Written on 9:55 PM by isko b. doo
I hate this. I can't upload my posts. Maybe it's my computer or my Mozilla browser but editing or creating entries has become near impossible. I thought it was just a bug in all of blogsphere but it's frustrating to see other blogspot users don't seem to experience the same problem and were able to update their posts.
Tried the help option but couldn't find anything of use to me. Oh, I could ask around since there are help forums here but being I'm a bum and that sounds like a lot of hard work. I transfered to wordpress instead.
So.. dear critics, readers, bystanders, evaluators, idiot savants, plain idiots, friends, ex-friends, co-workers, fellow bummers, sa mga dating my crush sa akin at sa mga magka-crush pa, to Raul Gonzales, Gloria and all politicos, here's the link to my new blog account.
Drum roll please....
http://searchingforpablo.i.ph
Don't clap your hands. I'm imaginative, I know. :P
P.S.
And to blogspot fanatics who think I'm no worse than a makapili who point to his countryman to be fed to the Japanese kempetai for leaving blogspot... pasensya na,
kabalo na mo, tiguwang na dali lang mangluod.
Written on 12:11 PM by isko b. doo
Arrgggh! It's HOOOOOTTT!
I haven't seen hot like this since I was back in high school and I wore those blue stretchable pants which hugged my thigh until before the ankle, a blue denim jacket, a punk midriff shirt, white robertsons shoes and extra-thick yellow cotton socks (that kssss-ing you hear is me smokin' hot, Woohoo!).
I couldn't think, I couldn't sleep, I couldn't stay outside in the heat for more than 10 minutes without developing a headache, I couldn't stay outside, period. Hell, I couldn't even sweat. My perspiration just sort of fizzles, evaporating into gaseous state before it can liquify. You go outside and there's just the sun, hammering down on you. On extra hot days, I swear I could hear the sound of its rays pounding on me.
Pound. Pound. Pound.
There must be something to this global warming thing. I read somewhere that the earth's temperature rose two degrees over the last decade compared to just two degrees from the 1900 to 1990. Two degrees might seem diminutive but considering the sun's core has temperature levels reaching 13,600,000 degress Kelvin, two degrees of that is like, ah...um... Okay! I don't do math. So sue me. It's scorching though, I know that much.
This heat is kinda bumming me out. Imagine, I have to take a shower now twice a day. Twice! whereas before I take a shower twice a week. Hey, we have one of the best waters in the world, no sense wasting it on something as immaterial as taking a bath, Hehehe.
Haahaay... got to get to work again. I already took a shower, buttered my armpits with a deodorant and splash on a little cologne. Why do I even bother when 10 minutes after I walk out that door I'd be smelling like a wet dog bitchin' in the heat.
And there would be the sun waiting for me, a hammer in hand and a smirk on its face.
I know. It's clobbering time.
Written on 2:00 PM by isko b. doo
I remember exactly when I stopped going to church. It was my birthday during my second year high school, the first day of Misa de Gallo. It was still 4:30 a.m., but the air inside the church was stuffy, nearly clotted by the sheer number of people inside. It felt like we were Jews during the Holocaust about to be gassed.
I was sandwiched between two massive bulks, a mother and her daughter I guess. The daughter gave off a scent that could only be described as vinegary sweetness -- a blend of sweat and perfume. Meanwhile, the mother, well, forget the mother. I huddle closer to her daughter. Two grown men in front of me blocked my view of the pulpit. The hum of the priest's voice ricocheted around the walls. I felt very drowsy.
I heard the priest bless the cup containing the "blood of Christ," I strained my neck and I couldn't see what he was doing. I heard the priest bless the Holy Eucharist, I tippy-toed and still I couldn't see what he was doing. Fuck this!
I stormed out of the church and went out to buy puto bumbong. Never paid much attention to priests since then. Oh, I've been to church several times. I even attended Misa de Gallo again and attempted to finish the traditional nine mornings. I would have completed it, too, if the girl I was courting that time (and that is why I was escorting her) hadn't said yes on the 7th day. So the day after, she went to mass alone. Hehehe.
So what went wrong? It seemed silly to drop religion on account of a little acidity from some girl's armpit, wasn't it? Yes, it seemed silly but, to borrow a worn-out phrase, that was the last straw.
I grew up with my lola in an old house stuffed with religious images. Aside from the Holy Family, we also had a Sto. Niño, the Sacred Heart, a big rosary, and a poster of Jesus Christ. I grew up venerating these icons, especially the Holy Family -- more prehistoric than my lola, I was told.
(Hmmn... antique? Ka-ching!)
Back then, we prayed a lot. I was quite adept at praying the rosary and could recite the mysteries backwards; the Angelus at 6:00 p.m., the way of the cross to Shrine each Holy Week; I even knew how to pray the novena for every occasion, sa patay, sa buhi, sa hapit na mamatay. When I wasn't at home, I was at the catholic school I go to and you guessed it, recited the rosary, prayed Our Father and droned out the Hail Marys. Oh, almost forgot the three o'clock prayer.
No, there's no Eureka moment nor was I hit with a thunderbolt which triggered a sudden realization that all my life I've been had by religion. My reason was much more mundane and bland than that. I just got tired of it all.
Which gets me thinking... why is it that priests speak in monotone? No, scratch that. Why is the whole Eucharist conducted in monotone? The voice of the priest, the songs, the melody -- all make for a banausic impression. I have a theory. I think, it's a grand conspiracy. The lifeless, bromidic ritual taps into our alpha waves or something, lulling us into relaxation and therefore more open to suggestion. You remember those tapes back in the 80s that supposedly dribble satanic verses when played backwards? I think when you slow down the ceremony just about right, you could hear subliminal messages whispering "we are the way or you're going to hell" or "give more to the collection plate or you're going to hell." They have nearly two millennia to perfect the system, right?
I mean, all that ceremony and what do we get!?! The Holy Eucharist which is no bigger than a five peso coin. The priest doesn't even allow us to sip the wine! At least, other religions feed you with a sandwich and juice. If you have to be fucked in the behind, might as well be fed for it. I draw the line with Quiboloy and his Kingdom of Christ, however, they not only not feed you, they make you sell pulvoron in the guise of scholarship as well. The only thing which sucks more than that is my blog.
I've been called a lost child, an agnostic, atheist, or even a satanist. Sometimes I welcome the labels, just so I know I belong to something. Don't get me wrong, I envy those who don't question and just let their faiths steer their destiny. They seem so cute and placid, like sheep. Awwww...
It's easy to think that being amoral sans responsibilities is fun but it's difficult to suspect what has dominated and continues to dominate all aspects of my life; it's especially difficult to doubt when it's all I have left of my lola. If nothing else, religion was our connection. She was proudest when her apo led the novena for the first time and our neighbors praised my skill. She never said a word but I'm sure she looked at the empty space beside her when she recited the Angelus in front of the Sto. Niño.
My lola is now dead. I cried hardest when at the time she needed it most, I couldn't even allow myself to recite a short prayer for her. I wanted to but that seemed hypocritical. I guess at that moment, there's no turning back for me.
Yet, this whole crap is so embedded in me that even as I conclude this entry, I mentally make the sign of the cross.
Written on 12:53 PM by isko b. doo
Here I am, changing my skin again. It has nearly become a bi-monthly routine for me and it's got nothing to do with my current mood or my frame of mind at all. More often than not, it's mainly for lack of anything better to do. Just goes to prove that being a bum is not all sunshine and butterflies.
Another purpose in changing skins is an attempt to keep this blog fresh. At least, until I could distract everybody else from the reality that my entries are stale, a hackneyed, monochromed reel of my so-called life. I thought that if magicians could use the trick of distraction and enjoy the prestige, so could I.
I belong to the generation where my savvy in computers is limited to the "barely adequate" category; where CSS and HTMLs are acronyms you paste in sodas and canned goods along with the ubiquitous reg.phil.pat.off. Sure I could google porn but that's about it.
After about two weeks, when the audience's eyes have caught up with my quick hands, the colors and the patterns lose their luster. And only after looking at the other blogs out there that I realize: the design of my blog sucks.
Great. Now I have two things to be insecure about: my writing and this blog's blueprint. Why do I do this to myself?
More than anything else, this particular template seems apt. The bug-eyed birds remind me of a deer caught in headlights and that's exactly my state of mind right now -- it's knowing that an 85-ton mack truck is heading your way running at full speed and you can't do any damn thing about it.
So you freeze, brace for the full impact and hope as hell it's your lucky day.
Written on 9:28 PM by isko b. doo
I always associate Bukidnon with the Kalachuchi.
For what reason, I don't know. But even as I write this post, the smell of the Kalachuchi waft through the air and its overpowering scent disturbed the equilibrium of the room. The intrusion is not at all unpleasant. Like a friendly greeting from an old friend; or a slice of chocolate cake in the middle of a diet.
I was about 11 or 12 years old when my family spent a summer in Bukidnon. We lived with an evangelical pastor who was the partner of my father in a potato farm business a few kilometers from his house.
His house sits on a hill. No, it's more like a anomalous growth but the dirt road knew better than to cut through it and offend the sensibilities of a messenger from God. So the road snaked around that mound -- adorned with fruit trees, bermuda grass, a small garden of gumamela, violets, baby's breath and shrubs -- before it staggers and get lost around the bend.
At the back of the house stands the Kalachuchi. So huge it seemed to dwarf the two-storey house but that's not true, of course -- its dimensions forever distorted by a distant memory. Without fail, right after daybreak, the pastor's little girl religiously fetched the goat from its pen and tie it to the Kalachuchi. A bald spot around the Kalachuchi where the grass couldn't seem to grow just shows how long this custom has been going on.
At night, the shadows seemed endless; fractured only by flourescent lights dangling precariously on creaky lampposts. You could count shafts of light in the main road before the darkness swallows the rest of them. As the light of moon pallidly touched the winding path, the flowers of the Kalachuchi perfumed the air, adding to the ghostly atmosphere.
"It's the moths," the pastor told me one night. "The Kalachuchi tricks the moths into thinking it has nectars to give and so the moths come back again and again."
Again and again. Quite a deceitful one, that Kalachuchi.
But this post has nothing to do with Kalachuchi.
It was our first night at the Pastor's house. I was lying between my two brothers in the sala. My father was in one room with my mother; my uncle and two other cousins slept in another room near the kitchen. In the dark, the ordinary furniture looked menacing. Naturally, we couldn't sleep. As the crickets and toads crooned, we listened... for strange noises, for a deviant clatter, even a familiar thud (the kind that falling dead bodies make when clumsy psychos stumble).
Nothing. Every sound accounted for. The hum of the electric fan, the rustling of the wind on the tin roof, my heavy breathing. I start to doze off.
Then suddenly. I heard a faint sound in the distance.
I listened.
"Mooo."
"Mooo."
I heard what a cow sounds like when it "moos" and I knew THAT wasn't a cow. It sounded guttural, like a raw wheeze from deep in the stomach; a drowning man struggling to breathe.
And it's coming from the kitchen.
"Mooo."
"Mooo."
The sound is defeaning. A pause then a moo. I pulled the sheets up to my head. My brothers followed suit.
Moo. Pause. Moo.
It surrounded the house. It swallowed the house. I didn't know how I managed to sleep that night. All I remember was waking up all covered in sweat. I went to the kitchen to drink Milo and walked into a conversation among the adults. Obviously, I wasn't the only one who had a difficult night.
"Sabaa ning Janwart oi! Sige lang ug Moo Moo, di ko katulog!" my cousin complained.
Apparently, when my uncle snores, he moos.
There's no moral to this story but nobody snores like my uncle. Nobody should have to. That's inhuman. You scare little children that way. Even cows stop to moo when they sleep.
Written on 10:11 PM by isko b. doo
You have a sexual hidden talent
You have a sexual hidden talent. You might not look it but you are a dynamo in bed. Most of your lovers think that it is from years of practice, but really, you were just born with it.
Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com |
Eherm! Man! this quiz is accurate... hehehe. Now, where did I put that hammer and nail so I could frame this.
Two words: Advertise baby! :)
Written on 10:21 AM by isko b. doo
Was it a politician's publicity stunt?
A day after "helping" to facilitate the release of 26 schoolchildren from Musmos Day Care center, Luis "Chavit" Singson couldn't wait to gloat to the whole world about his role in the nearly day-long hostage drama.
The quotation marks in the word helping was intentional because I didn't think Chavit did much. Wasn't it Sen. Bong Revilla who told the police earlier that Jun Ducat, the hostage-taker, vowed to release the children by 7:00 p.m. that same night? Indeed, at the stroke of 7:00, Ducat opened the bus door and... well, we know what happened next. So whether or not he showed up the impasse would have ended at 7:00.
And now, here we have Chavit sending a 12-paragraph press release to 130 e-mails of publishers and reporters praising himself for being a hero. Count it, 130 e-mails. Must be hard being a hero when you have to remind everybody else why.
Read what Chavit has to say about himself:
“It takes guts and bravery to risk your own life to help rescue children caught in a hostage crisis.”
“When I was called to the site of the hostage-taking, I didn’t think that I might be criticized for supposedly riding on the incident.”
“I just thought that it was more important to save the children. It was the children who were on my mind.”
Oh?
And what say you monsiuer about zeez latest stunt? Merde! I zee right zhru you monsieur Chavit. (I know, bad French accent)
If he was only thinking of the children's welfare, why in Jueteng's name should he send a praise release?
I have a theory. Chavit claims Ducat's companion Cesar Carbonell called him up to ask for his help, I say it's the other way around. I think it was Chavit who called the hostage-takers' number (it wasn't hard, Ducat wrote his number and glued it on the bus' windshield) and begged them to throw him a bone. Do you think Carbonell had Chavit's number on his phonebook? Not damn likely.
Chavit is every inch guilty about endangering the lives of those children as Ducat was and should be thrown in jail with him. In his attempt to look like a hero, he collected the two grenades, with the pins unhitched I might add, from Ducat so he could be the one to give it to the police himself. What if one of the grenades fell during the exchange? He could have called a police expert to receive the grenades if he was interested in protecting the children. But nooo... no suh! Heroes don't do dat suh.
Now, Ducat's in jail and Chavit's gloating. Ducat deserved his fate because he's a recidivist, I'd have more sympathy for him if he took politicians hostage instead, but do we deserve this crap from Chavit?
Was it a politician's publicity stunt?
You're goddamn right it was.
Written on 10:29 PM by isko b. doo
A stranger walked solitary.
As the sharp edges of the
Sunset wounds the sky,
Casting a fiery shadow;
Tainting the horizon
With blood--- painting it scarlet.
The remorseful sun
Inconspicuously hiding
Behind mountains benighted.
Hoping no one notices its crime.
The wave’s orgasmic sighs,
As they make love to the
Sandy beach, drown
Dusk’s screams;
And the nightingale’s songs
Muffled the sun’s hasty steps
As he makes his escape.
Nobody notices the transgression.
Not least the stranger ---
Who’s presently revolted
By the mud silts clinging
To his pants as he makes
His way to the disco next town.
Written on 10:16 PM by isko b. doo
Vanity--- is the maggot
That slowly gnaws
And gorges away
The flesh
Of the carcass,
Leaving only the bones.
The soul was consumed
Long before…
Along with dignity.
Written on 9:18 PM by isko b. doo
Your results:
You are Hulk
| Hulk |
| 65% |
| Catwoman |
| 65% |
| Green Lantern |
| 65% |
| The Flash |
| 50% |
| Robin |
| 50% |
| Superman |
| 50% |
| Supergirl |
| 45% |
| Spider-Man |
| 40% |
| Iron Man |
| 35% |
| Batman |
| 35% |
| Wonder Woman |
| 20% |
|
You are a wanderer with
amazing strength.
 |
Click here to take the "Which Superhero are you?" quiz...Maayo na lang na Hulk ang pinakataas... hapit pa ko na catwoman. hehehe
Written on 1:09 PM by isko b. doo
If you're a government worker and you think about retiring anytime this year, you might lay down on that plan for a while. It seems that bright boys in Congress dipped into the retirement payment of state workers worth P3.6 billion and realigned it for something more consequential -- to nearly double their pork barrel allocation from P6.24 billion in the 2006 budget to P11.445 billion this year.Budget Secretary Rolando Andaya was quoted by the Inquirer as saying that his office submitted P6.2 billion but it was increased by the bicameral committee (composed of both the Senate and the House of Representative).“From an initial glance at the budget, the P3.6 billion came from the retirement pay of government workers,” he said. Simply put, if the Department of Budget could not find another source to reimburse the retirement pay, about 8,000 government workers who are due to retire this year won't get anything. I guess the retiring government employees would have to sacrifice this bit of inconvenience for the country. State workers already spent their whole lives in the service of the public, why not extend their service after retirement? Don't be such selfish ingrates as to deny your retirement pay from our distinguished representatives. I mean, where's our sense of patriotism?After all, our legislators are only doing this for the benefit of their constituents. Forget that the timing is suspect since it's election season; forget reports that as much as 30 percent in commission from the projects approved by the legislators goes to their pockets; forget that project allocation by Congress is already redundant to the duty of local government units to identify and implement projects within their boundaries. That's just talk man. And talk, just like pirated DVDs from china, is cheap.
Written on 12:54 PM by isko b. doo
The next rave to hit the US is the book by Rhonda Byrne titled "The Secret" which explicates on the law of attraction and how it could be utilized to benefit the reader.
The book is endorsed by no less than Oprah (yes Virginia, there is Oprah) and it comes with an accompanying DVD and while it's being criticized for emphasizing middle-class concerns like cars, houses, jewelry, I understand where she's coming from: she's marketing a book to a nation that has patented capitalism.
So between an image of a barefoot hippie with unshod clothes on a mountaintop trying to reach Nirvana and a yuppie who adds another bling to his blings by visualization, which do you think is a harder sell?
The concept is not new of course. Eastern Philosophy has been espousing the Universal laws for centuries. Aside from the law of attraction (like begets like), there's law of affirmation (constant affirmation becomes reality), law of compensation (also called Karma) and law of causality (in this world, nothing is coincidental). Let's attempt to dissect them one by one.
Law of Attraction
As you believe, so you become. As you become, so you believe -- unknown
Basically, the law suggests that we are all interconnected. This metaphysical assumption predates the Bible and traced back to the 4000-year old Hindu monistic theory of the universe which believed on the power of thoughts. Hence, when you think positive thoughts, good things happen to you. If you entertain only negative thoughts, bad things happen. Maybe it's not an accident that happy-go-lucky people seem to lead semi-charmed lives. Opportunities and luck gravitate towards them than to pessimists.
What many religions found hard to stomach is the (blasphemous) theory posited by this law that the godhead is inherent in all of us. We are, in effect, made of the same substance as the creator -- you know, the one that played a cruel joke on the platypus (make your mind up already! what am I, a duck or a beaver?). But didn't God himself said that we are all created in his image and likeness? Even Jesus said that what he can do, we can also do. So why is it so hard to digest that we can manipulate physical surroundings by our thoughts?
Let me cite an example: when we were kids, my mother lost the change from vetsin at the tabletop. I forgot how much, but I guess it was about P3.00 or so. She was irate, to say the least.
"Asa ako kambyo dire?" she shouted at us. "Kung wala pa gani to diha sa lamesa pagbalik nako, pungkulon ta mo."
We asked each other who took the coin and nobody owned up to the crime. So we prayed. Hard. My mother is known for making good her threats and who wants to go through life with one missing limb? Definitely not me.
Well, the coin did materialize later and nobody knew how. So nobody should tell me that physical objects couldn't be manipulated. My mother proved it could be done.
History is replete with stories of the unexplainable and this include the Catholic Church, which is quick to scoff at miracles that occur outside the institution. We have a number of saints who predicted their own deaths; of the Holy Eucharist turning to human flesh; of saints who lived for 12 years without taking anything but the holy communion; of stigmatism; of preserved bodies years after their deaths.
In recent years, Oriental philosophy has experienced some kind of Renaissance. While all phenomena that couldn't be explained by science has been lumped by Western society into the so-called "New Age thinking." The term "New Age" is odious in the sense that it trivializes what old and modern Eastern societies adhere to. It where I would associate scientologists and horoscopes. I credit that to the egocentric, insular attitude of Westerners who dismissed everything that couldn't be explained by the five senses.
Mohandas K. Ghandi was once asked what he thought about Western civilization, he exclaimed: "I think that would be a good idea."
Hahahaha!
Lastly, a quote:
"To know that what is impenetrable to us really exists, manifesting itself as the highest wisdom and the most radiant beauty which our dull faculties can comprehend only in their primitive forms, this knowledge, this feeling, is at the centre of true religiousness."
No, Ghandi did not say that. Albert Einstein did.
Law of Affirmation
Despite being one of the pioneers of Dianetics, which L. Ron Hubbard expanded and promoted to become Scientology, A.L. Kitselman was best-remembered for this quote: "The words 'I am...' are potent words; be careful what you hitch them to. The thing you're claiming has a way of reaching back and claiming you."
Whereas, the law of attraction puts forward the power of thoughts, the law of affirmation upholds the power of words. Nobody could discount the power of words. It could build and destroy reputations; create and destroy an image; start or end wars; it could even heal or cause sickness.
Visayans have a term for a word misused. Tunglo.
That's the reason why our lolo and lola don't want to hear any talk about preparations for their burial. You always hear them say: "Ah buhi pa gani ko patyon nako ninyo?" Or do you ever have the experience when you get sick right after saying it out loud (mura lagi ko kalinturahon karon)? If not, try it. It's especially convenient when you have to attend that dreaded meeting. Hehehe. Or when we hate a person so much that we unconsciously pray something bad happening to them, and it did?
The law of affirmation states that repeatedly saying your wishes, desires, and goals to yourself over and over again, they become reality; but one component that shouldn't be left out in this process is visualization. Athletes routinely do this. Michael Jordan once admitted to visualizing how well he's gonna do before a game actually started. When he won the slam dunk crown, he visualized each aerial move minutes before hitting the floor. Larry Bird used visualization too. And we all know how they turned out.
Why doesn't it always work? One account says that affirmation wouldn't work until you reach a point where you could actually feel your goal, when you can actually "touch" and "taste" the texture and quality of your wish in your mind. That's the kind of focus that's spawned only by desperation and intense drive. I've also read somewhere that only 10 percent of those wishes coupled with affirmations come true. I don't know if that's accurate or not but what's 10 percent of a million? Exactly. Too high a number for coincidence.
And if you're thinking that you could say to yourself over and over again that you're going to be the best-looking bastard in town and have that wish come true, take heed because it's not for the faint-hearted. I tried to do it but I only succeeded in developing a skewed view of myself. I'm not an altogether sexy man, but years of self-delusion cheated my brain into thinking that I am, utilizing the power of self-suggestion that cult leaders employ. When you fully believe in something, you just might convince people to think you're right.
Or is it still part of my self-delusion?
Law of Compensation
What else can I add about karma? I think this is pretty straightforward. Jesus Christ exemplified this law with the phrase, "whatsoever you sow, you reap." The golden rule advises to "do unto others what you want others to do unto you."
In essence, for every action, there's a corresponding reaction -- that concept is amoral and transcendental. In Hinduism, which predicates the belief in reincarnation, it is the soul which reaps the benefits/consequences of karma. The payment may be made in full in a single lifetime or several lifetimes. Some mistakenly view it as payback or retribution but that's not entirely correct. Karma is dispassionate. Impartial.
Based on this concept, I think it's pretty easy to explain suffering. Hindus believe that the world exists as an experience -- a process of creation, destruction, and subsistence. When you see a blind person with a limp, he's not paying for previous transgressions in this lifetime, but rather he CHOSE that situation to live or relive (is relive even a word?) his karma until he attains moksha or liberation from his ego.
The operative word here is choice. Contrary to what the Catholic Church taught us, God's greatest gift to mankind wasn't the death of his own begotten son, it's free will. In reincarnation, the soul chooses what life to lead in the next life, the people to meet, the circumstances, and even the road signs (the lessons) along the way. The catch? nobody remembers a thing but the act has been played out over and over again.
Oh, when you drink all night and see a face like the wrinkled butt of Raul Gonzales in your mirror staring right at you the morning after, that's not karma. Gaba na!
Law of Causality
Scientifically, causality is simply cause and effect.
Of all the laws, this is probably the hardest to comprehend in the sense that it's contradictory. Causality flirts with the concept of predestination as opposed to the three previous laws which placed premium on choice. Deterministic view posits that the world is a sequence of events that has been preordained and predetermined even before we are born. In that sense, free will is non-existent.
(I for one believe in the concept of choice or free will as opposed to predetermination; I mean, where's the fun in that?)
In the metaphysical plane, the debate is still up whether the effect is connected to the cause and therefore alter the source or whether both concepts are interdependent of each other. I leave that up to the experts to figure out. Hey, I'm not going to risk offending either Plato or Aristotle who held differing views on the subject of cause and effect. They're my homies.
In my feeble mind, I think the effect would, in some or the other, shape the cause. Kung naghubo-hubo ka pagtulog unya kusog kaayo ang electric fan, pagkaugma sige jud ka utot2x. Next time, either pahinayan nimo ang electric fan or i-atubang nimo sa taas. Or kung pataka lang ka ug kaon sa birthday sa imong amigo, impatso jud imong labas ana. Sa sunod, maghinay-hinay na ka ug kaon. Pero unsaon na lang kung in-born jud ka na laog? At the risk of getting sick again, you'd have to take it easy with the food next time and would that in any way tread upon your nature to take in more chow than most in order to be satisfied?
Ayn Rand in her book Atlas Shrugged said that the nature of an action is caused and determined by the nature of entities that act; a thing cannot act in contradiction to its nature. In a sense, you are what you act. However, this reasoning, however logical may hold true only to inanimate or abstract objects. There are instances that could "shock" the source into changing its very nature. Wars do that, for example. Or death and disease. Hmmn.. but when the core changes, it will still act according to its "new" nature, won't it? So the original premise that a thing cannot act in contradiction to its nature still holds if that's the case?
God, my head hurts. Excuse me, I must wipe the blood from my nose.
Written on 2:12 PM by isko b. doo
Growing up, we had a lot of dogs. Mind you, these were not the uppity kind that ate only doggie foods, or respond to any command, or be jumping with joy at the sight of water as shown on those cute Labrador commercials on TV. Our dogs have no pedigree at all. You know, the kind that rabid dogs don't wanna meet in a dark alley.
It's not unusual for us to strut around the neighborhood with three or four dogs behind us while the angry barks and growls of the other dogs trail us as we pass by. Our dogs would be lapping along, assuming a swagger that's not befitting their non-pedigreed askal (asong kalye) ass and unmindful of the commotion they were causing.
Maybe that's the reason why we were not as attached to our dogs as we should be like the owners of those cute Labrador commercials on TV. Bath time were always a struggle, both from the dogs and us kids who were ordered to bathe the damn mutts. To put into context where we place our dogs in our hierarchy of needs: one time, we gave (donated?) one of our sickly dogs which died that summer of many moons ago to the local bums in the neighborhood as their pulutan. That afternoon summer of many moons ago, beneath an overcast sky, I ate adobong Blackie that I downed with an 8-oz. bottle of Mirinda. The whole experience gave a whole new meaning to the word "Down Blackie." hehe (God, I crack myself up).
But this is not about adobong Blackie but another dog named Blackie -- for lack of imagination and because we had too many dogs, we named them according to their color and other permutations: Brownie, Blackie, Whitey, Spotty, Tisoy/Tisay, Nognog, etc. -- who unwittingly taught us unconditional love and all that crap.
Blackie didn't have any distinguishing characteristics apart from his short legs. Judging from his name, the dog was all black save from a white mark in the middle of its head that splintered his cranium in two. He had the same mark on the tip of his tail that was always bent upwards when he stood on all fours. Like a perpetual "fuck you."
That's exactly how he behaved. He possessed a fuck you attitude, always looking out for a fight with our other dogs, even his old pop. Nobody touched the old dog, a grizzled veteran of many dog fights which bitten a lot of friends' legs that we couldn't care to remember, except Blackie. No sir! Blackie seemed to have made it his life's work to provoke his pop to be the Alpha Dog and fuck you very much!
His coat did not have the luster of pure-bred dogs. The hairs were thin and coarse, almost prickly and they emit a musky odor like a combination of ash and burnt pubes. Not that I know what burnt pubic hair smells like. He was just like any of our dogs except for one: we sold him off for P150.00 to our neighbor to celebrate his birthday with his friends.
Just so everything's clear. Even at our young age, we knew what would happen to him. He would very likely be somebody's appetizer before the day is done. We even knew how it's done.
1. You tie the dog to a post or a tree and make sure the rope is about two to three inches between the post and the collar so the dog wouldn't have room to maneuver and the head is quite still.
2. You take a stick, about 1 1/2 inches to two inches thick, and you hammer in a 4-inch nail at the end of the stick and you have a makeshift death bludgeon.
3. Whack the dog with the stick until his ass don't yelp no mo'.
See? it's easy as one, two, three.
I remembered right after lunch, our neighbor went to take Blackie. The dog was unusually subdued. I had the uneasy feeling he understood our conversations about selling him and he knew he was going to the gallows. As our neighbor led him outside the gate, the dog looked at us with dejected eyes. It's not at all accusatory, rather a resigned look that says "I can't believe you just did that."
I have to admit that I pity the dog. I wasn't such a heartless prick. Nor was my father, in fact, who sold Blackie. There was just too much chaos in the house, with five kids and 10 dogs. He didn't need the aggravation caused by Blackie. I'm not making excuses here, just an explanation.
The house was suddenly clothed with a sudden silence, the unmistakable conspiratorial silence that follows after a great transgression. That's that. Blackie's gone.
Or so we thought.
Some 30 minutes later, we heard a commotion from outside the house and so we all went out to investigate. Blackie's escaped! He knew how to open our gate anyway so he went right in and hid under the stack of lumbers at the backyard. Our neighbor was close behind his heels, clutching a 2 x 2 stick.
When Blackie saw us, he emerged from his hiding place dragging the severed rope around his neck, sporting a nasty-looking lump on his forehead the size of Batanes, and licked my father's feet. It broke my father's heart and returned the money to our neighbor.
Blackie had the opportunity to escape and he went home instead. He knew that my father sold him off to be killed and if he had any doubts, the lump on his forehead quelled all that. I've heard and read stories about dogs being intelligent but coming home was just stupid. Home's what brought him to that mess in the first place. Home was his ticket to one-way street. Was it just animal instinct that made him go home? Well, yes and no.
I should probably tell here that after licking my father's feet, Blackie proceeded to lick all of our feet. Each of our damn, stinky feet. When I looked down to see him groveling at my feet, I understood why my father had to return that money. It's not the kiss. It's the look.
You see, when I look into Blackie's eyes, I saw nothing but forgiveness. That was what my father saw. That was what broke his heart.
Blackie lived on with us for many years until he died of old age. He remained as boisterous, brassy, loud-mouthed, and frenzied as before. He did become the Alpha Dog and not a single day pass by without him reminding us about this fact by being a major pain in the ass.
Written on 9:22 PM by isko b. doo
The long-awaited anti-terror bill, now euphemistically dubbed Human Security Act after the Senate supposedly defanged it, was finally signed into law by President Gloria. Sen. Franklin Drilon harped on how senators took extra care to ensure that civil liberties won't be trampled with the implementation of the law.
Come again? The problem with our senators and the opposition is they habitually underestimate Gloria and her minions to fiddle with a few laws to do what they want. She wouldn't have survived this long otherwise.
Sure, on paper the law seems toothless; sure, the ambivalence as to the definition of a terrorist was reduced, but look at the composition of the Anti-Terrorism Council tasked to oversee the implementation of the law:
1. Executive Secretary Eduardo Ermita
2. Justice Sec. Raul Gonzales
3. Foreign Sec. Alberto Romulo
4. DILG Sec. Ronaldo Puno
5. Finance Sec. Margarito Teves
6. NSA Sec. Norberto Gonzales
Leaves you with a warm, fuzzy feeling inside, doesn't it?
Two of those members were allegedly responsible for crafting a death plan for communist insurgents and legal fronts allied with the left. Those same members also pushed for an all-out war against the NPA. A war which was savagely defended by the other Gonzales. Yes, the same one who, irony or ironies, mans our scales of justice. (When asked what to do if civilians are caught in the crossfire in the all-out war vs. communist rebels, Gonzales remarked: "You can't avoid collateral damage...sometimes there are bombings and civilians might get hurt). Still, another of the council's members engineered the greatest coup of all -- wresting the presidency from FPJ, a very popular actor who would have been our president. Not the greatest perhaps, but definitely not much (much!) worse.
The next obvious question is: do you expect this body to follow the rules because the Senate said so?
Written on 12:10 PM by isko b. doo
Yesterday, while I was preparing to take a bath I received a text message from an unlisted number.
Toot... tootoot....toot.....
0918...: Sino u? Y u ask kung may asawa na ko?
(I knew it was a wrong number because I never asked anybody that question. I could ignore the message but hey, how could you resist this one? This is too good to pass up)
Me: Answer u my question. May asawa ka na?
0918...: Yup. matagal na. Sino u?
Me: Ay Sayang! May asawa na pala u. Tsk!
0918...: Cno u nga, magpakila2 u
(I took a bath and must have forgotten to answer the question because the next message I received was more adamant)
0918...: Sino u nga? I answered your question now it's ur turn para magpakilala
Me: Bakit gusto mong malaman? Basta, I'm one of your admirers.
0918...: Sino dun? Di naman me manghuhula eh.
Me: Di nga. Di naman u c Madame Auring, d ba? Guess nalang tapos i-confirm ko.
0918...: Rey?
Me: So, may Rey ka pla. heheheh. Nope, di ako si Rey.
0918...: Cno nga? Dami ko na kasi nakilala nun eh. Di ko alam kung cno ka dun
Me: U reli want to know?
0918...: Cge na pls.
Me: Ako si.... wrong number ka! Bwahahaha!
Hmmn... I wondered why she didn't text back. Di siguro unlimited. Tsk!
Written on 12:51 PM by isko b. doo
Have you ever had the experience when you were mistaken for somebody else?
Well, I have and it took months before the mistake was corrected. Back in college, I had a classmate who thought she was all that; you know, one of those types who spend more time on the way their look than on their studies. Let's call her Sheila. Admittedly though, I spend half of my time in college outside of school than on it so who am I to judge? hehehe
Anyway, one time while in class I found myself sitting beside her because that's the only seat available. The teacher had just called for a surprise quiz and since I bring only ballpen to class, I asked for a yellow paper from my OTHER seatmate, totally ignoring Shiela thinking that she's as much a bum like me.
To my surprise, Sheila stretched her hand out to offer me an extra yellow paper. And to my next surprise, she called me "Luis."
Now, I don't know where she got the name from but I assure you I have the most ordinary name, the same name which I unluckily share with petty thieves and bums behind bars.
In the next few weeks, the semester was about to be finished by then, she called me Luis.
For some reason or the other, nobody among my classmates corrected her (maybe because nobody knew me, hehehe), especially me who gladly responded to Luis.
One time, she even asked me what my full name was and I told her my real surname along with my fictitious name "Luis" and she seemed to be satisfied with my answer for she turned her back on me. To this day, I wondered how she could have thought all those time that I had a different name.
Right after the break, I passed the course and quickly forgotten about her. One day, I was loitering at the corridor with some male classmates when I heard somebody call out "Hoy, Luis!" and turned to see her smiling face.
My buddies were at first surprised then started howling and teasing me when she went by and asked: "Asa na ka karun Luis?"
"Luis ka na diay karun? Kinsa ka si Lucky Manzano?" One of my buddies, who was not exactly known for his tact, teased.
"Kinsa man diay na siya, si Luis man jud na siya?" the surprised girl offered.
They guffawed. I looked down, visibly embarrassed. She was taken aback when somebody told her my real name. I hoped it was not because I shared a name with petty thieves and bums behind bars.
Feeling insulted, she walked away and right after that episode, I was no longer Luis. She even ignored me once or twice when we met on the corridors and lobbies of the school.
I don't know what to say. I liked Luis. He was smooth and cool. More importantly, we had a thing going on that was only for us. She called me Luis and I acquiescently responded. Does it matter that the name wasn't mine?
Written on 8:27 PM by isko b. doo
Where have all my friendships gone?
I remember here in this same mound of earth,
Roots scalped by the sun, that we made our promises.
When all of our principles, dreams, passions,
Eccentricities, convictions, were shaped
By our gullibility in fairy tales and
Happy endings.
You are somewhere now, forever
Slaying your own dragons.
I remember you crying when you learned
Not all tales have a happy ending.
I tasted your tears and your sweat dampened
My old shirt you used to love.
Your prince wounded your heart and I stood helpless
Knowing I can do no more.
I was no hero to your eyes.
I recall our conversations mostly revolved
around your prince. His absence dominated the room
And his company spelled my obscurity.
I never recognized his mediocrity,
Seen through the distorted image
Created by your eyes.
I still have that shirt. That old shirt you used to love.
Still stained by your aches.
It doesn’t fit me anymore.
The sleeves now remain unyielding.
You know, I’ve grown now.
I’m not the same naïve and lanky young man
You used to tease and protect.
I’ve known tears, laughter, ridicule, admiration, love and scorn.
I fashioned my own principles, destination
Convictions, aspirations and purpose.
My hands have callused, hardened by toil.
My heart had been torn and mended countless times.
The scars had disfigured it so much that I doubt if you
Could distinguish my heart among a thousand others.
The night holds no allure now. She can’t seduce me anymore.
The air had stilled and each breath has become a struggle.
It’s moments like this, when each second
Seemed an eternity,
Dripping ever so slowly
Like beads of water
From a leaking faucet,
That I wonder,
Whether you still think of the vows
We made ages ago,
I wonder,
Have you found your prince yet?
In your eyes, I was no hero,
But I’ve grown now
And that old shirt that you used to love
Is now in the closet
Not anymore soiled by your tears
But by dust and disregard.
Written on 4:36 PM by isko b. doo
I couldn't let this one pass.
How quickly we forget. Rep. Prospero Pichay is gunning for a Senate seat when just a few months ago he filed a resolution to convene the Lower House into a constituent assembly to change the 1987 Constitution. While he toed the administration line (lie?) that the changes would revolve around economic provisions, the real intent was palpable -- to eliminate the "obstructionist" Senate, which admittedly has been a thorn in the side of Malacanang.
Now, he wants us to install him into the very institution he sought to abolish? What hypocrisy!
Ang pichay hindi tinatanim sa Senado, kundi sa lupa.
Written on 9:46 PM by isko b. doo
A study made by a University of the Philippines professor found that in the end, the torpe gets the girl. There must be something wrong in my perspective because I find the opposite to be true and that's the reason I changed my game plan in the first place.
According to the study, it's often (?) the "shy, reserved, often wordless and apparently needy" types that attract girls rather than the aggressive ones. While the term aggressiveness here was not qualified, I'd imagine it to be somebody who's actively pursuing the girl as opposed to someone making "paramdam."
I don't know the type of girls (respondents) who participated in the survey but I have in my head a profile of conservative girls looking for stable relationships. I'm stereotyping, I'm sure. I'm not hatin' on the survey or anythin but I tried the torpe tack, and it didn't work as much as I would like.
I don't know how many of those relationships worked but I'd imagine the batting average to be below par. Maybe I'm cynical but the reasons cited by the survey behind going into the relationship with a shy and silent type are already flawed. The psychologist explained that girls want "to help and care for them" because of the compassionate nature of Filipinos. Well, compassion sure isn't passion. Compassion at best leads to a stable relationship. At the very least, it's a sure ticket to friendship. You know, the perpetual shoulder to cry on once your girl cries over his bastard, good-for-nothing, rogue bf who's the very opposite of a nice guy (which you are).
You see, while I'm not an expert on the opposite sex (I excel only in creeping out women), I know this much: attraction is not a choice. That's why you see your pretty crush, the love of your life, get routinely treated badly by his ugly bf (the very opposite of who you are), cry on your shoulders, ask for advice, promise to leave him but the very next day, you find her in his arms anyway. You bang your head against the wall trying to understand what's going on but the answer is pretty simple: attraction is not a choice.
You can bet your ass the girl knows that he's wrong for her but logic doesn't apply here because --- repeat after me --- attraction isn't a choice.
And you know why "pa-cute" doesn't work? Because the girl already knows about your feelings for her even before you utter a single vow of allegiance to her pretty little pedestal; which begs the question, if she has no feelings for you, why would she stay chummy even if she knows how you feel? Simple, because you (shyness and all) are "safe." Once you profess your undying love for her, however, that harmless factor crumbles and the relationship changes. So, staying loyal to your girl thinking you would win her in the end is not only wrong, its downright masochistic.
I think what draws girls to the "silent type" are anchored on two things: mystery and potential. It would be a good idea to keep the first and fulfill the latter. The danger here is when the girl starts to peel the onion skin bit by bit and find nothing at the core but a needy, groveling wuss. Nobody likes a spoiled, needy child but a mother, and some mothers are known to crack their knuckles once in a while and cluck the head of their pampered kids to knock sense into them.
The second is more complicated. I think the shy, reticent guy alluded to in the survey possess within himself a potential. Kanang masuroy na sa Lachmi ba ug naay potensyal isuroy sa mall ba. No matter what the survey says, nobody likes a dirty bum who doesn't want to help himself. A bum might work if you're a bad boy. Why do you think good girls swoon over the likes of Robin "Bad boy" Padilla, Jay "Totoy Mola" Manalo, or Victor Neri? Apart from their being action stars, it's the element of danger involved that's very attractive.
What's the difference between a bad boy and a geek? Oh, I don't know... sexual tension, danger, unpredictability, confidence, and sense of security (not talking here of financial but the sense that he could handle himself in any situation). The main difference is control. Despite the feminist movement, girls still look for men who exert control, not just to the relationship but to all aspects of his life as well. It's wired into their brains to look for the Alpha male because in the animal kingdom, the Alpha males are perceived to have the best genes for mating. Just like it's wired into men's brains to be drawn to women with big boobs because big juggies are thought to have more milk, and therefore more food for the child. It's not true of course, but nevertheless.
I wish some girls could back me up on this one. Between a needy, shy type every mother dreams of and an adventurous bad boy type that you don't bring home to mama, who you gonna choose? There are only two archetypes of men: the lover and provider. Those two archetypes are further divided into other subtypes: the bad boy, happy-go-lucky, athletes, thrill-seekers, artists, the "daddy" (which refers to old men with plenty of moola with a young woman in tow), husband-material (men viewed as stable partners), and the successful/powerful.
There are also other types that fall below the radar screen of women: the geeks/nerds (totally devoid of potential), bums (the happy-go-lucky guy gone wrong), mr. know-it-all, mama's boy, and the insecure geek (I know, a double whammy).
It's important to choose from among the archetypes and tailor-make you personality according to who you want to be. Do you want to be a lover or a provider? Each has its own advantages and disadvantages.
What a man needs to avoid at all costs is to be lumped into the "friend mode," a pit of perdition that is so very hard to get away from. You might think that the best way to court a girl is to be friends first. Wrong! Don't believe that crap you see on TV. That could only work if in the first stages of the courtship you already lay down your cards on the table about your true intentions and the girl tells you that she's not ready. Here, it's a good idea to assess where you stand in the relationship every now and then to make sure the girl is not shitting you. A good gauge is how comfortable is she around you even after you told her about your feelings and just how touchy you both are after that. This is the "M.U." stage. The only thing lacking in the relationship is the formal proposal and acceptance.
But of course, that's also a trap. Just when you thought you're home free, Wham! The girl introduces you to a new squeeze. Hahahaha! What can I say? Women are weird so it's no good to dissect their complexities. Be that in mind, consider this post worthless.
This post will self-destruct in five seconds... 5...4...3...2...
Written on 1:32 PM by isko b. doo
I was in 3rd year high school when my father brought us boys boxing gloves. Eager to break them in, my brothers and I took turns bashing our face with those leathers. Of course, it started with pretend, you know when you only use half of your strength, but in the middle of the bout, somebody always punched harder than intended and the game is on. By the end of each "pretend" fight, we are already sporting a mouse underneath our eyes or our cheekbones.
About an hour or so, our cousins are already joining in the fray. We matched up, regardless of weight, because whatever the rules are and it didn't matter that you're overmatched but you didn't back down from a direct challenge.
Words traveled fast. By nightfall, boys from other areas milled around after hearing about boxing matches. What else was there to do? We had to show them our hospitality, right?
Fights ensued. We matched up and in my first fight I held my own. I was quite skinny but my hands were quick. I overwhelmed my opponent with a barrage of punches. Jab, straight, right and left hook, uppercuts. He had no other choice but to hold his hands pathetically in defense and I dug under his ribcages and he folded. A textbook beating. My father was beaming.
My oldest brother also suckered punch his foe. A phantom left hook that sent his opponent eating dirt (He's got a strong left hook, which I personally tasted during one of our pretend fights. Rattled my damn brain inside my skull).
Those times were fun and I slowly earned a reputation as a thinking boxer. Boys knew of me, look me down over and thought they could take me. I always oblige. Looking back, my strategy was faulty. My fight plan was to come in fast and strong, knowing the first instinct of an novice fighter was to put his hands up to defend the face and with his gloves up his eyes, he was practically blind and I had the edge. That strategy, however, has one flaw: with no training, I could only punch in short bursts before I get tired.
And so it was that a boy who lived on the coastline were pummeling the bejesus of all his opponents. His name was "Dalos" and he was supposed to have had some amateur training from some hotshot boxing trainer. He didn't talk much, letting his father chose the matchups for him. I saw him fight and he had a good defense while maintaining his balance. He utilized his jabs well and he had a mean straight. I thought he had no weakness, until I saw him fold after his brother whacked his ribcage. So that's it.
You might be wondering why I was interested in the way he fights. Well, you see, I knew at some point I would fight him. I was a little taller than him but remember about the fights matched up regardless of weight? well, this guy was ripped! (hardened by poverty no doubt, while I was a spoiled brat).
The inevitable happened. After days of putting off, I had to face this guy. I knew I was overmatched (he played organized boxing for God's sake!) but I had a game plan. I was going to fight him on the outside and concentrate on the body for I knew I could not hurt his granite face.
The referee (his father) gave the go signal. We circled and danced. He was putting his hands in defense, slowly stalking me. I jabbed, testing the distance between us. He flicked my jabs off like he would a bug. He stared at me from between his gloves, I jabbed again and this time, I threw in a left hook to his face and his sides. I heard him grunt and the next grunt I heard was mine when he caught me right in my smacker. Man, that hurt and I was incensed!
I moved in and gave him everything I got. I forgot about my fight plan and just heaved in a torrent of fists in his direction. If it had been a storybook ending, my quickness would have overcome his strength, buckled after a pummeling, and I would have ridden off towards the sunset with my winning gloves around my neck.
But this was no fairytale.
Instead of yielding, he punched back (which was not part of my game plan, you know) and punched some more. It was my turn to put my hands up in pathetic defense. I stepped back but He moved in for the kill. I didn't even see his punches but I felt every single one of them. One punched rocked my head so far back that I felt my eyes slamming at the back of my skull. It was a wonder how I remained standing.
I lost that fight and badly. I knew coming in that I was overmatched but I thought I could win with the right game plan and a dash of charisma. Lesson learned?
Underdogs don't always win because life ain't no Rocky movie.
Written on 9:53 PM by isko b. doo
A solitary flower,
With wilted petals
And yellow
Parched leaves,
Reared its fragile
Head from
A wedge
In the concrete
Floor
Of the waiting shed.
Up from its
Darkened bed
To greet
A lifetime’s shade---
The roof
That shields the
Indifferent brows
Of men
From the sun’s
Searing rays.
Written on 12:15 PM by isko b. doo
The title is not a misquote of US President Harry Truman's "the buck stops here" phrase which meant that the ultimate responsibility for each government policy, positive or otherwise, rests on his shoulders being the chief executive.
The title, however, aptly describes how Gloria runs things in these parts.
Apparently, our dear president sought Europe's help in investigating the string of political killings in the country as if they know how our country works. With over 700 murders of militants and nearly 50 journalists under its watch and with no suspect to show for it, how could EU help? Offer more alms?
Of course, this is nothing more than good PR, a face-saving scheme for the president to claim that she has done something. She could not anymore ignore the killings, not when the international community is breathing closely down her neck. In the hallowed halls of Malacanang, she declared: "I aim to stop this once and for all."
Tough words. But she couldn't stop this "once and for all" by running to Europe for help. What does that do, however, is offer her a way out. Hey, she's doing something, right? It's Europe's and the Melo Commission's fault they could not convince the witnesses to come out in the open.
Hell, it's the witnesses' fault they aren't coming out to testify! Anybody but hers.
It's pretty remarkable how quick our president is to own up to all the good things about this country while passing the buck to every negative news. Remember the economy? well, it's because of her economic reforms with a dash of her BEAT THE ODDS program, add in a pinch of super regions and RVAT for good measure, add salt to taste and voila! We have a recipe for a sound economy.
With the rise in body count, what does she do? Why, create the Melo Commission of course. A toothless body that would eventually bear the blame for the lack of government action. Weeks into the probe, the body then blamed the lack of willing, well , bodies who are... err... willing to testify.
When the Commission on Human Rights and progressive organizations accused Gen. Jovito "The Butcher" Palparan of a hand in the killings, when his stints in Southern Tagalog, Nueva Ecija and Mindoro always left a trail of bodies, he earned not a dressing down but a special mention from Gloria's state of the nation address (granted, the evidence is circumstantial but the coincidence should at least warrant a ministerial probe).
If she's really serious, heads would have rolled by now. Order police station commanders to solve each extra-judicial killing under their jurisdiction or it's off with their heads. She's had six years to do something about the problem. She's not some figurehead in some banana republic.... oh, wait. Fuck!
(Little Red Riding Hood asks the big wolf posing as Gloria: "Granma, why do you have such long fingers?"
"All the better to point to others, my dear," said Gloria as wolf).
Written on 12:31 AM by isko b. doo
The phrase “people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones” was first traced to Geoffrey Chaucer’s in his Troilus and Criseyde in 1385. Some centuries later, Benjamin Franklin wrote, “Don’t throw stones at you neighbors’ if your own windows are glass.”
These gave birth to the figure of speech “to live in a glass house,” which essentially means vulnerability. Simply put, that means we shouldn’t criticize others if we are as flawed, or even worse as they are.
The above figure of speech comes to mind after President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo urged Burmese Prime Minister Soe Win over the weekend to free opposition leader and Nobel Peace Laureate Aung San Suu Kyi and take concrete steps towards democracy.
The call to free 61-year old Suu Kyi, who has been under arrest on and off since 1989, is warranted and should be the primary agenda to every Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN) summit for it would be pointless to discuss economic cooperation while condoning the actions of delinquent members.
But the call coming from Ms. Arroyo just leaves a bad taste in the mouth in the heels of international demands for her to clean up her own backyard littered with human rights violations and political killings.
Consider the 2006 Amnesty International (AI) report, which blasted the Arroyo administration due to a sharp increase in vigilante killings. Since 2001, according to the report, there have been 785 extra-judicial killings. The National Union of Journalists of the Philippines also reported that bullets felled 48 journalists since the President assumed power.
It’s noteworthy to remember that not one suspect to the more than 800 murders served jail term. Out of the 114 political killings recorded by Task Force Usig, the body created to look into the murders, 27 cases have been filed in court while the rest are still under investigation. Of the 27 cases, the police only arrested suspects in three suspects. Up to now, no conviction has been reported.
Because of Malacañang record, or lack thereof, the Council of the European Union; the Finland, Spain, France, Canada and Japan governments; the Asian Human Rights Commission; the Human Rights Watch; and religious groups like the United Church of Christ in Canada and the United Methodist Church in the US called on Ms. Arroyo to do something about the killings.
The Joint Foreign Chambers of Commerce, along with Wal-Mart, Gap, Polo Ralph Lauren, Liz Claiborne, Phillips Van Heusen, American Eagle Outfitters, also demanded a stop to the killings or risk losing investments.
In light of her dismal record, I wonder how the President got the idea that she has the moral authority to make the call? Ms. Arroyo’s insistence for Burma to clean up its act is nothing but hot air -- a case of a kettle calling the pot black.
Would the Burmese Junta listen? Not from a fellow delinquent, it won’t.
Written on 11:08 PM by isko b. doo
Court of Appeals Associate Justice Apolinario Bruselas apologized after misquoting US Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes to justify the executive’s decision to spirit away Lance Cpl. Daniel Smith from Makati jail into the custody of the US embassy.
In his decision, Bruselas quoted Holmes as saying “the other branches of the government are ultimate guardians of the liberties and welfare of the people in quite as great a degree as the courts.”
The original quote from the 1904 decision in the case of Missouri, Kansas & Texas Railroad vs May, however, was “...it must be remembered that legislatures are the ultimate guardians of the liberties and welfare of the people in quite as great a degree as the courts.” The apology does address the inconsistency in the CA ruling.
The tenor of the CA decision has been one of unswerving conformity to Makati Judge Benjamin Pozon’s bold ruling until it declared the midnight transfer of Smith by the Department of Interior and Local Government of Smith with the blessings of Malacañang as “moot.” Citing Holmes, the CA ruling then said that the courts “many not directly intervene in the exercise of diplomacy no matter how proudly or meekly, strongly or weakly, such exercise may be conducted by the appropriate political organ of the government.”
Now the damage is done. Smith is now under the custody of the US embassy, which runs contrary to the CA ruling that the proper facility should be located outside of the US embassy, which is a US territory, and should be run by Philippine officials. Former Senate President Jovito Salonga said Bruselas may be held liable for falsification which is punishable under the Revised Penal Code with six months imprisonment.
“What will the court now do with respect to the wrongs (that were) committed against not only Nicole but also against the judiciary and against our aggrieved people?" Salonga asks.
Indeed, now that the CA found that it’s ruling was based on a wrong premise, would it moto propio reverse its decision and insists on the sovereign right of the Philippine government to the custody of Smith? If not, Nicole’s lawyers should pounce on this opportunity and test Bruselas’ sincerity in issuing an apology.
Or should we just accept the apology and let the issue die down like we did when President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo helloed Garci?
