Ja-Bo, Ja-Bo, Ja-Bobo

My then 9-year-old son Paul, my wife and I stayed at my brother's house in Portland, Oregon for my mother's 95th birthday celebrations last year. Each morning, while most of us in the household were having breakfast, my brother's dad-in-law would come down to join us.

He was always the last one down because he always went through a litany of prayers in his room before he would venture down.

Every time he came down the stairs he sang a song that nobody recognized. It was always the same song, started with "Ho, ho, ho," and quickly descended to an incantation that sounded like gibberish cobbled together. And his voice reverberated.

Paul, after a few days of observing this, asked his mom: "Is grandpa Santa Claus? Why does grandpa sing that song?'

My wife quickly shushed him, "Old people are like that. And don't worry, your dad will soon be old too."

"Will my dad also sing that song?" Paul asked.

I don't know why, but the old people I grew up knowing were all fond of talking gibberish.

My own maternal grand-dad was a champion user of gibberish. His favorite target for his brand of gibberish was my younger brother Amado. Every time our family visited his house, he would make it a point to call Amado, "Amato putoto puto." He seemed to take delight in being able to call him that. He had a name for all of us, his grandchildren. Mine was not particularly memorable and that is why I can't remember what it was he called me.

I think the old people in my family use gibberish as a way to let off steam. They do not want to voice out their frustrations over their lifetimes for fear of revealing too much of themselves. So they spew out gibberish.

I tend to conclude that about them because I have become, myself, a serial user of gibberish in my advancing years.

My all-time favorite is "Ja-Bo, Ja-Bo, Ja-Bobo." I started using this in my mid-fifties. I might be driving my car, deep in my own thoughts, then suddenly I would remember an embarrassing episode in my life and I would blurt out "Ja-Bo, Ja-Bo, Ja-Bobo."

At first, my kids who were riding in the back would burst out laughing. My wife would explain to them that I had just remembered something very embarrassing and that I was reliving the pain.

My wife would then turn to me and announce the cause of my outburst. "You just remembered 'I've got you under my skin,' didn't you?"

I once sang "I've got you under my skin" in front of about 300 people in an auditorium after being introduced by the emcee as the Frank Sinatra of the La Salle Alumni Association in New York. It started out well, but soon after it all went downhill. I could not hear the melody. The speakers were on the floor, directed towards the audience, while I was on the stage, well behind the speakers.

The technical people in charge of the sound system were motioning to me to speed up my singing because I was not synchronized with the melody. So I sped up. When I finished, the music was still playing. I knew immediately that I had sung "I've got you under my skin" out of tempo.

For a couple of weeks I had nightmares about that performance. Every time I remembered that fiasco I felt so small and would release the tension that had suddenly built up within me by saying out loud, "Ja-Bo, Ja-Bo, Ja-Bobo."

This became an inside joke in my family.

I was active in the Toastmasters movement for many years in the 1990s and 2000s and represented my club in many speech contests. Once, in an area finals, I thought I had done very well and was particularly proud of my speech. There were three contestants in those finals, held after hours in the City Council chambers at the Jersey City, New Jersey City Hall.

When the decision was announced, the chairman of the judges started with the third-placer (out of three contestants). When he said "Cesar Lumba" I literally jumped from my seat. I think I levitated briefly over my seat, did not immediately stand up. I was trying to process what had just happened. It was the most embarrassing moment of my life at Toastmasters.

Every time I remembered this I would blurt out, "Ja-Bo, Ja-Bo, Ja-Bobo." The sure-fire way to relive the embarrassment was to drive by the Jersey City City Hall on my way to Holland Tunnel going into New York City.

My daughter was fifteen at the time and she worshipped the singing group "NSync" because of Justin Timberlake. She had a crush on him, best I could remember. She was listening to her I-Pod, with a headset plugged to her ears. She noticed that we were practically in front of the Jersey City City Hall and she warned me not to scream: "I'm listening to my I-pod, don't make any noise, not even Ja-Bo, Ja-Bo, Ja-Bobo."

She beat me to the punch.

I think I am coming to terms with my recollections of faux pas, lost opportunities, idiotic statements, bonehead decisions over the years. I don't remember saying "Ja-Bo, Ja-Bo, Ja-Bobo" over the past year.

I do, occasionally suddenly blurt out - especially when I'm quietly reading my newspaper in the breakfast nook of our house - "Champion Boy." My son, who is now ten, will drop everything that he is doing in the media room upstairs and ask, "Dad, did you call me?"

I call him "Champion Boy" I think because I want him to be good in sports and not be a frustrated athlete like me. My parents made me stop playing basketball when I was 13 because of a false alarm about my heart. I stopped in mid-season during my La Salle midgets team's championship run.

I was one of the stalwarts on that team that was fondly called "Murderers Row" because we blew away most of our opponents. The opening game of the 1954 Archdiocesan Athletic League was the midgets game between La Salle and Ateneo. We drubbed Ateneo, 44-28. I was the top scorer with 14 points.