Searching for Pablo

2010-04-27T19:12:00.001+08:00

2010-04-27T19:11:00.001+08:00

2010-04-27T19:09:00.000+08:00

Dealing with a monster

2009-02-08T21:39:00.002+08:00

Stirring the dying

When Mayor Rodrigo Duterte admitted that city government is having a difficult time controlling the harbingers of death roaming the city's streets on board a two-wheel contraption boasting 125 cc of horsepower, I said to myself: finally!

There's nothing whimsical in that statement because it takes a lot of guts/humility for the mayor to concede that a.) the killings might have gotten out of control; b.) the city government has been helpless in curbing the killings.

Yes, he accepted responsibility for the killings but the heroic(?) gesture rings hollow when he exonerated the Davao City Police Office (which incidentally won the best police office in the country) of blame by claiming that killings are not unique to the city and that he was satisfied with its performance, and in the same breath, challenged his critics to produce evidence on the existence of the Davao Death Squad.

I mean, are you kidding me? For all his vaunted obstinacy, bipolar statements like that just leave everybody confused. I think he has become a victim of his own image. That's the only explanation I could think of. Growing up, I've heard the rumors: of death riding on motorcycles, their scythes shooting .45 caliber of hot lead. To this day, I never heard anybody allegedly belonging to the vigilante group (if there ever was one) arrested, much less incarcerated.

Don't get me wrong. To think there's a single organized group out there that's cleaning the streets of criminals would be a stretch even for a paranoid bastard like me. It would be more logical to think the killings are perpetrated on a hit basis in exchange for a monetary reward. But the paranoid in me can't help but think the killings won't last this long without the go signal from the police and, by extension the local government (one of the mayor's famous words was nobody will fart in Davao City without him knowing about it) and sadly, the public itself.

Why else would the killers insist on using the same M.O. and risk arrest when each Pedro and Maria is already familiar with their methods? Unless they were meant to be a warning, a badge of immunity if you will. Back off, or else.

This tacit approval by the public can be gleaned from the comment made by a Ms. Rosie I. Tan who said:

“True the street maintenace is not something to be proud of. The infrastructure needs a little boost. But I’ll take that anytime knowing that my kids are safe when they come out of school to buy project materials in the malls. I’ll accept that as fair trade knowing that my husband will be safe on his way home from work. Maybe Vigilantism is a monster in a bottle. Maybe it has some casualties. But I’d love to hear a Davaoeno lambast the Davao Death Squad, face a kidnapper and say he forgives him for killing a loved one. Criminals harm and kill ordinary citizens. Vigilantes kill criminals. That’s justice for me.”

I'm not going to belabor her point but for a full text of here comment click here. She is right, however, I have yet to hear a massive outrage from ordinary citizens. Duterte has an explanation for it: the culture of violence that started in the late 1970s and early 1980s -- when killings are a daily occurrence and as boring as watching ice melt -- still pervades in the city to this day.

I don't buy it. The killings continue because the public allowed itself to be cowed. In the words of Ms. Tan, the killings are a fair trade to knowing your husband and kids go home safe. She called it a monster in a bottle which presupposes a semblance of control but as I told her, the monster is no longer bottled up. Keeping that monster on a leash gives her a sense of security, but what’s stopping evil men from using that same monster against you and me?

Apart from desensitizing the public, the killings are breeding copycats. And yet the police and the Commission on Human Rights pointed to the lack of witnesses as the main reason why the investigations could not get off the ground. Hmm... ya think anyone likes to get involved if he/she thinks the government is the enemy? Who will protect them then, the criminals?

Let's get it out in the open. Do I believe the city government is behind the killings? I have no proof to categorically say yes. But the funny thing is it doesn't seem too concerned about being seen by everybody as a such, apart from the ministerial denial and directives for investigation. At the most, the local government is guilty of being phlegmatic.

The public and even the media have even stopped making the police accountable. After all, what's the difference between one murder or two?

Now Duterte has directed the police to unmask the killers to dispel the notion that the murders are sanctioned by the state. Knowing the tendencies and bipolar statements of City Hall, I'm going to hold my applause for this one. Let's see how he can control this multi-headed monster.

Vengeance and mercy

2009-02-03T19:15:00.004+08:00

Davao City is abuzz with Mayor Rodrigo Duterte's revelation that a popular parish priest, the spokesperson of Davao Archbishop Fernando Capalla, was in fact married. It was bannered by the two community newspapers here (for Sunstar's take on the issue, click here).

Yes, Duterte all but threw the kitchen sink at Fr. Pete Lamata. And for what? Well, apparently the priest was politicking and, according to the mayor, actively blackballing him before the parishioners in his sermons. And horror of all horrors, the priest facetiously referred to Duterte's daughter, Davao City Vice Mayor Sara Duterte, as Inday Badiday.

Now there's nothing wrong with name-calling, he said, if used in the spirit of fun but when laced with mockery, that's a different story altogether. And the mayor's response? He dropped the bomb on the priest' marriage during his public service program “Gikan sa Masa, Para sa Masa.”

And so here we are. Some people have been asking why our paper did not carry the story. For two days in a row, newspapers have been having a heyday writing all the angles to the story. The queries beg an explanation: was it a legitimate story?

I say it is. On any other day, it's a story that warrants a one-column treatment at the very least. I closed the paper on the day the story broke but I decided we wouldn't be dragged down in the muck. Sure, a priest being actually married is a legitimate story but there's something supercilious about the information coming from the mayor with an axe to grind. Duterte's intentions were clear: to sully the name of the priest not at the public's interest but to serve as a warning: he's not beyond kicking you in the balls if you touch any of his children.

True, you wrestle with a pig and you get dirty. And the pig will like it.

I can understand his protectiveness but when you throw your children into politics, you'd expect their immaculate shirts to get dirty, wouldn't you? Duterte is not even beyond reproach, so how can he expect his children, who are holding high positions in the local government riding on his coattails, to be untouchable? In politics, as in love, everything is fair game.

What the story would be about instead is the reaction from priests and explanation from the archbishop.
For one, I didn't know that you can go back to priesthood even if you're married but apparently, based on Capalla's statements, you can.

The archbishop admitted that indeed, Lamata as a young man “had gone through a civil marriage with a woman.”

“According to Church law this is a serious violation which brings about an automatic suspension from the priestly ministry. So Father Lamata was suspended.

“According to the same law, to be forgiven and restored to the priestly ministry, there are steps and procedures to be followed aside from humble repentance and separation,” Capalla said.

Now, that's something I'd expect the public to be interested in rather than the information after the fact, and relayed through very suspicious intentions no less. I wonder though how the Church can accept back a priest separating from his wife in order to serve his parishioners again when it has been savagely denouncing divorce on the argument that marriage is sacred? What about the vow of celibacy then? The priest did dip his peter on somebody's bush. Doesn't that count for something?

Of course, my interest is purely scholarly based on the questions above. I could not care less if the parish priest is married or not. Nor am I advocating for him to be banned from practicing priesthood because that's between him, his parishioners, and their God.

Obamarama claims victim

2009-01-27T21:07:00.001+08:00

This news report cracked me up.

Now, I don't mean to make light of the tragic end of the victim, but really, it just shows just how the global community has shrunk over the years.

Who would have thought that the new US president's influence would creep to my city of 1.4 million people, south of Philippines? And who would have thought that two drunks could have a very intelligent conversation? Really now, Obama's bloodline?

That's sick right there!

It's just sad that things took turn for the worse between two friends.

Friend stabbed dead
over Obama debate

By Guy Lorenzo Lao

An argument over United States President Barack Obama lineage led to a death of a 36-year-old farmer last Monday afternoon.

Erlinda Revisa, 49, an owner of a ‘sari-sari’ store in Marilog proper, told PO3 Rolando Mitran of Marilog Police that neighbors, Narciso Amban, 36, and alias ‘Toto’ Rondia were drinking when their topic turned towards the new US president.

The police officer said Rondia and Amban argued whether Obama had a Muslim blood. Amban allegedly insulted his friend in the middle of their argument which prompted Rondia to pull out his hunting knife and stabbed Amban in the chest.

Rondia left the scene while Revisa called help from the Marilog Police. Responding members of Central 911 declared the victim dead on the spot due to a single wound on his chest.

Mitran said they are still tracking down the suspect while Amban’s body now lies at St. Peter Funeral Parlor in Calinan.

Simple solution

2009-01-24T16:49:00.001+08:00

For most of us, it might be difficult to understand the reason for the downward spin of the global economy but it boils down to overproduction and speculation. While we can point to the highly-excessive US economy and its neo-liberalist policy, which makes it vulnerable to abuse by some enterprising multi-nationals with a lot of grease money to make sure the market forces are artificially stable, we can also cite some countries (led by China), flooding the world with cheap goods and imitations which makes it virtually impossible for small businesses to compete.

Of course, free market forces adhere to the maxim that supply creates demand. What is happening now, however, is not the lack of supply but production is not meeting the demand of quality in products. To put it simply, it's the case of putting the cart before the horse. There are too many cheap products of the same design but nobody is buying after hearing too many horror stories of toxic poisoning in children, breakable products, and unreliable warranty.

This distrust towards cheap products is further aggravated by the economic downturn which creates a vacuum of demand for non-basic products, which leads to retrenchments and profit loss. It's no wonder therefore that China is badly-hit by the global recession since it forces nations to cut down on imports and develop local products.

You have the richest family on the block, which becomes the envy of the neighborhood because the parents, who were savvy entrepreneurs, always had the most beautiful cars and clothes, the kids had the latest toys and gadgets, the mansion covers nearly half the block with a 24-hour security detail.

One day, the rich father showed you how he devised a system through maximized use of credit cards, subprime mortgages, and manipulating the market to keep profits soaring. You tried it and saw your bank account expand, you get a new car, renovate your house, send your kids to exclusive schools. Finally, you're living the American dream.

So what happens when you notice the cars of your neighbor missing one by one? When his kids are now taking buses to school or even transferring to another cheaper school? One day, you see furniture and appliances being wheeled out of the mansion and rumors have it that they are being pawned off. The pool dries up, the dogs stop barking, the security guard goes missing.

You know something is wrong but you're not sure what. Then you start hearing rumors about banks foreclosing properties, loans getting rejected, markets falling, your friend getting fired from his job, and your center of balance start spinning. You hold on to your valuables and hard-earned money hoping to weather the difficult times. But you know in your heart it's only a matter of time before you get what's coming to you.

At work you hear whispers, softly bouncing off walls at first but it gets louder and more persistent. You are next to go.

What do you do?

Our lawmakers found a solution: just add another P2 billion to the pork barrel.

I hope he can

2009-01-21T19:34:00.003+08:00

It's it amazing how just barely 54 years ago Rosa Parks refused to yield her seat in a bus to a white passenger in Montgomery, Alabama and sparked the modern civil rights movement? With that act of defiance, her name is now forever etched in history while the driver of the bus who threatened to have her arrested will forever be relegated to small script and annotated by an asterisk. The driver's name, by the way, was James Blake.

Nine years earlier, a lesser known act of courage was shown by Irene Morgan, who was jailed in Virginia for refusing to give up her seat to a white person on board a Greyhound bus. She was just 27 years old.

I don't even remember what I did at that age.

And here we are. Standing behind the podium on the steps of the US capitol, a rather lean man in red silk tie. Barack Hussein Obama. The first black president of the most powerful country in the world.

The storied candidacy of Obama from a virtual unknown to the 44th US president has been well-played by the media. Obama knows his history and the significance of his victory. For some, he has ceased to be an individual but became symbol personified. It is to his credit that rather than run away from the overwhelming expectations, he welcomed it. This is evident on his speech, which was filled to the brim with symbolisms, as he weaved from one era to another in the history of America in a preacher's deep voice.

I was impressed by his eloquence but then again, I think part of the reason was watching George W. Bush mangle the English language for the past eight years. That doesn't take away from Obama's command of the language but we have to admit, any politician with an ounce of charisma and articulation will sound like Einstein standing next to Bush (I'm not looking at you Newt Gingrich). Anyway, no sense to step further on already flat shit. Moving on.

Throughout his speech (here's the full text), Obama peddled hope, freedom and responsibility like rare gypsy's potions. I sat in front of the tube entranced, as I watched the crowd cheer while hanging on to his every word like giddy girls over Edward Cullen pasty-white smile.

Yes, I'm even willing to suspend whatever misgivings I had before about how he dropped his pastor, Rev. Jeremiah Wright, over his controversial sermons that did not sit well with white America and choosing instead ultra-right Pastor Rick Warren (who himself made inflammatory rhetoric against homosexuals) to deliver the inaugural prayers.

I guess that's the peril of being a president, you have to please each demographic.

At this point, I really hope he can make good on his promise to reclaim the lost faith of the rest of the world on the capacity of America to lead and erase the image of a bully that wedgies school nerds on a whim.

I wonder though, throughout his speech, did anybody notice the color of his skin other than white, red and blue?

Tatak K...

2009-01-14T20:22:00.002+08:00

...is not vitamins I assure you. In fact, too much dosage is probably bad for your health.

Tatak K is the television (he calls it public service, but I doubt that) program of the de facto congressman of Davao City's first district. The de facto was his father's words, not mine. His father, by the way, is the House Speaker. The number four most important man in the country. And I ranked what, 88,999,999th out of the estimated 89 million Filipinos? I think that's only because I have a skewed sense of self-importance.

That means, ladies and gentlemen, 88,999,998 others are more worthy to swallow his spit.

Tatak K is the brand to sell the son. I would not even guess his political agenda but the word magnanimity was never associated with the father, maybe the son is different? What was the old maxim about the fruit never falling far from the tree or was it shit from the ass?

Tatak K is just the latest venture. There are other indications that the son has a personal agenda. How about his face emblazoned on the side of the multi-cabs donated to the communities in the first district, for example. Or could it be that he inherited his father's penchant to put the family name on projects built “through his own initiative.”

My, my... kids do grow up so fast.

Another indication: the anointed son visited out office one day wanting to write a column. He hobnobs with the boss so no surprise there.

He was introduced to the people at the office. When the name of our chief editor was mentioned by our boss, he said: I don't know her. Okay, how about the managing editor?

“My father doesn't know him.”

Ah.

When my name was mentioned. Well, you could guess the answer. I generally avoid the press conferences they organize like the Black Plague.

Anyway, his request to write a political column was declined. We offered him to write a lifestyle column instead. We all shook hands, I managed a wry grin. Awkward. How about that lifestyle column?Sure, sure, he said.

We never heard from him since.

There's a word associated with the letter K that any self-respecting kolehiyala can blurt out effortlessly.

Kainis.

Added burden

2009-01-08T19:47:00.000+08:00

I wonder why the number of interns have been dwindling?

Before we used to get as many as five interns for training at the same time. Now, we hardly get one. Personally, I prefer it that way because it's not easy to break a student on the realities of working as a journalist on the field and that job falls on me, being the lowest ranked supervisor on the team.

The hardest part I think is how to sustain student interest in print journalism because it certainly lacked the appeal and luster of being seen on TV or heard on radio. And make no mistake about it, it's harder to get your copy published in print because it is more demanding when it comes to grammar, accuracy, and accountability.

The professional part of me, however, wishes there were more students who show interest in pursuing a career in journalism. It is a thankless job, especially more so for community journalists who, ironically, are constantly preyed upon by unscrupulous publishers and broadcast station owners. I think we have one of the highest ratios in terms of labor violations than any other industry: that includes non-payment of wages or benefits, long hours, overtime pay, labor contracting, etc.

Exactly how do you hope to attract new graduates to try their hand in journalism without offering a competitive salary package? And because it is difficult, it would be a better investment for the company to take care of employees because pride is the only thing that prevents writers and editors from going the route of the call center industry, where the dearth of competent agents gave rise to pirating employees from rival companies.

This rivalry thing is so ingrained in us that we wouldn't want to get caught dead working for a rival company that has been the subject of constant ribbing and criticizing during weekly meetings. Right now, however, pride is a luxury that's quickly waning by the minute. An additional P2,000 to your present salary sounds very appetizing especially when your monthly bills mount or your family expands.

The growing popularity of independent films also changed the whole landscape. More and more students now want to become filmmakers and schools have been prodding them even if the teachers do not posses the filmmaking background to impart knowledge while the equipment and machine leave much to be desired. With all those odds, I reckon the chances of success for a budding filmmaker to break the mainstream, where the moolah is, is one in a hundred thousand.

Now I'm not saying the trend is a bad thing, but it does impact on the number of students who want to be print journalists. That burden, however, is on us. As if my monthly bills are not a burden enough, tsk.

Entitlement

2009-01-07T23:02:00.002+08:00

Communist rebels finally released 1st Lt. Vicente Cammayo on Tuesday after nearly two months in captivity when he went missing (the military version said he was abducted; the New People's Army claimed he surrendered) in Monkayo, Compostela Valley on November 7 last year.

But I'm not going to write an entry about the circumstances behind his release so for a full report, read here. However, there were some observations that warranted this entry.

We had a correspondent cover the event and it was an interesting experience for him. The coverage was no problem since we had full confidence on his capacity to write in intelligible form whatever transpired during the turnover of the captive soldier from the hands of the NPA, to the International Committee of the Red Cross and finally, to government authorities.

At the Eastern Mindanao Command headquarters, Cammayo was wheeled towards the waiting throng of journalists, government officials, military officers and hangers-on for the ministerial press conference.

During the brief interchange, a military official distributed copies of the NPA statement and being wet behind the ears and because nobody knew him from Adam, our writer was naturally excluded. When he asked for a copy from the writer of a rival paper, he got snubbed instead.

There's something to be said about entitlement. Our correspondent is certainly not entitled any favors from a rival writer. It's their nature to compete and to out-scoop each other. In the same vein, the public is entitled to whatever information that NPA statement might contain. I could not blame the writer for his actions and in the same vein I also could not chide the newbie for his reaction. These are the kind of things he will learn along the way.

We all go through these initiations and there's a good side to that: whatever respect you get later, you are sure you earned it. I just hoped things like these should be taught in schools to fully prepare would-be journalists for what should be expected once they are thrown into the fire, so to speak but how can you expect students to learn when the teachers have not burned a single candle to learn their craft outside of classroom walls? Oh well, c'est la vie.

Novel Idea

2009-01-06T21:28:00.000+08:00

For first timers, joining trade exhibits could be very difficult. I remember our company participating in an exhibit in Manila last year and we didn’t even know where to begin making all the preparations — like the displays, streamers, even beautifying the booth itself. The result? Well, let’s just say I wish wasn’t there to man that infernal booth.

How I wish we came across something like Camelback earlier. A one-stop shop for everything you could possibly need when you intend to join trade shows, exhibits, expositions, or hold concerts and special events to promote your product or company.

Consider their display trusses for example, which features aluminum and steel structures that could be customized according to your needs. They also have regular or retractable banner stands or life-sized cutouts that will surely catch the attention of potential clients and buyers.

Touchy-feely

2009-01-05T19:41:00.006+08:00

Is it just me or something is off about how Richard Gomez is hosting the Family Feud? I know I have better things to do than criticize the hosting style of some actor but I've watched several episodes now and the way he practically jumps at the women contestants still makes me uncomfortable.

Maybe I have a dirty mind but it's like watching somebody being exploited on primetime.

If anything, doesn't his "touchy" style of hosting must be putting girls at a disadvantage? If he has to be a fair host, shouldn't he also hug and kiss the guys while they were guessing their answers?

Apparently, this is is first time to host a game show and he auditioned for the role, according to GMA News. I wonder who he had to kiss to get the part?

I mean, common people! Did the original host of Family Feud, where Richard's gameshow was patterned after, invade the space of the contestants to reduce them to giddy little girls?

I have to stop now lest I'll be accused of being envious. Just would like to say though I grew up on the original show and the old (dead!) guy, Ray Combs, was much better.

Yes they do!

2009-01-04T21:54:00.002+08:00

This sucks. My throat is feeling dry, my body is sore and I think I'm coming down with a flu. The cans of beer in my freezer this morning beckons and I still have tons to do. I expect the next few days to be pure torture as I tide this sickness over.

I know I need a lot of bedrest but I have a bad case of insomnia so sleeping early is out of the question. In fact, this flu was probably triggered by several days of only two or three hours of sleep each day. Today, my nose started to run. Tomorrow, or the next day at the most, I'd start coughing and the ensuing discomfort would likely rob me of much-needed sleep.

It's a Catch-22 situation: I don't sleep, I get worse; I get worse, I can' sleep.

There's another problem, I can't swallow a pill. It's probably psychological but I'd like to think it's genetic since my mother is pretty much the same. What we do is drink lots of liquid and, in her case, catch up on sleep.

But what the heck am I thinking? There's beer on my freezer courtesy of San Miguel Beer (thank God for friends holding strategic positions). As always the case, when you got all odds stacked against you, have beer. It won't probably help my situation and more than likely weaken my immune system some more but hey, in a liquor-laced stupor, nothing else matters.

A cock-y story

2009-01-03T16:38:00.000+08:00

I grew up around chickens. I don't mean the cowards, I'm referring to Col. Sanders' favorite pet, the one with feathers and go clucking at the first sign of trouble.

My father was a hobbyist breeder and very passionate about roosters, so much that he refused to eat any of the chicken that we brought home from cockfights (hey, each battle has its spoils, some get women or gold but we got dressed and muscled cocks instead). Since my father's fighting cocks were quite good, every Sunday was a feast since we always get Tinolang manok for dinner aside from the two liters of Coke. Growing up poor, those things were a luxury.

Mornings and afternoons were torture. I was assigned the task of feeding the cocks and the hens at 7 a.m. and 4 p.m. on the dot. Failure to do so earned me a licking. All the cocks insisted on being the top dog of the coop and fight whoever (dog, cat, me) entered that godforsaken, turd-infested (they're not called fowl for nothing) box. The hostility magnified during breeding period when the cock was all juiced up from pent-up horniness, like the Tasmanian Devil on crack, and any shin or leg was fair game.

And man, you couldn't believe how some cocks got Kung Fu down pat. If you were lucky, you get only a few welts or scratches but there were cases when my leg was pockmarked by sharp talons and beaks. Though we weren't really told to not kick or pummel them to death, it was common understanding that a boy always runs away when confronted by a cock. That maxim holds true on both literal and figurative sense. Unless the boy likes cocks and that's just gay.

As a kid, I did my assignment begrudgingly. I wasn't passionate about chickens. In fact, I thought the only thing they were good for was when they were covered in barbeque sauce. But when I discovered gambling, cockfighting opened a whole new world for me. Good thing my father was such a sport about his sons gambling. My father was never a heavy gambler. I think he gets more kick of his cocks winning only because it's a testament to his methods; just like how gambling was a testament to my madness.

It took me years to rid that vice but last New Year's Day, I went to my first cockfight in years. All the usual suspects were there, the Kristos, bookies, wasted bums, liquors, the adrenaline rush, and even the enterprising man who rents out the metal spurs (also called gaffes or tari in visayan) for a few pesos, and it's like I never left. It's amazing how they put up the cockpit that fast when it was just a few months back when authorities raided the placed and booked a few gamblers.

My father brought along one gamecock. So in keeping with the new year, I wagered P500. I thought that was just enough to scratch a nagging itch but not too much to nag at my conscience for falling off the wagon. As luck would have it, the fight was a draw. I wouldn't have mind losing the money, anything but a draw. I got my P500 back but I was still pissed off. When I handed that money to my father, I already written that off as a lost asset since I learned a long time ago that adopting that mindset helped take the sting off losing. To scratch another itch, the P500 never had a chance. We spent it all on food.

Getting in Touch

2009-01-02T15:45:00.016+08:00

I was scouring the Net for the ideal digital SLR for me after saving up for what seemed like forever on my meager salary (that means skipping dinner and lunch or relying on good Samaritans to feed me).

And so it happens when you're Googling, you get ping-ponged to different pages and I stumbled upon this site (www.shopwiki.com) which promises to be the biggest platform for linking sellers with online shoppers. How does it work? Think Google for shopaholics. It doesn't take rocket science to understand the first page since every product is categorized for easy browsing. Perfect for the older set who are easily intimidated by complicated layouts and voluminous ads.

The site features easy-to-read guidelines (http://www.shopwiki.com/wiki/Digital+Cameras) for those who are seriously considering to purchase a product but is tied down on budget constraints; for added measure, products are rated according to popularity, reliability, efficiency, and value.

Each product also comes with a review and comment from previous shoppers and owners which greatly helps in making that big jump. Take me for example, I've always been partial to Nikon because I just love it's sleek black look. Although it would be impractical because only Canon has a service center here in Davao City, so if my new Nikon camera acts up, I would have to send it to Manila for repairs. But what the heck, I am anything but practical.

So I just clicked the Nikon D80 below (http://www.shopwiki.com/search/Nikon+D80) the Prosumer SLRs option to the right and it brought me to this window which allows me to choose what store offers the cheapest cost, rebates or free shipping package, etc. Now, how cool is that?

A quick flip through the list and I immediately found what I want. At about $720 and factoring in the exchange rate at P50.00 against the greenback, I still get to save a few thousand bucks if I purchase a kit here with a price range of not less than P40K.

And it's brand new! Unlike if I bid online for second-hand DLSRs. Born of the previous generation with horrible attention span, it takes a lot to sustain my interest. But the simple layout, minimal ads, and hassle-free steps make this site perfect for the technology-challenged like me. I've never tried shopping online before because I thought it was for sissies but I think this is as good a time as any to get in touch with my feminine side.

G.C. for sale

2008-12-30T19:43:00.001+08:00

The long Yuletide holiday brings mixed feelings. On one hand, it gives me the chance to rest from my killer schedule; on the other hand, I expect my purse to be a lot thinner in January.

You see, my main job doesn't pay much (though I have no right to complain because I knew what was I getting into coming in) so to compensate, I moonlight as a writer for national company or take any other assignments that could net me at least an extra P1,000 a month. My only condition is the task wouldn't compromise my integrity and that of my office.

As luck would have it, Fridays and Mondays in the last weeks of December were sandwiched between legal holidays and the result was almost two weeks of no extra work for me. Just showed how the President's holiday economics sucked big time. A miraculous event occurred for us in December, much more remarkable than the Roman Catholic's Nativity: we were given our 14th month this year. Even now, I still am not sure if that's a good thing or bad thing. I couldn't but feel that an incredible episode portents disaster.

I would have loved to save some of my money for next year but there's no chance of that now. Spent most of it on gifts, the holiday bug got me and I ended up spending money I do not have on gifts and treats for family, loved ones and friends. What's new, right? I'm one of those people who could not save money to save my life. And so here we are, two days before the new year and I'm already broke.

All I have left are the free gift certificates given to me by friends and acquaintances. So if we're going by the tradition of creating your luck through symbolisms (polka dots, round fruits), next year would be a bad year for me: Just how do you survive on gift certificates?

While we're at it, anybody wanna buy one?

piktyur

2008-12-28T18:37:00.002+08:00

I love the people at the office because they are plain crazy. I guess that's the only consolation I get for sticking with my job since the money I make could certainly not coax even a hungry rat out of its hole.

Consider the latest stunt we pulled. This year's picture-taking was quite a departure from our yearly tradition (started three years ago) of posing for a group photo (in color-themed shirts) which will then be tacked inside the office. This year, Halloween came a bit late as we pulled out all stops to dress as movie/Anime characters.

The days before the event itself were nerve-wracking. It wasn't an exaggeration to say that some of us lost sleep over what character to choose. I was lucky enough that my character chose me after hearing enough comments about my resemblance to Bruce Lee so it was a good time as any to put that to the test. Besides, I thought I won't have to spend much because just how much a Kung-fu get-up cost; not a lot, right?

(Actually, it did).

Good thing there was a midnight sale at one of the malls here, it gave us time at least to do some last minute shopping. And the photo above was the result.

Stupid is what a stupid does

2008-12-28T18:15:00.002+08:00

I just gotta get this off my chest.

Before going to the meat of the story, however, let me provide a bit of background to better appreciate the gravity of the faux pas.

Last December 7, there was a shootout between a cop and a known toughie (with a name like Allan Tirador, you have to be) in one of the downtown communities. The cop was called around 10 in the evening to check out a report about the ruffian throwing his weight around while his .45 caliber pistol was visibly tucked at the waist.

The cop had a beef with his neighbor about an earlier incident where the troublemaker allegedly pointed a gun at his father. So he left his house and found the suspect, who appeared to be intoxicated, at the back of the barangay hall. Upon seeing the cop approached, the suspect drew his gun and fired at the cop wounding his right hand. The cop sought cover and Allan fired two more times at his direction. The cop fired back and hit the suspect on the stomach, apparently a graze wound or so hospital records later revealed.

In the volley of bullets, a civilian caught one bullet at his lower back and was brought to the hospital. He was just strumming his guitar and jamming with his friends in one of the sari-sari stores when the incident occurred.

That’s the official police report.

There’s another version however, the suspect’s own.

According to him, the policeman opened fire first, prompting him to defend himself. I have no way of verifying the information of why he was carrying a gun in the first place. Anyway, claiming to fear for his life, he sought assistance from the TV reporter, who obliged by bringing him to the government hospital. Sure, that’s understandable but here’s the thing: possessing wisdom, experience and foresight unmatched in the history of local journalism, the guy picked up the bullets, wrapped them in paper, and brought them to the police precinct himself.

Now, that’s what I call initiative.

Pop quiz hotshot: what do you call a police evidence handled by a civilian? Worth shit.

I believe the legal terminology would be tampering with evidence or obstruction of justice. Take your pick.

And since they are contaminated, any self-respecting judge will never accept the bullets as evidence now to pin down the suspect, who only needs to get rid of the gun and he’s scot-free. Where’s the suspect, you ask? After getting first aid, he flew the coop.

Policemen will not file a case against the reporter, with the misplaced notion that the whole media industry will come bearing down on them once the shit hits the fan. And the reporter? Just saw his stupid mug this morning, smirking.

Congrats asshole, you just brought me back from the dead.

I'm Back

2008-12-27T17:23:00.000+08:00

I'm back to blogger.

Don't ask.

Bakwit

2007-04-14T21:55:00.001+08:00

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.

It's not global warming, it's hell

2007-04-11T12:11:00.000+08:00

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.

Holy Crap

2007-04-05T14:00:00.000+08:00

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.

My blog sucks

2007-04-02T12:53:00.000+08:00

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.

In Bukidnon, Cows don't Moo

2007-03-31T21:28:00.000+08:00

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.

Hidden Talent

2007-03-30T22:11:00.000+08:00

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! :)

Credit grabbing

2007-03-30T10:21:00.000+08:00

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.

A stranger walked…

2007-03-26T22:29:00.000+08:00

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.

Vanity

2007-03-26T22:16:00.000+08:00

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.

Which Superhero Am I?

2007-03-24T21:18:00.001+08:00

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

Higher cause

2007-03-23T13:09:00.000+08:00

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.

The Secret

2007-03-21T12:54:00.000+08:00

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.

The look

2007-03-19T14:12:00.001+08:00

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.

Sleeping better at night

2007-03-07T21:22:00.000+08:00

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?

Wrong number

2007-02-20T12:10:00.000+08:00

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!

Luis

2007-02-18T12:51:00.001+08:00

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?

Where have all my friendships gone?

2007-02-16T20:27:00.000+08:00

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.

Pechay

2007-02-16T16:36:00.000+08:00

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.

Torpe

2007-02-14T21:46:00.000+08:00

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...

Manny Wannabe (Alternatively called Wannabe Manny)

2007-02-06T13:32:00.000+08:00

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.

Wedges

2007-01-31T21:53:00.000+08:00

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.

The buck stops there

2007-01-31T12:15:00.000+08:00

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).

Of Glass Houses

2007-01-17T00:31:00.000+08:00

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.

Now what?

2007-01-15T23:08:00.000+08:00

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?

Fool

2006-11-22T23:36:00.000+08:00

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.

Movies

2006-11-18T11:47:00.000+08:00

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.

ice water wrapper

2006-11-14T20:19:00.000+08:00

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.

Madness

2006-10-02T10:49:00.000+08:00

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.

Someday

2006-09-26T20:54:00.000+08:00

someday,
a reckoning.

bring.

it.

on.

Words of wisdom (Pinoy style)

2006-09-19T13:02:00.000+08:00

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)

Conversation with George

2006-09-18T12:20:00.000+08:00

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)

Ice Cream

2006-09-11T11:52:00.000+08:00

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”

With a pregnant pause and as we stared agape, he added quickly.

“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.

Girls guide to men

2006-09-06T11:49:00.000+08:00

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.

The Guys' Rules

2006-09-02T21:58:00.000+08:00

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.

The Jollibee phenomenon

2006-09-01T12:59:00.000+08:00

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:

When the singer’s life is cut short, preferably in a violent way;
When the song crosses borders between races and influences;
When two or three artists, famous individually, collaborate;
When the song develops a cult following or starts a new genre;

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, Battle City, Commando. I doubt even 3-year olds would have fun playing them (what, no blood? Pffftt! Too lame!).

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 Britain, for example, have cracked the code for curing baldness. So in the next few years (months!), the problem of baldness, falling teeth, cracked nails would have been solved. US scientists, on the other hand, reported to have attacked cancer with gene therapy for white blood cells. Could we see a cure for cancer in our lifetime? That would have been unthinkable yesterday, but now?

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 United States, Hong Kong, Brunei and Vietnam.

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.

taboo

2006-08-31T13:06:00.000+08:00

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 Benin, South Africa where it originated with over four million believers. While the practice also believes in the one true god, it’s anchored heavily on animism. Believers claim that God is too busy to listen to all their concerns so they rely on the messengers. These messengers ostensibly are walking among us and could be invoked if the priest allows his body to become the vessel for possession.

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.

Blood compact

2006-08-30T16:01:00.000+08:00

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*

The dwarf below

2006-08-28T22:42:00.000+08:00

This got me thinking. Would the demotion of Pluto have greater repercussions on astrology?

Before astronomers decided to downgrade the tiny rock as a dwarf planet, Pluto ruled over Scorpio in the zodiac signs. Definitely, those born under the Scorpio sign feel they got the raw end of the deal -- they have a dwarf for a ruler.

That’s not exactly good for your self-esteem, isn’t it?

Pluto according to western astrology symbolizes death, rebirth, sex, evolution, and “the breakdown of psychological blocks that prevent evolutionary growth.” That statement used to be profound but when you take it into context the new category of Pluto as a dwarf planet, it now seems funny. Apparently, these psychological blocks were responsible for Pluto’s present height, or lack thereof.

And would the symbols that Pluto supposedly represents drop their value? Would death now be reduced to unconsciousness? Would sex be a disappointment? Would evolution slow up? Or plainly stunted?

In mythology, Pluto or Hades was the god of the underworld. Brother to Zeus and the overall judge of the dead. In the old times, people were afraid to even mention his name for fear that they might attract his attention and kill them. Black sheep were often slaughtered and offered to him as a sacrifice.

Pluto was also known as a merciless god because mortals who happened to enter the Underworld could never hope to return. With the collective decision of the astronomers, Hades lost his status as a formidable and fearsome god.

Now, he just seems cute. (awww...)

The hood

2006-08-28T14:59:00.000+08:00

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,” Neptune said; who is actually a little bit jealous of Pluto because the Sun in some days has been giving Pluto all his attentions.

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. Neptune heard about it and so hied off to look for the Sun. His massive limousine parked near the park. He trotted towards the car when he saw Pluto turned the corner in front of him also approaching the limousine.

Their eyes met. Pluto walked faster. Neptune jogged. Their gravity starts to pull on each other and just when Neptune is about to catch up, Pluto speeded up due to gravitational acceleration from the big boss and pulled ahead. Pluto got the job and Neptune never forgot about the incident.

“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

2006-08-23T14:31:00.000+08:00

Seeming calm
Passed over
The half-closed lids
Of dreamers.

Spread-eagled,
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.

Confused (still)

2006-08-22T20:42:00.000+08:00

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.

Gloria in excelsis

2006-08-21T21:43:00.002+08:00

“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.

Changes

2006-08-17T21:49:00.001+08:00

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.

i am

2006-08-17T16:03:00.000+08:00

I am.

Flesh and spirit intertwined.
Out of the outflow of blood,
Through the protruding veins
And arteries,
Out of my organs and tissues
Traversing and crisscrossing,
Out of the brittle bones
And hurting sinews,
Out of my wavering nerves,
Out of my senses and perceptions,
Out of my prejudices, opinions, beliefs,
Philosophies, moods, eccentricities,
And identities,
Out of my bedroom door,
To the century-old tree
That hovers above me,
Out of my affiliations, relations,
Affairs, mistakes, triumphs, attentions,
And forced smiles,
Out of my religion and
The mother that bore me,
Out of the reluctant body that carry me,
Out of my flesh,

I am.

Diaphanous.

An eye.
Seeing nothing.
Encompassing everything.

Release me

2006-08-17T15:52:00.000+08:00

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.

The Buzz

2006-08-13T19:19:00.002+08:00

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!

The Movie

2006-08-12T03:24:00.000+08:00

I admit the movie was bad,
And the audio was even worse.
But they’re not the reasons I went out.
Even though I couldn’t sleep
From the icy breath

Of the air conditioner
Nipping at
my tendons.

I would have endured that.

But when I hear your shallow
Breath beside me and feel
You cringe when my fingertips
Graze your cold skin
And lean away
From me…


I had to go.
I had to breathe.

Your fear pains me so.

Priceless

2006-08-12T03:10:00.000+08:00

It's 2:53 a.m. and still couldn't sleep, so I might as well tell you a story:

Me and my girl were eating at the Krua Thai along Torres St. Right in front of us are a group of Americans and Koreans seated at different tables. All the time, I try to look cool like I eat opulence for breakfast and use luxury to wipe my ass every time I crap.

Though I must admit I got rattled off when I read the menu.

Let me put this in a proper context. I only have P22 on my pockets, my girl had even less than me. We just thought of splurging that night precisely because we had no money. No need for money, we thought, we got Visa!

Our Visa ad would go this way:

1. Green shirt: P30 (from ukay-ukay)
2. blue pants: P800
3. accessories: P67
The look on our faces when reading the menu? Priceless!

Anyway, after finishing up all our food (our bill amounted to nearly P500). The waiter came around and asked my girl, in English, no less:

“Ma’am, are you done?”

I froze. Tucked in my smile and waited. Rarely do you get those moments when you could shot back a witty reply. You’ve seen the funny movies. You play the conversations over and over in your head, hoping that one day you get to use them in real life.
To my mind, there are several answers to this question:

1. “No, I’m not done. I’m (state your name)”
2. “No, I’m not done, but I have a brother by that name.”
3. “Yes, I have a man’s name. And yours?”

There are also several variations to these but they all go with the same theme.
And so there I was, holding my spoon in mid-air. I waited for her answer because basically we share the same sense of humor (you know, the one when nobody else gets it) so I knew it would be good.

She looked at the waiter askance, smiled her sweet smile, and replied:

“Yes.”

The waiter took her plate and that was it. There goes the moment.
I, for one, blame it on the menu. Priceless!

Music

2006-08-10T22:45:00.000+08:00

Back in college, in between bouts of clear-headedness and downright being wasted, i came across this masterpiece by Gary Provost's in his 1985 book "100 ways to improve your writing." I love how it teaches writers the importance of varying your paragraph length of your articles, not just to explain, narrate, or to investigate, but also to create music.

This sentence has five words. Here are five more words. Five-word sentences are fine. But several together become monotonous. Listen to what is happening. The writing is getting boring. The sound of it drones. It's like a stuck record. The ear demands some variety.

Now listen. I vary the sentence length, and I create music. Music. The writing sings. It has a pleasant rhythm, a lilt, a harmony. I use short sentences. And I use sentences of medium length.

And sometimes, when I am certain the reader is rested, I will engage him with a sentence of considerable length, a sentence that burns with energy and builds with all the impetus of a crescendo, the roll of the drums, the crash of the cymbals -- sounds that say listen to this, it is important.

So write with a combination of short, medium, and long sentences. Create a sound that pleases the reader's ear. Don't just write words.

Write music.

Flipping the bird

2006-08-10T22:21:00.000+08:00

A short history of the longest finger

Giving someone "the finger" is one of the basest violations in modern culture, but its origins date back over 2500 years. The first written record of the insult occurred in ancient Greece, where the playwright Aristophanes (the Adam Sandler of his day) made a crude joke mixing up the middle finger and the penis. Even back then, the bird was considered an aggressive, phallic put-down.

It has been argued by anthropologists that the finger is a a variant of a classic "phallic aggressive" gesture used by primates. By jabbing a threatening phallus at your enemy like a wild animal, you aren't just belittling him, but also making him your sexual inferior. Instead of using a real penis, civilized Janes and Platos called upon the substitute wieners within their own hands to mock, threaten, and humiliate opponents.

And boy, did it. When the Romans imported the art, music, and culture of the Greeks, the finger came along, too. Roman Emperor Caligula, a pioneer in perversity, frequently shocked his citizens by forcing them to kiss his middle finger instead of his hand. One of his subjects, Cassius, who Caligula often taunted as being too effeminate, finally had enough humiliation and assassinated him. Clearly, the bird was not to be taken lightly.

During the Middle Ages, the finger went underground. It was still known, but the Catholic Church frowned upon its use, as the middle finger was supposed to be holy in the Mass. The unholy insult lurked deep within the hearts of filthy- minded folks everywhere, hiding from sight until the 19th century when it began to crop up again thanks to a new invention -photography.

for a full version of the history click here
http://www.ooze.com/finger/html/history.html

F#@K IT!

2006-08-10T22:10:00.000+08:00

loved this pun, thought i'd share it...

"Uncle Jim," by Peter Meinke:

What the children remember about Uncle Jim
is that on the train to Reno to get divorced
so he could marry again
he met another woman and woke up in California.
It took him seven years to untangle that dream
but a man who could sing like Uncle Jim
was bound to get in scrapes now and then:
he expected it and we expected it.

Mother said, It's because he was the middle child,
And Father said, Yeah, where there's trouble
Jim's in the middle.

When he lost his voice he lost all of it
To the surgeon's knife and refused the voice box
They wanted to insert. In fact he refused
Almost everything. Look, they said,
It's up to you. How many years
Do you want to live? And Uncle Jim
Held up one finger.

The middle one.

mnemonics

2006-08-10T11:50:00.000+08:00

A funny thing happened today. I was on the way to the office when somebody tapped my shoulder from behind and called my name. I glanced back and turned out it was an old flame from way back. But for the life of me, I couldn't remember her name.
I have a faint memory of her face and her eyes. She looked plumpier. But i could not really trust my memory to say that she gained weight. Even her smell is not familiar (A new perfume, maybe)? Memory is a funny thing. You think you could never forget a person but each piece of her slowly fades away with time. You forget how her laughter sounded like, how she dressed. Her smile.

Her smell that clung heavily to your clothes lightens and evaporates, but the memory is still there, however faint. It's almost like the smell of durian, lingering in the air long after the solids are thrown away; or the smell of sweaty feet in the room.

I thought we had something then but now I couldn’t even remember her name.

Our conversation went like this:

Her: So, musta na?

Me: Okay lang, kaw?

Her: Okay lang din. Saan ka na ngayon?

Me: Wala, tambay tambay lang.

Her: Atik ka man oi. Ingon ni Michael, nagtrabaho ka daw sa ______?

Me: Ah, oo. Sometimes.

Awkward silence. She looked away. I looked at her.

Me: So, asa ka karun?

Her: (smiling) wala, magpatahi uniform diha sa ____ (points to a boutique nearby).

Me: ah ok. asa diay ka work?

Her: Sa ______. Isa sa mga sales agents didto.

Me: ah ok.

Her: Asawa ka naman daw?

Me: Tsismis lang na. hehehe. Kaw, minyo ka na?

Her: Wala pa pud. Wa pa nakita. Basi ginahulat ko nimo? (laughs)

Me: Mao. Hehehe

Another silence. Longer this time. I took the chance to try to remember her name and failed.

Me: So, adto nako. Balik pa ko work.

Her: Sige. Ako pud, magpatahi pa pud ko uniform. Naa ka number?

Me: Naa.

Her: Hatagi ko beh. Save nako.

Me: Sige. Unsa man imo number kay save nako tapos miscol taka later.

Her: Ok. (gives her number) Tawagi ko ha or text?

Me: Ok

Her: Promise ha? Bantay ka lang, atikon bya ka.

Me: Nanira pa jud. Lagi. Text taka.

I didn’t. It would be pointless.

Laws

2006-08-10T11:42:00.000+08:00

The gods have spoken,

And so must I abide.

A floating debris,

Washed away by the tide.

The cat at the beach (and it ain't cute, either)

2006-08-09T22:30:00.000+08:00

Speaking of Tawi-tawi… I think the beaches there are comparable to the best in the world. With powdery white sand that stretches on end, clear turquoise water, and the wind swinging freely. There are no resorts there, maybe because of its image as the preferred vacation spot for the Abu Sayyaf group or its proximity to Sulu, another hotbed for skirmishes, which isn't true of course, but that's another story.

The one good thing about that is you have the beach to yourself. And so, Susan (my companion for the project) and I vowed to wake up early for a swim.

Daybreak came.

The sun started to rise behind the open sea, tinting the coastline with a carroty blush. I started to strip while Susan was busy capturing the moment with her digital camera.

Off to my peripheral vision, I saw an old woman draped in malong emerge from one of the many houses lining the shore. We watched her languidly walked towards the shore, each step purposeful, catlike almost. She stopped at the wet mark where the waves left an imprint in the sand. She burrowed the sand with her bare hands. We continued watching her, mesmerized.

Then, she unloosened the malong draped on her waist, faced the ocean, and sat on the tunnel she just made. That’s when we realized that she was relieving herself using the malong as cover. The term catlike suddenly took a whole different meaning.

We never got to swim, that just killed it off for us right there.

theory of relativity

2006-08-09T22:10:00.001+08:00

Digging into my pockets yesterday, I realized I only have P85.00 and change left. How much P85.00 would buy?

I remember when I was in Tawi-tawi island, writing about one of the projects of a company known for promoting corporate social responsibility.

We arrived there about 2:00 p.m. and so we went off to the market for our dinner that night. Their public market was anything but orderly. The sheer volume of the crowd made it almost necessary to walk shoulder to shoulder with a stranger. To my left was an old woman, a turban on her head and a cigar on her mouth, almost a caricature of herself.

The smoke from her cigar burned my nostrils and I couldn’t look away because the guy to my right looked like he could skin me alive without breaking a sweat.

There we were, in single file. My hands on the shoulders of the local contact in front of me, my companion’s hands were on my shoulders. Like three-year olds, treading an imaginary line. To this day, I couldn’t remember how we made it out of there with vegetables, imbao (shellfish), and kuracha (sea centipede) and fresh isda sa bato in hand.

Our expenses for the feast? A mere P85.00 and change.

stumping ground

2006-08-09T16:19:00.000+08:00

Words intimidate me. That may seem paradoxical since I write for a living but it’s true --words intimidate me.

Consider, for example, this seven-syllable word craspedomorphology: defined as a branch of photography, which deals with the sharpness of images, clarity of detail and the resolving power of camera lenses.

If you don’t consult the dictionary and rely only on the phonetics, it would evoke a different meaning. If I had to guess, based on the sound of the word and by literally considering each syllable, I would craft a totally different definition. And it has nothing to do with photography. I would come up something like: cras = uncouth; pedo = child; morph = change; and ology = study of. So my own definition would be: the study of changing an uncouth child.

I told you it has nothing to do with photography.

Fortunately or unfortunately, much as I am threatened with them, I’m also enamored with words. The way letters make love to form syllables and syllables merge to form words, words turn to sentences, and on it goes.

I imagine I must have slobbered graffiti on my mother’s thigh the day I got out just to have the pleasure of admiring what I just scrawled. Doctors must have been surprised to find the bloodied words “I was here” on the side of my mother’s thigh running through her leg.

My love affair with graffiti continued to high school, with a trusty ballpen, or if I’m lucky, pentel pen in hand. I’d scrawl anywhere, from wet cement (your name and the date below just to be sure the owner remembers the day you vandalized his pavement), the comfort room (girls or boys), my bedroom, school, lampposts, walls. A nail cutter also comes in handy when you have to carve your name on the teacher’s desk or your own chair. It was only later I learned that carving your real name would have dire consequences. ah, the lessons of youth!

I was lucky to have been surrounded by books. From those illustrated Jesus books peddled by Christian bookstores to Disney‘s Wonderful World of Knowledge, to Winnie the Pooh classics, Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tales; and even our local askal Tagpi with the immortal phrase “run Tagpi, run!” (see, it’s not Forrest Gump who ran first).

Over the years, I graduated to books without illustrations. I used to raid the room of my aunt. There’s no rhythm and rhyme to her bookshelf. Side by side with management and economics books, there are also rows and rows of mills and boons, silhouettes, and other romance novels.

Naturally, between economics and a book with a cover where the hero, naked from the waist up, scoops up the girl with prominent breasts, her blouse off-kilted, waiting for that eternal kiss, I chose the latter.

There are also surprises in reading these romance novels for a young kid with growing loins. In between pages, there’s sure to be two to three pages of hot, searing, and passionate, well, lovemaking.

Then I was introduced to Harold Robbins, WHAM! It was not only my impressionable young mind that exploded (and exploded, hehehe)... I didn’t know words could do that to your loins. Good thing, my aunt only had two titles of Harold Robbins in her shelf but I devoured them both. She must have found out about my “growing” interest from the dog-eared pages where the steamy scenes were for one day, the books were just gone.

It was books that instinctively taught me sentence construction, idioms, and creating images through words, for I never did memorize the parts of the speech even if my ass depended on it. And in some cases, it did. When I was spanked on the butt for failing the English subject.

Mostly, when I write I played by ear. If it sounded awkward, it must be grammatically wrong. You could hear purists on the background screaming, “Your rules suck!” what can I say? I’ve got years of experience sucking.

If words intimidate me, the alternative downright terrifies me. Just how do you say hello to a blank space?

2006-08-08T14:17:00.001+08:00

Funny…

But when I saw
A man pick up
The burger meat
That fell
From his buns,
Replaced it and
Ate the goddamn
Thing,
My stomach turned up.

When just yesterday,
I saw on a tabloid
The mangled
Body of
A child of three,
Naked from
The waist down
And a
Broken bottle
Thrust up
Her vagina,

...And I felt nothing at all.

2006-08-08T13:37:00.000+08:00

Finally, im blogging.

I guess I have to explain myself. you see, i always have this thing for pablo neruda. i saw the movie Il Postino twice (and maybe more, if i could get hold of a copy and no it's not a biography but it's beautiful nonetheless), and had gotten lost in his words more often than i care to remember.

You know the feeling when you're about to sleep, stretching your arms way above your head, let out a long sigh of relief after a hard day's work,and just let go.Somewhere along the way, you get lost but it's not fear that sets in, rather it's more like tranquility. the calmness of home.

I love the man. I'm a little embarassed to admit it, but I love the guy. and I hope one day, I could rein in the words like he did, a cigar on my hand, bind my other hand to the saddle with a rope, hold on for dear life, and ride that raging bull for eight seconds.

For cowboys, that's all it takes to gain self-respect.