break of dawn by way of welcoming his birthday.
“What’s your favorite Beatles song again?” I asked my friend.
Always, his answer would be, “None. All their songs are my favorite.”
So, no big deal. The missus would always play him, “Birthday,” as the opening Beatles song on his natal day.
His response?
A smile and a hug, followed by a joyous jig for the both of them to precede the sipping of steaming coffee.
Make that brewed.
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