jabbawockeez: the sardines experience

Stuck in traffic, my mother began to talk about Sharon Cuneta's chronic addiction to milkshakes.

"Si Sharon, when I see her commercials or her scenes in movies, may laging naka-standby na shake sa tabi. She always has three shakes there. And the glasses are tall pa. No wonder she's fat..."

Her rant is drowned out by the music blasting from my earphones. It's 10 in the morning. Can't we save this for later?

Just then, a little boy knocks on the driver's side windshield, asking for some change. He was about 5 years old, wearing only a torn, faded t-shirt and no slippers. My mother asks me for some coins, rolls down her window, hands them to the boy and smiles.

"Uwi ka na, ha?"

"Yes, ma'am!" the boy happily replies, and runs off.

Who knew? The lady has a heart.

*****

The Philippine population is increasing at such a rapid pace that if you happened to find yourself in the middle of Alabang Town Center today, you would come out freshly canned, labeled, and ready to be stacked on a supermarket shelf.

I was a victim of Jabbawockeez.

From the very moment I came into the mall, I saw no trace of anyone over 30 years old. Youngsters, little girls, 20-somethings flocked the place, eager to see the dance group that had bagged the winner's title on America's Best Dance Crew. Really, I only came there to marvel at the fantastic way they could move their bodies like they were Jell-O based. People who know me are aware of my lack of skills in dancing.

My mother was my sole companion in raving about what I now call "the Jabba Mob". I got my fill of complaints from her, constantly grumbling about smokers or unpleasant human odors. Group messages raving about the Mob began flooding in.

A classmate said, "Only six people in my phonebook aren't watching Jabba...out of 200."

The noise got worse each minute. Screams emanated from every corner of the mall, getting louder each time the announcer welcomed the audience to the show. My mom and I decide to take a seat in Yellow Cab. I tell you, we come from Teriyaki Boy, KFC and Starbucks, and still, my mom wants to eat.

Chairs were getting raptured. Yellow Cab was almost devoid of chairs when we got there, thanks very much to the teenagers who took them away so they could stand on them. Kids in Jabba t-shirts would stand on the white poles and the railings from the third and fourth floor, like "monkeys", as my mother had said. Cue screams. That place was a jungle.

A frozen jungle, that is. Nobody would move from where they were standing, wanting to get a good view of the breakdancers. There was no hope in trying to get to the front. Since 1 in the afternoon, the Mob had already set up its headquarters.

When we couldn't stand it anymore, we had no choice but to brave the Mob. There was no other way to get to the car and home without going through them first. So I hold my breath and begin to push and shove.

It was unbearable--you could hardly move, much less breathe. I would be willing to bet a hundred bucks on the sad truth that someone would faint. Odors, odors. This is why my mother hates concerts.

In the midst of my agonizing experience, though, I had overheard many conversations. Words were getting thicker but I was able to pick up a few.

A Korean boy in blue runs between me and my mom, gasping for breath. His accent is hilarious. He manages to blurt out a hurried "Daming tao. Ang init!"

Boy 1: Daming tao eh. Di na natin kayang manood.

Boy 2: Ay! Alam ko na. Sakay na lang tayo sa escalator paulit-ulit.

Another boy tries to break the communication barriers with an American friend.

"Yeah, I came here at 10 in morning, cause I know that there will be a many people here, and I stay at Starbucks while waiting. When I come back, there is a many people here already and I cannot watched it anymore. I will going home."

Ditto. I will going home.

Sardines, yes?