Where have all my friendships gone?

Written on 8:27 PM by isko b. doo

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Pechay

Written on 4:36 PM by isko b. doo

I couldn't let this one pass.

How quickly we forget. Rep. Prospero Pichay is gunning for a Senate seat when just a few months ago he filed a resolution to convene the Lower House into a constituent assembly to change the 1987 Constitution. While he toed the administration line (lie?) that the changes would revolve around economic provisions, the real intent was palpable -- to eliminate the "obstructionist" Senate, which admittedly has been a thorn in the side of Malacanang.

Now, he wants us to install him into the very institution he sought to abolish? What hypocrisy!

Ang pichay hindi tinatanim sa Senado, kundi sa lupa.

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Torpe

Written on 9:46 PM by isko b. doo

A study made by a University of the Philippines professor found that in the end, the torpe gets the girl. There must be something wrong in my perspective because I find the opposite to be true and that's the reason I changed my game plan in the first place.

According to the study, it's often (?) the "shy, reserved, often wordless and apparently needy" types that attract girls rather than the aggressive ones. While the term aggressiveness here was not qualified, I'd imagine it to be somebody who's actively pursuing the girl as opposed to someone making "paramdam."

I don't know the type of girls (respondents) who participated in the survey but I have in my head a profile of conservative girls looking for stable relationships. I'm stereotyping, I'm sure. I'm not hatin' on the survey or anythin but I tried the torpe tack, and it didn't work as much as I would like.

I don't know how many of those relationships worked but I'd imagine the batting average to be below par. Maybe I'm cynical but the reasons cited by the survey behind going into the relationship with a shy and silent type are already flawed. The psychologist explained that girls want "to help and care for them" because of the compassionate nature of Filipinos. Well, compassion sure isn't passion. Compassion at best leads to a stable relationship. At the very least, it's a sure ticket to friendship. You know, the perpetual shoulder to cry on once your girl cries over his bastard, good-for-nothing, rogue bf who's the very opposite of a nice guy (which you are).

You see, while I'm not an expert on the opposite sex (I excel only in creeping out women), I know this much: attraction is not a choice. That's why you see your pretty crush, the love of your life, get routinely treated badly by his ugly bf (the very opposite of who you are), cry on your shoulders, ask for advice, promise to leave him but the very next day, you find her in his arms anyway. You bang your head against the wall trying to understand what's going on but the answer is pretty simple: attraction is not a choice.

You can bet your ass the girl knows that he's wrong for her but logic doesn't apply here because --- repeat after me --- attraction isn't a choice.

And you know why "pa-cute" doesn't work? Because the girl already knows about your feelings for her even before you utter a single vow of allegiance to her pretty little pedestal; which begs the question, if she has no feelings for you, why would she stay chummy even if she knows how you feel? Simple, because you (shyness and all) are "safe." Once you profess your undying love for her, however, that harmless factor crumbles and the relationship changes. So, staying loyal to your girl thinking you would win her in the end is not only wrong, its downright masochistic.

I think what draws girls to the "silent type" are anchored on two things: mystery and potential. It would be a good idea to keep the first and fulfill the latter. The danger here is when the girl starts to peel the onion skin bit by bit and find nothing at the core but a needy, groveling wuss. Nobody likes a spoiled, needy child but a mother, and some mothers are known to crack their knuckles once in a while and cluck the head of their pampered kids to knock sense into them.

The second is more complicated. I think the shy, reticent guy alluded to in the survey possess within himself a potential. Kanang masuroy na sa Lachmi ba ug naay potensyal isuroy sa mall ba. No matter what the survey says, nobody likes a dirty bum who doesn't want to help himself. A bum might work if you're a bad boy. Why do you think good girls swoon over the likes of Robin "Bad boy" Padilla, Jay "Totoy Mola" Manalo, or Victor Neri? Apart from their being action stars, it's the element of danger involved that's very attractive.

What's the difference between a bad boy and a geek? Oh, I don't know... sexual tension, danger, unpredictability, confidence, and sense of security (not talking here of financial but the sense that he could handle himself in any situation). The main difference is control. Despite the feminist movement, girls still look for men who exert control, not just to the relationship but to all aspects of his life as well. It's wired into their brains to look for the Alpha male because in the animal kingdom, the Alpha males are perceived to have the best genes for mating. Just like it's wired into men's brains to be drawn to women with big boobs because big juggies are thought to have more milk, and therefore more food for the child. It's not true of course, but nevertheless.

I wish some girls could back me up on this one. Between a needy, shy type every mother dreams of and an adventurous bad boy type that you don't bring home to mama, who you gonna choose? There are only two archetypes of men: the lover and provider. Those two archetypes are further divided into other subtypes: the bad boy, happy-go-lucky, athletes, thrill-seekers, artists, the "daddy" (which refers to old men with plenty of moola with a young woman in tow), husband-material (men viewed as stable partners), and the successful/powerful.

There are also other types that fall below the radar screen of women: the geeks/nerds (totally devoid of potential), bums (the happy-go-lucky guy gone wrong), mr. know-it-all, mama's boy, and the insecure geek (I know, a double whammy).

It's important to choose from among the archetypes and tailor-make you personality according to who you want to be. Do you want to be a lover or a provider? Each has its own advantages and disadvantages.

What a man needs to avoid at all costs is to be lumped into the "friend mode," a pit of perdition that is so very hard to get away from. You might think that the best way to court a girl is to be friends first. Wrong! Don't believe that crap you see on TV. That could only work if in the first stages of the courtship you already lay down your cards on the table about your true intentions and the girl tells you that she's not ready. Here, it's a good idea to assess where you stand in the relationship every now and then to make sure the girl is not shitting you. A good gauge is how comfortable is she around you even after you told her about your feelings and just how touchy you both are after that. This is the "M.U." stage. The only thing lacking in the relationship is the formal proposal and acceptance.

But of course, that's also a trap. Just when you thought you're home free, Wham! The girl introduces you to a new squeeze. Hahahaha! What can I say? Women are weird so it's no good to dissect their complexities. Be that in mind, consider this post worthless.

This post will self-destruct in five seconds... 5...4...3...2...

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Manny Wannabe (Alternatively called Wannabe Manny)

Written on 1:32 PM by isko b. doo

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Wedges

Written on 9:53 PM by isko b. doo

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The buck stops there

Written on 12:15 PM by isko b. doo

The title is not a misquote of US President Harry Truman's "the buck stops here" phrase which meant that the ultimate responsibility for each government policy, positive or otherwise, rests on his shoulders being the chief executive.

The title, however, aptly describes how Gloria runs things in these parts.

Apparently, our dear president sought Europe's help in investigating the string of political killings in the country as if they know how our country works. With over 700 murders of militants and nearly 50 journalists under its watch and with no suspect to show for it, how could EU help? Offer more alms?

Of course, this is nothing more than good PR, a face-saving scheme for the president to claim that she has done something. She could not anymore ignore the killings, not when the international community is breathing closely down her neck. In the hallowed halls of Malacanang, she declared: "I aim to stop this once and for all."

Tough words. But she couldn't stop this "once and for all" by running to Europe for help. What does that do, however, is offer her a way out. Hey, she's doing something, right? It's Europe's and the Melo Commission's fault they could not convince the witnesses to come out in the open.
Hell, it's the witnesses' fault they aren't coming out to testify! Anybody but hers.

It's pretty remarkable how quick our president is to own up to all the good things about this country while passing the buck to every negative news. Remember the economy? well, it's because of her economic reforms with a dash of her BEAT THE ODDS program, add in a pinch of super regions and RVAT for good measure, add salt to taste and voila! We have a recipe for a sound economy.

With the rise in body count, what does she do? Why, create the Melo Commission of course. A toothless body that would eventually bear the blame for the lack of government action. Weeks into the probe, the body then blamed the lack of willing, well , bodies who are... err... willing to testify.

When the Commission on Human Rights and progressive organizations accused Gen. Jovito "The Butcher" Palparan of a hand in the killings, when his stints in Southern Tagalog, Nueva Ecija and Mindoro always left a trail of bodies, he earned not a dressing down but a special mention from Gloria's state of the nation address (granted, the evidence is circumstantial but the coincidence should at least warrant a ministerial probe).

If she's really serious, heads would have rolled by now. Order police station commanders to solve each extra-judicial killing under their jurisdiction or it's off with their heads. She's had six years to do something about the problem. She's not some figurehead in some banana republic.... oh, wait. Fuck!

(Little Red Riding Hood asks the big wolf posing as Gloria: "Granma, why do you have such long fingers?"

"All the better to point to others, my dear," said Gloria as wolf).

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Of Glass Houses

Written on 12:31 AM by isko b. doo

The phrase “people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones” was first traced to Geoffrey Chaucer’s in his Troilus and Criseyde in 1385. Some centuries later, Benjamin Franklin wrote, “Don’t throw stones at you neighbors’ if your own windows are glass.”

These gave birth to the figure of speech “to live in a glass house,” which essentially means vulnerability. Simply put, that means we shouldn’t criticize others if we are as flawed, or even worse as they are.

The above figure of speech comes to mind after President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo urged Burmese Prime Minister Soe Win over the weekend to free opposition leader and Nobel Peace Laureate Aung San Suu Kyi and take concrete steps towards democracy.

The call to free 61-year old Suu Kyi, who has been under arrest on and off since 1989, is warranted and should be the primary agenda to every Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN) summit for it would be pointless to discuss economic cooperation while condoning the actions of delinquent members.

But the call coming from Ms. Arroyo just leaves a bad taste in the mouth in the heels of international demands for her to clean up her own backyard littered with human rights violations and political killings.

Consider the 2006 Amnesty International (AI) report, which blasted the Arroyo administration due to a sharp increase in vigilante killings. Since 2001, according to the report, there have been 785 extra-judicial killings. The National Union of Journalists of the Philippines also reported that bullets felled 48 journalists since the President assumed power.

It’s noteworthy to remember that not one suspect to the more than 800 murders served jail term. Out of the 114 political killings recorded by Task Force Usig, the body created to look into the murders, 27 cases have been filed in court while the rest are still under investigation. Of the 27 cases, the police only arrested suspects in three suspects. Up to now, no conviction has been reported.

Because of Malacañang record, or lack thereof, the Council of the European Union; the Finland, Spain, France, Canada and Japan governments; the Asian Human Rights Commission; the Human Rights Watch; and religious groups like the United Church of Christ in Canada and the United Methodist Church in the US called on Ms. Arroyo to do something about the killings.

The Joint Foreign Chambers of Commerce, along with Wal-Mart, Gap, Polo Ralph Lauren, Liz Claiborne, Phillips Van Heusen, American Eagle Outfitters, also demanded a stop to the killings or risk losing investments.

In light of her dismal record, I wonder how the President got the idea that she has the moral authority to make the call? Ms. Arroyo’s insistence for Burma to clean up its act is nothing but hot air -- a case of a kettle calling the pot black.

Would the Burmese Junta listen? Not from a fellow delinquent, it won’t.

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Now what?

Written on 11:08 PM by isko b. doo

Court of Appeals Associate Justice Apolinario Bruselas apologized after misquoting US Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes to justify the executive’s decision to spirit away Lance Cpl. Daniel Smith from Makati jail into the custody of the US embassy.

In his decision, Bruselas quoted Holmes as saying “the other branches of the government are ultimate guardians of the liberties and welfare of the people in quite as great a degree as the courts.”

The original quote from the 1904 decision in the case of Missouri, Kansas & Texas Railroad vs May, however, was “...it must be remembered that legislatures are the ultimate guardians of the liberties and welfare of the people in quite as great a degree as the courts.” The apology does address the inconsistency in the CA ruling.

The tenor of the CA decision has been one of unswerving conformity to Makati Judge Benjamin Pozon’s bold ruling until it declared the midnight transfer of Smith by the Department of Interior and Local Government of Smith with the blessings of Malacañang as “moot.” Citing Holmes, the CA ruling then said that the courts “many not directly intervene in the exercise of diplomacy no matter how proudly or meekly, strongly or weakly, such exercise may be conducted by the appropriate political organ of the government.”

Now the damage is done. Smith is now under the custody of the US embassy, which runs contrary to the CA ruling that the proper facility should be located outside of the US embassy, which is a US territory, and should be run by Philippine officials. Former Senate President Jovito Salonga said Bruselas may be held liable for falsification which is punishable under the Revised Penal Code with six months imprisonment.

“What will the court now do with respect to the wrongs (that were) committed against not only Nicole but also against the judiciary and against our aggrieved people?" Salonga asks.

Indeed, now that the CA found that it’s ruling was based on a wrong premise, would it moto propio reverse its decision and insists on the sovereign right of the Philippine government to the custody of Smith? If not, Nicole’s lawyers should pounce on this opportunity and test Bruselas’ sincerity in issuing an apology.

Or should we just accept the apology and let the issue die down like we did when President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo helloed Garci?

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Fool

Written on 11:36 PM by isko b. doo

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.

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Movies

Written on 11:47 AM by isko b. doo

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.

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ice water wrapper

Written on 8:19 PM by isko b. doo

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.

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Madness

Written on 10:49 AM by isko b. doo

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.

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Someday

Written on 8:54 PM by isko b. doo

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Words of wisdom (Pinoy style)

Written on 1:02 PM by isko b. doo

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Conversation with George

Written on 12:20 PM by isko b. doo

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)

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Ice Cream

Written on 11:52 AM by isko b. doo

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.

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Girls guide to men

Written on 11:49 AM by isko b. doo

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.

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The Guys' Rules

Written on 9:58 PM by isko b. doo

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.

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The Jollibee phenomenon

Written on 12:59 PM by isko b. doo

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:

1. When the singer’s life is cut short, preferably in a violent way;
2. When the song crosses borders between races and influences;
3. When two or three artists, famous individually, collaborate;
4. 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.

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taboo

Written on 1:06 PM by isko b. doo

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.

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