The Secret

The next rave to hit the US is the book by Rhonda Byrne titled "The Secret" which explicates on the law of attraction and how it could be utilized to benefit the reader.

The book is endorsed by no less than Oprah (yes Virginia, there is Oprah) and it comes with an accompanying DVD and while it's being criticized for emphasizing middle-class concerns like cars, houses, jewelry, I understand where she's coming from: she's marketing a book to a nation that has patented capitalism.

So between an image of a barefoot hippie with unshod clothes on a mountaintop trying to reach Nirvana and a yuppie who adds another bling to his blings by visualization, which do you think is a harder sell?

The concept is not new of course. Eastern Philosophy has been espousing the Universal laws for centuries. Aside from the law of attraction (like begets like), there's law of affirmation (constant affirmation becomes reality), law of compensation (also called Karma) and law of causality (in this world, nothing is coincidental). Let's attempt to dissect them one by one.

Law of Attraction

As you believe, so you become. As you become, so you believe — unknown

Basically, the law suggests that we are all interconnected. This metaphysical assumption predates the Bible and traced back to the 4000-year old Hindu monistic theory of the universe which believed on the power of thoughts. Hence, when you think positive thoughts, good things happen to you. If you entertain only negative thoughts, bad things happen. Maybe it's not an accident that happy-go-lucky people seem to lead semi-charmed lives. Opportunities and luck gravitate towards them than to pessimists.

What many religions found hard to stomach is the (blasphemous) theory posited by this law that the godhead is inherent in all of us. We are, in effect, made of the same substance as the creator — you know, the one that played a cruel joke on the platypus (make your mind up already! what am I, a duck or a beaver?). But didn't God himself said that we are all created in his image and likeness? Even Jesus said that what he can do, we can also do. So why is it so hard to digest that we can manipulate physical surroundings by our thoughts?

Let me cite an example: when we were kids, my mother lost the change from vetsin at the tabletop. I forgot how much, but I guess it was about P3.00 or so. She was irate, to say the least.

"Asa ako kambyo dire?" she shouted at us. "Kung wala pa gani to diha sa lamesa pagbalik nako, pungkulon ta mo."

We asked each other who took the coin and nobody owned up to the crime. So we prayed. Hard. My mother is known for making good her threats and who wants to go through life with one missing limb? Definitely not me.

Well, the coin did materialize later and nobody knew how. So nobody should tell me that physical objects couldn't be manipulated. My mother proved it could be done.

History is replete with stories of the unexplainable and this include the Catholic Church, which is quick to scoff at miracles that occur outside the institution. We have a number of saints who predicted their own deaths; of the Holy Eucharist turning to human flesh; of saints who lived for 12 years without taking anything but the holy communion; of stigmatism; of preserved bodies years after their deaths.

In recent years, Oriental philosophy has experienced some kind of Renaissance. While all phenomena that couldn't be explained by science has been lumped by Western society into the so-called "New Age thinking." The term "New Age" is odious in the sense that it trivializes what old and modern Eastern societies adhere to. It where I would associate scientologists and horoscopes. I credit that to the egocentric, insular attitude of Westerners who dismissed everything that couldn't be explained by the five senses.

Mohandas K. Ghandi was once asked what he thought about Western civilization, he exclaimed: "I think that would be a good idea."

Hahahaha!

Lastly, a quote:

"To know that what is impenetrable to us really exists, manifesting itself as the highest wisdom and the most radiant beauty which our dull faculties can comprehend only in their primitive forms, this knowledge, this feeling, is at the centre of true religiousness."

No, Ghandi did not say that. Albert Einstein did.

Law of Affirmation

Despite being one of the pioneers of Dianetics, which L. Ron Hubbard expanded and promoted to become Scientology, A.L. Kitselman was best-remembered for this quote: "The words 'I am…' are potent words; be careful what you hitch them to. The thing you're claiming has a way of reaching back and claiming you."

Whereas, the law of attraction puts forward the power of thoughts, the law of affirmation upholds the power of words. Nobody could discount the power of words. It could build and destroy reputations; create and destroy an image; start or end wars; it could even heal or cause sickness.

Visayans have a term for a word misused. Tunglo.

That's the reason why our lolo and lola don't want to hear any talk about preparations for their burial. You always hear them say: "Ah buhi pa gani ko patyon nako ninyo?" Or do you ever have the experience when you get sick right after saying it out loud (mura lagi ko kalinturahon karon)? If not, try it. It's especially convenient when you have to attend that dreaded meeting. Hehehe. Or when we hate a person so much that we unconsciously pray something bad happening to them, and it did?

The law of affirmation states that repeatedly saying your wishes, desires, and goals to yourself over and over again, they become reality; but one component that shouldn't be left out in this process is visualization. Athletes routinely do this. Michael Jordan once admitted to visualizing how well he's gonna do before a game actually started. When he won the slam dunk crown, he visualized each aerial move minutes before hitting the floor. Larry Bird used visualization too. And we all know how they turned out.

Why doesn't it always work? One account says that affirmation wouldn't work until you reach a point where you could actually feel your goal, when you can actually "touch" and "taste" the texture and quality of your wish in your mind. That's the kind of focus that's spawned only by desperation and intense drive. I've also read somewhere that only 10 percent of those wishes coupled with affirmations come true. I don't know if that's accurate or not but what's 10 percent of a million? Exactly. Too high a number for coincidence.

And if you're thinking that you could say to yourself over and over again that you're going to be the best-looking bastard in town and have that wish come true, take heed because it's not for the faint-hearted. I tried to do it but I only succeeded in developing a skewed view of myself. I'm not an altogether sexy man, but years of self-delusion cheated my brain into thinking that I am, utilizing the power of self-suggestion that cult leaders employ. When you fully believe in something, you just might convince people to think you're right.

Or is it still part of my self-delusion?

Law of Compensation

What else can I add about karma? I think this is pretty straightforward. Jesus Christ exemplified this law with the phrase, "whatsoever you sow, you reap." The golden rule advises to "do unto others what you want others to do unto you."

In essence, for every action, there's a corresponding reaction — that concept is amoral and transcendental. In Hinduism, which predicates the belief in reincarnation, it is the soul which reaps the benefits/consequences of karma. The payment may be made in full in a single lifetime or several lifetimes. Some mistakenly view it as payback or retribution but that's not entirely correct. Karma is dispassionate. Impartial.

Based on this concept, I think it's pretty easy to explain suffering. Hindus believe that the world exists as an experience — a process of creation, destruction, and subsistence. When you see a blind person with a limp, he's not paying for previous transgressions in this lifetime, but rather he CHOSE that situation to live or relive (is relive even a word?) his karma until he attains moksha or liberation from his ego.

The operative word here is choice. Contrary to what the Catholic Church taught us, God's greatest gift to mankind wasn't the death of his own begotten son, it's free will. In reincarnation, the soul chooses what life to lead in the next life, the people to meet, the circumstances, and even the road signs (the lessons) along the way. The catch? nobody remembers a thing but the act has been played out over and over again.

Oh, when you drink all night and see a face like the wrinkled butt of Raul Gonzales in your mirror staring right at you the morning after, that's not karma. Gaba na!

Law of Causality

Scientifically, causality is simply cause and effect.

Of all the laws, this is probably the hardest to comprehend in the sense that it's contradictory. Causality flirts with the concept of predestination as opposed to the three previous laws which placed premium on choice. Deterministic view posits that the world is a sequence of events that has been preordained and predetermined even before we are born. In that sense, free will is non-existent.

(I for one believe in the concept of choice or free will as opposed to predetermination; I mean, where's the fun in that?)

In the metaphysical plane, the debate is still up whether the effect is connected to the cause and therefore alter the source or whether both concepts are interdependent of each other. I leave that up to the experts to figure out. Hey, I'm not going to risk offending either Plato or Aristotle who held differing views on the subject of cause and effect. They're my homies.

In my feeble mind, I think the effect would, in some or the other, shape the cause. Kung naghubo-hubo ka pagtulog unya kusog kaayo ang electric fan, pagkaugma sige jud ka utot2x. Next time, either pahinayan nimo ang electric fan or i-atubang nimo sa taas. Or kung pataka lang ka ug kaon sa birthday sa imong amigo, impatso jud imong labas ana. Sa sunod, maghinay-hinay na ka ug kaon. Pero unsaon na lang kung in-born jud ka na laog? At the risk of getting sick again, you'd have to take it easy with the food next time and would that in any way tread upon your nature to take in more chow than most in order to be satisfied?

Ayn Rand in her book Atlas Shrugged said that the nature of an action is caused and determined by the nature of entities that act; a thing cannot act in contradiction to its nature. In a sense, you are what you act. However, this reasoning, however logical may hold true only to inanimate or abstract objects. There are instances that could "shock" the source into changing its very nature. Wars do that, for example. Or death and disease. Hmmn.. but when the core changes, it will still act according to its "new" nature, won't it? So the original premise that a thing cannot act in contradiction to its nature still holds if that's the case?

God, my head hurts. Excuse me, I must wipe the blood from my nose.

The look

Growing up, we had a lot of dogs. Mind you, these were not the uppity kind that ate only doggie foods, or respond to any command, or be jumping with joy at the sight of water as shown on those cute Labrador commercials on TV. Our dogs have no pedigree at all. You know, the kind that rabid dogs don't wanna meet in a dark alley.

It's not unusual for us to strut around the neighborhood with three or four dogs behind us while the angry barks and growls of the other dogs trail us as we pass by. Our dogs would be lapping along, assuming a swagger that's not befitting their non-pedigreed askal (asong kalye) ass and unmindful of the commotion they were causing.

Maybe that's the reason why we were not as attached to our dogs as we should be like the owners of those cute Labrador commercials on TV. Bath time were always a struggle, both from the dogs and us kids who were ordered to bathe the damn mutts. To put into context where we place our dogs in our hierarchy of needs: one time, we gave (donated?) one of our sickly dogs which died that summer of many moons ago to the local bums in the neighborhood as their pulutan. That afternoon summer of many moons ago, beneath an overcast sky, I ate adobong Blackie that I downed with an 8-oz. bottle of Mirinda. The whole experience gave a whole new meaning to the word "Down Blackie." hehe (God, I crack myself up).

But this is not about adobong Blackie but another dog named Blackie — for lack of imagination and because we had too many dogs, we named them according to their color and other permutations: Brownie, Blackie, Whitey, Spotty, Tisoy/Tisay, Nognog, etc. — who unwittingly taught us unconditional love and all that crap.

Blackie didn't have any distinguishing characteristics apart from his short legs. Judging from his name, the dog was all black save from a white mark in the middle of its head that splintered his cranium in two. He had the same mark on the tip of his tail that was always bent upwards when he stood on all fours. Like a perpetual "fuck you."

That's exactly how he behaved. He possessed a fuck you attitude, always looking out for a fight with our other dogs, even his old pop. Nobody touched the old dog, a grizzled veteran of many dog fights which bitten a lot of friends' legs that we couldn't care to remember, except Blackie. No sir! Blackie seemed to have made it his life's work to provoke his pop to be the Alpha Dog and fuck you very much!

His coat did not have the luster of pure-bred dogs. The hairs were thin and coarse, almost prickly and they emit a musky odor like a combination of ash and burnt pubes. Not that I know what burnt pubic hair smells like. He was just like any of our dogs except for one: we sold him off for P150.00 to our neighbor to celebrate his birthday with his friends.

Just so everything's clear. Even at our young age, we knew what would happen to him. He would very likely be somebody's appetizer before the day is done. We even knew how it's done.

1. You tie the dog to a post or a tree and make sure the rope is about two to three inches between the post and the collar so the dog wouldn't have room to maneuver and the head is quite still.

2. You take a stick, about 1 1/2 inches to two inches thick, and you hammer in a 4-inch nail at the end of the stick and you have a makeshift death bludgeon.

3. Whack the dog with the stick until his ass don't yelp no mo'.

See? it's easy as one, two, three.

I remembered right after lunch, our neighbor went to take Blackie. The dog was unusually subdued. I had the uneasy feeling he understood our conversations about selling him and he knew he was going to the gallows. As our neighbor led him outside the gate, the dog looked at us with dejected eyes. It's not at all accusatory, rather a resigned look that says "I can't believe you just did that."

I have to admit that I pity the dog. I wasn't such a heartless prick. Nor was my father, in fact, who sold Blackie. There was just too much chaos in the house, with five kids and 10 dogs. He didn't need the aggravation caused by Blackie. I'm not making excuses here, just an explanation.

The house was suddenly clothed with a sudden silence, the unmistakable conspiratorial silence that follows after a great transgression. That's that. Blackie's gone.

Or so we thought.

Some 30 minutes later, we heard a commotion from outside the house and so we all went out to investigate. Blackie's escaped! He knew how to open our gate anyway so he went right in and hid under the stack of lumbers at the backyard. Our neighbor was close behind his heels, clutching a 2 x 2 stick.

When Blackie saw us, he emerged from his hiding place dragging the severed rope around his neck, sporting a nasty-looking lump on his forehead the size of Batanes, and licked my father's feet. It broke my father's heart and returned the money to our neighbor.

Blackie had the opportunity to escape and he went home instead. He knew that my father sold him off to be killed and if he had any doubts, the lump on his forehead quelled all that. I've heard and read stories about dogs being intelligent but coming home was just stupid. Home's what brought him to that mess in the first place. Home was his ticket to one-way street. Was it just animal instinct that made him go home? Well, yes and no.

I should probably tell here that after licking my father's feet, Blackie proceeded to lick all of our feet. Each of our damn, stinky feet. When I looked down to see him groveling at my feet, I understood why my father had to return that money. It's not the kiss. It's the look.

You see, when I look into Blackie's eyes, I saw nothing but forgiveness. That was what my father saw. That was what broke his heart.

Blackie lived on with us for many years until he died of old age. He remained as boisterous, brassy, loud-mouthed, and frenzied as before. He did become the Alpha Dog and not a single day pass by without him reminding us about this fact by being a major pain in the ass.

Sleeping better at night

The long-awaited anti-terror bill, now euphemistically dubbed Human Security Act after the Senate supposedly defanged it, was finally signed into law by President Gloria. Sen. Franklin Drilon harped on how senators took extra care to ensure that civil liberties won't be trampled with the implementation of the law.

Come again? The problem with our senators and the opposition is they habitually underestimate Gloria and her minions to fiddle with a few laws to do what they want. She wouldn't have survived this long otherwise.

Sure, on paper the law seems toothless; sure, the ambivalence as to the definition of a terrorist was reduced, but look at the composition of the Anti-Terrorism Council tasked to oversee the implementation of the law:

1. Executive Secretary Eduardo Ermita
2. Justice Sec. Raul Gonzales
3. Foreign Sec. Alberto Romulo
4. DILG Sec. Ronaldo Puno
5. Finance Sec. Margarito Teves
6. NSA Sec. Norberto Gonzales

Leaves you with a warm, fuzzy feeling inside, doesn't it?

Two of those members were allegedly responsible for crafting a death plan for communist insurgents and legal fronts allied with the left. Those same members also pushed for an all-out war against the NPA. A war which was savagely defended by the other Gonzales. Yes, the same one who, irony or ironies, mans our scales of justice. (When asked what to do if civilians are caught in the crossfire in the all-out war vs. communist rebels, Gonzales remarked: "You can't avoid collateral damage…sometimes there are bombings and civilians might get hurt). Still, another of the council's members engineered the greatest coup of all — wresting the presidency from FPJ, a very popular actor who would have been our president. Not the greatest perhaps, but definitely not much (much!) worse.

The next obvious question is: do you expect this body to follow the rules because the Senate said so?

Torpe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Petchay

I couldn't let this one pass.

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

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

Ang pichay hindi tinatanim sa Senado, kundi sa lupa.

Where have all my friendships gone?

Where have all my friendships gone?
I remember here in this same mound of earth,
Roots scalped by the sun, that we made our promises.
When all of our principles, dreams, passions,
Eccentricities, convictions, were shaped
By our gullibility in fairy tales and
Happy endings.

You are somewhere now, forever
Slaying your own dragons.
I remember you crying when you learned
Not all tales have a happy ending.
I tasted your tears and your sweat dampened
My old shirt you used to love.
Your prince wounded your heart and I stood helpless
Knowing I can do no more.

I was no hero to your eyes.
I recall our conversations mostly revolved
around your prince. His absence dominated the room
And his company spelled my obscurity.
I never recognized his mediocrity,
Seen through the distorted image
Created by your eyes.

I still have that shirt. That old shirt you used to love.
Still stained by your aches.
It doesn’t fit me anymore.
The sleeves now remain unyielding.

You know, I’ve grown now.
I’m not the same naïve and lanky young man
You used to tease and protect.
I’ve known tears, laughter, ridicule, admiration, love and scorn.
I fashioned my own principles, destination
Convictions, aspirations and purpose.

My hands have callused, hardened by toil.
My heart had been torn and mended countless times.
The scars had disfigured it so much that I doubt if you
Could distinguish my heart among a thousand others.

The night holds no allure now. She can’t seduce me anymore.
The air had stilled and each breath has become a struggle.
It’s moments like this, when each second
Seemed an eternity,
Dripping ever so slowly
Like beads of water
From a leaking faucet,
That I wonder,
Whether you still think of the vows
We made ages ago,

I wonder,

Have you found your prince yet?
In your eyes, I was no hero,
But I’ve grown now
And that old shirt that you used to love
Is now in the closet
Not anymore soiled by your tears
But by dust and disregard.

Manny Wannabe (Alternatively called Wannabe Manny)

I was in 3rd year high school when my father brought us boys boxing gloves. Eager to break them in, my brothers and I took turns bashing our face with those leathers. Of course, it started with pretend, you know when you only use half of your strength, but in the middle of the bout, somebody always punched harder than intended and the game is on. By the end of each "pretend" fight, we are already sporting a mouse underneath our eyes or our cheekbones.

About an hour or so, our cousins are already joining in the fray. We matched up, regardless of weight, because whatever the rules are and it didn't matter that you're overmatched but you didn't back down from a direct challenge.

Words traveled fast. By nightfall, boys from other areas milled around after hearing about boxing matches. What else was there to do? We had to show them our hospitality, right?

Fights ensued. We matched up and in my first fight I held my own. I was quite skinny but my hands were quick. I overwhelmed my opponent with a barrage of punches. Jab, straight, right and left hook, uppercuts. He had no other choice but to hold his hands pathetically in defense and I dug under his ribcages and he folded. A textbook beating. My father was beaming.

My oldest brother also suckered punch his foe. A phantom left hook that sent his opponent eating dirt (He's got a strong left hook, which I personally tasted during one of our pretend fights. Rattled my damn brain inside my skull).

Those times were fun and I slowly earned a reputation as a thinking boxer. Boys knew of me, look me down over and thought they could take me. I always oblige. Looking back, my strategy was faulty. My fight plan was to come in fast and strong, knowing the first instinct of an novice fighter was to put his hands up to defend the face and with his gloves up his eyes, he was practically blind and I had the edge. That strategy, however, has one flaw: with no training, I could only punch in short bursts before I get tired.

And so it was that a boy who lived on the coastline were pummeling the bejesus of all his opponents. His name was "Dalos" and he was supposed to have had some amateur training from some hotshot boxing trainer. He didn't talk much, letting his father chose the matchups for him. I saw him fight and he had a good defense while maintaining his balance. He utilized his jabs well and he had a mean straight. I thought he had no weakness, until I saw him fold after his brother whacked his ribcage. So that's it.

You might be wondering why I was interested in the way he fights. Well, you see, I knew at some point I would fight him. I was a little taller than him but remember about the fights matched up regardless of weight? well, this guy was ripped! (hardened by poverty no doubt, while I was a spoiled brat).

The inevitable happened. After days of putting off, I had to face this guy. I knew I was overmatched (he played organized boxing for God's sake!) but I had a game plan. I was going to fight him on the outside and concentrate on the body for I knew I could not hurt his granite face.
The referee (his father) gave the go signal. We circled and danced. He was putting his hands in defense, slowly stalking me. I jabbed, testing the distance between us. He flicked my jabs off like he would a bug. He stared at me from between his gloves, I jabbed again and this time, I threw in a left hook to his face and his sides. I heard him grunt and the next grunt I heard was mine when he caught me right in my smacker. Man, that hurt and I was incensed!

I moved in and gave him everything I got. I forgot about my fight plan and just heaved in a torrent of fists in his direction. If it had been a storybook ending, my quickness would have overcome his strength, buckled after a pummeling, and I would have ridden off towards the sunset with my winning gloves around my neck.

But this was no fairytale.

Instead of yielding, he punched back (which was not part of my game plan, you know) and punched some more. It was my turn to put my hands up in pathetic defense. I stepped back but He moved in for the kill. I didn't even see his punches but I felt every single one of them. One punched rocked my head so far back that I felt my eyes slamming at the back of my skull. It was a wonder how I remained standing.

I lost that fight and badly. I knew coming in that I was overmatched but I thought I could win with the right game plan and a dash of charisma. Lesson learned?

Underdogs don't always win because life ain't no Rocky movie.

Wedges

A solitary flower,
With wilted petals
And yellow
Parched leaves,
Reared its fragile
Head from
A wedge
In the concrete
Floor
Of the waiting shed.

Up from its
Darkened bed
To greet
A lifetime’s shade—

The roof
That shields the
Indifferent brows
Of men
From the sun’s
Searing rays.

The buck stops there

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of Glass Houses

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Movies

I love movies. Even if I fall asleep every damn time.

The last movie I remembered not falling asleep to was when I was still wearing short pants. My parents took us to see Flash Gordon back in 1980 at the old Lawaan Theater (before it was reduced to being the pit of depravity and hedonism, Lawaan was quite cool).

I still remember the story about a star football player, played by Sam Jones, and his friends who was transported to the planet Mongo to battle the evil Emperor Ming, which was played by Max Von Sydow. Sydow, of course, was excellent in his role as Fr. Lankester Merrin in the original Exorcist movie with Linda Blair as the possessed child. Sam Jones, meanwhile, couldn’t quite get out B-movie list and into blockbuster movies.

That was especially memorable because my parents took all of us to the movie, which was rare considering the expense. On government payroll during the 80s, it was quite a luxury to take four boys to the movies. Plus, we were all irascible. Hardly a minute goes by when we were not fighting or running around. Later and as a compromise, my father bought a betamax player and our house was a virtual library of Tom and Jerry, Looney Tunes, and Walt Disney cartoons. There’s also the endless list of Kung Fu titles like the Snake and the Eagle Shadow, Tiger Claw, Drunken Tai-Chi, Animal Kung-Fu, or Shaolin vs. Ninja.

In fact, the first lesson I learned came from Kung Fu movies: You gotta beat up the old guy with the white beard and impeccable Kung Fu moves in order to be the top dog. And later, when you sport a white beard yourself, some young punk will challenge your manhood and you get crushed. No sense fighting that truth.

Our Betamax player soon expired and was replaced by a VHS player. During all those times, going to the movies was a rarity. My love affair with the movies was renewed when I was in high school. And the endless slumbers pretty soon started.

Dates are always awkward. Just how do you explain to your date that your sleeping has nothing to do with ennui? When you would rather sleep than grope, there must be something wrong somewhere. And there was also the problem of being groped yourself. There was one time in the Queens theater when I fell asleep alone watching The Quick and the Dead, starring Sharon Stone, a young Leonardo de Caprio and the still sophomoric Russel Crowe.

I woke up to a hand quickly probing and touching, almost urgently, my crotch. I looked beside me to a silhouetted face of a guy who went on touching me as if I wasn’t awake. I punched his face and rushed outside of the theater. Even in the darkness, I could see that he was much, much bigger than me and my ass had no intention of being introduced to his friend dick.

The genre hardly helps. Be it action, comedy, drama, art movies, indie, animation, romance or any other variations, it did not matter. Im still sleeping. Though I pay closer attention to light romantic movies, which my girl always subscribe to, just to wait for one of them to mess up a big moment. You know, when Ann Hathaway in the Devil Wears Prada, goes off to Paris for the fashion show. I waited for her to trip and bump her head on the corner of the runway ramp and die. That would have been fun if the hero gets killed in the middle of the movie while the rest of the cast just meandering around like chickens with their heads cut off. Of course, it doesnt happen but that doesnt stop me from wishing and crossing my fingers, nevertheless.

It is good that my girl, who equally loves movies, understand my quirks. At least now, I have somebody who guards me when I sleep. Though I dread the day when the next hand on my crotch will come from hers, and instead of sexually groping… she would firmly squeeze.

ice water wrapper

Inside Piapi public market in boulevard, and I remember this clearly, four houses from the first corner, in a small alley next to the shabby booth selling tuba is a small house, but it was really more like a quarters. A one-room grimy little quarters with a huge blue cellophane (those used to wrap bananas) hanging at the door. Up to this day, I wondered what that blue cellophane was for. It was not only superfluous, it was downright gaudy. But this is not about the blue cellophane.

One Tuesday afternoon after our high-school classes we went to the house we've been interested in for quite some time. Four boys with hormones seeping out of our ears. That day, some of us were going to be men. Weeks before, one of my friends who lived in Piapi has been bragging about scantily-clad women going in and out the alley nearby. He attested to one of his neighbor's (who was supposed to have visited the alley and came out rather satisfied) experience about getting some action for a small fee. As best as we could figure out from the way he told the story, the price for a lay with one of the scantily-clad women there was practically a giveaway.

We pooled whatever resources we had and came up short of 250 pesos. Not bad, we thought.
So we hied off to the house, our hearts beating fast, knees quaking, our eyes darting warily for
any familiar faces that could foil our plans.

At the end of the alley, beside the shabby booth selling tuba, are two adjacent houses. A blue-colored cellophane hanging at door of one house while the other one sports a fashionable white cellophane. Must be color-coded, I thought. Indeed, there were scantily-clad women sitting on the bench between the two houses. We cautiously approached one of the girls, while two tough-looking men standing nearby eyeballed us suspiciously.

She was accommodating. Her teeth were, at least, complete. Of course, if she had broken into pidgin English and said "Me love you long time," that would be the perfect moment. Instead, she asked: "Kinsay virginan nato sa inyoha?" Everybody got a kick out of that one. The tough-looking men included. We, however, were visibly embarrassed. The friend who invited us there took it upon himself to defend whatever dignity we had left and asked: "Tagpila man diay?"

The girl, she was about our age I think. replied: "P400 isa ka babae pwede na."

Well, that wasn't as cheap as advertised. Our money certainly did not reach P400. We declined and were to go somewhere else when she called to us. "Dong, sulod na lang mo diha sa pikas balay. Tanaw na lang mo bold," she said, pointing to the house with the blue cellophane suspended menacingly. We looked at each other and shrugged. We got the money and were extremely horny, a deadly mix.

We went in. The fee was 10 pesos. The man at the door collected 44 pesos for the four of us. We asked what the 4 pesos was for and he said it was for the ice water wrapper. We looked at each other, utterly confused, but I took the ice water wrapper nevertheless. My friends followed suit. We went into the single room where the showing was supposed to take place. The porno movie was still in the old betamax format. Eager faces of boys, some younger than us, looked up at us while holding tightly to their ice water wrapper.

The betamax player started to whirr. Images started to play on the TV screen. I forgot the title but it was a hilarious spoof of the Alladin story. This guy found a lamp housing a genie who gave him three wishes. Of course, he wished for girls and more girls. For lack of imagination, the producers made up for inundating the movie with naked and willing women. I forgot how many pussies I counted on that movie.

I watched entranced. The other boys started whipping out their ice water wrapper and what they did afterwards made me forgot about the movie. The ice water wrapper, it turned out, was to prevent the boys from spilling all over the room. My friends, visibly aroused, took out their ice water wrapper. Awareness enveloped confusion. Knowledge is power.

I, on the other hand, capitulated. To my mind, it was already preordained and the blue cellophane was my witness.

Madness

There is a pleasure in being mad, which none but madmen know — John Dryden

Somewhere in C.M. recto Street, I was sitting alone on the ramshackle and rusty jeepney bound for home. The barker in front of me was shouting on the top of his lungs to solicit passengres, all the more to annoy potential passengers into avoiding the very jeepney he's trying to help out. The driver appeared bored. He was about 60 years old, ashen-haired and emaciated.
Amid the stacatto of blares, the barker's voice stood out:

"Jacinto Piapi, Jacinto Piapi!"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw this old woman holding a plastic bag marked Gaisano Center, cross the pedestrian lane. She was looking all the way at our jeepney while she crossed. The barker was still shouting.

"Jacinto Piapi, Jacinto Piapi!"
The barker, who was turning his back on the old woman the whole time, felt a tap on his back. It was the old woman.

Old woman: Piapi ni?
Barker: Oo nang, piapi ni dire ka sakay oh.. (pointing to our jeep)

Before boarding, she even leaned out to look at the signboard which, of course, read Jacinto Piapi. She clambered on the steps and settled on the chair opposite me. We were still along on the jeepney. She then looked at me and asks:

"Piapi ni dong?"

(In my head, my brain screamed. argghhh!)

Instead I smiled and with all seriousness, answered: "Dili, Bankerohan ni nang."

The old lady was flustered and gathered her things, presumably to disembark. The driver, overhearing our conversation, turned around to tell the old lady: "Sa Piapi ko padulong nang, dili Bankerohan."

The old woman and the driver glared at me. I looked out, totally indifferent; I could take them both with one hand tied behind my back.

Ice Cream

When we were kids, our father used to experiment with all kinds of amulets, incantations, talismans and any scheme that would supposedly give him superpowers. In each nook of our house, you would find little necklaces, about ½ inch in width and an inch wide. It was basically a red cloth sewn together, patently concealing a piece of paper inside which, of course, holds the magical Latin chant for invulnerability.

Perhaps a little background. I belong to a family of “machos,” where balls are held more in esteem than education. I heard tales of my lolo, along with his sons, brandishing their guns and storming villages taking over lands on sheer firepower; tales of brawling, of clan wars, and of women. You see, the myth is you’re not part of the family if you’re not a player. Our surname supposedly carries with it a certain charm that could cut through women’s panties, easily. Of course, I and my brothers bought into the myth and had our shares of scuffles and women. In fights, the rule is: defend your brother or relative and ask questions about who started the fight later.

Anyway, it is in this context might we understand my father and uncles’ preoccupation with amulets. They are not exactly popular for their generosity.

One particular memory that’s etched into my mind was when my father and uncles had a ritual performed at our living room. The ritual would allegedly render them invincible to bullets. Tying a red bandana with strange markings around their head, they first formed a circle to ask for divine guidance, then with a jungle bolo, slashed through their limbs and trunks with no more than a red welt. My brothers and cousins witnessed the whole spectacle and our impressionable minds were, well, impressed.

I remember one time when my two elder brothers and I stole one of the red necklaces and tore off the cloth to look at what’s inside. It was nothing more than a bond paper with strange triangular shapes and doodle of an eye but we were not disappointed because the unfamiliar language made it seem mysterious and real. We fought for the right to hold the amulet and my elder brother earned that right because his fists said so.

We pestered our father into giving us superpowers, too, for why should only he be the superhero?

One day, our father called us three in the backyard to teach us a spell to make us stronger. With all seriousness and barely a whisper that we had to strain to hear his words, he revealed, syllable by syllable, the secret and ancient chant that could summon the gods into possessing you in times of crisis:

“EE SEE KREE AM POR SA LEE HE REE”

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

“REG FIL PAT OF”

And with that, he went off to work.

We were thrilled and couldn’t wait to try off our newfound powers. This was the days of the kung-fu movies. Imported Chinese movies dubbed in English with titles such as Drunken Master, Shaolin vs. Ninja, Animal Kung-Fu, Shaolin Fist and other ignominious titles. But we loved those movies and right after each film in the old Betamax tapes, my brothers and I ran off outside to mimic the moves.

What they didn’t know was that I memorized the incantation and repeat it in my head before each of our confrontation. I had it down pat. You chant the mantra and don’t forget the pregnant pause. That brief gap must have been important and part of the mantra for my father to pause like that.

It didn’t work. I got beat up each time.

It was only later I found that EE-SEE-KREE-AM POR-SA-LEE HE-REE really stood for "ICE CREAM FOR SALE HERE."

And REG FIL PAT OF? Well, that was the small print you see in Coca-Cola billboards. Reg. Phil. Pat. Off.

Registered Philippine Patent Office.

Bummer.

Girls’ guide to men

I always wonder when I hear women complain they don’t understand men when it is fairly easy. Men are not driven by the higher ladder of abstractions like ambition, family, and career. You go lower, not the ground to which the ladder stands on, men are far baser than that.

What drives men rather are urges. After all, the word m-e-n spelled backwards is s-e-x.

I read something about men thinking about sex 50 percent of the time (I don’t know where they waste the other 50 percent on) or was it once every seven minutes?

I have a theory: the synapses that transmit messages from the brain to the sexual organs must be shorter in men than in women because in men, they bypass the heart so no emotions are involved. And that thick liquid that runs through our veins and to our vital organs is not blood but spermatozoa.

On the way to school, a woman might think about the way she look; the project due today, the hated professor, the pleasure of hanging out with her friends again, the surprise quizzes, a book report.

A man, on the other hand, will more than likely be distracted by the girl beside her on the jeepney to think about book reports; or that show of cleavage when a girl bends over to pick up something; or the busty woman in front of him and it doesn’t even matter if she’s wearing a turtleneck. We got X-ray imagination.

A man would transform to the Incredible Hulk, he’s neck bulging, his clothes shredded, his vocal chords receding: “HULK HORNY. MUST… GRAB… BOOBS…” of course, he won’t because that would result to jail time right there (and in jail, your ass would be somebody else’s vagina) but the struggle he goes through is tough.

Imagine having to live with that burden everyday. And experts are baffled that more men go crazy or commit suicide compared to women? It’s not that we hide our emotions because of the machismo society, that’s shit. Men also cry, just not in front of others. Rather, the torrent of stimuli that we encounter everyday, mixed with raging hormones, makes a volatile blend.

And the stimuli are endless. Billboards, television, Internet, women passing by. That chicken in Banok’s advertisement, with its legs deliciously spread out and a nice hole in the middle. Better than the hot apple pie that Jason Bigg’s character in the original American Pie de-virginized.

The worse thing for most men is when women are not exactly buying into the team concept (when I say team, I’m referring to the penis and the ego). Women are always frustrated about why men are so clueless. When a hint of a smile would earn you a veritable stalker; or a “hi” would seem an invitation to an orgy; and as to how men could be so dense as to take a hint.

But it’s not men who are clueless. Women are. Men change personalities like they do clothes in order to impress each woman they meet, hoping to “get some.” That might seem inconsistent but the opposite is more accurate. They are consistent to satisfying their inner force. The urge. The id.

The strong catholic influence and the myths of reference further exacerbated things. Instead of accepting the horniness of a 13-year old and the urge to exorcise this demon as normal, he’s instead told that too much masturbation would eventually lead to blindness or to hell, whichever is worse. Of course, the term “eventually” connotes a future time frame, a concept too vague as the penis takes over the brain. By then, it’s like asking a gnat about the meaning of life.

A man is as fuzzy about his penis as a woman is to her hair. What a man is most afraid of is not death or danger. What men fear is a flaccid shaft. Choosing death over impotence is like asking him to choose between camel and a thick fur coat in the middle of the desert: a no-brainer.

Feminism? Men are all for it as long as it leads to a woman so comfortable with her own sexuality. The percentages of getting a lay would dramatically increase. If the reverse scenario take place, with men castrated, then: “BOOO!”

With that in mind, a woman can do anything she wants with a man as long as she dangles sex like a carrot in a stick in front of him even if there’s a precipice up ahead, a man would run through. Like the proverbial lemmings leaping to their death after following the crowd mindlessly.

Once women understand this, they could twirl men around their little fingers. Men can be trained. In fact, teaching a dog tricks is much more difficult. You could have your own life-sized Barbie doll that you could dress up, equipped with flexible limbs you could move to whatever direction you want.

Women should not punish themselves with questions like: What is he thinking? Does he think of me? When I approached him to introduce myself, did I come on too strong? What does he think of me now that he knows I like him? Did I impress him after our intelligent conversation?

Stop thinking. Read this again.

The dwarf below

 Would the demotion of Pluto have greater repercussions on astrology?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, he just seems cute. (awww…)

The hood

note: this was written on August 28, 2006 after hearing that Pluto was demoted into a dwarf planet

They finally did it.
As if the distinction of being the smallest planet and the most eccentric is not enough, astronomers last week dispensed with political correctness and called Pluto for what it is – a dwarf planet.
Imagine what that classification would do to a planet’s rep which is, after all, what matters in the hood which we call the solar system.

Jupiter, the big bully, laughed his ass off after hearing the new word in town.

"Hey, did you bitches hear? Pluto who we thought was just small for his size was found to be wearing elevator shoes. The bastard apparently is a midget. So, that's why he's got a small dick!"

Mars, ever energetic and ambitious, laughed harder than most while exclaiming, “Good one boss!”

Earth, along with the tramp Venus, who might have bedded every planet in the solar system (with the exception of Pluto: “He’s too small!”) now is backing off as if he didn’t start the gossip in the first place.

“Hey, here comes the dwarf and his mini-me!” Uranus, being his usual ass-self, called out when Pluto and Charon passes their orbit. "Mini-me" refers to Charon, Pluto’s twin in size and temperament.

Some planets have always been suspicious about their relationship. Word is that they are lovers.

Saturn, with a regal air adjusts his crown and puckered his lips in disapproval, and looked away. This is so beneath him. Mercury tries to defuse the situation with logic and communication. “Aw, common bitches, they don't call them dwarves anymore. He’s now vertically-challenged.” Venus twirled her hair and gagged on her chewing gum on the comment. Instead, she called out “Brokeback!”

Pluto walked briskly and ignored them. He practically dragged Charon along with him.

Everybody hooted.

Earth, still unsure of his place in the pack, smirked: “That Pluto, he’s weird. He always love to roam in the darkness and his eyes are always shifty.”

Yeah, and he’s very pale just like that Japanese boy from that horror movie where everybody gets snuffed? Man! He gives me the creeps.” Venus added, taking a drag of her cigarette.

“Yeah, I hear an 11-year old English girl named him because ain’t nobody wanted to get near his ugly face,” Jupiter said.

“He’s a suck up too. Always forcing himself on the Sun for a little bit of light. Snorting that ray like some poor loser,” Neptune said; who is actually a little bit jealous of Pluto because the Sun in some days has been giving Pluto all his attentions.

Plus, there’s that one incident when the Sun, the big boss, was driving around the neighborhood in his white limousine looking for trusted guys for a contract. Word spread around. Neptune heard about it and so hied off to look for the Sun. His massive limousine parked near the park. He trotted towards the car when he saw Pluto turned the corner in front of him also approaching the limousine.

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

“The bitch does walk fast, don’t he?” Jupiter said. He leans in his chair, cigarette hanging on his lips.

“Yeah, maybe they’re going to see their girlfriends. I always see them hanging with those midgets Ceres and Xena,” Earth reluctantly volunteered. “Maybe, they’re having a foursome!”

Everybody laughed. Mars laughed the loudest.

A meteorite swung by, almost hitting Jupiter. He fell from the chair, his bling-bling falling to the ground and burning himself with his own cigarette. He stared menacingly at Pluto and Charon as if it’s their fault he fell.

“Those gay midgets. They’ll get theirs, someday.”

Blood compact

I found a wrinkled Red Cross card when I was skimming through my wallet and I realized I’m due for another donation. The way I was made to understand it, every three months the 500 cc of blood I gave would have been replaced. The last time I visited the Red Cross office was in April so I guess in a few days, I would be shedding blood once again.

I dread these moments. I never did like needles. There’s something very violent in a hypodermic breaching the epidermis and into your veins. And just like rape, you feel violated afterwards. Who was it that said “rape is not about sex, it’s about power?” (Was it Demi Moore on the film Disclosure? Or maybe it’s Margarita Holmes, I’m not sure). The same maxim works here. Bleeding you is not about sex either, it’s about power.

The experience I had the last time I was there didn’t help in shaking off my anxiety. Our STAP Glenn and I were lying there on separate beds as the nurse prepared the needles and bags. I was aware that Glenn was getting edgy and so naturally I volunteered to be the first to be bled (there’s no other way to put it).

What I didn’t know was that the nurse was just an intern and not exactly a connoisseur in the ways of the blood. He tied my arms to pop a vein and inserted the damn needle (I swear it was two inches long and about an inch in diameter!).

No blood dripped. Not even a dribble.

So she pulled out the needle, screwed it again on the vein, making another wound in the process.

She must have noticed me grimacing for she asked: “Does it hurt?”

What else could I reply? Being a wiseass, I said: “No. Maybe you should shove it deeper so it would hurt.”

Glenn laughed nervously.

The nurse looked up at me; her face a blank. Then she twisted, turned and chucked the needle a little deeper, just like what I ordered. She must have thought I deserved it for being a wiseass. God, some people just don’t have a sense of humor.

After practicing on my vein, Glenn’s was a breeze. He bled on the first try.

Afterwards, we each got Zest-O and Magic Flakes. I shouted: “Yehey! Naa mi juice ug biskwit!”

That earned me a smile from the nurse. She’s not hopeless, after all. *lol*

Taboo

How do you classify some practices as taboo? By what power does society proscribe something as unacceptable, as vile, as forbidden as to exclude it from mores and the fineries of civilization?

I saw on National Geographic the origins of voodooism and it demystified all my preconceived and ambiguous notions about the practice. All I knew about voodoo before were from the movies: the dolls, reminiscent of our own mangkukulam, the rituals of blood and sacrifices, and zombies. Who could forget about the zombies? I remember the film Night of the Living Dead in the old betamax and how they couldn’t be killed unless you sever their heads off from their bodies, or blow their brains out, depending on how you like your gore. That night I couldn’t sleep and it didn’t help that we had a weirdo for a house help who relished in regaling (read: scaring) us with stories from the radio programs she listened to.

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

The original meaning of the word from the Farsi (?) language was spirit. Meaning: to invoke the spirits. The invoking part is what makes the religion so controversial. The rituals include sacrificing a kid (not a kid kid but a goat young) or cutting themselves to draw blood, which becomes the sacrifice itself. The priest sways to the rhythm of the drums (maybe the reason why hip-hop music is dictated by the throbbing of the drum) before he’s possessed by the spirit.

I was watching the whole episode when I drew some parallelism with Catholicism, which is supposedly a mainstream religion and was partly responsible for creating the myths about voodooism. The use blood in voodoo rituals is not unique. During communion, priests drink the wine which represents the blood of Christ. All throughout history, we have ordinary people suffering from stigmata and some of them were canonized to sainthood.

Possession, too, is not limited to voodooism. God manifested himself through Immaculate Conception, which is quite simply a form of possession. In fact, Christianity as a religion was itself considered a taboo when Mithraism was the dominant religion years after Christ’s death. Christians were routinely hanged, fed to the lions, or flagellated.

Speaking of flagellation which is a prevailing practice in voodooism, during the Semana Santa, Catholic devotees also practice self-flagellation as a form of penitence. Some of these devotees even nailed themselves to the cross. The fanatics among the Catholic hierarchy like Opus Dei, for example, also practice self-flagellation.

The thing that struck me about voodooism is the violence. There’s a term that describes this: the passion of the real. The concept is that for the experience to be authentic, there has to be some violent or shocking encounter. This is especially relevant to our times when we are rendered more and more like automatons or zombies by the technologies that surround us. When conversations are diluted by the vicarious social interaction between a man and a woman, typing hurried words in their yahoo messengers.

Voodoo is an “in-your-face” religion, devoid of the trappings of social political correctness (which is the greatest thing that ever happened to bigots and racists, but that’s another story). When you break down all existing constructs, what do you have left? Ironically, it doesn’t follow what existentialist and post-modernist thinkers are proposing: that meaning and experience can only be created by the individual and so is not objective. What remains, in fact, is the common need to connect to something that is higher than ourselves. And that promise, that potentiality is universal to all religions. That’s what makes Christianity and Voodooism ultimately the same.

God, my head hurts.

The Jollibee phenomenon

Disclaimer: Data and information in the following content are not intended to disparage anybody down, most especially the famous wide-eyed bug. The author shall not be liable for any errors and inaccuracies in the content. If the author should violate any copyright laws in the process, this disclaimer is meant to be a calculated way out. So, fuck that!

I saw on Backtracks, an episode of the local music channel MYX TV, a clip of Paula Cole’s “Where have all the Cowboys Gone?” released in 1996 and I was floored. Backtracks was supposed to be a celebration of the classics. The music video was lumped there together with the cult clip “Whip it” by Divo, the purveyors of disco pop; Selena’s “Dreaming of You;” Nirvana’s “Lithium;” and I forgot the others.

I could understand Nirvana, Divo and even Selena’s cheesy song “Dreaming of you” (being that she’s dead), but Paula Cole?

In this country, still reeling from post-colonialism, classic music has mutated into a loose form which is equilateral to the term “old.” Other factors could also categorize a music video as a classic:

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

Paula Cole’s song did not even rule the charts up until the TV series Dawson’s Creek plucked it up from oblivion (insert your objections here) and made it its theme song. Could it be that the Generation-Y, the MTV generation to which I belong is now considered old?

Consider how the youth of today (the Gen-Z, I guess), scoffed at the major influences that shaped our young minds.

All 2-D games now are considered as classics: Pacman, Bomberman, Gattaca, Super Mario Brothers, Battle City, Commando. I doubt even 3-year olds would have fun playing them (what, no blood? Pffftt! Too lame!).

Our music: Metallica, Nirvana, Aerosmith, Pearl Jam, R.E.M, Eraserheads, Yano, alanis Morisette, even the *gasp* boy bands. I think Eraserheads lead singer Ely Buendia summed it best after their songs were revived by various artists under the album Electromagneticpop: He feigned surprise and roughly said “Buhay pa kami.”

And shwarma! Who needs shwarma? They have kebab.

Good thing the gaudy clothes of the 80’s were not revived. Those were just kitschy man! The era of punk, wild hair with highlights, tattered shirts, white rubber high-cuts, high-waist and stretchable pants. The leotards? Way cool! Especially if you pull thick cotton socks over them. Hehehe.

The New Wave music and disco pop were a product of the 80’s but they never really took off until the 90’s.

I think it’s amazing to live in an era when history seems to be anachronistic. We are living in history itself where man is on the verge of takeoff, skipping to another evolution. Modern thinking proposes that there are no longer novel ideas, only old concepts rehashed and corrupted. But I think this is hogwash. New technologies are being introduced by the minute. Even mass media are tickled with the revolution. Scientists in Britain, for example, have cracked the code for curing baldness. So in the next few years (months!), the problem of baldness, falling teeth, cracked nails would have been solved. US scientists, on the other hand, reported to have attacked cancer with gene therapy for white blood cells. Could we see a cure for cancer in our lifetime? That would have been unthinkable yesterday, but now?

Imagine, the grandfather and grandmothers of the future would be listening to rap music to remember the days past! It’s their era, after all. Imagine a grandfather waxing nostalgic to his 4-year old grandson:

“Ah, when I was your age, we listened to Eminem, Snoop, and Nelly. Those were the days when the slurs and curses were bleeped not unlike your music today when all the words not containing fuck are bleeped. And I don’t take shit from you, beyatch!”

I remember seeing one girl at the MTS. She looked about 13 or so and she’s already wearing spaghetti blouse, strapless bra, micro-mini skirt and with red lipstick on. She was with her friends who are all dressed the same: little girls rushing to become adults. That would have earned you a slap on the face from the mothers of my generation right there.

While we still have yet to duplicate the tolerant liberalism of United States and the downright laissez-faire attitude of European countries on public nudity, I think we are getting there much faster than we realize.

Paradoxically, the technologies invented to realize the global village scenario, to bring people closer together might have been the same technologies driving the apart. Where are the games of our youth, the luksong tinik, tumba lata, syatong, chinese garter, sipa?

We are living in an era of fast foods; the short-order epoch. The missing link in human evolution would have been explained if there was a complex communication system in place then but I think we are in it: the jump from tree-dwelling monkeys to human beings. We are jumping from human beings to another step in the evolution process. But what? I know what we are now; we’re a breed of impatient people and I guess that’s a good thing to prepare for the breakneck speed of today and the future.

This short-order epoch is what I call the Jollibee phenomenon. The massive rise of Jollibee is no accident. People now prefer fast food, the turo-turo, so they could get back to their fast-paced lifestyle. At last count, there are nearly 500 Jollibee franchise nationwide with branches in United States, Hong Kong, Brunei and Vietnam.

This phenomenon even led the philosopher Slavoj Zizek to surmise that the true revolutionaries of today are the conservatives who desperately clung to old rules rather than those who ascribe to the changes. The conservatives, in essence, are the real change-makers.

I, on the other hand, still subscribe to Friedrich Nietzsche’s passive nihilism in his book Thus Spoke Zarathustra, the antithesis of the Over Man — the man who is never satisfied with himself, one who constantly tests his limits and demands more of himself once he breaches those limits.

I would become the Last Man.