The Book of Francis

Hello, Friends!

I got reacquainted with Malcolm Gladwell through Francis, the cab driver who serviced Team Hong Kong around Manila throughout Mr Gay World. Francis had a copy of Outliers inside his roomy Toyota Adventure. Silly me for assuming that a previous passenger had perhaps left the book in Francis' car.

Of course my driver reads Gladwell - how else would he have become so brilliant at making sense of the world? Forget the world; you can hardly make sense of Manila. And I'm sorry, it doesn't seem right to call Francis a "cab driver" anymore. He's a chauffeur. A small matter of semantics, really, but I doubt that Francis cares either way. Francis is as chill as a glass of halo-halo. Nasty traffic, nasty cops, nasty jeepney drivers - all mixed up to create a mind-bogglingly cohesive dessert.

So my cabbie - sorry, chauffeur - gave me the impetus to start reading again. I normally read Facebook updates only - that's plenty. The thought of going through hundreds of pages of text brought back fond memories of a course (curse?) I took in Aesthetics. By the end of the term, I had enough collated photocopies of ancient discourses on "Beauty" and "Truth" to build a house with. How fun.

***

I was fuming at the Ninoy Aquino International Airport Terminal 3 because yet again, I was given the run-around by POEA and airport staff regarding terminal fees, OEC's, and other useless acronyms I didn't want anything to do with. I JUST WANT MY FUCKING ENTITLEMENT AS AN OFW. Want another acronym? GTH. Go to hell.

I wanted to document every single detail of the staff's incompetence and sheer unwillingness to help. Instead, I decided to take my cue from Francis; I channeled his inner chill. I counted to 10, found a bookstore, and purchased four books from two of my favourite writers. Both make simple sense, both write briskly, and both have their pulse on contemporary conversations. 

Jessica Zafra taught me that we live in Twisted times. There's no point whining. The world is strange. Own it. Dominate it.

Malcolm Gladwell taught me that success is the product of being serially lucky. And when you're feeling unlucky, just keep doing what you do and make sure you clock in 10,000 hours. Then you can claim to be an expert.


Gee.


I'd lay claim to being a "porn expert," but perhaps that's something I shouldn't be particularly proud of.

I'm a porn addict.

Semantics.


With Affection,
James


P.S.
If you require transport services in Manila, forget public commute. Traffic, pollution and humidity are horrendous. You'll end up spending most of your time complaining instead of having fun.

Give Francis a call; he charges fair rates. Team Hong Kong ended up paying the equivalent of only US$10 per person, per day (8 hours). As an added bonus, Francis always keeps a copy of the The Philippine Daily Inquirer in his car. Plus he's terrific with useless trivia about Manila and the Philippines. And as a tourist, what more do you need?