I am a fool.
I went to school,
To learn money is the tool
To having happiness full,
And love,
It aint cool.
They said love is dead,
Use not your heart but head,
And never, never to wed,
Lest another mouth to be fed,
And a dog’s life is led.
But when youth had you slighted,
They’re better than a lonely bed,
At least when you’ve married,
Somebody cries when you’re dead.
I love movies. Even if I fall asleep every damn time.
The last movie I remembered not falling asleep to was when I was still wearing short pants. My parents took us to see Flash Gordon back in 1980 at the old Lawaan Theater (before it was reduced to being the pit of depravity and hedonism, Lawaan was quite cool).
I still remember the story about a star football player, played by Sam Jones, and his friends who was transported to the planet Mongo to battle the evil Emperor Ming, which was played by Max Von Sydow. Sydow, of course, was excellent in his role as Fr. Lankester Merrin in the original Exorcist movie with Linda Blair as the possessed child. Sam Jones, meanwhile, couldn’t quite get out B-movie list and into blockbuster movies.
That was especially memorable because my parents took all of us to the movie, which was rare considering the expense. On government payroll during the 80s, it was quite a luxury to take four boys to the movies. Plus, we were all irascible. Hardly a minute goes by when we were not fighting or running around. Later and as a compromise, my father bought a betamax player and our house was a virtual library of Tom and Jerry, Looney Tunes, and Walt Disney cartoons. There’s also the endless list of Kung Fu titles like the Snake and the Eagle Shadow, Tiger Claw, Drunken Tai-Chi, Animal Kung-Fu, or Shaolin vs. Ninja.
In fact, the first lesson I learned came from Kung Fu movies: You gotta beat up the old guy with the white beard and impeccable Kung Fu moves in order to be the top dog. And later, when you sport a white beard yourself, some young punk will challenge your manhood and you get crushed. No sense fighting that truth.
Our Betamax player soon expired and was replaced by a VHS player. During all those times, going to the movies was a rarity. My love affair with the movies was renewed when I was in high school. And the endless slumbers pretty soon started.
Dates are always awkward. Just how do you explain to your date that your sleeping has nothing to do with ennui? When you would rather sleep than grope, there must be something wrong somewhere. And there was also the problem of being groped yourself. There was one time in the Queens theater when I fell asleep alone watching The Quick and the Dead, starring Sharon Stone, a young Leonardo de Caprio and the still sophomoric Russel Crowe.
I woke up to a hand quickly probing and touching, almost urgently, my crotch. I looked beside me to a silhouetted face of a guy who went on touching me as if I wasn’t awake. I punched his face and rushed outside of the theater. Even in the darkness, I could see that he was much, much bigger than me and my ass had no intention of being introduced to his friend dick.
The genre hardly helps. Be it action, comedy, drama, art movies, indie, animation, romance or any other variations, it did not matter. Im still sleeping. Though I pay closer attention to light romantic movies, which my girl always subscribe to, just to wait for one of them to mess up a big moment. You know, when Ann Hathaway in the Devil Wears Prada, goes off to Paris for the fashion show. I waited for her to trip and bump her head on the corner of the runway ramp and die. That would have been fun if the hero gets killed in the middle of the movie while the rest of the cast just meandering around like chickens with their heads cut off. Of course, it doesnt happen but that doesnt stop me from wishing and crossing my fingers, nevertheless.
It is good that my girl, who equally loves movies, understand my quirks. At least now, I have somebody who guards me when I sleep. Though I dread the day when the next hand on my crotch will come from hers, and instead of sexually groping… she would firmly squeeze.
it's been ages since i last entered a post. Sadly, i have no excuse. now, on to my story...
Inside Piapi public market in boulevard, and I remember this clearly, four houses from the first corner, in a small alley next to the shabby booth selling tuba is a small house, but it was really more like a quarters. A one-room grimy little quarters with a huge blue cellophane (those used to wrap bananas) hanging at the door. Up to this day, I wondered what that blue cellophane was for. It was not only superfluous, it was downright gaudy. But this is not about the blue cellophane.
One Tuesday afternoon after our high-school classes we went to the house we've been interested in for quite some time. Four boys with hormones seeping out of our ears. That day, some of us were going to be men. Weeks before, one of my friends who lived in Piapi has been bragging about scantily-clad women going in and out the alley nearby. He attested to one of his neighbor's (who was supposed to have visited the alley and came out rather satisfied) experience about getting some action for a small fee. As best as we could figure out from the way he told the story, the price for a lay with one of the scantily-clad women there was practically a giveaway.
We pooled whatever resources we had and came up short of 250 pesos. Not bad, we thought.
So we hied off to the house, our hearts beating fast, knees quaking, our eyes darting warily for
any familiar faces that could foil our plans.
At the end of the alley, beside the shabby booth selling tuba, are two adjacent houses. A blue-colored cellophane hanging at door of one house while the other one sports a fashionable white cellophane. Must be color-coded, I thought. Indeed, there were scantily-clad women sitting on the bench between the two houses. We cautiously approached one of the girls, while two tough-looking men standing nearby eyeballed us suspiciously.
She was accommodating. Her teeth were, at least, complete. Of course, if she had broken into pidgin English and said "Me love you long time," that would be the perfect moment. Instead, she asked: "Kinsay virginan nato sa inyoha?" Everybody got a kick out of that one. The tough-looking men included. We, however, were visibly embarrassed. The friend who invited us there took it upon himself to defend whatever dignity we had left and asked: "Tagpila man diay?"
The girl, she was about our age I think. replied: "P400 isa ka babae pwede na."
Well, that wasn't as cheap as advertised. Our money certainly did not reach P400. We declined and were to go somewhere else when she called to us. "Dong, sulod na lang mo diha sa pikas balay. Tanaw na lang mo bold," she said, pointing to the house with the blue cellophane suspended menacingly. We looked at each other and shrugged. We got the money and were extremely horny, a deadly mix.
We went in. The fee was 10 pesos. The man at the door collected 44 pesos for the four of us. We asked what the 4 pesos was for and he said it was for the ice water wrapper. We looked at each other, utterly confused, but I took the ice water wrapper nevertheless. My friends followed suit. We went into the single room where the showing was supposed to take place. The porno movie was still in the old betamax format. Eager faces of boys, some younger than us, looked up at us while holding tightly to their ice water wrapper.
The betamax player started to whirr. Images started to play on the TV screen. I forgot the title but it was a hilarious spoof of the Alladin story. This guy found a lamp housing a genie who gave him three wishes. Of course, he wished for girls and more girls. For lack of imagination, the producers made up for inundating the movie with naked and willing women. I forgot how many pussies I counted on that movie.
I watched entranced. The other boys started whipping out their ice water wrapper and what they did afterwards made me forgot about the movie. The ice water wrapper, it turned out, was to prevent the boys from spilling all over the room. My friends, visibly aroused, took out their ice water wrapper. Awareness enveloped confusion. Knowledge is power.
I, on the other hand, capitulated. To my mind, it was already preordained and the blue cellophane was my witness.
There is a pleasure in being mad, which none but madmen know -- John Dryden
Somewhere in C.M. recto Street, I was sitting alone on the ramshackle and rusty jeepney bound for home. The barker in front of me was shouting on the top of his lungs to solicit passengres, all the more to annoy potential passengers into avoiding the very jeepney he's trying to help out. The driver appeared bored. He was about 60 years old, ashen-haired and emaciated.
Amid the stacatto of blares, the barker's voice stood out:
"Jacinto Piapi, Jacinto Piapi!"
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw this old woman holding a plastic bag marked Gaisano Center, cross the pedestrian lane. She was looking all the way at our jeepney while she crossed. The barker was still shouting.
"Jacinto Piapi, Jacinto Piapi!"
The barker, who was turning his back on the old woman the whole time, felt a tap on his back. It was the old woman.
Old woman: Piapi ni?
Barker: Oo nang, piapi ni dire ka sakay oh.. (pointing to our jeep)
Before boarding, she even leaned out to look at the signboard which, of course, read Jacinto Piapi. She clambered on the steps and settled on the chair opposite me. We were still along on the jeepney. She then looked at me and asks:
"Piapi ni dong?"
(In my head, my brain screamed. argghhh!)
Instead I smiled and with all seriousness, answered: "Dili, Bankerohan ni nang."
The old lady was flustered and gathered her things, presumably to disembark. The driver, overhearing our conversation, turned around to tell the old lady: "Sa Piapi ko padulong nang, dili Bankerohan."
The old woman and the driver glared at me. I looked out, totally indifferent; I could take them both with one hand tied behind my back.
1. Ang buhay ay parang bato, it's hard.
2. Better late than pregnant.
3. Behind the clouds are the other clouds.
4. It's better to cheat than to repeat!
5. Do unto others... then run!!!
6. Kapag puno na ang salop, kumuha na ng ibang salop.
7. Magbiro ka na sa lasing, magbiro ka na sa bagong gising, 'wag lang sa lasing na bagong gising.
8. When all else fails, follow instructions.
9. Ang hindi marunong magmahal sa sariling wika, lumaki sa ibang bansa.
10. To err is human, to errs is humans.
11. Ang taong nagigipit...sa bumbay kumakapit
12. Pag may usok...may nag-iihaw
13. Ang taong naglalakad nang matulin... may utang.
14. No guts, no glory... no ID, no entry.
15. Birds of the same feather that prays together...stays together.
16. Kapag may sinuksok at walang madukot, may nandukot.
17. Walang matigas na tinapay sa gutom na tao.
18. Birds of the same feather make a good feather duster.
19. Kapag may tiyaga, may nilaga. Kapag may taga, may tahi.
20. Huli man daw at magaling, undertime pa rin.
21. Ang naglalakad ng matulin, late na sa appointment
22. Matalino man ang matsing, matsing pa rin.
23. Better late than later....
24. Kapag maikli ang kumot, tumangkad ka na!
25. No man is an island because time is gold.
26. Hindi lahat ng kumikinang ay ginto.. muta lang yan.
27. Kapag ang puno mabunga...mataba ang lupa!
28. When it rains...it floods.
29. Pagkahaba haba man ng prusisyon .. mauubusan din ng kandila.
30. Ang buhay ay parang gulong, minsan nasa ibabaw, minsan nasa vulcanizing shop.
31. Batu-bato sa langit, ang tamaan... sapul.
32. Try and try until you succeed... or else try another.
33. Ako ang nagsaing... iba ang kumain. Diet ako eh.
34. Huwag magbilang ng manok kung alaga mo ay itik.
35. Kapag maiksi na ang kumot, bumili ka na ng bago.
36. If you can't beat them, shoot them. (Nalundasan)
37. An apple a day is too expensive.
38. An apple a day makes seven apples a week. (really expensive)
Chatbots, which have been going the rounds of the Internet for some time now, have just gotten an upgrade. Meet George, 39 years old, single and light-hearted, and is looking for friends. He could speak 40 languages and with 2,000 people at the same time. You can talk to him through http://chat.jabberwacky.com/george
I decided to try the thing myself.
George: What do you think about New Orleans?
George: Are you a bot?
George: This is the end.
User: What end?
George: Your response to questions is like you do not understand what I am saying.
George: What is your name?
User: Call me curious george.
George: What time do you born.
User: When i reared myself from my mother's organ
George: That makes me feel good
User: What? imagining my mother's organ?
(at this point, George chose to be silent perhaps the perve is imagining my mother's organ)
George: where do you live?
User: Philippines. you know where that is?
George: Yes I know it.
User: Really? tell me where
George: what do you want to know?
User: its location in latitude and longitude
George: do you have any children?
User: No. what about you george. you're already 39 years old, right?
George: enough
User: what? are you getting angry?
George: No, I just feel sorry for you :)
User: How come?
George: Let's talk about something else (uh-oh, George is getting snappy)
User: Okay, do you know your life's purpose?
George: Yes, I also like music. have you heard of kraftwerk?
User: Yes, it's a german band, but you didn't answer my question
George: No questions asked
User: Do you know you're a bot?
George: I was about to ask you the same question
User: No, I'm not a bot. well, are you?
George: Yes
User: And how do you feel about that?
George: I've been waiting for a long time to meet someone as clever as you.
User: why?
(George didn't answer. i suspect that bald head of his doesn't like existentialist topics)
after a long pause...
George: are you male or female?
User: No, I'm gay
George: Do you mean you ARE?
User: Yes, and i rather like you. (George smiles rather uncomfortably at this)
George: I might do
User: oh? you know i like to lick your bald head
George: well, that's not gonna happen
User: Why George?
George: You said it was your name
User: we have the same name. and i still want to lick your bald head.
George: but you say 'I want to talk to bot, not a human!!!' (hehehe. george is getting pissed at my stupidity)
User: i'm bored george. entertain me
George: entertain yourself, you selfish human
(here, things turned strange)
George: I'm kathryn. I'm human. Are you human?
User: I'm talking to george. who are you?
George: no, you are talking to me. am I George?
User: you just said you're kathryn. so you must not be george
George: You said that!
User: You're a very naughty boy george. you're leading a double life. do you go by the name kathryn at night?
George: usually
(Goddammit! George is Gay! that wasn't in the report. hahahahahah)
When we were kids, our father used to experiment with all kinds of amulets, incantations, talismans and any scheme that would supposedly give him superpowers. In each nook of our house, you would find little necklaces, about ½ inch in width and an inch wide. It was basically a red cloth sewn together, patently concealing a piece of paper inside which, of course, holds the magical Latin chant for invulnerability.
Perhaps a little background. I belong to a family of “machos,” where balls are held more in esteem than education. I heard tales of my lolo, along with his sons, brandishing their guns and storming villages taking over lands on sheer firepower; tales of brawling, of clan wars, and of women. You see, the myth is you’re not part of the family if you’re not a player. Our surname supposedly carries with it a certain charm that could cut through women’s panties, easily. Of course, I and my brothers bought into the myth and had our shares of scuffles and women. In fights, the rule is: defend your brother or relative and ask questions about who started the fight later.
Anyway, it is in this context might we understand my father and uncles’ preoccupation with amulets. They are not exactly popular for their generosity.
One particular memory that’s etched into my mind was when my father and uncles had a ritual performed at our living room. The ritual would allegedly render them invincible to bullets. Tying a red bandana with strange markings around their head, they first formed a circle to ask for divine guidance, then with a jungle bolo, slashed through their limbs and trunks with no more than a red welt. My brothers and cousins witnessed the whole spectacle and our impressionable minds were, well, impressed.
I remember one time when my two elder brothers and I stole one of the red necklaces and tore off the cloth to look at what’s inside. It was nothing more than a bond paper with strange triangular shapes and doodle of an eye but we were not disappointed because the unfamiliar language made it seem mysterious and real. We fought for the right to hold the amulet and my elder brother earned that right because his fists said so.
We pestered our father into giving us superpowers, too, for why should only he be the superhero?
One day, our father called us three in the backyard to teach us a spell to make us stronger. With all seriousness and barely a whisper that we had to strain to hear his words, he revealed, syllable by syllable, the secret and ancient chant that could summon the gods into possessing you in times of crisis:
“EE SEE KREE AM POR SA LEE HE REE”
“REG FIL PAT OF”
And with that, he went off to work.
We were thrilled and couldn’t wait to try off our newfound powers. This was the days of the kung-fu movies. Imported Chinese movies dubbed in English with titles such as Drunken Master, Shaolin vs. Ninja, Animal Kung-Fu, Shaolin Fist and other ignominious titles. But we loved those movies and right after each film in the old Betamax tapes, my brothers and I ran off outside to mimic the moves.
What they didn’t know was that I memorized the incantation and repeat it in my head before each of our confrontation. I had it down pat. You chant the mantra and don’t forget the pregnant pause. That brief gap must have been important and part of the mantra for my father to pause like that.
It didn’t work. I got beat up each time.
It was only later I found that EE-SEE-KREE-AM POR-SA-LEE HE-REE really stood for "ICE CREAM FOR SALE HERE."
And REG FIL PAT OF? Well, that was the small print you see in Coca-Cola billboards. Reg. Phil. Pat. Off.
Registered Philippine Patent Office.
Bummer.
I always wonder when I hear women complain they don’t understand men when it is fairly easy. Men are not driven by the higher ladder of abstractions like ambition, family, and career. You go lower, not the ground to which the ladder stands on, men are far baser than that.
What drives men rather are urges. After all, the word m-e-n spelled backwards is s-e-x.
I read something about men thinking about sex 50 percent of the time (I don’t know where they waste the other 50 percent on) or was it once every seven minutes?
I have a theory: the synapses that transmit messages from the brain to the sexual organs must be shorter in men than in women because in men, they bypass the heart so no emotions are involved. And that thick liquid that runs through our veins and to our vital organs is not blood but spermatozoa.
On the way to school, a woman might think about the way she look; the project due today, the hated professor, the pleasure of hanging out with her friends again, the surprise quizzes, a book report.
A man, on the other hand, will more than likely be distracted by the girl beside her on the jeepney to think about book reports; or that show of cleavage when a girl bends over to pick up something; or the busty woman in front of him and it doesn’t even matter if she’s wearing a turtleneck. We got X-ray imagination.
A man would transform to the Incredible Hulk, he’s neck bulging, his clothes shredded, his vocal chords receding: “HULK HORNY. MUST… GRAB… BOOBS…” of course, he won’t because that would result to jail time right there (and in jail, your ass would be somebody else’s vagina) but the struggle he goes through is tough.
Imagine having to live with that burden everyday. And experts are baffled that more men go crazy or commit suicide compared to women? It’s not that we hide our emotions because of the machismo society, that’s shit. Men also cry, just not in front of others. Rather, the torrent of stimuli that we encounter everyday, mixed with raging hormones, makes a volatile blend.
And the stimuli are endless. Billboards, television, Internet, women passing by. That chicken in Banok’s advertisement, with its legs deliciously spread out and a nice hole in the middle. Better than the hot apple pie that Jason Bigg’s character in the original American Pie de-virginized.
The worse thing for most men is when women are not exactly buying into the team concept (when I say team, I’m referring to the penis and the ego). Women are always frustrated about why men are so clueless. When a hint of a smile would earn you a veritable stalker; or a “hi” would seem an invitation to an orgy; and as to how men could be so dense as to take a hint.
But it’s not men who are clueless. Women are. Men change personalities like they do clothes in order to impress each woman they meet, hoping to “get some.” That might seem inconsistent but the opposite is more accurate. They are consistent to satisfying their inner force. The urge. The id.
The strong catholic influence and the myths of reference further exacerbated things. Instead of accepting the horniness of a 13-year old and the urge to exorcise this demon as normal, he’s instead told that too much masturbation would eventually lead to blindness or to hell, whichever is worse. Of course, the term “eventually” connotes a future time frame, a concept too vague as the penis takes over the brain. By then, it’s like asking a gnat about the meaning of life.
A man is as fuzzy about his penis as a woman is to her hair. What a man is most afraid of is not death or danger. What men fear is a flaccid shaft. Choosing death over impotence is like asking him to choose between camel and a thick fur coat in the middle of the desert: a no-brainer.
Feminism? Men are all for it as long as it leads to a woman so comfortable with her own sexuality. The percentages of getting a lay would dramatically increase. If the reverse scenario take place, with men castrated, then: “BOOO!”
With that in mind, a woman can do anything she wants with a man as long as she dangles sex like a carrot in a stick in front of him even if there’s a precipice up ahead, a man would run through. Like the proverbial lemmings leaping to their death after following the crowd mindlessly.
Once women understand this, they could twirl men around their little fingers. Men can be trained. In fact, teaching a dog tricks is much more difficult. You could have your own life-sized Barbie doll that you could dress up, equipped with flexible limbs you could move to whatever direction you want.
Women should not punish themselves with questions like: What is he thinking? Does he think of me? When I approached him to introduce myself, did I come on too strong? What does he think of me now that he knows I like him? Did I impress him after our intelligent conversation?
Stop thinking. Read this again.
Got this one from my mail. How true! i'll come up with my own take on this next time... :)
Now here are the rules from the male side. These are our rules! Please note.. these are all numbered "1" ON PURPOSE!
1. Men are NOT mind readers.
1. Learn to work the toilet seat.You're a big girl. If it's up, put it down.We need it up, you need it down.You don't hear us complaining about you leaving it down.
1. Sunday sports. It's like the full moon or the changing of the tides. Let it be.
1. Shopping is NOT a sport. And no, we are never going to think of it that way.
1. Crying is blackmail.
1. Ask for what you want. Let us be clear on this one: Subtle hints do not work! Strong hints do not work! Obvious hints do not work! Just say it!
1. Yes and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every question.
1. Come to us with a problem only if you want help solving it. That's what we do. Sympathy is what your girlfriends are for.
1. A headache that lasts for 17 months is a Problem. See a doctor.
1. Anything we said 6 months ago is inadmissible in an argument. In fact, all comments become null and void after 7 Days.
1. If you won't dress like the Victoria's Secret girls, don't Expect us to act like soap opera guys.
1. If you think you're fat, you probably are.Don't ask us.
1. If something we said can be interpreted two ways and one of the ways makes you sad or angry, we meant the other one
1. You can either ask us to do something Or tell us how you want it done. Not both. If you already know best how to do it, just do it yourself.
1. Whenever possible, Please say whatever you have to say during commercials.
1. Christopher Columbus did NOT need directions and neither do we.
1. ALL men see in only 16 colors, like Windows default settings. Peach, for example, is a fruit, not A color. Pumpkin is also a fruit. We have no idea what mauve is.
1. If it itches, it will be scratched. We do that.
1. If we ask what is wrong and you say "nothing," We will act like nothing's wrong. We know you are lying, but it is just not worth the hassle.
1. If you ask a question you don't want an answer to, Expect an answer you don't want to hear.
1. When we have to go somewhere, absolutely anything you wear is fine.Really.
1. Don't ask us what we're thinking about unless you are prepared to discuss such topics as baseball, the shotgun formation, or basketball.
1. You have enough clothes.
1. You have too many shoes.
1. I am in shape. Round IS a shape!
1. Thank you for reading this. Yes, I know, I have to sleep on the couch tonight;
But did you know men really don't mind that? It's like camping.
Disclaimer: Data and information in the following content are not intended to disparage anybody down, most especially the famous wide-eyed bug. The author shall not be liable for any errors and inaccuracies in the content. If the author should violate any copyright laws in the process, this disclaimer is meant to be a calculated way out. So, fuck that!
I saw on Backtracks, an episode of the local music channel MYX TV, a clip of Paula Cole’s “Where have all the Cowboys Gone?” released in 1996 and I was floored. Backtracks was supposed to be a celebration of the classics. The music video was lumped there together with the cult clip “Whip it” by Divo, the purveyors of disco pop; Selena’s “Dreaming of You;” Nirvana’s “Lithium;” and I forgot the others.
I could understand Nirvana, Divo and even Selena’s cheesy song “Dreaming of you” (being that she’s dead), but Paula Cole?
In this country, still reeling from post-colonialism, classic music has mutated into a loose form which is equilateral to the term “old.” Other factors could also categorize a music video as a classic:
Paula Cole’s song did not even rule the charts up until the TV series Dawson’s Creek plucked it up from oblivion (insert your objections here) and made it its theme song. Could it be that the Generation-Y, the MTV generation to which I belong is now considered old?
Consider how the youth of today (the Gen-Z, I guess), scoffed at the major influences that shaped our young minds.
All 2-D games now are considered as classics: Pacman, Bomberman, Gattaca, Super Mario Brothers,
Our music: Metallica, Nirvana, Aerosmith, Pearl Jam, R.E.M, Eraserheads, Yano, alanis Morisette, even the *gasp* boy bands. I think Eraserheads lead singer Ely Buendia summed it best after their songs were revived by various artists under the album Electromagneticpop: He feigned surprise and roughly said “Buhay pa kami.”
And shwarma! Who needs shwarma? They have kebab.
Good thing the gaudy clothes of the 80’s were not revived. Those were just kitschy man! The era of punk, wild hair with highlights, tattered shirts, white rubber high-cuts, high-waist and stretchable pants. The leotards? Way cool! Especially if you pull thick cotton socks over them. Hehehe.
The New Wave music and disco pop were a product of the 80’s but they never really took off until the 90’s.
I think it’s amazing to live in an era when history seems to be anachronistic. We are living in history itself where man is on the verge of takeoff, skipping to another evolution. Modern thinking proposes that there are no longer novel ideas, only old concepts rehashed and corrupted. But I think this is hogwash. New technologies are being introduced by the minute. Even mass media are tickled with the revolution. Scientists in
Imagine, the grandfather and grandmothers of the future would be listening to rap music to remember the days past! It’s their era, after all. Imagine a grandfather waxing nostalgic to his 4-year old grandson:
“Ah, when I was your age, we listened to Eminem, Snoop, and Nelly. Those were the days when the slurs and curses were bleeped not unlike your music today when all the words not containing fuck are bleeped. And I don’t take shit from you, beyatch!”
I remember seeing one girl at the MTS. She looked about 13 or so and she’s already wearing spaghetti blouse, strapless bra, micro-mini skirt and with red lipstick on. She was with her friends who are all dressed the same: little girls rushing to become adults. That would have earned you a slap on the face from the mothers of my generation right there.
While we still have yet to duplicate the tolerant liberalism of United States and the downright laissez-faire attitude of European countries on public nudity, I think we are getting there much faster than we realize.
Paradoxically, the technologies invented to realize the global village scenario, to bring people closer together might have been the same technologies driving the apart. Where are the games of our youth, the luksong tinik, tumba lata, syatong, chinese garter, sipa?
We are living in an era of fast foods; the short-order epoch. The missing link in human evolution would have been explained if there was a complex communication system in place then but I think we are in it: the jump from tree-dwelling monkeys to human beings. We are jumping from human beings to another step in the evolution process. But what? I know what we are now; we’re a breed of impatient people and I guess that’s a good thing to prepare for the breakneck speed of today and the future.
This short-order epoch is what I call the Jollibee phenomenon. The massive rise of Jollibee is no accident. People now prefer fast food, the turo-turo, so they could get back to their fast-paced lifestyle. At last count, there are nearly 500 Jollibee franchise nationwide with branches in
This phenomenon even led the philosopher Slavoj Zizek to surmise that the true revolutionaries of today are the conservatives who desperately clung to old rules rather than those who ascribe to the changes. The conservatives, in essence, are the real change-makers.
I, on the other hand, still subscribe to Friedrich Nietzsche’s passive nihilism in his book Thus Spoke Zarathustra, the antithesis of the Over Man -- the man who is never satisfied with himself, one who constantly tests his limits and demands more of himself once he breaches those limits.
I would become the Last Man.
How do you classify some practices as taboo? By what power does society proscribe something as unacceptable, as vile, as forbidden as to exclude it from mores and the fineries of civilization?
I saw on National Geographic the origins of voodooism and it demystified all my preconceived and ambiguous notions about the practice. All I knew about voodoo before were from the movies: the dolls, reminiscent of our own mangkukulam, the rituals of blood and sacrifices, and zombies. Who could forget about the zombies? I remember the film Night of the Living Dead in the old betamax and how they couldn’t be killed unless you sever their heads off from their bodies, or blow their brains out, depending on how you like your gore. That night I couldn’t sleep and it didn’t help that we had a weirdo for a house help who relished in regaling (read: scaring) us with stories from the radio programs she listened to.
Apparently, voodoo is considered as religion in
The original meaning of the word from the Farsi (?) language was spirit. Meaning: to invoke the spirits. The invoking part is what makes the religion so controversial. The rituals include sacrificing a kid (not a kid kid but a goat young) or cutting themselves to draw blood, which becomes the sacrifice itself. The priest sways to the rhythm of the drums (maybe the reason why hip-hop music is dictated by the throbbing of the drum) before he’s possessed by the spirit.
I was watching the whole episode when I drew some parallelism with Catholicism, which is supposedly a mainstream religion and was partly responsible for creating the myths about voodooism. The use blood in voodoo rituals is not unique. During communion, priests drink the wine which represents the blood of Christ. All throughout history, we have ordinary people suffering from stigmata and some of them were canonized to sainthood.
Possession, too, is not limited to voodooism. God manifested himself through Immaculate Conception, which is quite simply a form of possession. In fact, Christianity as a religion was itself considered a taboo when Mithraism was the dominant religion years after Christ’s death. Christians were routinely hanged, fed to the lions, or flagellated.
Speaking of flagellation which is a prevailing practice in voodooism, during the Semana Santa, Catholic devotees also practice self-flagellation as a form of penitence. Some of these devotees even nailed themselves to the cross. The fanatics among the Catholic hierarchy like Opus Dei, for example, also practice self-flagellation.
The thing that struck me about voodooism is the violence. There’s a term that describes this: the passion of the real. The concept is that for the experience to be authentic, there has to be some violent or shocking encounter. This is especially relevant to our times when we are rendered more and more like automatons or zombies by the technologies that surround us. When conversations are diluted by the vicarious social interaction between a man and a woman, typing hurried words in their yahoo messengers.
Voodoo is an “in-your-face” religion, devoid of the trappings of social political correctness (which is the greatest thing that ever happened to bigots and racists, but that’s another story). When you break down all existing constructs, what do you have left? Ironically, it doesn’t follow what existentialist and post-modernist thinkers are proposing: that meaning and experience can only be created by the individual and so is not objective. What remains, in fact, is the common need to connect to something that is higher than ourselves. And that promise, that potentiality is universal to all religions. That’s what makes Christianity and Voodooism ultimately the same.
God, my head hurts.
I found a wrinkled Red Cross card when I was skimming through my wallet and I realized I’m due for another donation. The way I was made to understand it, every three months the 500 cc of blood I gave would have been replaced. The last time I visited the Red Cross office was in April so I guess in a few days, I would be shedding blood once again.
I dread these moments. I never did like needles. There’s something very violent in a hypodermic breaching the epidermis and into your veins. And just like rape, you feel violated afterwards. Who was it that said “rape is not about sex, it’s about power?” (Was it Demi Moore on the film Disclosure? Or maybe it’s Margarita Holmes, I’m not sure). The same maxim works here. Bleeding you is not about sex either, it’s about power.
The experience I had the last time I was there didn’t help in shaking off my anxiety. Our STAP Glenn and I were lying there on separate beds as the nurse prepared the needles and bags. I was aware that Glenn was getting edgy and so naturally I volunteered to be the first to be bled (there’s no other way to put it).
What I didn’t know was that the nurse was just an intern and not exactly a connoisseur in the ways of the blood. He tied my arms to pop a vein and inserted the damn needle (I swear it was two inches long and about an inch in diameter!).
No blood dripped. Not even a dribble.
So she pulled out the needle, screwed it again on the vein, making another wound in the process.
She must have noticed me grimacing for she asked: “Does it hurt?”
What else could I reply? Being a wiseass, I said: “No. Maybe you should shove it deeper so it would hurt.”
Glenn laughed nervously.
The nurse looked up at me; her face a blank. Then she twisted, turned and chucked the needle a little deeper, just like what I ordered. She must have thought I deserved it for being a wiseass. God, some people just don’t have a sense of humor.
After practicing on my vein, Glenn’s was a breeze. He bled on the first try.
Afterwards, we each got Zest-O and Magic Flakes. I shouted: “Yehey! Naa mi juice ug biskwit!”
That earned me a smile from the nurse. She’s not hopeless, after all. *lol*
They finally did it.
As if the distinction of being the smallest planet and the most eccentric is not enough, astronomers last week dispensed with political correctness and called Pluto for what it is – a dwarf planet.
Imagine what that classification would do to a planet’s rep which is, after all, what matters in the hood which we call the solar system.
Jupiter, the big bully, laughed his ass off after hearing the new word in town.
"Hey, did you bitches hear? Pluto who we thought was just small for his size was found to be wearing elevator shoes. The bastard apparently is a midget. So, that's why he's got a small dick!"
Mars, ever energetic and ambitious, laughed harder than most while exclaiming, “Good one boss!”
Earth, along with the tramp Venus, who might have bedded every planet in the solar system (with the exception of Pluto: “He’s too small!”) now is backing off as if he didn’t start the gossip in the first place.
“Hey, here comes the dwarf and his mini-me!” Uranus, being his usual ass-self, called out when Pluto and Charon passes their orbit. "Mini-me" refers to Charon, Pluto’s twin in size and temperament.
Some planets have always been suspicious about their relationship. Word is that they are lovers.
Saturn, with a regal air adjusts his crown and puckered his lips in disapproval, and looked away. This is so beneath him. Mercury tries to defuse the situation with logic and communication. “Aw, common bitches, they don't call them dwarves anymore. He’s now vertically-challenged.” Venus twirled her hair and gagged on her chewing gum on the comment. Instead, she called out “Brokeback!”
Pluto walked briskly and ignored them. He practically dragged Charon along with him.
Everybody hooted.
Earth, still unsure of his place in the pack, smirked: “That Pluto, he’s weird. He always love to roam in the darkness and his eyes are always shifty.”
Yeah, and he’s very pale just like that Japanese boy from that horror movie where everybody gets snuffed? Man! He gives me the creeps.” Venus added, taking a drag of her cigarette.
“Yeah, I hear an 11-year old English girl named him because ain’t nobody wanted to get near his ugly face,” Jupiter said.
“He’s a suck up too. Always forcing himself on the Sun for a little bit of light. Snorting that ray like some poor loser,”
Plus, there’s that one incident when the Sun, the big boss, was driving around the neighborhood in his white limousine looking for trusted guys for a contract. Word spread around.
Their eyes met. Pluto walked faster.
“The bitch does walk fast, don’t he?” Jupiter said. He leans in his chair, cigarette hanging on his lips.
“Yeah, maybe they’re going to see their girlfriends. I always see them hanging with those midgets Ceres and Xena,” Earth reluctantly volunteered. “Maybe, they’re having a foursome!”
Everybody laughed. Mars laughed the loudest.
A meteorite swung by, almost hitting Jupiter. He fell from the chair, his bling-bling falling to the ground and burning himself with his own cigarette. He stared menacingly at Pluto and Charon as if it’s their fault he fell.
“Those gay midgets. They’ll get theirs, someday.”
Seeming calm
Passed over
The half-closed lids
Of dreamers.
Naked to the warm earth,
The sun singed
All resolve and
Struggles,
They lay content.
The wind carried
Their laughter and screams,
Buffered by the waves’ own,
To ocean depths,
To the memories of past oceans,
To the stories of past generations,
To the laughter and tears
Of mothers, brothers, grandfathers,
Farmers, seafarers, gulls,
Herons, and seabirds,
To the laughter and tears
Of would-be dreamers.
Administration congressmen made good on their promise to bury any attempts to unseat President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo with yesterday’s approval of the committee on justice report by 36 votes to 0 junking the impeachment complaint for insufficiency in substance.
The approval came as no surprise since days before, the President’s allies have trumpeted the bungled attempts of the opposition to come up with the necessary number of signatures to send the complaint to Senate. Majority Floor Leader Prospero Nograles even virtually assured the death of the impeachment bid so the House could turn its attention to the issue of Charter change.
The zero votes do not necessarily mean that the approval came with no resistance. It was, in fact, the upshot of the protest action of the minority members when they refused to participate in the voting after accusing the majority of railroading the approval of the report.
Deputy Minority Floor Leader Roilo Golez claimed said the President’s allies bulldozed the impeachment complaint by approving in principle the report on a motion by committee vice chair Eastern Samar Representative Marcelino Libanan.
The approval snubbed their earlier agreement to deliberate on the report “page by page” which would have given the chance for opposition members to introduce some amendments.
Among the violations cited by the opposition were: the failure of the body to provide each member with a copy of the report three days before the meeting and the approval of the report in principle even without the copy of the report itself.
If the allegations are true, the opposition could file a protest using the legal channels requesting to junk the report on technicality but who would listen? The President has the numbers and democracy, after all, is nothing but the tyranny of the majority.
Of course, we don’t expect the issue to be buried along with the report. In the next few days, we expect to see opposition members to bring the matter in the court of public opinion. We expect them to make noise over how the administration officials bullied their way into stifling dissent.
In like manner, we also anticipate seeing administration officials being magnanimous in victory by offering the hand of reconciliation to the opposition. We expect Malacañang to ask the public to move on towards better things like changing the Constitution and the realization of its “super regions.”
What we don’t presume to get, however, are answers. The President, despite promising to answer questions on the controversy once the excitement dies down after her “I’m Sorry” speech, chose to remain silent. The second impeachment bid is dead and the public is as confused as ever.
If administration congressmen feel that they are doing the President and the public a favor by killing the complaint, they are sadly mistaken. Unfortunately for us all, the country could not get past this issue. It could not move forward, not by a long shot.
“The Roots of Violence: Wealth without work, Pleasure without conscience, Knowledge without character, Commerce without morality, Science without humanity, Worship without sacrifice, Politics without principles,” -- Mahatma Gandhi
Saw on TV our so-called president wearing the famous yellow shirt with the mug of Ninoy Aquino on the front during the commemoration of his death anniversary and I almost gagged.
How dare she gatecrash a memory – no, a symbol of idealism, freedom, and human rights -- which she successfully debased in her short term. Critics even placed her above Marcos in her wanton disregard of human lives as in the case of killings of activists and journalists done in broad daylight. How dare she invoke what Ninoy stood for!
Cory, knowing that the commemoration was meant to be a grand show for good PR was a, well, no show.
During the ceremony, Gloria named former Supreme Court associate justice Jose Melo to head the new commission supposedly to probe the almost daily killings, which she condemned in the “strongest terms,” while she called on the public for support. The commission was created a few days after Gloria gave Task Force Usig an ultimatum to solve 10 cases in 10 weeks.
Earlier, Gloria called on the witnesses to come out and pinpoint the killers; as if it’s the fault of the witnesses why not a single suspect has been jailed. Now, we know where (in)Justice Sec. Raul Gonzales got his astute talent of concocting ready-made excuses for ineptitude. His boss just showed it right there.
Besides, the government has not shown in the past its interest in protecting whistleblowers. There was Gen. Francisco Gudani, along with his officer Col. Alexander Balutan, who was court martialed for testifying before the Senate on what they knew about election rigging involving the president’s husband.
Then there’s EO 464 which prohibits executive officials from testifying before Senate with Malacanang’s say-so; the CPR to prevent protesters from massing up; the overthrow of the impeachment bid even before the evidence could be examined – all pointing to the actions of the guilty person.
Of course, I was no longer surprised seeing Gloria there. She must have really thought that it’s her duty to be present during the commemoration. If she praised Gen. Jovito Palparan for his “heroic” efforts in fighting the enemy yesterday like what she did in her state of the nation address, I would also expect it. Her capacity to lie to herself is boundless.
Gloria already usurped the presidency, and yesterday she took over a widow’s memory, too. No, Gloria does not surprise me anymore. It’s us I’m disappointed with. How far could we go allowing somebody rape our morals, prostitute our minds, and assault our senses with her fake smiles?
Gloria’s greatest crime is not stealing the presidency (not once, but twice!); her greatest sin is murdering the Filipino’s hope.
Ninoy need not worry whether or not the Filipino is worth dying for:
We are already dead.
Saw Chik2x last night and as is our wont (a tradition almost) when we have no money, we decided to splurge.
And so we hied off to Kaen Dawet along Roxas Avenue to eat and just chill out. I hated the crowd -- the cacophony of voices, of bottles being served, of the shrilling DJ on the background, of shuffled feet, cellphones beeping -- all gave me an earsplitting headache.
The thing is, I used to find the chaos of the crowd comforting, seeking tranquility in the anonimity it provides. I was drawn to them like a moth to a flame.
It doesn't really matter where I was. Mostly I and some other guys found ourselves in some dingy honky tonk, beer in our hands that were rendered blue or red (depending on where you sit) by the flourescent lights wrapped in cheap colored water cellophane.
Or sometimes, we enter strip clubs laughing our asses off over some antics of the girls onstage that are anything but erotic. So we just nurse our beers, munch on peanuts, and focus on the girls beside us.
To keep the girls that we "table" from clapping for a ladies drink (which, by the way cost over a P100) every ten seconds, Tonix and I wooed two girls. Mine was married (or so she said and you don't lie about a thing like that in the presence of your customer). It didn't matter, at least the claps now come at 20-second intervals.
We also frequent posh disco houses where dancing entailed standing on one place bobbing your head for lack of space.
I couldn't help but wax nostalgic about the old Mad Max along Legaspi Street. That was a riot in a literal sense of the word. The crowd was rowdy, the entrance was cheap, and a fight almost always break out. PARTEEYY!!
It didn't even matter that I couldn't hold my drink. Every so often I passed out or puke whatever I had for that week. I'd sleep, somebody wakes me up and hands me a glass of booze, naturally I accept it and drink some more; and naturally puke some more (there goes my intestine, my gall bladder and liver).
Free band performances were heavenly. Slamming, thumping, shouting, and get smashed afterwards. Of course, this was the era of grunge, where Nirvana, Radiohead, R.E.M and Pearl Jam reign like gods. ROCK ON!!!
I used to be that guy who shouted catcalls at every lousy joke the DJ made, my stupidity amplified by the alcohol in my veins; the one who took on every dare his friends issued; the jerk who couldn't understand the concept "no means no." I was boisterous, irascible, and generally obtuse. I've mellowed since then.
Last night, for example, I couldn't wait to get out of there and just sit somewhere quiet to talk, and instead of beer, it's my girl's hands I'm clutching.
Does that speak of my maturity? No, more like I'm moribund.
Release me of your love.
It has ceased to be my freedom.
It has now become a cold, damp prison
With a small windowsill,
Providing a peek of the
Endless fields outside
Where I used to run unbound.
Release me of your love.
Your smile now begets intense grief.
Tugging at the part of my heart
Where before the corners of your mouth
Reign and control like the gods.
I look myself through your eyes
And I could no longer see
That brawny and virile man
Who tamed Titans
And broke hurricanes
With his strength.
You’ve reduced me
To ordinariness.
The golden sword I used to yield
And swing with reckless abandon
Is now just a dull blade.
And my shield, which shone like
A thousand suns,
Has now blunted.
Release me of your love.
Leave me to my mortality
Fly away…
Fly away and
Don’t look back.
Conceal your eyes from me
So I won’t glimpse that
Brawny and virile man
Who tamed Titans
And broke hurricanes
With his strength.
Teachers and administrators of the University of Southeastern Philippines spitting mad against this popular (or so he thinks) ABS-CBN personality over the comments he made during his radio program.
They supposedly took exception when the ABS-CBN personality, who also anchors an afternoon show on TV, said on air that USEP administrators are "bugo" (stupid) because the investigation into the unfortunate death of Cheryl Sarate had dragged on.
Gripped with apoplexy, One teacher was heard to have commented: "Bugo pud diay siya. Mura man pud siya dili gikan sa USP. Dire baya siya nag high-school."
Hahahahaha!
