Manic Spurt

This blog has been transferred

2007-09-06T13:34:00.003+08:00

Please visit my new blog at http://marklorenzana.wordpress.com/.

Thanks.

A couple of Cinquains

2007-07-20T16:31:00.000+08:00

1. The reluctant subject

Floor’s cold, I’m writhing in agony.
Into my bare soul you peer.
Trying to show affection, you phony;
Your face turns into a sneer.
Get that damn camera outta here!

2. Help wanted

Don’t wanna grow up just panhandling.
Need a real job: Not funny
sitting here trying to be charming.
Why haven’t I a lousy penny?
Bastards think I’ve a full belly!

Vignette

2007-06-26T11:53:00.000+08:00

Soup No. 5

As soon as he arrived, Adrian noticed that the eatery was filling up fast. He glanced at his watch: a quarter to 12. “Damn. It figures,” he said, muttering under his breath. He searched around hoping to spot Rose. He saw her seated at a table in the far end of the eatery. She was waving to him. Adrian walked over to her and smiled.

“How long have you been waiting?” He asked as he took a seat.

“Not that long,” Rose said. “Hungry, I suppose?”

“Yes, very much,” Adrian answered. The smell of newly-cooked lansiao was wafting in the air. It made him even hungrier. “Come on, let’s order.”

A waitress came over and took their orders. “We’ll have two bowls of lansiao please,” Rose said.

“And four cups of rice.” Adrian said with a grin.

Rose laughed. “Hungry is an understatement, Ad.”

“Hey, gimme a break. I’m a growing boy,” He joked.

“Talk about irony, Ad.” Rose said. “An eatery full of hungry guys wolfing down stew made from bull’s balls. And that same eatery has a vasectomy clinic beside it.”

“Yeah tell me about it,” Adrian said. “And one of the customers of that eatery lost his balls to a Rottweiler years ago.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Rose said, squeezing his hand. “Lance Armstrong won seven Tour de France Championships and he didn’t need balls to do it.”

Both of them laughed.

They were interrupted as the lansiao was served. The waitress placed two steaming bowls in front of them, along with a platter of rice. They started eating.

“By the way,” Rose said in between mouthfuls. “Ricky says he misses you.”

Adrian’s face fell. Ricky. Rose’s elder brother. The same Ricky who always got him into trouble when they were kids. The same Ricky who, years ago and as a practical joke, smeared coconut jam on Adrian’s balls when he was asleep and let Rose’s pet Rottweiler Magnum lick them. Magnum wasn’t content with just plain licking.

“Tell him I’m okay and that I miss him too.”

“I will.”

“You should’ve brought him along. I would’ve enjoyed this lansiao more if here were around.”

“I seem to detect a hint of sarcasm in that statement.”

“You are mistaken,” Adrian said nonchalantly. “You know I forgave him a long time ago.”

“Well if you did, it doesn’t show. You haven’t seen him or talked to him for more than three years now.”

“It’s not that easy, Rose.”

“Ok, let’s change the subject. I don’t want to spoil our lunch.”

“Good idea,” Adrian said.

“Question.” Rose smiled. “Where do you think they get the ingredients for this, considering that beef has been banned for years now because of the mad cow disease outbreak?”

Adrian shrugged. “Maybe they import the ingredients? I don’t know.”

They were interrupted by the sound of a cellphone ringing. Adrian fished out a small phone from his pocket and appeared to be reading a text message.

“Hey, I gotta go. I’m needed at the clinic."

Summer out there (a post- mortem)

2007-06-20T14:18:00.000+08:00

If there’s one thing I absolutely detested back in high school, it was the perennial essay question “How I spent my summer vacation”. Year after year until I graduated, our English teacher would torture us – and I suspect that she thoroughly enjoyed seeing our pained faces as we tried our best to fill a whole page – when she asked this particular question in the form of a classroom activity. I wouldn’t have minded if I spent my vacation in Boracay or Palawan or in any other tourist destination: I’d be more than glad to write (boast) about it. But often, my summer vacations weren’t essay-worthy at all-- staying home with my siblings while trying my best not to die of boredom.

Too bad I hadn’t been to Sumilon island back then or else I could’ve written a kick-ass essay that would’ve blown my teacher away. Anyway, daydream aside (and in the grand undying tradition of my teacher), it’s my turn to torture, er, ask some colleagues a few flippant questions about our recent company outing.

1. There had been recent sightings of Jessica Alba in Sumilon island especially during the summer outing. It has been rumored that they are secretly filming the sequel of “Into the Blue” there. If you had the chance to meet Jessica Alba in person, what would you tell her?

I would go up to her, pretend I don’t know her and ask: “Hey, how long did it take you to walk around the sun to look that hot? You’re so hot the sun has to wear sunglasses just to look at you.” OR “If you could be described by words, Webster would have to make another dictionary just to describe you.” Then cross my fingers and hope that Jessica would be dumb enough to fall for the oldest pick-up lines in the book.

Conrad Siega
Systems

2. As expected, the recent elections were marred by widespread violence and massive cheating. Do you think it’s a good idea for the COMELEC and NAMFREL to conduct the quick count of 2010’s elections in Sumilon island?

Yes, I believe it would be a good idea, specifically because of the following reasons:

1. Officers and guards will stop smoking and can concentrate on the job. A single pack of cigarettes costs around P100.00
2. There will be no flying voters. Only swimming voters.
3. For a change, canvassing officers shall use life jackets instead of bulletproof vests.
4. There will be no repeat of the “Hello Garci” scandal because cell phone signals suddenly cut off.
5. Food and drinks are good but extremely expensive. Perfect for dieting- canvassing officers.
6. Transparency. Comelec and Namfrel staff can take a shower in public just like what Mark Lorenzana and Tomas Estrada did.
7. While waiting for the results, they can relax in the Jacuzzi like what Gerard Caniga did.
8. Ocean kayak is another good option for transporting ballot boxes.

Gino Carpio
Marketing

3. This year’s Miss Universe pageant was held in your home country of Mexico. The delegates were fortunate enough to have enjoyed the world-class beaches in Cancun. Considering that Sumilon’s beaches are also world-class like Cancun’s, did you feel like a Miss Universe candidate, especially Miss Mexico, during the recent summer outing?

I didn’t feel like Miss Mexico during the summer outing. However, I was very fortunate to get the chance to go to Sumilon and enjoy the beaches and the place itself. And I am very lucky to be here in the Philippines.

The reason why I didn’t feel like Miss Mexico there it’s very simple; I was not in a contest. I was just hanging out with my workmates, just like a bunch of friends. I really had a great time there.

Anyway, there is a part of me that does feel like “Miss Mexico” all the time. And that is because I represent my country not just for a pageant or a beauty contest; but in the everyday life and the whole time in my job and in with my actions. And it really feels good to share with the people around a little bit of my country every now and then.

Diana Ascencio
Aiesec Trainee-- CSC

4. In the same mold as the famous Amazing Race, the iCOMM Summer Challenge was a grueling test of one’s wits, endurance, and stamina. How do you think the Pink Team, the winning team of the iCOMM Summer Challenge, would fare if they were to compete in this year’s Amazing Race? Please give an honest, credible, and unbiased answer.

Well, the pink team had good teamwork and they have strong determination, especially on the last part which was really a test of one’s endurance. I think they’re capable of competing in the Amazing race. However, they should undergo additional training such as workouts and joining other races. = )

But I’d still go for the yellow team…Hehehe! Joke!

Rachilee Redillas
Accounts

5. This summer outing’s theme was “Catch the Island Sun”. If taken literally, what do you think is the best way to catch the sun without getting burned?

Literally speaking the best way to catch the sun without getting burned is to POUR IT WITH WATER. Joke!

Seriously, for me there’s no need to catch the sun. Simply by watching the sunrise in the morning and the sunset in the afternoon is enough to take the agony of being alone.

To relate in real life: Don't be in a hurry!! Take life one step at a time and enjoy each moment of it coz you'll never know when it will end.

Agnes Armada
CSC -- Shipping

6. Sumilon island is a marine reserve and fish sanctuary. If you were a fish living in the sanctuary at the time of iCOMM’s summer outing, would you have been disturbed by the iCOMM people’s boisterousness?

No, I won’t be disturbed by the iCOMM people’s boisterousness. After all they didn’t hurt me and my fish friends. Some iCOMM people even fed some bread to some of my friends who live in the lagoon. And they appreciate our swimming talent very much. In addition, they love our colors, and they are careful not to break or damage our home corals. At the same time, we enjoyed looking at those macho guys swimming and playing in the water, as well as the sexy girls in their nice swimsuits.

Thea Gay Costan
HR/Admin

7. Of Sumilon’s several island pursuits, which one would grab your interest enough to take up fulltime so you could leave your present day job?

Banana boat and kayak are best done when the sun’s not at its peak. Diving and snorkeling is interesting coz you have to be able to swim underwater, obviously, and learn some facts about diving times, depths and how not to get the bends (surfacing too fast). Of Sumilon’s island pursuits, it would go for snorkeling. But for now it's all just for fun. You can't just leave your job just to do this. The company outing is for all of us to unwind from all the hard days’ work and to interact with one another. Life is worth living if you can find funny things in everything. Work, fun, and laughter. :)

Janice Iñigo
Software

This week's writing exercise: Nanofiction writing

2007-03-09T16:01:00.000+08:00

55 fiction or Nanofiction are complete stories with at least one character and a discernible plot, exactly 55 words long (excluding the title). The challenge of this exercise is to be able to write nanofiction stories that follow the 55 word limit but are still good enough and interesting to read. Write a minimum of three (and a maximum of five) stories after choosing from the titles provided in the list below.

Title list:

"So, How Was Your Day?"

My Great Great Grandparents Died at Auschwitz

Interfering with History

They Said He'd had A Stroke

Radiation: Divine Creator

It's Not A Watch, It's A Time-X

Rich's Birthday

Romance Arrives One Day Late

Before the Beginning of Time

Honesty Begins at Home

The Human ATM

Mona Lisa Switcheroo

Christmas in the Ant Colony

Message from a Desert Island

Fudge Warfare

The Ninth Star Trek Series

The Phantom Chocolate Factory

The Agony of Defeat

The Extremely Precise Crystal Ball

Saving JFK

Why Didn't You Look in the Glove compartment?

Love Potion #2

Whoever Gets 1000 Points Wins

Whatever happened to...?

The Arrival of Morning

"Can You Grab The Cart, Honey?"

Toasted Alive at 2:11 am

Waiting To Become My Future Self

Trouble on the Mountainside

Paper Clips in Love

The Agony of Defeat

The second free throw hit nothing but net. He felt his heart sink. Now the visitors were up one point with a second remaining in the ballgame. His team was out of timeouts. He called for the inbounds pass, caught the ball, and flung it in desperation. Swish! He hit it! Dead silence. Opponent’s goal.

The Human ATM

Instead of punching in a four-digit pin, she stroked and mouthed the rod furiously. Whereas a traditional ATM would dispense crisp bills, this one ejected a sticky, liquid currency. An ordinary machine emits a low mechanical whir after dispensing; this one utters a guttural moan. The night is young; she needs to find more ATMs.

Why Didn't You Look in the Glove compartment?

You hold the umbrella aloft to fend off lashing rain. You choke back your tears as my coffin is slowly lowered. You promise me you won’t rest until my murderer is put to justice. Craig squeezes your hand and leads you to his car. I scream in deathly silence: “Refer to the title, you idiot!”

Casting the first stone

2007-02-22T15:59:00.000+08:00

I recently read an editorial entitled “Drawing the Line” in one of the local dailies here. The editorial criticized a female college student for being intimate with another girl inside a jeepney. It also said that the other passengers were “scandalized” not only because of the blatant and open display of affection, but also because the “spectacle” involved youngsters of the same sex, and that “Personal relationships are a private matter and public displays of affection and intimacy do scandalize people especially if the relationship is clearly of a nature that people do not see as regular and everyday.”

If the other passengers were “scandalized” then perhaps they shouldn’t blame the two girls. They should instead examine themselves if they have the right to question and judge others. To discriminate against same sex relationships is plain bigotry; to be “scandalized” by two girls displaying mutual affection for each other not because of the act but because of their gender is pure prejudice.

If the editorial writer wanted to focus on the couple’s blatant public display of affection or “PDA”, then why mention that the persons in question were of the same sex? If we must direct our attention at criticizing PDA per se, then a more concrete example of deliberate (if not tasteless) public display of affection is the Lovapalooza, where hundreds, even thousands of couples intimately kiss each other in front of the whole world. Instead of questioning a couples’ gender, why not pinpoint the act itself? This is not unlike an instance Inquirer columnist Conrado de Quiros once pointed out wherein an audience is watching a play, and suddenly out of nowhere someone naked darts out and streaks onstage. What do you think the people will watch, the play or the streaker? That’s what the editorial did when it focused on the two girls’ genders: it ran stark naked while a play was going on. Thus, the argument about PDA was not strengthened; on the contrary, it just put into light our society’s tendency to be intolerant of people who differ from the status quo.

There is a need for us to respect other people’s choices no matter how unpopular they are. As a society, we can indeed draw the line on what people should or should not do. But perhaps we should also draw the line at questioning or criticizing people on the basis of what or who they are.

Homophobia is no different from racism or chauvinism in that a person’s rights are trampled upon. The passengers made fun of the couple after they alighted and even cracked lewd jokes at the expense of the two girls. Should we commend and laud the passengers for their actions? Or should we condemn them for acting superior over other people just because they have the unwarranted advantage of being heterosexual or so-called “normal?”

I’ve always believed that only God can judge other people. Judge not, lest you be judged yourself. Well, unless of course you have the gall to cast the first stone.

In A Jar (Vignette)

2007-01-08T21:59:00.000+08:00

“Come in.” Dr. Lisondra said as soon as he heard the knocking on the door. It was a little past midnight. An odd-looking couple walked in. The man, middle-aged, burly, pot-bellied and balding, was dressed rather casually in a plain black t-shirt and jeans. He had a gun tucked away in his belt. I noticed the gun right away because it was silver. And even then in the dimly-illuminated room, it glinted unmistakably.

The girl, I gathered, was barely our of her teens. She wore a white maternity dress that ended just below her knees. The girl clenched the man’s arm tightly as she glanced around the room with unease. “Sit.” barked the man, motioning to a monobloc chair nearby. Dr Lisondra approached him.
“Is she ready?”

The man fished out a pack of Marlboros from his jeans pocket. He mouthed one, lit it, and took a long drag. “She doesn’t have a choice, Doc. I call the shots.”

“Very well,” Dr. Lisondra frowned, shaking his head. “Just let me prepare my instruments.”

My whole life I’ve been accustomed to total darkness, surrounded by shadows and obscurity, five months of swirling around in a liquid void. I never saw the sun; I don’t think I ever will. The first time I saw light, I was almost blinded. That light is the same light in this room now, a faint glow coming from an old, dusty overhead fluorescent lamp.

The girl is crying now, and she is strapped to a bed whose once white sheets are dotted and caked with dried blood. She emits a loud howl not unlike that of a wild animal and not even the burly man almost twice her size could restrain her. He cups a big hand over the girl’s mouth and she bites it, drawing blood. “You useless fuck!” He exclaims in pain, and smashes a fist into the girl’s face. At once there is silence, and I see dark blood trickling from the girl’s nose. “That shut you up.”

Not long ago while swirling around in the warm liquid void I used to call home, I felt a burning sensation envelop me. Suddenly the warm liquid had become too hot, too scalding. It burned my skin, my eyes, my whole body. I screamed. But nobody heard me.

“You know this is a very risky procedure, especially for the mother.” Dr. Lisondra says. “The surgical procedure always is. We can try the chemical one, which is relatively safer. That would involve injecting her womb with a brine solution and then…”

“Just get this over with, Doc.” The man growled. “I need to be at the station early in the morning tomorrow. We opted for the surgical procedure, so we’ll go with the surgical procedure. Don’t worry about her. The bitch is physically fit. She’s a gymnast.” Dr. Lisondra nodded and he put on his surgical gloves.

Even then in the dimly-illuminated room, Dr. Lisondra’s silver instruments glinted unmistakably.

And I shiver inside this jar.

(Originally posted on December 28 2006)

I vent, therefore I am

2007-01-08T21:46:00.000+08:00

I’m swamped with work right now, I want to scream.

But because I’m paying hundreds of bucks a month for blog space plus my own domain name, I’d rather blow off steam here. Besides, I can use my voice for other useful things like telling those damn pesky carolers to buzz off (yes folks, it’s that time of year again when kids arm themselves with various improvised musical instruments ranging from empty water bottles filled with pebbles, flattened bottle caps nailed to small wooden planks and kitchen utensils– and proceed to go from house to house to annoy (coerce?) us into giving them money) or hum Jose Marie Chan classics like “Christmas in our hearts” or “Beautiful Girl” at work to stave off boredom.

The ironic thing is that work has piled up because I recently went to Malaysia last week for a much-needed R and R with family. Originally we had planned to stay there for three days tops. But we ended up extending our stay for two whole days because of problems with our Cebu Pacific flight. Of course everyone was pissed-off because we all had some important things to attend to at work or at school, but we couldn’t do anything. Well, my father vowed never again to avail of cheap promo flights in the future but I doubt if one disgruntled customer will make enough of a dent in Lance Gokongwei’s fortune. And besides, with skyrocketing airline fares nowadays, I’m sure Filipinos (who as a race, have innate masochistic tendencies) wouldn’t mind delayed flights, long queues in the check-in counter, and cramped airport terminals as long as tickets come dirt cheap. I suggest that Cebu Pacific immediately revise their tagline from “It’s time every Juan flies” to “It’s time every Juan gets screwed up”.

But problems with the airline notwithstanding, I enjoyed my stay in Malaysia. The place was clean, food was good (I especially enjoyed the Nasi Goreng and Beef Rendang), taxi fares are cheap (the flag down rate amounts to 2 Ringgit for the first two kilometers and ten cents per succeeding meter, plus the cab drivers give you the exact change and don’t expect tips), shopping is good, and people there are honest, friendly, and accommodating. And of course, the Petronas twin towers are breathtaking especially at night.
I took a taxi to work today because I was running late and when we reached the office the cab driver refused to give me my change because he said I was his first passenger. I threatened to report him to the LTO and got out of the cab in a huff then jotted down the plate number.

It was the taxi driver’s subliminal way of telling me: “Welcome back to the Philippines, idiot.”

Rant update: Our HR Assistant just informed me a few minutes ago that I to have go back to the damn SSS office to have my ID picture taken AGAIN. I’ve been waiting for my SSS ID for almost 2 years now. The people at SSS insist that they already mailed my ID, and the people at the post office insist that they remailed it back. I don’t know who’s telling the truth but I have to pay for it nonetheless by braving the long queues at the SSS office again. What’s worse is I have to shoulder the fee for my ID. God, it’s really good to be back home.

(Originally posted on December 20, 2006)

Brain, Brain Go Away

2007-01-08T21:43:00.000+08:00

A friend recently landed a job in Dubai, so this got me counting my friends and relatives who are currently working and/or living abroad. Right now there are four of them working as OFWs in Dubai, all former officemates and close friends. The bulk of my relatives abroad live in the United States, from New York to New Jersey to California. Come to think of it, majority of my friends as well – childhood, high school, and even some of my college activist friends—also reside in the US right now.

The rest are scattered all over the world. One just left for Ireland a few months ago after spending (or wasting) his life here bumming around and playing Mahjongg and getting high on shabu or crystal meth. Another friend decided to continue his studies in Australia after his family decided (on relatively short notice I would say) to immigrate there. I have a friend studying in Alaska and another working in Canada. Anyway, you get the drift.

After slaving for four years, my girlfriend and her twin will finally get that hard-earned Nursing diploma next year. They hope to pass the necessary exams and then get some work experience in some hospitals here. Then it’s off to Ireland where their mother works in a nursing home. Their older sister also plans to study there.
My sister Michelle has a Mass Communications degree under her belt but chose to resign from her job and enroll in nursing at the University of the Visayas. But unlike my girlfriend, she still has a long way to go before becoming a full-fledged nurse. Nikki, my youngest sister, is also about to graduate next year. She’s taking up MassComm at St. Theresa’s College. But after graduation she won’t scour the job market right away. She says she wants to take up Education so she could apply for a teaching job in the US. My aunt who once worked for the Marketing Department of San Miguel Corporation – now she’s a caregiver in Long Beach — says there is a great demand for teachers in the US right now.

My parents left for the US last year to visit my relatives there, most especially my grandmother. They were accompanied by an aunt and a cousin. They stayed in my uncle’s house in Los Angeles. My relatives in LA have been living there for many years. They all have their green cards; they’re American citizens now. The last time I’ve seen them was more than 12 years ago when they came home for the funeral of my grandfather. I don’t keep in touch with them much, so I wouldn’t know how they are doing. I’m glad my parents brought back with them pictures and videos of my relatives along with the customary chocolates, clothes, books and other goodies bought from Kmart, Wal-mart, and Costco.

As I munched on a Snickers bar, I listened to my mother who was animatedly talking about the good life in the US. How indeed it is the land of milk and honey, and how hard work will be properly rewarded even if you only held menial jobs there. In the US, she says, an ordinary busboy or grocery stocker would fetch a decent salary, the pay doubling or even tripling what a so-called professional would get here.

Anyway, after our stash of imported chocolates ran out, and being the sweet tooth that I am, I had to content myself with eating Choc-nut. Unfortunately, unlike a busboy or grocery stocker in the US, I couldn’t afford Snickers, Milky Way, or Baby Ruth on a daily basis.

During a drinking session, a friend once asked me if I didn’t have plans of immigrating to Canada. He said he’ll be leaving for Toronto soon. He just got a job there as a computer programmer. I just wished him the best of luck.

And then we drank to good times, bad times, and the brain drain phenomenon.

(Originally posted on November 28, 2006)

Men in Camouflage

2007-01-08T21:42:00.000+08:00

The sightings I’ve had of men in camouflage uniforms have been increasing in the past few weeks. Almost every day I see them in sidewalks at random places—with firearms in tow –when I report for work in the morning. When I go home at night, I still see them in the sidewalk, but with their firearms laid aside as they pass around a glass of rum or extra strong beer and proceed to drink the night away.

Sometimes they’ll flag down a jeepney or a cargo truck, talk to the driver, and proceed to “inspect” the contents of the vehicle. I’ve seen them do this regularly, and whenever I drive home and pass by a group of these men, I feel the pearls of my manhood stuck in my throat. I dread the thought of being flagged down by a man in camouflage, especially an intoxicated man in camouflage wielding an M16 rifle. It’s not that I have something to hide. It’s not that I’m concealing a pistol, a grenade, or maybe a few grams of crystal meth or shabu in the trunk or the backseat of my car. It’s the fear that they WILL find a pistol, a grenade, or a few grams of crystal meth or shabu in the trunk or backseat of my car where there was none.

I don’t know what these military men are doing loitering around day and night in the sidewalks of the metropolis. I’ve always thought that they were confined to the hilly and mountainous provincial areas, places where human rights violations and random killings of civilians are at a high.

The militarization of the countryside is alarming; the militarization of the metropolis is doubly distressing. The sight of armed men patrolling the streets, no, getting drunk and patrolling the streets does not evoke a feeling of security, it evokes a feeling of alarm. It stirs up an unmistakable feeling of creeping martial law.
What’s ironic is that in the mornings, amid these ominous-looking men in camouflage with firearms in tow, I see elementary schoolchildren scuttling to get to class. Immediately you would be able to distinguish those children who go to the public schools and those children who go to private ones or exclusive schools. Public school children walk to school shod in worn rubber slippers and clad in old, faded clothes; private school children ride air-conditioned taxi cabs, cars, SUVs or school buses to school and look pristine in their pressed uniforms. In the evenings when these men in camouflage had laid aside their armalites and bid adieu to sobriety courtesy of several tagays of Tanduay Rum or Red Horse beer, I see High School students trudging their way to the classrooms of Night High Schools, that, during the day, served as the classrooms of elementary schoolchildren.

Here we see the travesty of it all. Every school year we hear the usual problems like lack of classrooms, teacher shortage, crowded classrooms, underpaid teachers, substandard teaching materials, and a very high student to teacher ratio, etc. Every year there are reports that public school students do poorly in diagnostic and achievement exams, and we wonder why.

Taxpayers wonder where their hard-earned money goes. We can plainly see that it doesn’t go to education. If it did, there wouldn’t be a huge classroom shortage at all. I even remember Gloria Macapal-Arroyo publicly scolding a Department of Education officer for reporting about the lack of public school classrooms in the country. GMA claimed that there wouldn’t be a shortage of classrooms if a shifting scheme would be employed. A shifting scheme would involve having a session of classes in the morning and another in the afternoon. This means less time for students’ lessons. I wonder if GMA wouldn’t mind sending her grandchildren to a public school.

I’m a taxpayer and I say that the government should allocate more money for the kids’ education rather than fritter away my hard-earned money on camouflage uniforms, rifles, bullets, and Tanduay Rum or Red Horse beer.

(Originally posted on October 24, 2006)

Celebrating Death

2007-01-08T21:39:00.000+08:00

When my grandfather from my mother’s side died years ago, he was cremated and his ashes were brought back to his hometown in Negros Occidental. My grandfather was already an American citizen at that time—he and my grandmother in fact had been living in the US with their green cards for several years already until the time of his death– but his children naturally decided that his final resting place should still be the land of his birth.

I remember that we immediately left for Negros shortly after hearing the sad news. My grandfather was quite fond of me and my siblings when we were kids so I have vivid memories of him when he and my grandmother used to visit us here in Cebu. I sorely missed him. We all missed him. But what surprised me when we arrived in Negros was that the mood wasn’t all that somber. I was re-acquainted with relatives I’ve hardly seen in years. There was rejoicing, as everyone celebrated the good life lived by my grandfather. One good thing that can be said about funerals is that they bring the whole clan together.

Two weeks ago I was in Manila for the funeral of my Tita Lilian. She was felled by Leukemia, after an agonizing but hard-fought battle. Only three months ago I was by her bedside at St. Luke’s hospital. That was the last time I saw her alive. By then she was only a shell of her former, lively self: gaunt, emaciated, and severely weakened, her body ravaged by cancer. I brought her gifts from my parents– a check from my father to help pay the mounting hospital bill, and a bead bracelet and prayer booklets from my mother. “Thank your mom and dad for me.” She gratefully whispered. She could barely talk. And in her condition, I could barely look at her.

I visited my Tita Lilian in the hospital a couple more times after that during my week-long stay in Manila. From time to time we would receive some good news that would lift our spirits: she was getting better; her body was becoming stronger; the chemotherapy was working, she was responding well to it; she was walking unaided, dancing even and she was eating well— and had requested for a pasta party; and she was finally discharged from the hospital, provided that she would still undergo her regular chemotherapy sessions.
But as quickly as she had recovered, she was rushed to the hospital again. She had to be placed in the Intensive Care Unit of St. Luke’s. She had water in her lungs; she had Pneumonia. It was all downhill after that.
When my father broke the news of Tita Lilian’s death to us, I was surprised that I didn’t cry at all. But when at last I saw her lying in a coffin, when it finally hit me that our doting and affectionate aunt with the fond laughter would never be with us again, and when I realized that family gatherings would never again be the same without her, the tears flowed.

We greeted Tita Lilian’s death with mourning and grief. But as with my grandfather’s death years ago, there was also rejoicing. I was re-acquainted with relatives I’ve hardly seen in years. We mourned the death of a loved one. We also celebrated the good life lived by a loved one.

One good thing that can be said about funerals is that they bring the whole clan together. One good thing that can be said about my Tita Lilian’s passing, is that she is loved and that she will be remembered.
Always.

(Originally posted on October 23, 2006)

This week's writing exercise

2006-08-31T17:27:00.000+08:00

A sick, little short story

Many years ago the polar ice caps melted and submerged whole countries and continents. Some say it was a sign of the apocalypse; the world was finally coming to an end. Some say it was the work of aliens: beings from another universe had come to our planet and fired their flying saucer’s laser beams at the North Pole.

Others say simply that it was Global Warming that did us in. Scientists couldn’t fix the hole in the ozone layer and it grew bigger and bigger. I find this explanation more plausible. After all, I never really believed in that apocalypse crap. And I don’t think aliens exist at all.

There’s this classic movie starring the late Kevin Costner. I’m not sure, but I think that movie was called Waterworld. I’ve seen it when I was a little kid. We still had television back then. Anyway, that movie pretty much sums up our current situation. “Pretty fucked up” is also a good way to sum up our current situation.

So we’re marooned here in this small island, all 200 of us. Of course, several years ago this really wasn’t an island but a mountain village.

The population of this island used to be close to 500 but some of the guys were emboldened to build a big wooden raft and try their luck elsewhere. After two days, we find one of the guys on that “expedition” lying on the beach, exhausted. He says the raft capsized and many drowned. Some were eaten by sharks. He managed to swim all the way to the shore. He says he’s fortunate enough to have survived that stupid raft antic. I don’t think he was really that fortunate.

After all, we ate him.

That’s also another reason why the population of this island has been whittled down. Humans can’t live on plants and fruits alone. We need protein. And we don’t have any livestock around. No pigs, no goats, no cows. We don’t have any chicken. Sure there are many fish but they’re tainted with chemicals so they’re inedible. There’s just too many oil spills and radioactive waste dumped in the oceans. What we have are humans. Human flesh is tender and succulent.

We don’t just kill any human for food, mind you. That would be too barbaric. What we do is we eat the sick, the elderly, or the injured. That’s what Darwin called survival of the fittest. In this day and age, it doesn’t pay to be picky and sensitive. When I first started eating human flesh I got sick and threw up. But you get used to it. Now I enjoy it.

The other thing I enjoy here aside from human meat is that you get to fuck anyone you like. We need to make more humans to fuck and to eat. That’s just the way it is.

I think I still have a few good years left in me before I get eaten.

Unless I break my leg or something.

Archived fiction

2006-08-30T10:40:00.000+08:00

Respite

My friends have been pestering me to go with them to this little deserted island off Malapascua.
“Jake.” Sonya says, “Come on, haul your ass off that office chair for a while and enjoy life. Workaholics die young. It’s summer after all. Let’s go to…”
“Pastilan,” Grace says, “The only beaches you’ve seen for the past two years have been through the Internet. There’s this real place I know called…”
“Bai, you’re already too pale.” Fredo says, “You need some sun. Let’s go to the beach this weekend. I know a place. You’ll love it in…”

Calanggaman Island.

When I was a little kid my mother brought me to her hometown in Negros Occidental. We took the bus, an eight-hour ride. The trip made me dizzy and nauseous. The trip made me puke. I puked so much, my stomach hurt. I puked until I emptied my gut. I puked bitterly-sour digestive juices that scalded my mouth and burned my throat. I puked like I never puked before. My mother was so pissed-off; she told me she wouldn’t bring me along next time.
Then she beat me up in front of all the passengers.
After that I didn’t go on a long road trip anymore.

Until the trip to Calanggaman Island.

To get there, Fredo said we needed to take a four-hour bus ride from the North Cebu Bus station to a town called Maya, located at the northernmost tip of Cebu. We need to leave at 5 am, he says, to avoid the early morning rush hour. It is Friday, after all: a weekday. Then we will board a local outrigger boat or banca that will take us from Maya to Malapascua Island where Fredo already booked us a couple of rooms. Finally we need to ride another banca to Calanggaman Island. Sonya and Grace hate boat trips. Both can’t swim. Fredo is a licensed scuba diver. I don’t hate boat trips; I’m a decent swimmer.

I hate road trips.

Hodophobia is fear of road travel.
My shrink—an overpaid balding asshole-- says that like all fears and phobias, hodophobia is created by the unconscious mind as a protective mechanism, and at some point in my past, there was likely an event linking road travel and some emotional trauma.
Duh. Tell me something I don’t know, Doc.
Tell me something worth the bloated fee I’m paying you per hour, Doc.

I’ll tell you all something I do know, however:
One symptom of hodophobia is drying of the mouth. Another symptom is excessive sweating. Other symptoms are dizziness, nausea, shaking, heart palpitations, and the inability to speak or think clearly.

I know this because I felt all those symptoms as soon as I boarded that bus to Maya.
The passengers thought there was some lunatic onboard with them. My friends thought there was some lunatic onboard with them.
What’s worse is I puked all over the bus.

I’m just glad my mother wasn’t there.

Like any tropical island, the beaches in Calanggaman Island are lined up with coconut trees. The sand is white with the texture of fine powder. A few years ago I went to Boracay alone. Going there didn’t involve a long road trip. So I went. There’s an airport in Caticlan, so I took the plane. The beaches in Boracay are also lined up with coconut trees. The sand there is also white with the texture of fine powder. But the place is crowded. My friends go there because they like it crowded; they go celebrity hunting.

Calanggaman Island is not crowded, it is peaceful. No celebrities, no crowds. No trash littering the beachfront. No noise caused by jet skis or speedboats. Because the island is deserted, there are no cottages as well, so we needed to put up a couple of tents. Calanggaman Island is so small; you can walk around it in 30 minutes. There is a sandbar that stretches several meters across.

“Come on Jake, let’s hit the water.” Fredo says, slathering a generous amount of sun block on his arm. He’s already in his board shorts.
“I think I’ll stay here in the tent for a while. I got tired of the trip.”
“The two girls are already sunbathing in the sandbar. Don’t you want to join them before we have lunch?”
“In a while. Let me sleep first.”
“Okay. See you later bai.” And he was off.

Inside the tent, it is warm. I am sweating profusely. I faintly hear Grace ask something. Sonya mentions my name. Fredo says something that sounds like “killjoy”. I hear the three of them laughing loudly. I don’t care. I doze off.

I wake up to the sound of a woman singing. It is darker than usual inside the tent, and I’m surprised. A faint light resembling that of moonlight seeps into the tent. I unzip the tent’s mesh door and step out.
It is night time. A cold breeze blows and I’m shivering. I look around, and there is no sign of Fredo, Grace, or Sonya.
The singing is getting louder.
It is the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard.
I call out Fredo’s name, Grace’s name, Sonya’s name. Nobody answers. I unzip the other tent. It is empty save for a couple of plastic bags containing our lunches: sandwiches, some bananas, bottled water, and canned juice. The food is untouched. I grab a sandwich and a can of pineapple juice and set off to look for the guys.

The singing voice is not Sonya’s or Grace’s. I know this because I’ve heard them sing during the videoke challenge in last year’s company Christmas party; they can’t sing for the life of them.

I call out my friends’ names. Nobody answers. I circle the island, and see no one. The voice belts out a sad song of farewell. It is in Visayan but it is not a familiar song. The voice is coming from the island’s interior, and I feel drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

The voice soothes my nerves and I forget my problems at the office. I forget the whole ordeal on that bus to Maya. I forget the whole ordeal many years ago on that bus to Negros. I forget that I hate my mother. I forget that my psychologist is a balding, overpaid asshole. I forget about Fredo, Grace, and Sonya and their whereabouts.
I feel my hodophobia vanish. I feel at ease.
I fight the urge to find the owner of the voice. Instead, I sit on the sand at the water’s edge, and let the lapping waves of the sea lick my bare feet.

And for the first time in many years, I am happy.

(This story was written as a farewell message for a good friend and officemate who decided to take a break from the hectic corporate life. We wish him all the best.)

Short story in 30 minutes

2006-08-25T13:19:00.000+08:00

This week's writing exercise:

Come up with a story based on the picture below:

My story:

Laughter

My Literature teacher Miss Lopez read an interesting story in class. It was about a lazy Vietnamese farmer boy named Chinh who was always looking for a good time. One day Chinh wanted to have some fun while his father and siblings worked the fields. So he gets this big firecracker that his uncle gave him for his birthday and inserts it into the ass of one of their buffaloes. He lights the fuse and runs for cover. The firecracker blows up and rips the buffalo’s ass wide open. It collapses to the ground in a bloody heap. Chinh laughs so hard, his side is splitting; his father is not amused, and splits Chinh’s lip with a punch.

So I notice that everyone in class is laughing hysterically except for one person: Martin. I never really liked Martin. He’s a loser. The bullies often picked on him because he’s a geek: He sucks his thumb, he enjoys reading Star Trek paperbacks, he wears suspenders and he picks his nose every chance he gets. He smells bad too. I don’t think he takes a shower everyday.

Miss Lopez asks Martin why he doesn’t seem happy about the story.

“Because it’s mean.”

“You’re classmates don’t find it mean. They actually find it hilarious.”

“Well, I find it mean. What if everyone here was in that buffalo’s place? I think you wouldn’t find it hilarious.”

“Martin, it’s just a story.” Miss Lopez says, laughing.

“You’re all mean and I hate you!” Martin covers his face with his hands and runs out of the classroom, sobbing.

The class erupts in laughter. “Boy what a loser.” I hear someone say. More laughter. I am not laughing, however. I actually feel sorry for the kid.

I find Martin alone in the cafeteria during lunch. He was eating alone, picking at his food.

“Can I join you?” I ask in the friendliest tone I could muster.

“Sure.” He says, not bothering to look up.

“I’m sorry about what happened in class today.”

“Don’t sweat it.”

We eat in silence for a few minutes. He finally blurts out: “Tomorrow I won’t be here anymore.” He stands up, gives me a forlorn look, and leaves.

I didn’t see Martin in school the next day. Everyone is shocked to hear the news of Martin’s death. His body was found in his room, his rectum and colon all blown up. He stuck a Super Lolo up his ass and lit the fuse.

I’m surprised nobody laughed.

Manila

2006-08-22T09:24:00.000+08:00

There’s something about Metro Manila that I just can’t describe. Apart from being born there and spending my early years there, there’s something about the place that mesmerizes me. I’m pretty sure it’s not the traffic, nor is it the floods that come with the seasonal rains, and it’s definitely not the pollution. I guess the place has got a hold on me mainly because of the memories.

I am the eldest of four and when I was still the only child, me and my parents lived in an apartment in Caloocan near my father’s childhood home. Mostly I have vague memories of that time in the form of random images that flash briefly in my mind: the time I gamely danced—atop an old dump truck that served as a makeshift stage, to the delight of the crowd and the chagrin and embarrassment of my poor father-- to the tune of “Oh Rico Mambo” during the town fiesta; waking up early in the morning with my Tita Leila buying me a mugful of warm taho which I wolfed down for breakfast; having afternoon merienda of fishballs with my aunts and uncles; witnessing my neighbors chase an old pig, roast it, and sampling a piece of its hard, tough skin.

After my grandparents died, my aunts and uncles left their old home in Caloocan and relocated to Marikina. My family, on the other hand, moved to Meycauayan, Bulacan. I studied at a nearby private school. The family grew, and by that time I already had three siblings. I also have vague but weird memories of our stay in Meycauayan: we had a dog which I named Tootsie after the classic candy bar Tootsie Roll. However, Tootsie was not as sweet as his namesake and he had managed to bite one of my playmates and my Tita Leslie; one of my father’s pastimes was target shooting the numerous caterpillars that perched on our old jackfruit tree; I had other pets aside from Tootsie: a couple of pigeons and several guinea pigs; Banig (the former child star) was our neighbor, and I even remember waving to her one time and she smiled at me.

We would visit our aunts and uncles in Marikina during the weekends. During those visits, I remember having an immense hatred for siesta time. I couldn’t understand why, after lunch, we were forced to waste a whole afternoon sleeping when we could’ve played games or-- in my case-- read comic books or children’s books. I don’t even know why I was gullible enough to force myself into Morpheus’s arms against my will. I suspect it had something to do with the lie the grownups propagated: sleeping in the afternoon makes someone taller than average. I’m sure they only wanted us to take a nap to get a few hours’ rest from babysitting a bunch of rowdy kids. But here is where the irony comes in: now that I’m all grown up (but not tall, no thanks to all those afternoon naps I took) I miss the good old days back in Manila when I was curled up in my place on the sleeping mat or banig (no, not the former child star) and sleeping the afternoon away. Sometimes at work when I miss my afternoon cup of coffee, I doze off for a while and dream of me asleep in our old mat.

I was in Manila last week. I was home for the birthday of an aunt, and stayed there for five days. I must say a lot of things have changed all these years. Manila is now more crowded and much urbanized: skyscrapers and overpasses dot the landscape; trees and other greenery are getting scarce. Shanties, squatters, beggars, and street children hawking and peddling various merchandise-- from gumamela garlands to rags-- abound.

It’s amusing because my father is Tagalog and my mother-- who hails from Negros Occidental-- is Ilonggo. I was born in Manila but now I live in Cebu. I guess one could say I’m half Tagalog, half Ilonggo, technically Cebuano, but nonetheless all Filipino.

And at heart, always a Manileño.

Short Story in an hour

2006-08-17T17:17:00.000+08:00

This week's writing exercise:

Open the dictionary and pick five words at random. Ask each member of the group to write a short story that incorporates all five words. Finish your story in an hour. The story should be no more than 500 words. Share your results.

The five words picked by the group:

-Queen
-Ubiquitous
-Egg
-Dairyman
-Rant

My own untitled story:

Almost everyone says the day I was brought to the infirmary, I was delirious and kept on repeating the word “Queen” over and over again. Gabriel, my friend-- he was in fact my only friend since I was drafted and I arrived in training camp—said he didn’t know if I would last the day. Heck, he wasn't even sure if I would last an hour. My upper torso was completely covered in blood that he couldn't determine whether I had been showered with shrapnel from a grenade blast or if I was peppered with machine gun bullets.

“Shit man, you should’ve seen yourself back there,” Gabriel said. He was sitting at the foot of my bed, swigging a bottle of warm beer. “They say a battle wound is also known as the ‘red badge of courage’. With you all covered in crimson, I was sure you had multiple badges all over you.”

I managed a weak smile. “Thanks for the words of encouragement. That’s exactly what I needed to hear after experiencing a near-death experience in this godforsaken place, away from my family and loved ones.”

“Hey man, no need to be sarcastic.” He took a long pull from his drink. “I was just telling the truth. And besides, to tell you frankly, nobody in here expected you’d pull through.”

I rubbed my throbbing head. It was aching like hell. “What happened to me anyway?”

“Why the hell are you asking me? How am I supposed to know? I’m not some ubiquitous or omnipresent being. I’m not God. I was about to ask you the same question.”

I closed my eyes and forced myself to recall what had happened. A few days ago the Captain had requested me to deliver a truckload of ammunition to a battalion situated in the next town. At first I was hesitant. I was a mere cook; more adept at serving the boys their bacon and eggs at breakfast than firing a rifle. And I wasn’t very keen on getting behind the wheel of some old truck while landmines and bombs blew up around me.

“Private,” the Captain glowered, his brows arched and his face a bright red. “If you don’t get in that truck right now, you’d better prepare yourself for 28 days of court-martial!” He ranted for a few more minutes before whisking me off.

The next thing I knew, I had sidled behind the wheel of the old truck and I was heading for the next town. I could see black smoke in the distance and the smell of death and gunpowder was everywhere. I missed home. True, I was only a humble dairyman, but I’d take that anytime than be here in this Godforsaken place.

Suddenly I heard a faint cry and I stepped on the brakes. I thought I was imagining things, but heard it again: “Help! Please! Anyone please help me!” It was a girl’s voice. I stepped on the brakes and got out. I spotted her immediately, and ran to her. She was lying on the ground, with a pool of blood beneath her frail body. I leaned down and stroked her forehead. I asked for her name.

She whispered: “Queen.”

Suddenly a loud blast shook the ground and everything went black.

*******************

Please pardon some typo errors, the stories were written in a hurry and so we "amateurs" didn't have time to proofread them. Anyway, I noticed that I was the only one who wrote a war story; all the others had written fantasy stories or stories set in some medieval period.

Perhaps the useless war in Lebanon is finally getting to my nerves.

Driving

2006-08-08T13:25:00.000+08:00

It took me a long time to learn how to drive. I had my first driving lessons seven years ago when I was a college freshman. After my lessons, my father gave me a simple driving test. I was handling myself pretty well in the course of the test, but then he asked me to do a simple u-turn. To this day, I still don’t know what I was thinking, and why I did it: I was going full speed and did a sharp turn not unlike the way Formula One legend Michael Schumacher handles his Ferrari in the challenging Imola track of the San Marino Grand Prix. But unlike Schumacher who gets applauded every time he conquers a difficult turn, or whenever he overtakes an opponent in dramatic fashion, I got berated because of what my father described as “dangerous and reckless driving”.

After that incident I took a long hiatus from driving. Even though my father got a new car, I didn’t get to drive his old one and it gathered dust in our garage for sometime. It took me a few years to get my confidence back. But when I finally did, and by the time I sidled behind the wheel of our old ’95 Corolla, there was no turning back.

I should say that I’m a pretty good driver now. Sure, I’ve given the car its fair share of scratches and scrapes, but nothing more. I’m proud to say that I haven’t dented it yet, and it’s been a very long time since it was scratched with me behind the wheel.

Sometimes I wish we could just handle life the way we handle a car. When you drive, you have control of every twist and turn of the steering wheel. Go too fast, and all you need to do is step on the brakes. When you’re bored, you can always turn on the radio. When it’s warm, you have air conditioning. To get back at a delinquent jeepney or taxi driver, all you need to do is get your horn a-blaring.

But we don’t have control over our lives. Sometimes we can’t just grab the steering wheel and go wherever we want to go. Oftentimes we’re just mere commuters instead of drivers. All we can do is wait until we get to our destination.

I’m pretty sure my Tita Lilian doesn’t know how to drive. Sometimes her son would drive her from their home in Bulacan to our house in Marikina, but most of the time she just relied on public transportation in the form of a bus or a jeepney.

That was many years ago when she was still healthy and strong. That was the time when she wasn’t weakened by diabetes. Now she cannot do that, at a relatively young age of 60. In fact, only a few weeks ago she was diagnosed with leukemia. As I write this she is still bedridden in the Intensive Care Unit of St. Luke’s hospital. But I heard that she’s responding to the medication, and that she’s feeling a little better now. This is the best news we’ve heard since she was diagnosed. There came a point when the doctor said she could go anytime.

I know if we had our own way, our family and other close relatives would have wanted to steer our Tita Lilian away from serious illnesses like diabetes or leukemia. But as I’ve said, we don’t have control over our lives and the lives of others.

In a few days I’ll be leaving for Manila. Originally I had planned to go there for the birthday of another aunt. Now it seems I can’t prepare myself enough to see the grief and sadness on my relatives’ faces.

Anyway, perhaps when I get back from Manila, I’ll have my license—which will expire next month-- renewed. Or maybe not. Gas prices today are through the roof. Better to take the jeepney.

Giving Rice a fair shake

2006-02-22T10:31:00.000+08:00

A friend approached me recently and asked me if rice is fattening. He told me he had been advised by his physician to lose some weight, and the first thing that popped into his mind was to cut down his rice intake.

I told him that he’d have to ask an expert -- a nutritionist or a fitness specialist-as the only information I’ve gleaned on the subject of weight loss had come from a few articles and a couple of ebooks downloaded from the Internet. What amused me most was the fact that my friend immediately pinpointed rice as the number one culprit for his weight gain.

For us Filipinos, rice is a staple in every meal. In fact, some of us eat way too much rice-I even know of someone who eats three cups of rice per meal. I think that is where the problem lies.

In the 1970s when the Atkins diet first burst into the scene, rice and other carbohydrate-rich foods were unfairly criticized. The diet, which was developed by the late Dr. Robert Atkins, aims to cut down the carbohydrate intake of a person to as low as 20 grams a day in the induction phase. In the late 90s, the Atkins diet, along with other low carb and high protein diets have once again become popular. The resurgence of these fad diets actually led to large declines in the sales of carb-heavy foods like pasta and rice.

High protein and low carb diets have been greatly criticized for a number of decades now. Experts suggest that any diet that restricts or cuts down a particular food group may not be that healthy. With their emphasis on high protein and fatty foods, you don’t have to be a cardiologist to know that high protein/high fat and low carbohydrate diets will eventually take a toll on your heart and lead to cardiovascular diseases.

Common sense will tell us that rice per se is not fattening, it is the over consumption of it. Same goes for the over consumption of any other food. If you consume more calories than what you can burn through physical activity, then your body will store it as fat. It’s as simple as that.

It must be noted, however, that some types of rice are better than others. For instance, white rice or polished rice tends to be more inferior to unpolished types of rice such as brown rice or red rice. White rice is comprised mostly of pure carbohydrates, with all of the nutrients stripped off during the milling process. Brown rice on the other hand, with its outer bran layer intact, still contains essential nutrients such as fiber, essential oils, and vitamin B.

In the end, portion size is the key, and not totally cutting rice from your diet. A reasonable serving of rice may not necessarily lead to excess poundage. The same can be said for any kind of food, so I would not openly advise my friend to give up rice totally. Besides, haven’t you ever wondered why in Asian countries such as Thailand, Japan, and the Philippines, the average person's diet consists of mainly carbohydrates such as rice and noodles, yet these groups have very low rates of obesity? The average Asian person is also thinner and slimmer than the average Westerner. This example seems to contradict Robert Atkins’s claim that low-carbohydrate diets help to lose weight. What could be the problem with the average Westerner’s diet, you may ask? Three words:

Super sized portions.

Honesty

2005-12-07T21:47:00.000+08:00

For years, Filipinos have been known to be honest people. There has been no shortage of news about cab drivers returning cash or other valuables to their passengers, usually foreigners. Another instance though hardly newsworthy, is when someone finds a wallet in the street or somewhere else, and takes the extra effort to find the owner and return it. I have first hand experience on this, when I conducted an experiment for my psychology class back in college.

Upon the instruction of my professor, me and my classmates bought several cheap wallets and put 50 pesos’ worth of cash inside each of them, along with our contact information. We then dropped the wallets in random places around the campus. To our delight, some of my classmates received phone calls that night. The next day, we went to the guidance counselor’s office to check the lost and found section. We were pleased to find that majority of the wallets have been deposited there. Of course, a number of wallets weren’t returned and my classmates dismissed those who found them as crooks. Until now, I always thought that my psychology professor just pulled a fast one on us and in the guise of giving us an assignment, instead harvested some of the dropped wallets and used the cash for beer money. But that’s another story, or blog.

Nowadays, however, the Filipinos’ honesty has been suspect. Perhaps it might have to do with the growing poverty, which would urge many self-respecting citizens to throw all that godd*mn honesty out the window just to fill their bellies. But I suspect that the Filipinos’ growing dishonesty has more to do with having a president who is leading by example.

I read with amusement Conrado de Quiros’s column about the recent accusations of the people from Thailand that the Philippines cheated in the just concluded SEA games. De Quiros says that whether the accusations of the Thais were true or not, the painful truth is that other nations do not have much respect for us anymore. To them, our honesty is suspect because our president brazenly cheated in the elections and we don’t give a damn about it.

I must say I do agree with De Quiros. It seems that we have grown accustomed to cheating that we let someone get away with something more serious than murder. More so than that, we don’t even show any outrage about the iniquity committed. Just like the fact that we didn’t show any outrage when the Thais accused us of rigging the SEA games results.

Just like De Quiros suggests, I think the first thing we have to do in order to get back our lost integrity as a people is to get rid of that dishonest creature in Malacañang.

I do believe that the Filipino is still inherently honest. Just take the case of the Jeepney. Unlike some countries where you have to deposit some change to ride a bus, you can actually ride a jeepney without paying (in Visayan, we call this term “mamukong”). But majority of us do pay for a jeepney ride, and those who do not are either the desperately poor ones or the ones with particularly thick hides.

Ah, but this example wouldn’t stand as an argument when put in the same context as congressmen scrambling to get their pork barrel allocations or those highly-paid actors and actresses who earn millions but don’t pay their taxes.

“Honesty is the best policy” is perhaps one of the most popular cliché phrases around. Change “honesty” to the word “panlalamang” and you’ll get the most popular phrase in the Philippines.

Masochists

2005-12-05T01:11:00.000+08:00

I was particularly amused when I read an online article about George W. Bush. Apparently, his popularity is at an all time low, and now majority of Americans disapprove of the war against Iraq. It’s easy to understand why now, the Iraq war has been met with disapproval; thousands of American troops are coming home in coffins (some don’t even get to come home at all), civilians are being killed, mutilated, and displaced from their homes, and the money that should be used for education, medicine, and aid for the victims of the recent hurricane Katrina is squandered on munitions.

Well, I wish I can say that I don’t blame the Americans who once supported the war for their current disapproval of Bush. But I do blame them. After the 9/11 attacks, everyone seemed to be jumping on the bandwagon of Bush’s “War against terror.” Everyone was applauding when Bush blurted out that phrase “You are either with me or against me.” Everyone seemed to believe Bush when he said that weapons of mass destruction are hidden in Iraq, and so the most rational thing to do was wage war there and kill thousands of innocent civilians just to get Saddam Hussein. One doesn’t need to be a genius to figure out that Bush shouldn’t be going for Saddam Hussein but for Osama Bin Laden. But I guess everybody forgot to tell him that.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that now, everything seems to be backfiring for Dubya. He has brought it upon himself, and now he is reaping all the “benefits.”
Now that it has dawned on the American people that they have been screwed, Bush should be trying hard now to win back their support. But it seems that he isn’t about to change his tack, so he can’t expect to get their sympathy. The sympathy of Donald Rumsfeld and Tony Blair wouldn’t be enough.

But alas, this is where we differ from the United States.

While the Americans are voicing their protest for being f**ked up by Bush, we enjoy being screwed by Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo. We know that iniquity after iniquity is being committed but we keep mum amid all these. We know that GMA is taking us for fools and that our current cynicism just emboldens her to f**k us even more, but we don’t do anything about it. Instead, we relish every injustice that the government wreaks on us.

We dismiss as masochists those penitents from Pampanga who flagellate themselves and get crucified every Good Friday.

Ah, but this is a case of the pot calling the kettle black.

Hotdog waffles and the Mafia

2005-12-03T11:27:00.000+08:00

Because of the increasing tardiness in our department, me and my officemates came to an agreement one day while we were having a meeting a couple of months ago. I don’t exactly remember who it was, but one of my officemates suggested that from then on, the person who would accumulate the most number of lates at the end of the week should be made to buy the whole department some hotdog waffles. We all roared in laughter, and agreed. It was, after all, for the good of the whole team. And besides, who wouldn’t want a free hotdog waffle at that?

After the end of the first work week, we had a waffle-buyer. We had all expected her to buy us the waffles that Friday, but for some reason, she didn’t. Monday came, and still we didn’t have the waffles. A few days later, after a minor argument with another officemate and much prodding, she finally bought the waffles she owed us.

The next waffle buyers after her didn’t need prodding or cajoling, thank God. I think we had three straight Fridays wherein we munched happily on waffles during our afternoon break. I washed down mine with office espresso (my own personal recipe) or some black tea or just plain water. Life was good. The waffles were even better.

Then, for some reason, the waffle-buying stopped. One, two, three—five people owed us waffles. And again, it took some arguments and some trading of minor insults before the five of them finally shelled-out some money. This time, we didn’t have waffles— all five of them chipped in and bought us some food from McDonald’s. We relished the food, but, for some reason, it left a bad taste in my mouth.

I couldn’t understand why some people should need to be prodded, insulted, or forced just to abide by a certain pact. One of them even said that she’d only buy her share after the others have bought theirs. Why this attitude of waiting for other people before giving your share? Why do some people find it difficult to go by the natural order of things?

While munching on my cheeseburger, I joked to one of my colleagues that if these guys were members of the Mafia, they would be at the bottom of some river by now, bound, gagged, and weighed down by a bucket filled with hard concrete. He chimed in that if they were members of the Yakuza, they would be missing their pinkies by now, or worse, their heads. We laughed aloud mirthfully.

They should be mighty glad that Don Vito Corleone only exists in Mario Puzo novels.

Gaining weight, losing sanity

2005-10-26T23:13:00.000+08:00

My friends have been badgering me for sometime now to cut down on my food and beer intake. I suppose it has something to do with my gut-- an ugly thing that, for the past year, has grown into a massive monstrosity.

I don’t know if I can take my friends’ advice seriously; I’ve always been a big eater and I can’t, for the life of me, quit drinking my favorite beverage. I remember quite sadly around a year ago when I decided to start a diet: it was a huge failure. Until now, my siblings still make fun of me about that botched plan of mine.

I thought that going on a diet would be a piece of cake. I told myself that it wouldn’t be that hard and with a little self control, I’d be a lean, mean, trimmed-down machine in a few months. I was dead wrong.

It made sense that in order to be successful with my planned diet, I should eat the healthy (but disgusting) stuff: tofu, bean sprouts, soymilk, you get the idea. So I picked up the healthy (but disgusting) stuff in the supermarket and whipped me up a dish of tofu, bean sprouts, and tuna sautéed in vegetable oil. I was surprised that-- notwithstanding my inferior cooking skills—the healthy (but disgusting) stuff didn’t turn out so bad after all. I stored the food in some Tupperware containers and placed them in the fridge. I figured the health food I just cooked was good enough for at least three meals. Or so I thought.

I ate the whole thing in one sitting. That was the end of my diet.

I’d give anything to get my old metabolism back. When I was a teenager, I’d gobble up everything I could lay my hands on and never get fat. Those were the good old days.

Anyway, after my diet failed, I thought I could just eat anything I wanted and compensate through vigorous exercise. So one fine day I bought a pair of sneakers, several muscle shirts, plus a couple of basketball shorts, and decided to use my father’s treadmill which was gathering dust in a corner of the house. I set the timer for 30 minutes, and mounted the treadmill. I said to myself: “Half an hour will do. Anyway I haven’t had any exercise, so I’ll just work my way up. Today I’ll brisk walk for 30 minutes, the next day 45, and so on and so forth.” Or so I thought.

I lasted 15 minutes.

After the whole ordeal I was crouched down on the floor, sweating profusely, my heart pounding hard against my chest, and I was trying very hard to catch my breath. I never got on the old treadmill again; it’s still collecting dust in the corner as I write this.

I didn't expect that one could lose his mind while trying to lose weight.

But, all is not lost. I learned a valuable lesson after all the insanity and two failed attempts at trying to lose weight: you must put your mind into dieting and exercise. In other words, you can’t do it halfheartedly.

Otherwise, you’d end up pigging out on three meals’ worth of tofu and collapsing after 15 minutes of walking in place atop a creaking old treadmill.

Oh well. I’ve always believed that eating and sleeping are more productive activities anyway. Now those are the things I could put my mind into. Easily.

Boob Tube Woes

2005-10-25T15:38:00.000+08:00

Lately I haven’t been watching television much. When I do, I just watch the news or a basketball game, or some boxing if the fighters are good enough and worth my time. Usually I just spend my free time at home reading, playing with my dogs, or talking with my girlfriend on the phone.

I think no one can blame me for the sudden averse feelings I have towards the boob tube. Nowadays, when I turn on the TV and flip through channels, I get disgusted with the programs being shown. I especially loathe the local channels, particularly the two giants that are duking it out for TV supremacy: ABS-CBN and GMA 7.

This may be a little over simplistic, but I believe these two channels have contributed greatly to the country’s growing illiteracy rate, and, not to mention, teaching children bad values. When I was a little kid, I used to watch Sesame Street, Batibot, and other educational shows. I loved them, and I learned a lot from them. Before I was even old enough to read or write, I learned my arithmetic from the Count (Two! Two stupid tenants living in an equally stupid Big Brother’s house! A! A! A!), and I learned my ABCs by singing the upbeat alphabet song. I’m not so sure if these two channels still show educational programs for kids; I’m sure, though, that they flagrantly bombard children with tasteless fare such as overtly sleazy reality shows and mindless telenovelas. What’s worse is that these TV stations brazenly air them in primetime TV no less, so that kids can have easy access to them.

What’s more surprising and mind-boggling is that parents seem to find it natural for their kids to watch such programs, and even enjoy watching the shows themselves. It seems these people’s brains have been addled and fried by the radiation emitted by their TV sets that now they do not have the capability to think properly.

The TV networks should be held accountable as well. Never has Ben Parker’s famous phrase been more apt: “With great power comes great responsibility.” I am sure responsible and concerned individuals cannot avoid asking questions such as: Surely GMA and ABS-CBN can air more good quality programs to replace all the junk we are being fed with? Surely they can provide the youth with better alternatives? Surely they can produce more shows that will foment critical thinking among the citizens of this country?

Fat chance.

As long as profit pervades the minds of the people running these networks, we and our children are doomed to suffer. As long as these people can still stuff their pockets with wads of money from the countless ads that run in their stations, they wouldn’t give a damn whether or not we’re watching good quality programs or horse shit.

But we’re not entirely powerless. We can always retaliate. For our own good, we could always stop watching GMA 7 or ABS-CBN. (Believe me, there are a lot more productive ways to spend your time.)

Again, fat chance.

It seems we're too caught up and hypnotized by the stupid programs we've grown accustomed to, that there's no way we could shake them off our system. It seems the damage done is already too great, and that the only alternative way of saving our skins is for some fanatic to heave a molotov cocktail or two at the TV stations to spare us from further ignominy. Of course, I was just kidding about the molotov thing; I'm still a civilized person after all (I mean, the TV programs haven't gotten to me yet, thank God). Even so, I don't think anyone can blame me for thinking that way. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

What's even more amusing is the way these TV stations promote their programs. Now they have even resorted to using nationalistic overtones to win over the viewing public, thus the advent of "Fantaseryes" such as Darna, Panday, and their ilk. Heck, even reality TV is not spared and is given a dose of our own local flavor, as evidenced by the infamous Pinoy Big Brother.

Frankly, I'm quite surprised at the fact that Pinoy Big Brother has amassed so many viewers and loyal followers. Out of sheer curiousity, I tried catching an episode, but, try as I might, couldn't stay in front of the TV even for ten minutes. I just can't find any entertainment in watching a bunch of strangers live their lives openly in front of a voyeuristic populace.

When I heard the lyrics of the Pinoy Big Brother theme song, “Pinoy Ako” by Orange and Lemons, (which, if you don’t know yet, has been ripped from the Care’s song “Chandeliers”, but that's another story) I wasn’t able to suppress a smile. This part, especially, had appalled me: “Pinoy ikaw ay Pinoy. Ipakita sa mundo kung ano ang kaya mo. Ibang Iba ang Pinoy. Huwag kang matatakot, ipagmalaki mo.”

I mean, get real. If these are the only TV programs we are capable of producing as Filipinos, why even bother being proud of what we can do?

The right thing

2005-10-16T21:20:00.000+08:00

Like everyone else, I’ve always had problems doing the right thing. Yes, I’m no saint. In fact, a favorite saying of mine is “To err is human, to forgive is divine.” I particularly love the first part of that saying.

But, since I was a kid, my parents-- especially my mom – tried hard to teach me and my siblings to do the right thing most of the time, if not all the time. I was a regular little rascal when I was little, and my father (who always believed that by sparing the rod, you are spoiling the child) didn’t think twice in whacking me with a broomstick or a leather belt whenever I did something stupid. Yes, I remember those times like it was yesterday; my butt being at the receiving end of my father’s weapon of choice, leaving it swollen like a frat neophyte’s legs.

Of course, as a child, you fail to put things in proper perspective, chiefly when it comes to punishment. In my case, I’m thankful that my parents raised me right, although it took me a long time to realize this.

Lately, though, I don’t know if my parents still want me to do the right thing.

I’ve always been vocal about my disgust with Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo since she lied about not running in the last presidential elections. I’ve always been vocal about my anger for GMA when she joined George W. Bush in waging his war in Iraq, which the late Pope John Paul II protested aggressively against. I’ve always been vocal in expressing my contempt for GMA for obviously rigging the last elections just so she could cling to the presidency. Now I’m aggressively vocal about scorning GMA’s move to stifle the citizens of this country in their quest of seeking the truth. I once blurted out while watching the late night news that GMA should not be stupid enough to declare martial law. I was surprised and shocked of my father’s response: “That’s the right thing to do (declare martial law). She gave every chance so that the opposition could topple her. Now that they’ve failed, that’s her way of retaliating.”

I’m not sure if this is the same father who once told me that I was lucky not to have experienced martial law in Ferdinand Marcos’s time; the same father who once trooped to EDSA many years ago to help bring down a tyrant; the same father who cursed Marcos to the heights of heaven and the depths of hell; the same father who once taught me to always do the right thing, and gave me a terrible beating to prove his point.

But, because my father has taught me well, I know that what I believe in is the right thing; that speaking out against a tyrant who has rivaled (maybe even surpassed, who knows?) Marcos is the right thing and that by doing everything that I can do to help bring her down is the right thing.

When I was still active in the student publication in college and I joined rallies at the height of my activism, my mom told me to stop. She said that it was just my youth, that it was just my idealism. She said that what I was doing was wrong. She asked me to do the right thing, to stop joining rallies. To stop being an activist. I believed what I did was right, but I stopped anyway. It’s because I love her, and I don’t want to worry her. But now, in this case, if I should be forced to take to the streets again, I won’t give in to her pleading. It’s because my parents have taught me well.

I want to do the right thing.

Booze

2005-08-16T07:43:00.000+08:00

I couldn’t care less if Zeus himself thrust a goblet full of amber colored Ambrosia in front of me. I’d still prefer a bottle of my favorite San Miguel Superdry anytime.

I was a sophomore in high school when I had my first taste of booze. During one of the gang’s innumerable drinking sessions, my friends succeeded in persuading me to down a glassful of Tanduay rum. A “virgin” when it came to alcoholic drinks, I went into coughing fits and my eyes watered as soon as I swallowed the liquid. It tasted awful. I immediately reached for the “chaser”- a cup of cola - and drank liberally to extinguish the burning sensation that I felt in my throat. My friends cracked up at the sight. They never succeeded in forcing me to drink a second “shot” that day.

When I was a little kid of about five, I vaguely remember my older cousin and several of my Titos and Titas enjoying Coolers cocktails in our family gatherings. In one occasion, I asked my mom for a bottle of the concoction, but she handed me a carton of chocolate milk instead. She firmly told me that what my grown up relatives were drinking was not for kids. I sipped my chocolate milk sullenly, and promised myself that I’d get my hands on that stuff one day when I was old enough. Coolers was eventually pulled out of the market, so I went on to try other brews.

I tried beer, vodka, rum, gin, tequila, “sioktong” or Chinese wine, red wine, white wine, champagne, and even local spirits such as tuba, basi, and lambanog. I have yet to try brandy and whisky. I drank out of curiosity, not because i had a thirst that needed some slaking. I eventually grew a fondness for beer, and it became my favorite drink, notwithstanding the ill effects (aesthetically) it has wrought on my belly.

Beer became my constant companion throughout college. It provided me a respite from the drudgery of schoolwork or the banality of life. I was never without a bottle of San Miguel beer in hand whenever I gamboled with friends in bars until the wee hours of the morning. Whenever I wanted to drown my misery, beer came in handy. Booze, it seems, became a tacit symbol that I was already grown up and free to do everything I wanted to do. Of course, I was naïve to think that way.

Indeed, we tend to learn things the hard way. I experienced passing out and waking up with a killer hangover the next day, no thanks to several bottles of Tanduay rum the night before. I experienced making a fool out of myself after seven bottles of San Mig strong ice. I puked inside my Tita’s car because of tequila. I am quite genial when sober, but tend to spew and fling sordid words when I get intoxicated.

All the bad effects of booze notwithstanding, it can be quite enjoyable when taken in “reasonable” amounts. I placed quotation marks on the word reasonable because the limit varies from one person to another. I know it’s time to call it quits when my face has reddened considerably and I feel a little tipsy. Other people won’t stop unless they’ve peed in their pants, puked themselves silly, or if they managed to divulge a nasty secret about themselves.

Nothing beats being with old friends and sharing a table teeming with tasty pulutan (appetizers) and bottles of ice-cold Red Horse beer. I miss the good old days when we trooped to our nearby watering hole in between classes or after school just to enjoy each other’s company, and of course, several tagays of beer.

Truly, the proof of booze is in the drinking.

Moderately, that is.

Unchristian

2005-08-06T02:52:00.000+08:00

One subject I abhorred in College was Religious Education, more commonly known as Theology. I’m not an atheist, nor am I an agnostic, and yes, I do believe in God. I didn’t hate the subject per se; it was the teachers that I despised.

One of them even campaigned openly for his son who ran for president in the Student Council. Not surprisingly, her son won, and even managed to serve two terms. A friend who was one of her students mentioned that she even gave extra points to those who would vote for her son. Is bribery one of the virtues the Catholic Church teaches its flock?

Recently, someone I know who takes up nursing and studies at the same university told me about her ReEd class. She got into an argument with her teacher and was very concerned that she might fail. I said that when I was still studying, I got into many arguments with my teachers but none of them failed me. She countered that her ReEd teacher was known to fail students she disliked or those who argued with her. This teacher, she added, even asked for 1000 pesos from each student for a two-day recollection. If they refused, they would have to accompany her to hear mass every Sunday. I haven’t heard something as stupid as that in my entire life.

I believe that it’s unchristian to fail your student for the flimsy excuse that you don’t like her or because you had an argument with her. What if she gets good grades? Will you still fail her just because you have the power to do so? It’s unchristian to force your students to pay 1000 bucks for a recollection. In these hard times, 1000 pesos aren’t easy to come by. I thought these ReEd teachers practiced frugality? It’s unchristian to threaten your students with punishment should they refuse to give in to your extortions.

The Catholic Church should not be surprised that few people go to Sunday mass nowadays. They should be at the forefront of teaching their flock the right virtues. But how can they do that when the very people that are tasked to spread the word of God, are the ones acting against the teachings of the Bible?

Bribery, extortion, and intimidation. These are the traits you wouldn’t expect from a ReEd teacher, but from a hoodlum.

It’s a pity that students have to sit for three hours every week and listen to some people who are shamelessly using the word of God for their own selfish interests. It’s a shame that these people ply their trade in a Catholic institution that prides itself for being one of the best universities in the country.

I believe that there are still a lot of good ReEd or Theology teachers out there. Unfortunately, they are overshadowed by hypocrites.

I’m no religion expert, but I do know that Jesus absolutely detested hypocrites.

Not the Philippines

2005-07-18T15:30:00.000+08:00

Frankly, I wasn’t surprised at all when Executive Secretary Eduardo Ermita and Press Secretary Ignacio Bunye challenged the latest SWS and Pulse Asia Surveys. It seems that coming to the aid of their disgraced boss, apart from shielding her from further ignominy, are both part of their job descriptions.

Both surveys have projected GMA’s plummeting popularity in Metro Manila. The SWS phone survey alone, showed that 62 percent of Metro Manila residents believe that Macapagal-Arroyo should resign, while 85 percent want her impeached.

I was amused, however, when Ermita justified GMA’s unpopularity in Manila by blurting out: “No Philippine President has gotten a good rating in Metro Manila because people here are naturally averse because they are more exposed to mass media where the views of those against the President are dominant.” He added: “Why won't they conduct surveys in Negros Occidental, Negros Oriental, Cebu, Davao and the whole of Mindanao including ARMM (Autonomous Region of Muslim Mindanao) to show the big difference between the surveys in Metro Manila and other urban centers in the Philippines.”

I agree. Why don’t they conduct surveys in other parts of the Philippines? Is Mr. Ermita so sure that GMA would fare better outside Metro Manila?

“Metro Manila is not the Philippines.” This appears to be the strongest argument GMA’s allies have been advocating. They actually believe that people outside the nation’s capital are all rooting for a fraudulent president. Well, with all due respect, I don’t think people from the Visayas and Mindanao are all stupid. We do know a liar and a cheat when we see one.

Which is why I take offense at those who put up streamers around Cebu declaring the Cebuanos’ full support for Arroyo, especially the one stating “Cebuanos Love you, GMA!” Who are they to speak in behalf of all the Cebuanos? The point is, no one can claim that a particular region supports GMA fully, and anything less than this is arrogance, or plain lunacy. If everyone in Cebu continued to maintain loyalty to GMA, then we wouldn’t have anti-Arroyo rallies here.

GMA’s allies have been boasting of the pro-Arroyo rally last Saturday at Manila’s Rizal Park. Apparently, about 120,000 people joined the rally, as opposed to the anti-GMA rally which only brought in around 40,000 people.

Granting that- apart from the “hakot” crowd or paid hacks which graced the pro-GMA rally- a huge number of people genuinely showed their support, Arroyo’s allies have little reason to celebrate.

As they said themselves, Metro Manila is not the Philippines.

Blind

2005-07-14T12:59:00.000+08:00

When I was a little kid, I used to get bullied often. Almost every time I came home from school, I was in tears. If I wasn’t teased and insulted, I got hit and smacked by bigger kids. On some days, I got the “best” of both worlds.

I was small for my age, and this was one of the reasons my classmates thought less of me. For many years, I was the shortest one in every class I attended, except my final year in high school. To say that I got fed up with all the hurtful names I was called would be an understatement.

If not for my handicap in height, I was sneered and jeered at for not wearing the latest Nikes, Air Jordans, or not having the latest toys or gadgets. Back then, I was made to understand that because we were not rich, I wouldn’t be able to have all the luxuries my well-off classmates enjoyed. I didn’t mind at all. I didn’t want cool sneakers or a collection of the latest comic books, or a game boy. I just wanted to be respected.

Nobody came to my defense during those most tumultuous times, apart from my mom. One day my mom was asked by my adviser to drop by the school. She talked with the parents of one of the kids who bullied me. It was a big disappointment. Instead of disciplining their kid, they even came to his defense, and ended up justifying the wrongdoing. What I didn’t understand was that even though they knew their son was bullying some defenseless kid, they didn’t make an effort to correct his bad behavior. In short, instead of making everything better, things got worse.

Ah yes, that was my firsthand experience that people have a penchant for turning a blind eye on iniquity.

A few years ago, when Chavit Singson broke the news that deposed President Joseph Estrada was the biggest Jueteng lord in the country, and was making Malacanang a Gangster’s Paradise, the Filipino people were outraged. What citizen in his or her right mind would not cry out in protest against a thug of a president who was raking in millions from an illegal numbers game, and using taxpayers’ money to empty bottles of Johnny Walker Blue Label (which costs more than 6,000 bucks a bottle, by the way) every night with his Midnight Cabinet and drinking until the wee hours of the morning in the presidential palace no less? There was a growing clamor for him to step down, and rightfully so. But as always, there were those people, who, despite of the glaring atrocity committed, chose to defend Estrada at all costs, with disastrous consequences.

I watched in awe as the Senators who aggressively shielded Estrada from the people’s rage, cheered and danced in celebration after they won the vote not to open the infamous second envelope during the Impeachment Trial. The sight of Tessie Aquino-Oreta sashaying around on TV in plain view of about millions of viewers was enough to make my skin crawl.

I realized that there are people who don’t give a damn about the truth or seeking justice, as long as they are bound to a person, regardless of how wicked he or she is.

Now, with the present political turmoil we are in, this fact is even more patent.

Fast-forward a few years to Estrada’s successor, Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo. One would think that her penchant for lying- made evident when she swore on Jose Rizal’s grave that she would not run again to end the country’s divisiveness, but broke her promise anyway- would make people think twice about voting for her. One would think that her brazen support for George W. Bush’s murderous war against terror (a war that even the late Pope John Paul II had been actively fighting against) that has proved nothing- even the empty claim that Saddam was hiding weapons of mass destruction- would make people see her as the puppet and bootlicker that she is. One would think that her husband’s crooked ways- being involved in the Jose Pidal controversy, the Jueteng controversy, and staying in a one million peso a night suite in Las Vegas- would make people see that she would do anything to protect her corrupt spouse. One would think that turning our country into a deeper hellhole than it once was economic-wise despite the irony of being an economist herself, would make people see what an incompetent leader she really is. One would think that by admitting that she talked to a Comelec official (which she appointed despite having a history of cheating) and apologizing half-heartedly for this, and being caught red-handed for manipulating election results, everyone would ask her to have pity on the Filipino people, answer for her crimes, and step down from the presidency.

Sadly, as I’ve said, people have a penchant for turning a blind eye on iniquity.

In our family, I am the only one seeking GMA’s resignation. And I’m not surprised at all. My father, like me, was among those who wanted Erap to resign during his time. My mother, siblings, and other relatives also share the same view. But when GMA’s façade was stripped off, revealing the scoundrel that she really was, my once vocal father did not issue even a squeak. My siblings and relatives followed suit. And I don’t need to be a rocket scientist to figure out why they suddenly kept mum amidst all the blatant offenses GMA has committed. It’s a simple equation, really: GMA replaced Erap, therefore they have become GMA supporters. And being GMA supporters, they choose to ignore every wrongdoing our fraudulent president commits.

Some say that it’s not as simple as that. Those who have refrained from joining the calls for GMA’s resignation say that Noli de Castro is not ready to assume the presidency. Yes, it is a very sound argument. But that just goes to show that you reap what you sow. They shouldn’t have voted for a newsreader as vice-president in the first place.

Many cringe at the idea that Susan Roces, FPJ’s widow, would replace GMA. Yes, in my opinion, Ms. Roces does not have the capability to run this country. She is a former actress with no political experience whatsoever, and like De Castro, would not be a good president. But that doesn’t mean we should forget all of GMA’s crimes. That doesn’t mean we should accept GMA’s apology without letting her suffer the consequences of her actions. That does not mean we should continue to support GMA, despite the growing clamor for her resignation coming from the masses, the middle class, the business sector, and some people from various religious sectors.

They say that it is very difficult to wake someone pretending to be asleep, more so than waking someone genuinely asleep.

Then how in God’s name can we ask people who are pretending to be blind, to open their eyes?

Stabbing Ourselves

2005-06-22T07:09:00.000+08:00

Students from my alma mater, the University of San Carlos, particularly those from the Talamban campus have been up in arms and raising their voices the past few days. I asked my younger brother who is currently taking up Fine Arts in USC what was getting their goat. Apparently, the school administration is planning to implement a new ID system, and to top it off, male students who are sporting long hair would have to bid adieu to their lengthy, flowing locks. And as if this wasn’t enough, I overheard that there is now a plan to have a uniform for the male students. Que Horror!

I do not know the specific details of these policies, but what I know is this: The USC administration is up to no good as usual. What’s eating the students, my brother adds, is the fact that the administration did not consult them regarding the policies about to be implemented. What’s more is that the new ID would cost them a whopping 300 bucks, certainly not a paltry sum in these hard times.

Well, having studied for five years in the school, I must say that this is old hat. I know pretty well from first hand experience that the USC Administrators do not give a damn about students’ rights. What they care about is profit, moneymaking, and how to boost their image. Whoever said that USC was a non-profit school, must be thinking that CAP and Platinum plans are charitable institutions and Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo did not cheat in the last elections.

I’ve harped on this before, but I guess I’ll have to harp some more. It is not the uniform, a new ID, or short hair that makes a student. It is his/her dedication to his/her studies apart from the zeal and thirst for wisdom. It is quite ironic that one of the best universities in the country, the University of the Philippines, doesn’t quite give a damn about what clothes you wear, what ID you pin, or what hairstyle you have. Which is why I think all these hare-brained policies USC has been thinking up are a lot of bull.

"If they do not approve of the university's policies, they are free to leave" says university president Fr. Roderick Salazar, SVD. Yes, the students can do that. But they are also free to stay and fight for their rights which have been unjustly trampled.

However, having said all these, I must point out one thing. A few years ago, we staged rallies in USC against useless and repressive policies, namely the new uniform for females (which, unfortunately, has been successfully implemented), the tuition increase, and the plan to close down the student publication, among others. But in order to put up a good fight, we needed the students’ support. We didn’t get it.

We tend to raise a fuss only if we are the ones affected. We are not unlike the cynical neighbors in the infamous Kitty Genovese case. Kitty was knifed to death in front of her home in plain view of about 38 witnesses who could only manage to watch. “Oh my God, he stabbed me! Please help me! Please help me! I’m dying! I’m dying!” she screamed, to no avail. Several apartment lights went on in nearby buildings as Kitty cried out in pain and agony, but no one came forward to help her. She bled to death.

If we continue to look out only for our interests, then perhaps we do deserve to be stabbed ourselves.

Or get a haircut.

A New Tattoo

2005-06-10T12:42:00.000+08:00

“It wouldn’t hurt much.”
It did.
And he pricked her arm again and again.
Whirring sounds filled the room.
Pain. Throbbing.
Tears. Flowing.
He wiped the inkblots and her tears.
And she bore his masterpiece.

“It wouldn’t hurt much.”
He said huskily.
It did.
His embrace was tight, his kisses, soft.
Pain. Throbbing.
Tears. Flowing.
He wiped himself and her tears.
And she would bear his other masterpiece.

“It wouldn’t hurt much”
The woman said, as she inserted the tube.
It did.
Pain. Throbbing.
Tears, blood, flesh flowing.
He wasn’t there to wipe her tears.
Or clean up the crushed pieces
Of his masterpiece.

- Mark Lorenzana

Idiot

2005-06-02T08:08:00.000+08:00

A young woman came up to me last night as I was eating dinner alone in McDonald’s. She introduced herself, and sat across the table I occupied. She looked familiar. But at first, I couldn’t quite place her.

She pushed a letter in front of me, and asked me to read it. I put down my burger and obliged. I should've known. She was soliciting money.

It was then that I remembered her. Incidentally, it wasn’t the first time I saw her there. She had been frequenting the place the past few months. The first time I noticed her was when I was having lunch with my girlfriend roughly two months ago. At the time, the two of us were kind enough to give her some money. This time, I politely thanked her, returned her letter, and declined.

Before she turned to leave, she laughed aloud mockingly, and muttered something in Ilonggo- probably expecting that that I didn’t understand the dialect. I perfectly understood- my mom hails from Negros Occidental. Roughly, the word she blurted out means “idiot” when translated to English.

I was quite surprised at her conduct. I didn’t expect her to act that way, especially since she had invoked God in her solicitation letter. The gist of the letter was this: she was going around soliciting money to help fund her education in a religious school. “God Bless” was the closing greeting of the letter. I didn’t think she needed to call me an idiot. Some religious school, I thought.

Even so, I truly sympathize with her. If there’s some truth to her claim that she is a student asking for help, then my heart bleeds for her. I know perfectly well how difficult it is to get a decent education nowadays. I was particularly pissed off when the news broke out that CAP and Platinum Plans have not honored their promise of ensuring quality education for their clients’ children. What is the government doing about this? These companies cannot continue issuing bouncing checks, and they should face the full force of the law for their shenanigans.

They say that education is a right, and not a privilege. That is true in other countries, but certainly not here. I feel sorry for those who need to work just to pay for their tuition. I have friends who were working students back in college and I know the sacrifices they made just to get that ever-elusive college diploma. It’s ironic that after they’ve slaved for years just to finish schooling, they are now among the millions who are having difficulty landing a job.

I’d be a hypocrite if I said that I didn’t get mad at the woman who called me an idiot. I did. But I’m madder at those who forced her to thicken her hide, swallow her pride, and approach other people to solicit money. I’m mad at those who greedily pocket taxpayers’ money instead of using the funds to ensure that the youth get quality education to help rescue this damn country from the doldrums. Most of all, I’m mad at myself for not being able to do enough other than write this.

I don’t think I deserved to be called an idiot. I know other people would disagree, but that’s their problem. There are lots of idiots in this country, chief of them people who are currently occupying government posts.

One of them even resides in Malacanang.

Twisted Logic 101

2005-05-27T07:49:00.000+08:00

“Where to?” asked the cab driver as I sidled alongside him and buckled up in the front seat.

“Cebu Business Park. The Keppel Building. And please step on it. I’m running late.” was my sleepy retort.

Our vehicle sped away in the direction of the city. The radio played love songs, the air-conditioning felt satisfyingly cool, and the air freshener smelled good-the canister told me it was apple scent. Tired and practically sleepless the night before, I was on the verge of dozing off.

“You know, it would be quicker if we took the coastal road. In this longer route, we’d be caught in the morning rush hour. Too bad we couldn’t take that road anymore without a special pass approved by the mayor.”

“Yes I know that.” I replied with an irritated tone. I wasn’t in the mood for small talk. I badly needed some sleep.

“I don’t approve of everything the mayor does. He sometimes acts like he owns Cebu. Do you remember the time he shooed away those poor fish vendors from a market just because they were from Talisay? Or the time he demolished the stalls in Sto. Niño despite all the protests?”

Of course I remembered. How could I forget? Even though it happened years ago, both were acts of tyranny well-reported in the local newspapers in Cebu. And they were acts of tyranny my activist friends fought aggressively against.

I was amused with what he said, that all the sleep was drained from me. I sat up.

“And,” he continued. “He even has the tendency to rule with an iron fist. It’s ironic, actually, because despite the fact that he acts like a big bully, he hasn’t done enough to curb crime here. Good thing the vigilantes are doing the job for him and his useless police force.”

“You approve of those guns for hire?”

“Yes. Anything to curb crime here.”

“But don’t you think being judge, jury, and executioner all at the same time is a crime itself? And are you sure it wasn’t the mayor who ‘inspired’ all those vigilantes to execute all those alleged criminals?”

“Not really.”

I managed a smile. Typical Twisted Logic 101, I thought. If you really eschew iniquity you should abhor every form of violence. But this guy didn't believe so.

“I want to ask you a question.” I said.

“Sure.”

“Who did you vote for mayor in the last elections?”

“The current mayor of Cebu.”

Strangely, I wasn’t surprised at all. I expected the answer.

“You knew of his reputation, you knew what would happen if you voted for him and if he won. Yet you are here, whining to your passenger what a bad mayor he is. Why didn’t you vote for his opponent?”

“I didn’t think he was any better. But more importantly, I didn’t vote for him because I was sure he wouldn’t win. I didn’t want to waste my vote.”

I laughed. “But now don’t you think you wasted your vote even more? You’re close to calling the guy an asshole, yet you are one of the reasons he won. Don’t you think that’s twisted logic?”

There was silence, save for the song “Simply Jesse” playing on the radio. I winced. I hate the damn song, but not as much as I hated the driver clamming up.

“Since we’re talking about politics, I’d like to ask you another question.” I was trying to break the tension. ”Are you satisfied with the job the president has done so far?”

It took him a while before he could answer. “No.” He finally said. “Prices have gone up- especially oil and basic commodities. And the peso is at its lowest, I think. No, I’m far from satisfied. Now I have to work doubly hard, but I can even barely make ends meet.”
“Cebu was the number one supporter of GMA during the last elections. Do you think she deserved all the support?” I asked.

“Honestly, no.”

“Have you heard of the latest issue the President is facing? The jueteng issue? That she, along with her husband and son, have received protection money from jueteng operators?

“How couldn’t I? It’s in here.” He pointed to a tabloid resting on the dashboard.

“Well, what do you think? Do you think they’re guilty?”

“Who did you vote for in the last presidential elections by the way?” He asked, an obvious attempt to steer clear of my question.

“Raul Roco.” I said.

“Why him?”

“Well, I voted for him because I thought he was the most qualified, even though he was not the most popular. Although he lost, I didn’t think I wasted my vote. Besides, why would I vote for a liar? GMA promised the Filipino people she wouldn’t run anymore. But she broke her promise and ran anyway.” I threw the question back at him. “How about you, who did YOU vote for?”

He smiled sheepishly.

“GMA?!” I half asked, half exclaimed.

He didn’t answer, and he really didn’t need to. His smile told me everything I wanted to know.

“Well, we’re here.”

Indeed we had arrived. I was so caught up in the conversation that I took no notice. I looked at the meter. It read a hundred and twenty pesos. Before the increase in fare, it would have only cost me less than a hundred bucks from our house to the office.

I fished a hundred and a fifty-peso bill from my wallet and paid him.

He fumbled for some change. Although I barely gave tips, this was an exception. I told him to keep the change. He thanked me. This logician of a taxi driver kept me amused all throughout our short trip that 30 pesos was well worth it. It was a steal.

Twisted Logic and distorted Political Science rolled into one.

Still, Miller Time

2005-05-23T11:51:00.000+08:00

I already knew beforehand that the Indiana Pacers were out of the playoffs when I watched Reggie Miller play his final game as a professional against the defending champion Detroit Pistons. Courtesy of NBA.com, I read the article proclaiming Detroit barging into the Eastern Conference Finals after a hard-fought six game series, at the expense of the resurgent Indiana Pacers. But I owed it to myself to watch one of the greatest clutch players in NBA history strut his stuff for one last time before finally hanging up his sneakers.

As a kid I was a frustrated basketball player. Small for my age, the big boys made it clear at the onset that basketball is a big man’s game. Every time I drove inside for a layup, the ball was swatted away from my hands. Firing a jump shot over taller players was a Herculean effort. I was a lousy rebounder (with my size, I didn’t have any business staying inside the paint anyway), and pitted against bigger and stronger players, I was a liability on defense.

With my height disadvantage notwithstanding, I promised myself that I’d work even harder to improve my game. I bought a book on basketball and studied it meticulously. I learned how to dribble with my left hand and went straight to a basketball hoop after school to work on my jump shot and free throw shooting. After a few weeks of hard work, I noticed a huge improvement. I could now play ball, and it made me feel good. And one player that I looked up to and idolized is Reggie Miller.

When I first saw Miller play, I was instantly drawn to his superb talent. At that time, Michael Jordan was hogging the headlines with his flashy plays above the rim. Yes, I was awed at Jordan’s slam-dunks and aerial acrobatics, but I admired even more Reggie Miller’s feathery stroke from behind the arc. I could relate more with Miller’s game than Jordan’s. Hell, unlike Jordan, I couldn’t dunk even if I died trying. But with a lot of work, I believed I could bury shots from long distance- just like Reggie Miller.

Since then, I watched Indiana Pacers games whenever I could. I especially enjoyed the countless times Reggie Miller made the game-winning shot. The guy seemed to thrive under pressure. Pressure makes diamonds, and Miller seemed to shine every time the game was on the line. He never wavered as he shot every game winner or a crucial free throw.

If I were asked to pick one specific “Miller Time” moment as my favorite, I would say the time he scored eight points in 8.9 seconds to beat the Knicks in Game 1 of the 1995 Eastern Conference Finals. It happened ten years ago, when I was just a skinny kid of 12, but I still remember it vividly. Miller was known as Spike Lee’s nemesis, and a barrage of boos always greeted him whenever he played in Madison Square Garden. But this never seemed to bother him, as he kicked the Knicks’ ass time and again whenever the Pacers needed him to.

Standing 6’7” and weighing only 185 pounds, many believed that the skinny kid from UCLA- who some people said couldn't run, or jump- wouldn’t stand up to NBA punishment. But after 18 seasons, Miller proved all his critics wrong by becoming the most prolific 3-pointer in NBA history. He is No. 1 all time in 3-pointers attempted (6,321) and made (2,506). He is the franchise's all-time leader in scoring and assists and stands 14th on the NBA's all-time scoring list. In his final season, the 39-year-old shooting guard normed 11.9 points per game.

But it wasn’t all about the numbers. It was his competitive drive, leadership, and never-say-die attitude that set Miller apart from other players. Before Reggie Miller, the Pacers were a so-so team, only making the playoffs twice in 12 seasons. Miller leaves his team not only with 15 playoff trips in his 18 seasons, but six trips to the Eastern Conference Finals and the Pacers’ only NBA Finals berth ever.

In his last season, nobody expected Miller and the Indiana Pacers to reach the playoffs. After the ugly brawl in Detroit, which led to the suspension of Ron Artest, last year’s Defensive Player of the Year, and a slew of injuries to key players, many counted the Pacers out. But the 39-year-old battle-scarred veteran turned back the clock and carried his team on his shoulders to lead them to the Eastern Conference Semi-Finals.

I watched in awe as Miller played his last game. It was another vintage Reggie Miller performance. He was the game’s top scorer, chalking up 27 markers, and going 4 out of 8 from 3-point land. His last shot as a professional, fittingly, was a 3-pointer that pulled Indiana within 77-74 in the closing minutes of the 4th quarter. When Rick Carlisle finally pulled him out of the game, chants of "Reggie, Reggie" echoed throughout the Conseco Fieldhouse Stadium. The fans, his teammates, and even the Detroit Pistons players all applauded Miller as he walked to the bench. The poker-faced shooter with ice water in his nerves, the future NBA Hall of famer who broke his opponents’ hearts with a flick of his wrist, the warrior who sometimes showed superhuman traits, finally showed he was human after all, by breaking down in tears. After the game, a teary-eyed Miller thanked his fans for supporting him throughout his career. It was indeed an emotional moment for one of the greatest players in NBA history.

Reggie Miller has hung up his sneakers, shot his last 3-pointer, and the game lights have finally faded on him. He always wanted to be remembered as the player who “showed up each and everyday to play.” But I’ll always remember him for this quote of his, something that everyone of us can ponder on, regardless of whether we are basketball players or not:

“You have to be willing to fail, because you're not going to make every shot.”

Living healthy with yoga

2005-05-17T07:59:00.000+08:00

I caught up with a friend recently, a former classmate in a humanities class five years ago, and I was astonished at his appearance and present physique. He was leaner and more active looking, and I wondered if he entered into some exercise regimen or if he was practicing martial arts. No, the answers were yoga and vegetarianism.

Ulysses has been practicing yoga and has been a vegetarian for a little less than three years now. He was inspired by his thesis, and in Nov. 20, 2002, joined the Ananda Marga Yoga Center, a spiritual NGO. The organization teaches meditation and self-realization. They also do social service, like forming relief teams to aid victims of natural calamities.

Yoga, contrary to popular belief, is a lifestyle, and not a religion. It is a discipline wherein one can balance three aspects: the physical, mental, and spiritual. Anyone can practice yoga, regardless of religious beliefs. In fact, Ulysses is a Catholic, although he admits that he is not a traditional one, and doesn’t follow everything that the church teaches. He also adds that because life is practical, one should not adhere to dogmas that limit creative thinking. Ulysses believes that dogmas keep a person from being creative and prevents him or her from being a rational thinker.

Yoga practitioners like Ulysses do meditation and yoga exercises called asanas. It balances the secretion of hormones and has a calming effect. It also prevents stress and helps them shun negative emotions. Acharyas or monks practice meditation four times a day, while ordinary yoga practitioners meditate twice daily.

We all know that vegetables are good for us. Our moms always reminded us to eat our greens, much to our disgust. Yoga practitioners share the same sentiment with our moms- that we should eat vegetables. But at least yogis offer a more detailed explanation aside from that “eat your veggies and you’ll grow up big and strong” crap.

According to Ulysses, food is classified into three types: mutative, static, and sentient. Mutative food stimulates the glands and makes you tense. Examples of these foods are coffee, onion, and garlic. Static food includes meat, especially the red variety that comes from pork, beef, veal, mutton, and venison. These victuals, Ulysses says, make the stomach acidic. Sentient foods, on the other hand, are the best. They include fruits and vegetables. Sentient foods are alkaline-based and they eliminate toxins and also make the body light. Veggie eaters also have peaceful minds, says Ulysses, so they can meditate well, enabling them to reach a higher level of consciousness.

The transition from meat eater to vegetarian is not a walk in the park, and should be done gradually. There are three types of vegetarians: One is the vegan or strict vegetarian who can eat all kinds of vegetables except onion, garlic, and mushrooms. Another type is the lacto-vegetarian. Ulysses is of this type. Lacto-vegetarians can include food products such as milk and cheese in their diets aside from the staple fruits and vegetables. The last type is the ovo-vegetarian. In this type, eggs can be eaten.

Ulysses attests that both yoga and vegetarianism have made him progressive and wise. He is now enjoying a healthy and stress-free life, and I am happy for him.

As for me? I’m thinking of practicing yoga exercises and meditation because I really know it would be beneficial. I’m also honestly giving some thought to vegetarianism.

But right now, bring on the greasy stuff.

Bald

2005-05-16T08:23:00.000+08:00

One, two, three, four. They are like withered leaves falling uselessly from an old oak tree in mid autumn. I count them with worry as they drop one after the other on the wet bathroom floor. Five, six, seven. To my dismay, others continue to comply with the force of gravity, descending to the ground, no thanks to the pelting water coming from the shower spout, forcing them to drop like dead flies at my feet.

The scene previously depicted was of myself taking a shower. And in case you're wondering what I was referring to, it's my hair. The hair from my scalp, to be precise. Yes, although I hate to admit it, I have what every young guy would consider a nightmare (some might even equate it to the end of the world)- falling hair, and to top it off, a receding hairline. Every time I take a shower, lots of hair end up in the drain, much to my chagrin, and all I can do is watch helplessly. A friend tried to comfort me once by telling me that it is normal for hair to fall off, and that up to a hundred strands could be lost everyday. Yeah right. Easy for him to say. Maybe because the hair falling off his scalp grows back again. Mine does not. These "delinquent" falling hair of mine all want to leave, and the sad part is, they do not buy roundtrip tickets. They go bye bye permanently.

Baldness, or alopecia in medical terms, is defined as the total or partial loss of scalp hair. The condition may be temporary or permanent, and can hit anyone as early as age fifteen. In my case, premature baldness (the type that some adolescents and young adults experience) is partly a result of an imbalance of sex hormones. The most common type of alopecia is pattern baldness, a hereditary trait that is expressed more often in males than in females because it depends on the influence of the male hormone testosterone. Makes sense. Although my father still has a full crown of hair, my grandfathers, both from my mother's and father's side were bald as a cue ball. I guess I got "the gift" from both of them. And you bet I am far, very far, from happy.

It is said that neither hair tonics nor any other medical measure can prevent or reverse baldness, so all those who have the same problem as I can forget those expensive over the counter hair growers. Apparently, they do not work and are just a waste of precious money. There are some drugs though, such as Minoxidil and Propecia that have been reported to have significant effects, but have some serious side effects as well. For one, the former was not really meant as a hair grower, but a cure for hypertension, and the latter might well solve your hair woes but it also kills all your sperm (if you're male, obviously). If you ask me, I'd take on losing all my hair any day than have some pill leaving me sterile.

Now there is also the matter of wearing a toupee and undergoing a hair transplant. Let us imagine myself a few years later, when all of my hair has taken its permanent leave. I'll still say I'd pass on the toupee, lest I be embarrassed on a windy day. You know what I mean. And the hair transplant? I do not think I'd be able to spend up to a couple of hundred bucks or more just for the sake of vanity. There is also this old folks' remedy of rubbing a dead fly on one's barren scalp. How could an insect aid in curing baldness, you may ask? I have no idea. And obviously, it's gross. That is why I do not intend to try it on myself.

I’m sure all of us have heard their share of wisecracks about bald or balding people from some hair-abundant but insensitive people. I remember a story an uncle of mine (yes, he is bald!) told me a few years ago. He was getting tired of being teased by his friends, and when one of them blurted at him "Kalbo! Kalbo!" he jokingly replied "May buhok! May buhok!" At that time, I laughed whole-heartedly at his quip. But now that I'm on the verge of having a hair do (or no hair do) as my uncle's, I don't see baldness as laughing matter anymore.

Indeed, many people in society (especially Filipino society in general and Visayan society in particular) see baldness as one of the great sources of jokes. To prove my point, one need only examine the lyrics of the song Long Hair that go "anong paki mo sa long hair ko? inggit ka lang, kasi ikaw nakakalbo" or the lyrics of the song Opaw by Max Surban that go “…mitan-aw siya sa samin, ang iyang nawng murag siopaw nga lingin, sa likod ug taas abot sa aping, apan ang ibabaw daw gi-kaingin.” For the convenience of those who do not understand Tagalog and Visayan, both novelty songs aim to elicit laughter at the expense of those who have lost their furry tops. But we cannot readily blame those who scoff openly at bald people. After all, they were born in a world where the rules of aesthetics dictate that those who are bald are ugly, while those who have hair are beautiful.

What I am trying to point out, though difficult as it may seem, is that we should not adhere to the dictates of society on what beauty should and should not be. And to think, there is really no point in seeing those with bare scalps as one of the less fortunate. Maybe you might say that I wrote this piece because I am worried that in the future, I would also be the object of ridicule of other people, and that this is sort of a defense mechanism. Perhaps. But I also would like to open the minds of those who regularly sneer at bald people: Who knows, you might also become bald eventually, join the club, so to speak, and you'll surely experience all the mockery, the hurtful jokes and jeers firsthand!

For a good three years of my life since I noticed the telltale signs of balding, I was forced to don a cap or sport a hairdo that would cover my thinning spots. But after a while, I got tired of it. I realized that there's no sense in hiding what I look like, or more importantly, who I really am. So last Friday, I finally decided to have one of my friends shave my head. He had one of those electric razors at home, and he was more than glad to rid me of my remaining hair. It took him several minutes, and as I looked in the mirror after the job was done, I was surprised that I liked what I saw.

Even more surprising is, now I couldn't care any less if other people don't.

Paradise

2005-05-09T15:40:00.000+08:00

I noticed a billboard a few days ago when I was going home from work. It depicted a couple on a superb white sand beach, while enjoying cocktails and drinks. It was an advertisement for South East Asian Airlines, which boasted their 35 -minute flight from Cebu to Boracay. The ad copy read: "We all deserve a little relaxation." Amen to that.

Perhaps it had nothing to do with the ad, and maybe it was really the urgent need to get away from the hectic, busy, and stressful city life. But several days later, along with my two younger siblings, I found myself strapped to the seat of a 32-seater Dornier 328, a SEAir 10:15 am flight bound for- where else- Boracay. Being accustomed to big planes, I was uneasy and fidgety the whole flight. And the "refreshments" served- plain water and peanuts- did little to calm me and my grumbling stomach. My apprehensions for riding small planes notwithstanding, I forced myself to suck it all up. But it didn't help to know that in our return flight, we would board an even smaller plane, a 19-seater LET UVP-E. But I am getting ahead of myself.

Thankfully, we had a very smooth and fast flight, and we touched down in Caticlan in no time. However, my spirits dampened when the sky darkened and heavy rain fell. Not exactly your typical summer weather. We were ushered into a makeshift arrival area, a dripping canvass tent, where we awaited for our checked-in luggage. There we were, drenched, hungry, and disappointed, wondering what else could go wrong in what we perceived to be a perfect vacation.

We grabbed our luggage, and were somewhat delighted to find that someone from Surfside Boracay Resort and Spa- where we made our reservations- had come to fetch us. We boarded a tricycle that took us to the jetty port, our final stop before taking a pump boat to Boracay Island.

My relatives- three aunts, an uncle, and two cousins were waiting for us at the port. They took a Cebu Pacific flight from Manila to Kalibo, plus a two-hour bus ride to Caticlan. I expected a rough boat ride, and shuddered at the thought of having to endure the same kind of hellish weather instead of soaking up the sun and enjoying the beach.

When we reached Boracay, all my negative thoughts and pessimistic attitude vanished as quickly as the rain. Boracay Island seemed to have its own weather. It was bright and sunny. Everything was how I imagined it; Palm trees swaying incessantly in the balmy sea breeze, crystal-clear water, and powdery white sands.

Boracay has held the distinction of having one of the best beaches on the planet. And it truly lives up to its name. The renowned White Beach, a four-kilometer stretch of white sand coast is littered with bars, souvenir shops, dive shops, and restaurants. For those seeking privacy, the answer is the blissfully deserted Pukka beach, home to millions of Pukka shells- and nothing else but nature’s splendor.

There is a dizzying array of leisurely things to do in Boracay. Now and then, colorful sailboats weave to and fro across the horizon. Speedboats, jet skis, and banana boats cut across the clear sea, leaving a trail of white froth in their wake. Scuba diving, parasailing, and snorkeling are staple favorites. After a tiring day, one can enjoy a soothing massage in one of the many spas by the beachfront. I didn’t have the luxury of trying any of these, as strapped for cash as I was, and had to content myself with a good book and some beer while basking in the sun and having a dip in the surf. But still, albeit simple and devoid of excitement, it was a nice, relaxing experience.

There are restaurants that tickle everyone’s gastronomic fancy- ranging from authentic Asian, Italian, French cuisine and many more. For the budget-conscious, many affordable dining places abound, without necessarily sacrificing taste. And Boracay seemed to heighten my immense appetite.

We decided to check out the nightspots and have a few drinks. Nightlife in this tropical island is unparalleled. Bars lining up the beachfront come alive as dusk settles and the party never lets up until ungodly hours. People enjoy good food, music (from blaring loudspeakers and live musicians), and overflowing booze. The Boracay night is hot and humid, and after a few hours of walking, I was tired and soaked in sweat, but it was nothing a few bottles of cold beer couldn’t fix.

Beer and food- a lethal mix to someone who dreams of having the perfect washboard abs. But I threw all caution to the wind and indulged anyway. Boracay weaved its magic on me (I would like to believe on everyone else as well), and I completely forgot all the troubles of the metropolis. Three days and two nights in this paradise on Earth didn’t seem long enough.

Boracay is the proverbial melting pot. An idyllic tourist haven, which has fascinated and lulled visitors into tranquil harmony with its simplistic beauty, has summoned people from different countries, cultures, and various walks of life. A downside of this, though, is the special treatment afforded to foreigners by resort owners, restaurant proprietors, and even peddlers and hawkers, which is not equally shown to Pinoys. It has constantly perplexed me why some of us act this way. It is a good thing to be courteous and accommodating to outsiders. It is plain impertinence not to show equal courtesy to a fellow Filipino.

On our last day, I decided to shoot a picture of the sunset. It was an awesome sight to behold. The bright sun turned golden, shining a soft amber light across the sky and sea, before sinking into the horizon. It capped off one of the most memorable trips I would ever have.

One of my favorite Incubus songs is “Wish you were here,” which is included in their album Morning View. An excerpt from the song is as follows:

“I dig my toes into the sand. The ocean looks like a thousand diamonds strewn across a blue blanket. I lean against the wind, pretend that I am weightless, and in this moment I am happy.”

I guess that pretty much sums up my short stay in Boracay. I know I won’t be back for a while, because unlike tourists and those who regularly frequent the place, my modest salary wouldn’t permit me. But I do have a camera full of pictures and several souvenirs to remind me that in this country where poverty, hunger, violence, corruption, terrorism, and misery plague its citizens, there is still a place where one can be at peace with himself and nature.

It was when we arrived in Cebu that I realized something that would have made everything perfect and complete. It had constantly nagged me in Boracay like an Incubus song.

I wish she were there.

The Real World

2005-05-04T09:39:00.000+08:00

After 5 pm, the cool air-conditioned office, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, the clacking of keyboards, the shuffling of papers give way to the real world.

Every night when I go home after work, I walk a couple of blocks to a jeepney terminal. Since I do not have the luxury of driving my own car, I am forced to take public transportation. When I board a jeepney, a familiar scene always greets me- weary faces and foreheads glistening with sweat after a hard day’s work. Some remedy this by mopping the perspiration with their handkerchiefs; others vigorously try to fan out the humidity- to no avail. The cramped conditions, smog, dust, and the pungent smell of diesel do little to comfort us. It’s ironic that several sports cars and luxury cars blow past our beat up and dilapidated jeepney.

Just a few weeks ago, a horrible accident happened in an intersection near our office. Three passengers, including a pregnant woman, were killed when they were thrown out of the jeepney they were riding, after it smashed into a steel post. It turned out that the jeepney was of the same route that I ride to work everyday. I felt sorry for the families of those who perished, especially because their loved ones died such a horrible death.

After I get off, it’s a short walk to another terminal for a second jeepney ride that will finally take me home. My empty stomach rumbles as fragrant smoke from barbecued meat and fish wafts in the air coming from nearby stalls. Hungry people wolf down balut, grilled chicken innards, chicken feet, fish balls, and other street food. Some pass around glasses of rum or sip cups of coffee while playing cards by lamplight on makeshift tables and chairs on the sidewalk. Grimy beggars beg for alms atop an overpass, mingling with lovers holding hands, unmindful of the world, whispering sweet nothings to each other.

Unshod and bedraggled children and adolescents run and play around, oblivious to the rush of traffic nearby. Some of them with little ones in tow go about their nightly wont of peddling unlit candles and wilted gumamela garlands. I feel for these children, who, instead of enjoying life and going to school, work every night in the streets just to fill their bellies. A disturbing thought crosses my mind as I watch them. What if by some cruel twist of fate, they get hit by a car? Their frail and fragile bodies would never withstand the impact of an oncoming vehicle, their brains would be scattered, their blood would color the pavement crimson and scarlet. An even more disturbing question is: Would anybody care?

I walk briskly, ever mindful of muggers that lie in wait in dark alleys for the unsuspecting. And more often than not, those unwilling to part with their worldly possessions get more than a rude awakening- in the form of a knife in the throat.

I watch in amusement as pimps flag down taxicabs, and converge on any vehicle that pulls over, like flies hovering over a dead carcass. Prostitutes puff cigarettes in the dark, awaiting their clients for the night. The flesh trade is alive as ever in this part of the city, and the world’s oldest profession is more than thriving.

Nearby, boys sniff rugby and solvent from plastic bags, hoping to get “high” enough to pass out and fall asleep, and get a short respite from the pangs of hunger.

I reach the terminal, never letting my guard down. A few months ago, a student had her cell phone snatched here. The unlucky snatcher was caught and mauled by angry bystanders. When the police finally arrived on the scene, the culprit had a black eye, a split and bloody lip, and a broken nose.

Social inequality still rages. Crime and prostitution is rampant. Corruption is plaguing us. The poor remain poor, the rich become richer. I remember a question a friend of mine once asked me: “Is life fair or unfair?” I think we only need to take a look around us for the answer.

I finally board a jeepney. When I get home, I have a hot dinner, read a book, and get ready for bed. Tomorrow, the real world beckons again.

I can’t wait.

Cindy

2005-04-29T08:21:00.000+08:00

When Cindy came to our home a few years ago, I wasn’t sure if we were ready to have another member added to our relatively medium-sized family. Although I admit I am fond of little ones, I knew caring for them is a big responsibility. And because my mother is a very busy housewife, we couldn’t expect her to take care of the new comer alone. We all had to pitch in. To our delight, we soon found out that Cindy wasn’t a burden at all. For a four-month old, she didn’t cry much, and she was just content in drinking the milk that we prepared daily for her. We took joy as we stroked her yellowish-blonde hair.

Feeding her solid food was more of a challenge, though. She reminded me of my brother and two of my cousins when they were still little. They would cry when feeding time came. In fact, a lot of children nowadays don’t have much appetite, thus the need for vitamins. We gave Cindy some vitamins and we still do today. And oh, does she love them. Now, we don’t give her syrup anymore. My sister gives her capsules and tablets daily, which she would gulp down in an instant without the need for water, much to our amusement. Cindy’s favorite food is sinigang. Whenever we have sinigang, she’d gladly finish her food, no questions asked. Finishing her food is a very big deal to Cindy. Whenever she manages to finish her breakfast or dinner, she would hold her head high as if it were a very big feat.

One dish that Cindy really hates is chicken curry. Maybe it has something to do with the strong smell of the curry powder. I remember one time when my sister prepared chicken curry for her. It only took Cindy one whiff and that was enough to send her scurrying away, with my sister chuckling all the while.

Cindy gave us a scare a few years ago. She had difficulty in walking, like there was one something wrong with her legs. Then one day she could barely get up, and we thought she was paralyzed. We had her checked up, and she was prescribed some medicine. We’re glad that she’s fine now, that she can walk and run normally like she used to.

My sister Michelle is the closest to Cindy. Sometimes my father would even scold her because she would spoil Cindy. They would play all the time in the living room or sometimes outside our house. Sometimes they would sleep together. Michelle teases Cindy all the time, but Cindy doesn’t mind. I guess she is already accustomed to it, and knows that teasing is just a sign of my sister’s love.

Cindy is good-natured. She always finds time to please us and make us happy. She always plays with us and whenever she does something wrong, she just holds her head down and takes the scolding. But the one thing that makes Cindy special is her smile. She seems to have a perpetual smile strapped on, and this would always lift our spirits whenever anyone of us was down in the dumps.

Cindy is no longer the little one that we carried around in our arms a few years ago, although like the “baby” that she once was, she still enjoys the occasional milk once in a while. Cindy has grown and she is beautiful. She is still young at heart, and we know she’ll always be. She still has that mischievous glint in her eyes. We know Cindy will always be here with us even when the time comes that she would have offspring of her own. Come to think of it, she is already five years old, and that is 33 in dog years.

Cindy is our dog, a yellow Labrador/Golden retriever cross.

Deviant

2005-04-28T09:27:00.000+08:00

Last night, I was waiting in line at Mcdonald’s, aching for a couple of burgers and some fries for dinner. I was famished, and also quite irritated by the not-so-competent food attendant behind the counter, who was lackadaisically going about her job with the pace of a slug scrambling up a steep incline.

I noticed that the guy next to me- a Caucasian in a net cap, loose t-shirt, shorts, stainless captive bead rings on both ears, and a pair of Vans skateboard shoes- was eyeing me. I was getting a little annoyed with him, when he finally broke the silence.

“What gage is that?” he asked.

“About half an inch.” I replied.

“Cool, he said. Mine’s 13, several gages smaller than yours.”

“That’s nice. Aren’t you planning to stretch them a little further?” I asked him back.

“No,” he said. “These are enough for me. I can’t stand the pain.”

That short conversation, which took my mind from hunger and food for a while, was between two body art fanatics. We both have stretched earlobes, to accommodate body-piercing jewelry such as earplugs, ear spools, and captive bead rings. The guy was referring to my ear spools, which were half an inch in diameter. His captive bead rings were several gages smaller. In body piercing, the term “gage” is used to determine the size of a pierced or stretched hole.

Yes, it was a pleasant exchange between two people who have mutual respect for their shared interests, but oftentimes, I’m not so lucky- getting caught up in a conversation with people who think I’m crazy or moronic. When I encounter such people, I just manage a smile and a shrug. Sometimes, though, I get into minor arguments- just like the time an elderly guy shamed me in a public place because he didn’t find my piercings amusing. Not all people think body art- piercing and tattoos- are cool, and that’s something I just have to accept.

It’s funny, really. Nowadays, when you have piercings or tattoos, many will brand you an addict or an ex-convict (no offense to those who were made to do time) or simply, a deviant. But people should realize that body piercing has been practiced thousands of years ago. Pre-historic people (and even some tribal and indigenous groups still intact today) practiced inserting pieces of metal, bone, shell, ivory, glass, and wood into different parts of their body. This was done for various reasons (for art, prestige, etc.), and was definitely embedded deep in their culture. The Pintados (whom the Spaniards referred to as painted people) were native Visayan warriors who had their whole bodies adorned with beautiful and elaborate tattoos.

I still remember several years ago when I had my lip pierced. Of course, there were mixed reactions from friends and family- some made me proud, others made me regret my decision. The bottom line is, I chose to do this to my body, and this is a sign of my independence and self-expression. It’s really up to others if they choose to respect me or judge me. Either way, it’s something every other pierced or tattooed guy or gal will have to live with. The boon of body art is you get to express yourself, the bane is you end up being judged by others.

Anyway, at least I did finally get my burgers and fries. And damn, did they hit the spot.

Pinoy

2005-04-27T10:02:00.000+08:00

A friend once told me that he was ashamed of being Filipino. He even went so much to say that if he were to be reincarnated, he wanted to be any nationality except Filipino. I asked him why. He said he was fed up of being the laughing stock of the whole world. Once, he said, the Philippines was at the top of the heap. Now, he added, the country constantly dwells at the cellar, groveling to other countries for alms like a grimy beggar sprawled on the sidewalk.

Well, I can’t say I blame him fully for his sentiments. Indeed, the Philippines was once a proud nation, competing among the best of them in Asia, and even the world. Once upon a time, countries like Vietnam sent their students to study in UP Los Banos- one of the bastions of agricultural studies in Asia- to learn the ropes of cultivating and producing rice. Now, we import rice from other countries, and one of those countries is Vietnam. Once upon a time, the peso-dollar (U.S.) ratio was two to one. Now, it’s 56 (or more) to one. And because of the sorry state of our ballooning foreign debt, it quite pisses me off to think that even my unborn grandchildren would eventually have to bear the burden of paying for it.

It also doesn’t help to know that a hefty percent of those in public office pocket taxpayers’ money faster than a horny couple having a quickie at the backseat of a car. Because of these assholes, we have to suffer from pockmarked roads, sub standard bridges and freeways, and seedy overpasses. And at the rate congressmen are greedily gobbling up their pork barrel allocations, I don’t see the current situation changing in the near future.

Brutal policemen, journalist killings, savage vigilantes, tasteless TV shows and movies, talent less actors and actresses, a liar and a kiss-ass of a president- the list goes on and on. It’s enough to make any self-respecting citizen depressed and Prozac dependent. Nevertheless, all these aren’t enough to make me hate who I am. I’m a Filipino and I’m proud of it.

I wouldn’t trade our hospitality and the way we treat guests- we’d even be glad to sleep on the couch to accommodate visitors in our own rooms. You won’t find a Filipino’s sense of family elsewhere. While in other countries, children are kicked out of the house when they turn 18 and old people are sent off to foster homes, we prefer to take care of family members no matter what, and to stick together through thick and thin, through sickness and health. We Filipinos have strong resolve and determination; evidenced by the two EDSA Revolutions.

Nick Joaquin, Conrado de Quiros, Lino Brocka, Jose Rizal, Andres Bonifacio, Lucio San Pedro, George Canseco, N.V.M Gonzales, F. Sionil Jose, Levi Celerio, Ishmael Bernal, Ninoy Aquino, Arsenio Lacson, Claro M. Recto, this list goes on and on as well. These people have shown us what it is to be Filipino, and they have fought for their country and their beliefs in their own way. They make me proud to be a Filipino, and I wish there were more people like them instead of politicians nowadays.

Yes, if I died and were reincarnated, I’d still choose to be Pinoy. Bamboo sums it all up in the chorus of their song “Noypi.”

As for my friend, he’s in the U.S. right now, and last time I saw him (in a photograph) he was sporting a blonde hairdo. You may dye your hair and struggle to speak in a fake accent, but you can never hide the truth.

Some people are proud to be themselves. Others have no idea who they are.

Stoking the Fire

2005-04-21T02:15:00.000+08:00

Beer and good friends mix. Beer and egos do not.

That’s what I learned a couple of nights ago in one of my favorite watering holes- Pinoy Corner- while exchanging stories, jokes, and the occasional insults with two comrades. Our table was littered with Red Horse bottles, cigarette butts, peanut shells, and balut shells. Mike, my sportswriter friend filled a glass halfway with cold Red Horse and handed it to me.

We were in the middle of a conversation about the universality of beauty, which Victor, “The Devil’s Advocate” was animatedly discussing. I emptied the glass of beer and handed it back to Mike. The discussion turned into a minor argument- I believed in the relativity of beauty, while Victor stressed that beauty was universal.

Mike suggested that we each give our final piece to end the argument. We obliged, and went on to another topic. Victor asked me what I wanted to do with my life, if I were happy with my present job. While the previous dispute about beauty saw me aggressively trying to prove my point to an artist no less, this question had me taken aback.

Only a couple of years ago I had different plans. In college I worked my way from being a cynical and complacent student idiot to someone who genuinely believed he could change the rotten system for the better. I did that through writing, carrying placards, and occasionally shouting through a megaphone. Now I work from eight to five in an air-conditioned office, sitting at my desk, and staring at a monitor endlessly as I write website content and advertising copy. Change the system? Fuck that. Now, changing my employer’s profits for the better is all I could manage. Talk about irony.

After a few more bottles of extra strong beer, inhibitions were thrown out the window. The artist wants to make a name in the art world. The copywriter wants to write a book. The sportswriter wants to publish his collection of essays. The alcohol was getting to us, egos were soaring, and this led to the slamming of a Mario Puzo book, “The Sicilian.” Fortunately, that incident brought us back to our senses. I picked up the book and downed another glass of beer.

In that drinking session, Victor urged us to stoke the fire burning within, to look beyond mediocrity and strive for the best. He said that every great man or woman had to experience hardship and emotional turmoil before he or she achieved prominence.

And stoking the fire is the first step.

Right now I don’t feel a fire burning. In fact, I feel the familiar coldness of cynicism dousing any ember left in me.

“It has to start somewhere. It has to start sometime. What better place than here, what better time than now?” says Zach de la Rocha in Guerilla Radio.

Easier said than done. It’s hard to dig deep and find that old spark to light the fire. Maybe it will come soon, but I’m not sure when. All I know is that beer is good with friends, but is terrible for the ego. Oh well, perhaps another drinking session with Mike and the Devil's Advocate is in order.

Make it tequila this time.

The 2004 National Elections: An instrument of much-needed change

2005-04-13T07:40:00.000+08:00

(This article came out in the 2004 magazine, Sympathy for the Devil, where I served as Editor-in-chief. It was my last year with the student publication. I'm not used to being so opinionated in my write-ups, and I was somewhat surprised when I was done writing this.)

Being a first-time voter, I have not yet experienced the infamous perennial pre-election woes first hand, and I was particularly pissed-off that afternoon a few months ago when I, accompanied by my younger sister, went to the nearby Comelec office to get registered.

It was a terrible ordeal, to put things lightly. There were two long lines of people that ran the length of the building. My sister and I arrived roughly around one thirty in the afternoon. We made our way to the end of one of the lines, amidst grunts, complaints, and groans of exasperation coming from the people around us. I couldn’t imagine such levels of incompetence from the Comelec. Well, I guess this was nothing new. After all, this was the same Comelec that screwed up this year’s supposed automated polls. I wonder what’s keeping Comelec Chair Benjamin Abalos and his commissioners from resigning from their posts.

It was at the end of long line of sweaty and fidgety bodies- while standing for hours- that I pondered about our country, and what the coming elections would do to (hopefully) help save us from the sorry state that we are currently in.

Fed up with GMA

I must say that I cannot imagine the next six years under the same rule of Gloria Macapagal Arroyo. Being an economist herself, she has done little or none to boost the Philippine economy in the past three years that she stayed in office. As of this writing, the peso has plunged to an all-time record low of 56 against the U.S. dollar. GMA has yet to uplift the lives of millions of Filipinos living in poverty. She has supported George W. Bush’s “War against terror” that has wreaked havoc on innocent civilians in Iraq. Up to this day, no weapons of mass destruction have been found in Iraq (which is the supposed reason Bush waged his murderous war in the first place.) And of course, who could forget the Jose Pidal controversy that involved no less than the First Gentleman himself, Mike Arroyo? And I thought Ms. Macapagal has projected herself to be a devout Catholic? She has had her fair share of attending holy mass with no less than Cory Aquino and Cardinal Sin. Then why in heaven’s name did she lift the three-year moratorium on the death penalty? To woo the votes of the businessmen and Chinese community? Isn’t capital punishment prohibited by the Bible and the Catholic church?

Then there’s the trapo side of GMA. A trapo is generally not so easy to define, but he or she is thought to be someone who so craves power that he or she will do anything to get it. Case in point? I’d like to pose several questions and see if you can answer them: Who posed like a movie star in campaign posters in 1995 and 1998 when she ran for senator for the second time and vice-president respectively? Who advertised herself as “the Nora Aunor of Philippine Politics?” Who has had herself photographed in front of a burning orphanage while cradling a child? Who chose to go the wake of Rico Yan, a teen idol, instead of the wake of Lucio San Pedro, a national artist? Who went crashing to a Mandy Moore concert, only to get a barrage of boos?

As this wasn’t enough, GMA lied to the Filipino people. And Filipinos do take sticking to one’s word seriously. In December 30, 2002, GMA swore under Jose Rizal’s grave that because she was “among the principal figures in the divisive national events for the last two or three years,” she wouldn’t run for reelection. But she swallowed everything she said and ran anyway.

And whoever said that GMA was the hero of Edsa II? She was merely a lucky recipient of it. The real heroes of Edsa II, with all due respect to our incumbent Commander-in-chief, are the people who fearlessly took to the streets and shouted through megaphones and carried placards with “Oust Erap” written all over them. Incidentally and ironically, GMA betrayed the spirit of Edsa II when she accepted opposition senators Miriam Defensor-Santiago (who vowed to leave politics under her son’s grave and broke her promise anyway) and John Osmeña to be part of her senatorial slate. As we all know, these two were part of the group (which also included the dancing Tessie Aquino-Oreta) that voted not the open the second envelope during deposed President Joseph Estrada’s impeachment trial.

I guess delicadeza is an unheard trait of GMA. She should have realized that she has not delivered the goods for the Filipino people in the three years that she has stayed in office, and by seeking a second term, she is not doing Filipinos a favor.

The elections- a circus of sorts

Indeed, mildly put, the coming elections is threatening to become a circus of sorts. I can imagine a few years from now a senate composed of Bong Revilla, Lito Lapid, Joey Marquez, Paquito Diaz, Korina Sanchez, and Kris Aquino. We currently have Noli de Castro and Loren Legarda, two former newsreaders (certainly not newcasters) as vice-presidential aspirants. What a revolting thought indeed.

It is expected that apart from the usual trapos and technocrats, we have a new wave of actors and sports figures who are once again seeking government posts. Chief of them is Fermando Poe Jr., who is running for no less than the highest position of the land.

Again, the threat of FPJ winning the presidential race is nothing to scoff about. Many people who are clinging to a knife’s edge or kapit sa patalim see FPJ as their hero, not just in reel life, but more so in real life. And people like these make up majority of the populace, making FPJ the favored one to win among the candidates. But who can blame them? These people we fondly call the masa? How do we expect them-they who have been taught to believe in broken promises, they who have been duped se many times by the supposedly “qualified” candidates, they who can’t even afford to eat three meals a day- to make the “right” decisions come election time? Their choice is governed by desperation. Shame on those who utter irresponsible statements that the masa are the ones who do not vote wisely and intelligently. Instead of looking down on the masses, we should try to educate them on the proper candidates to vote for, those who have genuine concern for the poor.

It is obvious that FPJ does not have the qualifications to run this country. Being an actor for many years is not enough for one to become a good president. But the more pressing argument is that once FPJ wins, it is not him who would run the country, but the power hungry people around him who have egged him on to seek the presidency in the first place.

I already scratched two candidates off my list of prospective presidential aspirants. Who am I left with? Eddie Gil, the virtual unknown (and who I think is sick in the head for boasting to pay the country’s debt when he himself cannot pay his own debts,) Panfilo Lacson, who is still being haunted to this day by the Kuratong Baleleng rubout case (and supposedly being involved in the dirty world of narcopolitics,) Eddie Villanueva, the former Marxist and current head of the Jesus is Lord Movement (I’m not particularly fond of evangelists and preachers,) and Raul Roco, who is the promising of them all, but is leading a ragtag band with a weak campaign machinery. As a voter, I have my task cut out for me.

Again, Guns, Goons, and Gold

It is expected that this coming elections would be once again marred with violence, bloodshed, massive cheating, and vote buying. Again we cannot expect the Comelec to do anything about this. It can do little against those who have the money and disposal and who use these resources to ensure victory.

We can also expect a little from the government to ensure peace and order in the coming elections. I can just imagine the pitiful state of public school teachers who will again be tapped as poll watchers. They are putting their lives in grave danger by accepting this job, and it is sad to note that they are not paid duly for risking their lives.

A significant number of journalists have also been killed in the past few months. They are often the ones who have been vocal in criticizing government officials. Perhaps the people behind these killings are afraid that journalists might dig up enough dirt on them, and this might lead to their eventual loss in the coming elections. It is scary that the Philippines is rapidly becoming more like Colombia in terms of press freedom, or the lack of it anyway. Nowadays, one cannot freely express his or her thoughts freely without legitimately fearing for his or her life.

It was already five in the afternoon. I was still at the end of that slow-moving line when a Comelec volunteer told us to come back the next day as it was impossible to register all of us before the office closed for the day. After the guy uttered this, the grunts, groans, and complaints of exasperation could be heard from a mile away. Needless to say, I finally got registered the next day. I arrived at the Comelec office at six thirty early in the morning, and was done by noontime.

I heard from some of my friends that their ordeal was worse than mine. Come to think of it, there are a lot of people out there whose ordeal is worse than mine. And I’m not just talking about standing in some long line and waiting for hours. There are those who live in the slums of the city, those who find it difficult to eat three meals a day, those who trudge day and night begging for handouts, those who toil day and night without getting their due. Have the lives of these people improved in the last three years? I’d like to think so, but sadly, no. So when I finally vote this May, there is one thing that I would certainly keep in mind, and that is change. I’ve always wanted to use this phrase, no matter how cliché it must be now, but I believe it is most fitting anyway: Tama na, sobra na, palitan na.