Written on 4:38 PM by isko b. doo
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.
Posted in
musings
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Written on 3:45 PM by isko b. doo
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.
Written on 7:43 PM by isko b. doo
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?
Written on 6:37 PM by isko b. doo
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.
Written on 6:15 PM by isko b. doo
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.
Posted in
stupidity
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Written on 5:23 PM by isko b. doo
I'm back to blogger.
Don't ask.
Written on 9:55 PM by isko b. doo
I hate this. I can't upload my posts. Maybe it's my computer or my Mozilla browser but editing or creating entries has become near impossible. I thought it was just a bug in all of blogsphere but it's frustrating to see other blogspot users don't seem to experience the same problem and were able to update their posts.
Tried the help option but couldn't find anything of use to me. Oh, I could ask around since there are help forums here but being I'm a bum and that sounds like a lot of hard work. I transfered to wordpress instead.
So.. dear critics, readers, bystanders, evaluators, idiot savants, plain idiots, friends, ex-friends, co-workers, fellow bummers, sa mga dating my crush sa akin at sa mga magka-crush pa, to Raul Gonzales, Gloria and all politicos, here's the link to my new blog account.
Drum roll please....
http://searchingforpablo.i.ph
Don't clap your hands. I'm imaginative, I know. :P
P.S.
And to blogspot fanatics who think I'm no worse than a makapili who point to his countryman to be fed to the Japanese kempetai for leaving blogspot... pasensya na,
kabalo na mo, tiguwang na dali lang mangluod.
Written on 12:11 PM by isko b. doo
Arrgggh! It's HOOOOOTTT!
I haven't seen hot like this since I was back in high school and I wore those blue stretchable pants which hugged my thigh until before the ankle, a blue denim jacket, a punk midriff shirt, white robertsons shoes and extra-thick yellow cotton socks (that kssss-ing you hear is me smokin' hot, Woohoo!).
I couldn't think, I couldn't sleep, I couldn't stay outside in the heat for more than 10 minutes without developing a headache, I couldn't stay outside, period. Hell, I couldn't even sweat. My perspiration just sort of fizzles, evaporating into gaseous state before it can liquify. You go outside and there's just the sun, hammering down on you. On extra hot days, I swear I could hear the sound of its rays pounding on me.
Pound. Pound. Pound.
There must be something to this global warming thing. I read somewhere that the earth's temperature rose two degrees over the last decade compared to just two degrees from the 1900 to 1990. Two degrees might seem diminutive but considering the sun's core has temperature levels reaching 13,600,000 degress Kelvin, two degrees of that is like, ah...um... Okay! I don't do math. So sue me. It's scorching though, I know that much.
This heat is kinda bumming me out. Imagine, I have to take a shower now twice a day. Twice! whereas before I take a shower twice a week. Hey, we have one of the best waters in the world, no sense wasting it on something as immaterial as taking a bath, Hehehe.
Haahaay... got to get to work again. I already took a shower, buttered my armpits with a deodorant and splash on a little cologne. Why do I even bother when 10 minutes after I walk out that door I'd be smelling like a wet dog bitchin' in the heat.
And there would be the sun waiting for me, a hammer in hand and a smirk on its face.
I know. It's clobbering time.
Written on 2:00 PM by isko b. doo
I remember exactly when I stopped going to church. It was my birthday during my second year high school, the first day of Misa de Gallo. It was still 4:30 a.m., but the air inside the church was stuffy, nearly clotted by the sheer number of people inside. It felt like we were Jews during the Holocaust about to be gassed.
I was sandwiched between two massive bulks, a mother and her daughter I guess. The daughter gave off a scent that could only be described as vinegary sweetness -- a blend of sweat and perfume. Meanwhile, the mother, well, forget the mother. I huddle closer to her daughter. Two grown men in front of me blocked my view of the pulpit. The hum of the priest's voice ricocheted around the walls. I felt very drowsy.
I heard the priest bless the cup containing the "blood of Christ," I strained my neck and I couldn't see what he was doing. I heard the priest bless the Holy Eucharist, I tippy-toed and still I couldn't see what he was doing. Fuck this!
I stormed out of the church and went out to buy puto bumbong. Never paid much attention to priests since then. Oh, I've been to church several times. I even attended Misa de Gallo again and attempted to finish the traditional nine mornings. I would have completed it, too, if the girl I was courting that time (and that is why I was escorting her) hadn't said yes on the 7th day. So the day after, she went to mass alone. Hehehe.
So what went wrong? It seemed silly to drop religion on account of a little acidity from some girl's armpit, wasn't it? Yes, it seemed silly but, to borrow a worn-out phrase, that was the last straw.
I grew up with my lola in an old house stuffed with religious images. Aside from the Holy Family, we also had a Sto. Niño, the Sacred Heart, a big rosary, and a poster of Jesus Christ. I grew up venerating these icons, especially the Holy Family -- more prehistoric than my lola, I was told.
(Hmmn... antique? Ka-ching!)
Back then, we prayed a lot. I was quite adept at praying the rosary and could recite the mysteries backwards; the Angelus at 6:00 p.m., the way of the cross to Shrine each Holy Week; I even knew how to pray the novena for every occasion, sa patay, sa buhi, sa hapit na mamatay. When I wasn't at home, I was at the catholic school I go to and you guessed it, recited the rosary, prayed Our Father and droned out the Hail Marys. Oh, almost forgot the three o'clock prayer.
No, there's no Eureka moment nor was I hit with a thunderbolt which triggered a sudden realization that all my life I've been had by religion. My reason was much more mundane and bland than that. I just got tired of it all.
Which gets me thinking... why is it that priests speak in monotone? No, scratch that. Why is the whole Eucharist conducted in monotone? The voice of the priest, the songs, the melody -- all make for a banausic impression. I have a theory. I think, it's a grand conspiracy. The lifeless, bromidic ritual taps into our alpha waves or something, lulling us into relaxation and therefore more open to suggestion. You remember those tapes back in the 80s that supposedly dribble satanic verses when played backwards? I think when you slow down the ceremony just about right, you could hear subliminal messages whispering "we are the way or you're going to hell" or "give more to the collection plate or you're going to hell." They have nearly two millennia to perfect the system, right?
I mean, all that ceremony and what do we get!?! The Holy Eucharist which is no bigger than a five peso coin. The priest doesn't even allow us to sip the wine! At least, other religions feed you with a sandwich and juice. If you have to be fucked in the behind, might as well be fed for it. I draw the line with Quiboloy and his Kingdom of Christ, however, they not only not feed you, they make you sell pulvoron in the guise of scholarship as well. The only thing which sucks more than that is my blog.
I've been called a lost child, an agnostic, atheist, or even a satanist. Sometimes I welcome the labels, just so I know I belong to something. Don't get me wrong, I envy those who don't question and just let their faiths steer their destiny. They seem so cute and placid, like sheep. Awwww...
It's easy to think that being amoral sans responsibilities is fun but it's difficult to suspect what has dominated and continues to dominate all aspects of my life; it's especially difficult to doubt when it's all I have left of my lola. If nothing else, religion was our connection. She was proudest when her apo led the novena for the first time and our neighbors praised my skill. She never said a word but I'm sure she looked at the empty space beside her when she recited the Angelus in front of the Sto. Niño.
My lola is now dead. I cried hardest when at the time she needed it most, I couldn't even allow myself to recite a short prayer for her. I wanted to but that seemed hypocritical. I guess at that moment, there's no turning back for me.
Yet, this whole crap is so embedded in me that even as I conclude this entry, I mentally make the sign of the cross.
Written on 12:53 PM by isko b. doo
Here I am, changing my skin again. It has nearly become a bi-monthly routine for me and it's got nothing to do with my current mood or my frame of mind at all. More often than not, it's mainly for lack of anything better to do. Just goes to prove that being a bum is not all sunshine and butterflies.
Another purpose in changing skins is an attempt to keep this blog fresh. At least, until I could distract everybody else from the reality that my entries are stale, a hackneyed, monochromed reel of my so-called life. I thought that if magicians could use the trick of distraction and enjoy the prestige, so could I.
I belong to the generation where my savvy in computers is limited to the "barely adequate" category; where CSS and HTMLs are acronyms you paste in sodas and canned goods along with the ubiquitous reg.phil.pat.off. Sure I could google porn but that's about it.
After about two weeks, when the audience's eyes have caught up with my quick hands, the colors and the patterns lose their luster. And only after looking at the other blogs out there that I realize: the design of my blog sucks.
Great. Now I have two things to be insecure about: my writing and this blog's blueprint. Why do I do this to myself?
More than anything else, this particular template seems apt. The bug-eyed birds remind me of a deer caught in headlights and that's exactly my state of mind right now -- it's knowing that an 85-ton mack truck is heading your way running at full speed and you can't do any damn thing about it.
So you freeze, brace for the full impact and hope as hell it's your lucky day.
Written on 9:28 PM by isko b. doo
I always associate Bukidnon with the Kalachuchi.
For what reason, I don't know. But even as I write this post, the smell of the Kalachuchi waft through the air and its overpowering scent disturbed the equilibrium of the room. The intrusion is not at all unpleasant. Like a friendly greeting from an old friend; or a slice of chocolate cake in the middle of a diet.
I was about 11 or 12 years old when my family spent a summer in Bukidnon. We lived with an evangelical pastor who was the partner of my father in a potato farm business a few kilometers from his house.
His house sits on a hill. No, it's more like a anomalous growth but the dirt road knew better than to cut through it and offend the sensibilities of a messenger from God. So the road snaked around that mound -- adorned with fruit trees, bermuda grass, a small garden of gumamela, violets, baby's breath and shrubs -- before it staggers and get lost around the bend.
At the back of the house stands the Kalachuchi. So huge it seemed to dwarf the two-storey house but that's not true, of course -- its dimensions forever distorted by a distant memory. Without fail, right after daybreak, the pastor's little girl religiously fetched the goat from its pen and tie it to the Kalachuchi. A bald spot around the Kalachuchi where the grass couldn't seem to grow just shows how long this custom has been going on.
At night, the shadows seemed endless; fractured only by flourescent lights dangling precariously on creaky lampposts. You could count shafts of light in the main road before the darkness swallows the rest of them. As the light of moon pallidly touched the winding path, the flowers of the Kalachuchi perfumed the air, adding to the ghostly atmosphere.
"It's the moths," the pastor told me one night. "The Kalachuchi tricks the moths into thinking it has nectars to give and so the moths come back again and again."
Again and again. Quite a deceitful one, that Kalachuchi.
But this post has nothing to do with Kalachuchi.
It was our first night at the Pastor's house. I was lying between my two brothers in the sala. My father was in one room with my mother; my uncle and two other cousins slept in another room near the kitchen. In the dark, the ordinary furniture looked menacing. Naturally, we couldn't sleep. As the crickets and toads crooned, we listened... for strange noises, for a deviant clatter, even a familiar thud (the kind that falling dead bodies make when clumsy psychos stumble).
Nothing. Every sound accounted for. The hum of the electric fan, the rustling of the wind on the tin roof, my heavy breathing. I start to doze off.
Then suddenly. I heard a faint sound in the distance.
I listened.
"Mooo."
"Mooo."
I heard what a cow sounds like when it "moos" and I knew THAT wasn't a cow. It sounded guttural, like a raw wheeze from deep in the stomach; a drowning man struggling to breathe.
And it's coming from the kitchen.
"Mooo."
"Mooo."
The sound is defeaning. A pause then a moo. I pulled the sheets up to my head. My brothers followed suit.
Moo. Pause. Moo.
It surrounded the house. It swallowed the house. I didn't know how I managed to sleep that night. All I remember was waking up all covered in sweat. I went to the kitchen to drink Milo and walked into a conversation among the adults. Obviously, I wasn't the only one who had a difficult night.
"Sabaa ning Janwart oi! Sige lang ug Moo Moo, di ko katulog!" my cousin complained.
Apparently, when my uncle snores, he moos.
There's no moral to this story but nobody snores like my uncle. Nobody should have to. That's inhuman. You scare little children that way. Even cows stop to moo when they sleep.
Written on 10:11 PM by isko b. doo
You have a sexual hidden talent
You have a sexual hidden talent. You might not look it but you are a dynamo in bed. Most of your lovers think that it is from years of practice, but really, you were just born with it.
Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com |
Eherm! Man! this quiz is accurate... hehehe. Now, where did I put that hammer and nail so I could frame this.
Two words: Advertise baby! :)
Written on 10:21 AM by isko b. doo
Was it a politician's publicity stunt?
A day after "helping" to facilitate the release of 26 schoolchildren from Musmos Day Care center, Luis "Chavit" Singson couldn't wait to gloat to the whole world about his role in the nearly day-long hostage drama.
The quotation marks in the word helping was intentional because I didn't think Chavit did much. Wasn't it Sen. Bong Revilla who told the police earlier that Jun Ducat, the hostage-taker, vowed to release the children by 7:00 p.m. that same night? Indeed, at the stroke of 7:00, Ducat opened the bus door and... well, we know what happened next. So whether or not he showed up the impasse would have ended at 7:00.
And now, here we have Chavit sending a 12-paragraph press release to 130 e-mails of publishers and reporters praising himself for being a hero. Count it, 130 e-mails. Must be hard being a hero when you have to remind everybody else why.
Read what Chavit has to say about himself:
“It takes guts and bravery to risk your own life to help rescue children caught in a hostage crisis.”
“When I was called to the site of the hostage-taking, I didn’t think that I might be criticized for supposedly riding on the incident.”
“I just thought that it was more important to save the children. It was the children who were on my mind.”
Oh?
And what say you monsiuer about zeez latest stunt? Merde! I zee right zhru you monsieur Chavit. (I know, bad French accent)
If he was only thinking of the children's welfare, why in Jueteng's name should he send a praise release?
I have a theory. Chavit claims Ducat's companion Cesar Carbonell called him up to ask for his help, I say it's the other way around. I think it was Chavit who called the hostage-takers' number (it wasn't hard, Ducat wrote his number and glued it on the bus' windshield) and begged them to throw him a bone. Do you think Carbonell had Chavit's number on his phonebook? Not damn likely.
Chavit is every inch guilty about endangering the lives of those children as Ducat was and should be thrown in jail with him. In his attempt to look like a hero, he collected the two grenades, with the pins unhitched I might add, from Ducat so he could be the one to give it to the police himself. What if one of the grenades fell during the exchange? He could have called a police expert to receive the grenades if he was interested in protecting the children. But nooo... no suh! Heroes don't do dat suh.
Now, Ducat's in jail and Chavit's gloating. Ducat deserved his fate because he's a recidivist, I'd have more sympathy for him if he took politicians hostage instead, but do we deserve this crap from Chavit?
Was it a politician's publicity stunt?
You're goddamn right it was.
Written on 10:29 PM by isko b. doo
A stranger walked solitary.
As the sharp edges of the
Sunset wounds the sky,
Casting a fiery shadow;
Tainting the horizon
With blood--- painting it scarlet.
The remorseful sun
Inconspicuously hiding
Behind mountains benighted.
Hoping no one notices its crime.
The wave’s orgasmic sighs,
As they make love to the
Sandy beach, drown
Dusk’s screams;
And the nightingale’s songs
Muffled the sun’s hasty steps
As he makes his escape.
Nobody notices the transgression.
Not least the stranger ---
Who’s presently revolted
By the mud silts clinging
To his pants as he makes
His way to the disco next town.
Written on 10:16 PM by isko b. doo
Vanity--- is the maggot
That slowly gnaws
And gorges away
The flesh
Of the carcass,
Leaving only the bones.
The soul was consumed
Long before…
Along with dignity.
Written on 9:18 PM by isko b. doo
Your results:
You are Hulk
| Hulk |
| 65% |
| Catwoman |
| 65% |
| Green Lantern |
| 65% |
| The Flash |
| 50% |
| Robin |
| 50% |
| Superman |
| 50% |
| Supergirl |
| 45% |
| Spider-Man |
| 40% |
| Iron Man |
| 35% |
| Batman |
| 35% |
| Wonder Woman |
| 20% |
|
You are a wanderer with
amazing strength.
 |
Click here to take the "Which Superhero are you?" quiz...Maayo na lang na Hulk ang pinakataas... hapit pa ko na catwoman. hehehe
Written on 1:09 PM by isko b. doo
If you're a government worker and you think about retiring anytime this year, you might lay down on that plan for a while. It seems that bright boys in Congress dipped into the retirement payment of state workers worth P3.6 billion and realigned it for something more consequential -- to nearly double their pork barrel allocation from P6.24 billion in the 2006 budget to P11.445 billion this year.Budget Secretary Rolando Andaya was quoted by the Inquirer as saying that his office submitted P6.2 billion but it was increased by the bicameral committee (composed of both the Senate and the House of Representative).“From an initial glance at the budget, the P3.6 billion came from the retirement pay of government workers,” he said. Simply put, if the Department of Budget could not find another source to reimburse the retirement pay, about 8,000 government workers who are due to retire this year won't get anything. I guess the retiring government employees would have to sacrifice this bit of inconvenience for the country. State workers already spent their whole lives in the service of the public, why not extend their service after retirement? Don't be such selfish ingrates as to deny your retirement pay from our distinguished representatives. I mean, where's our sense of patriotism?After all, our legislators are only doing this for the benefit of their constituents. Forget that the timing is suspect since it's election season; forget reports that as much as 30 percent in commission from the projects approved by the legislators goes to their pockets; forget that project allocation by Congress is already redundant to the duty of local government units to identify and implement projects within their boundaries. That's just talk man. And talk, just like pirated DVDs from china, is cheap.
Written on 12:54 PM by isko b. doo
The next rave to hit the US is the book by Rhonda Byrne titled "The Secret" which explicates on the law of attraction and how it could be utilized to benefit the reader.
The book is endorsed by no less than Oprah (yes Virginia, there is Oprah) and it comes with an accompanying DVD and while it's being criticized for emphasizing middle-class concerns like cars, houses, jewelry, I understand where she's coming from: she's marketing a book to a nation that has patented capitalism.
So between an image of a barefoot hippie with unshod clothes on a mountaintop trying to reach Nirvana and a yuppie who adds another bling to his blings by visualization, which do you think is a harder sell?
The concept is not new of course. Eastern Philosophy has been espousing the Universal laws for centuries. Aside from the law of attraction (like begets like), there's law of affirmation (constant affirmation becomes reality), law of compensation (also called Karma) and law of causality (in this world, nothing is coincidental). Let's attempt to dissect them one by one.
Law of Attraction
As you believe, so you become. As you become, so you believe -- unknown
Basically, the law suggests that we are all interconnected. This metaphysical assumption predates the Bible and traced back to the 4000-year old Hindu monistic theory of the universe which believed on the power of thoughts. Hence, when you think positive thoughts, good things happen to you. If you entertain only negative thoughts, bad things happen. Maybe it's not an accident that happy-go-lucky people seem to lead semi-charmed lives. Opportunities and luck gravitate towards them than to pessimists.
What many religions found hard to stomach is the (blasphemous) theory posited by this law that the godhead is inherent in all of us. We are, in effect, made of the same substance as the creator -- you know, the one that played a cruel joke on the platypus (make your mind up already! what am I, a duck or a beaver?). But didn't God himself said that we are all created in his image and likeness? Even Jesus said that what he can do, we can also do. So why is it so hard to digest that we can manipulate physical surroundings by our thoughts?
Let me cite an example: when we were kids, my mother lost the change from vetsin at the tabletop. I forgot how much, but I guess it was about P3.00 or so. She was irate, to say the least.
"Asa ako kambyo dire?" she shouted at us. "Kung wala pa gani to diha sa lamesa pagbalik nako, pungkulon ta mo."
We asked each other who took the coin and nobody owned up to the crime. So we prayed. Hard. My mother is known for making good her threats and who wants to go through life with one missing limb? Definitely not me.
Well, the coin did materialize later and nobody knew how. So nobody should tell me that physical objects couldn't be manipulated. My mother proved it could be done.
History is replete with stories of the unexplainable and this include the Catholic Church, which is quick to scoff at miracles that occur outside the institution. We have a number of saints who predicted their own deaths; of the Holy Eucharist turning to human flesh; of saints who lived for 12 years without taking anything but the holy communion; of stigmatism; of preserved bodies years after their deaths.
In recent years, Oriental philosophy has experienced some kind of Renaissance. While all phenomena that couldn't be explained by science has been lumped by Western society into the so-called "New Age thinking." The term "New Age" is odious in the sense that it trivializes what old and modern Eastern societies adhere to. It where I would associate scientologists and horoscopes. I credit that to the egocentric, insular attitude of Westerners who dismissed everything that couldn't be explained by the five senses.
Mohandas K. Ghandi was once asked what he thought about Western civilization, he exclaimed: "I think that would be a good idea."
Hahahaha!
Lastly, a quote:
"To know that what is impenetrable to us really exists, manifesting itself as the highest wisdom and the most radiant beauty which our dull faculties can comprehend only in their primitive forms, this knowledge, this feeling, is at the centre of true religiousness."
No, Ghandi did not say that. Albert Einstein did.
Law of Affirmation
Despite being one of the pioneers of Dianetics, which L. Ron Hubbard expanded and promoted to become Scientology, A.L. Kitselman was best-remembered for this quote: "The words 'I am...' are potent words; be careful what you hitch them to. The thing you're claiming has a way of reaching back and claiming you."
Whereas, the law of attraction puts forward the power of thoughts, the law of affirmation upholds the power of words. Nobody could discount the power of words. It could build and destroy reputations; create and destroy an image; start or end wars; it could even heal or cause sickness.
Visayans have a term for a word misused. Tunglo.
That's the reason why our lolo and lola don't want to hear any talk about preparations for their burial. You always hear them say: "Ah buhi pa gani ko patyon nako ninyo?" Or do you ever have the experience when you get sick right after saying it out loud (mura lagi ko kalinturahon karon)? If not, try it. It's especially convenient when you have to attend that dreaded meeting. Hehehe. Or when we hate a person so much that we unconsciously pray something bad happening to them, and it did?
The law of affirmation states that repeatedly saying your wishes, desires, and goals to yourself over and over again, they become reality; but one component that shouldn't be left out in this process is visualization. Athletes routinely do this. Michael Jordan once admitted to visualizing how well he's gonna do before a game actually started. When he won the slam dunk crown, he visualized each aerial move minutes before hitting the floor. Larry Bird used visualization too. And we all know how they turned out.
Why doesn't it always work? One account says that affirmation wouldn't work until you reach a point where you could actually feel your goal, when you can actually "touch" and "taste" the texture and quality of your wish in your mind. That's the kind of focus that's spawned only by desperation and intense drive. I've also read somewhere that only 10 percent of those wishes coupled with affirmations come true. I don't know if that's accurate or not but what's 10 percent of a million? Exactly. Too high a number for coincidence.
And if you're thinking that you could say to yourself over and over again that you're going to be the best-looking bastard in town and have that wish come true, take heed because it's not for the faint-hearted. I tried to do it but I only succeeded in developing a skewed view of myself. I'm not an altogether sexy man, but years of self-delusion cheated my brain into thinking that I am, utilizing the power of self-suggestion that cult leaders employ. When you fully believe in something, you just might convince people to think you're right.
Or is it still part of my self-delusion?
Law of Compensation
What else can I add about karma? I think this is pretty straightforward. Jesus Christ exemplified this law with the phrase, "whatsoever you sow, you reap." The golden rule advises to "do unto others what you want others to do unto you."
In essence, for every action, there's a corresponding reaction -- that concept is amoral and transcendental. In Hinduism, which predicates the belief in reincarnation, it is the soul which reaps the benefits/consequences of karma. The payment may be made in full in a single lifetime or several lifetimes. Some mistakenly view it as payback or retribution but that's not entirely correct. Karma is dispassionate. Impartial.
Based on this concept, I think it's pretty easy to explain suffering. Hindus believe that the world exists as an experience -- a process of creation, destruction, and subsistence. When you see a blind person with a limp, he's not paying for previous transgressions in this lifetime, but rather he CHOSE that situation to live or relive (is relive even a word?) his karma until he attains moksha or liberation from his ego.
The operative word here is choice. Contrary to what the Catholic Church taught us, God's greatest gift to mankind wasn't the death of his own begotten son, it's free will. In reincarnation, the soul chooses what life to lead in the next life, the people to meet, the circumstances, and even the road signs (the lessons) along the way. The catch? nobody remembers a thing but the act has been played out over and over again.
Oh, when you drink all night and see a face like the wrinkled butt of Raul Gonzales in your mirror staring right at you the morning after, that's not karma. Gaba na!
Law of Causality
Scientifically, causality is simply cause and effect.
Of all the laws, this is probably the hardest to comprehend in the sense that it's contradictory. Causality flirts with the concept of predestination as opposed to the three previous laws which placed premium on choice. Deterministic view posits that the world is a sequence of events that has been preordained and predetermined even before we are born. In that sense, free will is non-existent.
(I for one believe in the concept of choice or free will as opposed to predetermination; I mean, where's the fun in that?)
In the metaphysical plane, the debate is still up whether the effect is connected to the cause and therefore alter the source or whether both concepts are interdependent of each other. I leave that up to the experts to figure out. Hey, I'm not going to risk offending either Plato or Aristotle who held differing views on the subject of cause and effect. They're my homies.
In my feeble mind, I think the effect would, in some or the other, shape the cause. Kung naghubo-hubo ka pagtulog unya kusog kaayo ang electric fan, pagkaugma sige jud ka utot2x. Next time, either pahinayan nimo ang electric fan or i-atubang nimo sa taas. Or kung pataka lang ka ug kaon sa birthday sa imong amigo, impatso jud imong labas ana. Sa sunod, maghinay-hinay na ka ug kaon. Pero unsaon na lang kung in-born jud ka na laog? At the risk of getting sick again, you'd have to take it easy with the food next time and would that in any way tread upon your nature to take in more chow than most in order to be satisfied?
Ayn Rand in her book Atlas Shrugged said that the nature of an action is caused and determined by the nature of entities that act; a thing cannot act in contradiction to its nature. In a sense, you are what you act. However, this reasoning, however logical may hold true only to inanimate or abstract objects. There are instances that could "shock" the source into changing its very nature. Wars do that, for example. Or death and disease. Hmmn.. but when the core changes, it will still act according to its "new" nature, won't it? So the original premise that a thing cannot act in contradiction to its nature still holds if that's the case?
God, my head hurts. Excuse me, I must wipe the blood from my nose.
Written on 2:12 PM by isko b. doo
Growing up, we had a lot of dogs. Mind you, these were not the uppity kind that ate only doggie foods, or respond to any command, or be jumping with joy at the sight of water as shown on those cute Labrador commercials on TV. Our dogs have no pedigree at all. You know, the kind that rabid dogs don't wanna meet in a dark alley.
It's not unusual for us to strut around the neighborhood with three or four dogs behind us while the angry barks and growls of the other dogs trail us as we pass by. Our dogs would be lapping along, assuming a swagger that's not befitting their non-pedigreed askal (asong kalye) ass and unmindful of the commotion they were causing.
Maybe that's the reason why we were not as attached to our dogs as we should be like the owners of those cute Labrador commercials on TV. Bath time were always a struggle, both from the dogs and us kids who were ordered to bathe the damn mutts. To put into context where we place our dogs in our hierarchy of needs: one time, we gave (donated?) one of our sickly dogs which died that summer of many moons ago to the local bums in the neighborhood as their pulutan. That afternoon summer of many moons ago, beneath an overcast sky, I ate adobong Blackie that I downed with an 8-oz. bottle of Mirinda. The whole experience gave a whole new meaning to the word "Down Blackie." hehe (God, I crack myself up).
But this is not about adobong Blackie but another dog named Blackie -- for lack of imagination and because we had too many dogs, we named them according to their color and other permutations: Brownie, Blackie, Whitey, Spotty, Tisoy/Tisay, Nognog, etc. -- who unwittingly taught us unconditional love and all that crap.
Blackie didn't have any distinguishing characteristics apart from his short legs. Judging from his name, the dog was all black save from a white mark in the middle of its head that splintered his cranium in two. He had the same mark on the tip of his tail that was always bent upwards when he stood on all fours. Like a perpetual "fuck you."
That's exactly how he behaved. He possessed a fuck you attitude, always looking out for a fight with our other dogs, even his old pop. Nobody touched the old dog, a grizzled veteran of many dog fights which bitten a lot of friends' legs that we couldn't care to remember, except Blackie. No sir! Blackie seemed to have made it his life's work to provoke his pop to be the Alpha Dog and fuck you very much!
His coat did not have the luster of pure-bred dogs. The hairs were thin and coarse, almost prickly and they emit a musky odor like a combination of ash and burnt pubes. Not that I know what burnt pubic hair smells like. He was just like any of our dogs except for one: we sold him off for P150.00 to our neighbor to celebrate his birthday with his friends.
Just so everything's clear. Even at our young age, we knew what would happen to him. He would very likely be somebody's appetizer before the day is done. We even knew how it's done.
1. You tie the dog to a post or a tree and make sure the rope is about two to three inches between the post and the collar so the dog wouldn't have room to maneuver and the head is quite still.
2. You take a stick, about 1 1/2 inches to two inches thick, and you hammer in a 4-inch nail at the end of the stick and you have a makeshift death bludgeon.
3. Whack the dog with the stick until his ass don't yelp no mo'.
See? it's easy as one, two, three.
I remembered right after lunch, our neighbor went to take Blackie. The dog was unusually subdued. I had the uneasy feeling he understood our conversations about selling him and he knew he was going to the gallows. As our neighbor led him outside the gate, the dog looked at us with dejected eyes. It's not at all accusatory, rather a resigned look that says "I can't believe you just did that."
I have to admit that I pity the dog. I wasn't such a heartless prick. Nor was my father, in fact, who sold Blackie. There was just too much chaos in the house, with five kids and 10 dogs. He didn't need the aggravation caused by Blackie. I'm not making excuses here, just an explanation.
The house was suddenly clothed with a sudden silence, the unmistakable conspiratorial silence that follows after a great transgression. That's that. Blackie's gone.
Or so we thought.
Some 30 minutes later, we heard a commotion from outside the house and so we all went out to investigate. Blackie's escaped! He knew how to open our gate anyway so he went right in and hid under the stack of lumbers at the backyard. Our neighbor was close behind his heels, clutching a 2 x 2 stick.
When Blackie saw us, he emerged from his hiding place dragging the severed rope around his neck, sporting a nasty-looking lump on his forehead the size of Batanes, and licked my father's feet. It broke my father's heart and returned the money to our neighbor.
Blackie had the opportunity to escape and he went home instead. He knew that my father sold him off to be killed and if he had any doubts, the lump on his forehead quelled all that. I've heard and read stories about dogs being intelligent but coming home was just stupid. Home's what brought him to that mess in the first place. Home was his ticket to one-way street. Was it just animal instinct that made him go home? Well, yes and no.
I should probably tell here that after licking my father's feet, Blackie proceeded to lick all of our feet. Each of our damn, stinky feet. When I looked down to see him groveling at my feet, I understood why my father had to return that money. It's not the kiss. It's the look.
You see, when I look into Blackie's eyes, I saw nothing but forgiveness. That was what my father saw. That was what broke his heart.
Blackie lived on with us for many years until he died of old age. He remained as boisterous, brassy, loud-mouthed, and frenzied as before. He did become the Alpha Dog and not a single day pass by without him reminding us about this fact by being a major pain in the ass.
Written on 9:22 PM by isko b. doo
The long-awaited anti-terror bill, now euphemistically dubbed Human Security Act after the Senate supposedly defanged it, was finally signed into law by President Gloria. Sen. Franklin Drilon harped on how senators took extra care to ensure that civil liberties won't be trampled with the implementation of the law.
Come again? The problem with our senators and the opposition is they habitually underestimate Gloria and her minions to fiddle with a few laws to do what they want. She wouldn't have survived this long otherwise.
Sure, on paper the law seems toothless; sure, the ambivalence as to the definition of a terrorist was reduced, but look at the composition of the Anti-Terrorism Council tasked to oversee the implementation of the law:
1. Executive Secretary Eduardo Ermita
2. Justice Sec. Raul Gonzales
3. Foreign Sec. Alberto Romulo
4. DILG Sec. Ronaldo Puno
5. Finance Sec. Margarito Teves
6. NSA Sec. Norberto Gonzales
Leaves you with a warm, fuzzy feeling inside, doesn't it?
Two of those members were allegedly responsible for crafting a death plan for communist insurgents and legal fronts allied with the left. Those same members also pushed for an all-out war against the NPA. A war which was savagely defended by the other Gonzales. Yes, the same one who, irony or ironies, mans our scales of justice. (When asked what to do if civilians are caught in the crossfire in the all-out war vs. communist rebels, Gonzales remarked: "You can't avoid collateral damage...sometimes there are bombings and civilians might get hurt). Still, another of the council's members engineered the greatest coup of all -- wresting the presidency from FPJ, a very popular actor who would have been our president. Not the greatest perhaps, but definitely not much (much!) worse.
The next obvious question is: do you expect this body to follow the rules because the Senate said so?
