Hello, how are you?

"Hello, how are you?" is perhaps one of the most worn-out English greeting apart from the curt "hello" or "hi!" Ironically, the monosyllabic greeting "hi" or "hello", though terse-sounding on paper, is actually reserved for friends.  Usually followed by a quick hug or a peck on the cheek.

The phrase "Hello, how are you?" is more formal. It's what salespersons use to greet a potential client; It's what teachers use to welcome students to their class; the boss addressing his secretary. It's what you read in books when the heroines were still in their petticoats, girdles and those cute umbrellas with tassels in their gloved hands.

Nevertheless, the greeting "Hello, how are you?" is usually accompanied with a smile. It doesn't take much, however, since the first syllable of the word "hello" requires you to expand your lips into a near smile as you cluck your tongue on your palate and snapping it free as you roll the second syllable around your mouth.  Hopefully, your grin lasts until you reach the last syllable "you."

"Hello, how are you?"

That's what 23-year old Cho Seung-Hui asked in one of the classrooms of Virginia Tech university. That's what he asked before pointing his handgun on the head of the professor conducting the class and squeezing the trigger. He then turned towards the 15 stunned students and emptied his magazines.

Satisfied that he killed all of them, Cho calmly walked out the door. One of the survivors of the first volley of shots later recalled hearing more gunshots ringing from the next room but not before he heard Cho asked the class, its tenor and nuance muted by the thick walls that insulated the other students from the bloodbath that had just occurred.

"Hello, how are you?"

When the smoke cleared, 32 people lay dead. He then pointed the gun on himself and fired.

What's striking is the formal way he posed the question.  Cho lived in the United States since he was eight years old so 15 years should be enough for him to soak up Western culture. Psychological profilers would have a heyday analyzing his thoughts and motives. Would they perhaps have a better grasp of his mindset the day he went on a killing spree had he shouted invectives in street slang?

Did he snap? But surely a person who's out of his mind wouldn't ask how his would-be victims were doing, would he?
 
If it was a hate crime, his emotion would have been palpable.His rage would have filtered through the barrel of his gun even before his bullets assailed limbs or craniums. His steps, rendered heavy by the seething storm underneath, would have sent off an ominous sensation.    

This was different. Students and teachers who knew him claim that he preferred to be by himself rather than socialize.His classmates said he just watched and listened during classes. He was reclusive, very quiet and a loner.

They were wrong. A loner wouldn't have barged into the rooms and take it upon himself to carry out Hades' job description. A loner would just kill himself. Perhaps the best proof that he was lonely in life could be gleaned in the manner of his death — he didn't want to die alone.

I wonder how many students and teachers reached out to Cho and asked him "Hello, how are you?"

Perhaps they would have gotten the silent treatment. And perhaps they would have gotten a reply, devoid of any formality and pretense. From one human being to another.

"No, I'm not. Help me please."

Snippets

Okay… I've transferred all my baggages from my old blogsource here to my new home, which is kickin'.

Ahhh… I just love the smell of new paint. I feel like I've upgraded my lifestyle or something and so have to scour around for new furniture. For the time being, however, I like my crib. It's easy on the eyes and I'm especially glad I have all these stones to throw to critics and haters out there.  

I wonder if I have friendly neighbors, though. Guess, I'll find out soon enough. 

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This layout is cool. All I need now is a hammock and some pillows and I think I might settle here. 

But knowing me, I might change the layout tomorrow, which is fine, because this domain provides basic templates but still allow you to push some buttons for modification to suit your personality. Perfect for a technology-challenged idiot such as yours truly, hehehe.

It also comes with its own tagboard, which precludes me from all the hassle of signing up for a tagboard and trying to come up with a good username and password.  I have enough passwords in my mind already that I often mix them all up.

The web gods really outdid themselves this time. Good job man, er… god!

———–o0o———– 

I'm new at this blogging game. My first anniversary is still a good four months away but I've had a surprisingly fun time. Blogging to me has been like a dreamcatcher, which is a woven net or web used by native Americans to trap nightmares, only instead of nightmares, blogging traps my thoughts.

As I read back on some of the entries I reckon it would have been better if my thoughts just faded away.  Forgotten, like the P6.00 jeepney fare I should have paid the driver yesterday but didn't because, you know, I'm broke .

————–o0o————– 

The comments I got have so far been positive but there lies the rub.  Everytime , I get a positive feedback it perpetuates the fallacy that my opinions matter to everybody else. That my life matters to somebody.

I've always been insecure about my writing skills but unlike the journal (you know, with the old-fashioned notebook and paper), you get to read other blogs and be bowled over with their design. Now I have two things to be insecure about — my writing and my blog. Go figure. 

It’s not global warming, it’s hell

Arrgggh! It's HOOOOOTTT!

I haven't seen hot like this since I was back in high school and I wore those blue stretchable pants which hugged my thigh until before the ankle, a blue denim jacket, a punk midriff shirt, white robertsons shoes and extra-thick yellow cotton socks (that kssss-ing you hear is me smokin' hot, Woohoo!).

I couldn't think, I couldn't sleep, I couldn't stay outside in the heat for more than 10 minutes without developing a headache, I couldn't stay outside, period. Hell, I couldn't even sweat. My perspiration just sort of fizzles, evaporating into gaseous state before it can liquify. You go outside and there's just the sun, hammering down on you. On extra hot days, I swear I could hear the sound of its rays pounding on me.

Pound. Pound. Pound.

There must be something to this global warming thing. I read somewhere that the earth's temperature rose two degrees over the last decade compared to just two degrees from the 1900 to 1990. Two degrees might seem diminutive but considering the sun's core has temperature levels reaching 13,600,000 degress Kelvin, two degrees of that is like, ah…um… Okay! I don't do math. So sue me. It's scorching though, I know that much.

This heat is kinda bumming me out. Imagine, I have to take a shower now twice a day. Twice! whereas before I take a shower twice a week. Hey, we have one of the best waters in the world, no sense wasting it on something as immaterial as taking a bath, Hehehe.

Haahaay… got to get to work again. I already took a shower, buttered my armpits with a deodorant and splash on a little cologne. Why do I even bother when 10 minutes after I walk out that door I'd be smelling like a wet dog bitchin' in the heat.

And there would be the sun waiting for me, a hammer in hand and a smirk on its face.

I know. It's clobbering time.

Holy Crap

I remember exactly when I stopped going to church. It was my birthday during my second year high school, the first day of Misa de Gallo. It was still 4:30 a.m., but the air inside the church was stuffy, nearly clotted by the sheer number of people inside. It felt like we were Jews during the Holocaust about to be gassed.

I was sandwiched between two massive bulks, a mother and her daughter I guess. The daughter gave off a scent that could only be described as vinegary sweetness — a blend of sweat and perfume. Meanwhile, the mother, well, forget the mother. I huddle closer to her daughter. Two grown men in front of me blocked my view of the pulpit. The hum of the priest's voice ricocheted around the walls. I felt very drowsy.

I heard the priest bless the cup containing the "blood of Christ," I strained my neck and I couldn't see what he was doing. I heard the priest bless the Holy Eucharist, I tippy-toed and still I couldn't see what he was doing. Fuck this!

I stormed out of the church and went out to buy puto bumbong. Never paid much attention to priests since then. Oh, I've been to church several times. I even attended Misa de Gallo again and attempted to finish the traditional nine mornings. I would have completed it, too, if the girl I was courting that time (and that is why I was escorting her) hadn't said yes on the 7th day. So the day after, she went to mass alone. Hehehe.

So what went wrong? It seemed silly to drop religion on account of a little acidity from some girl's armpit, wasn't it? Yes, it seemed silly but, to borrow a worn-out phrase, that was the last straw.

I grew up with my lola in an old house stuffed with religious images. Aside from the Holy Family, we also had a Sto. Niño, the Sacred Heart, a big rosary, and a poster of Jesus Christ. I grew up venerating these icons, especially the Holy Family — more prehistoric than my lola, I was told.
(Hmmn… antique? Ka-ching!)

Back then, we prayed a lot. I was quite adept at praying the rosary and could recite the mysteries backwards; the Angelus at 6:00 p.m., the way of the cross to Shrine each Holy Week; I even knew how to pray the novena for every occasion, sa patay, sa buhi, sa hapit na mamatay. When I wasn't at home, I was at the catholic school I go to and you guessed it, recited the rosary, prayed Our Father and droned out the Hail Marys. Oh, almost forgot the three o'clock prayer.

No, there's no Eureka moment nor was I hit with a thunderbolt which triggered a sudden realization that all my life I've been had by religion. My reason was much more mundane and bland than that. I just got tired of it all.

Which gets me thinking… why is it that priests speak in monotone? No, scratch that. Why is the whole Eucharist conducted in monotone? The voice of the priest, the songs, the melody — all make for a banausic impression. I have a theory. I think, it's a grand conspiracy. The lifeless, bromidic ritual taps into our alpha waves or something, lulling us into relaxation and therefore more open to suggestion. You remember those tapes back in the 80s that supposedly dribble satanic verses when played backwards? I think when you slow down the ceremony just about right, you could hear subliminal messages whispering "we are the way or you're going to hell" or "give more to the collection plate or you're going to hell." They have nearly two millennia to perfect the system, right?

I mean, all that ceremony and what do we get!?! The Holy Eucharist which is no bigger than a five peso coin. The priest doesn't even allow us to sip the wine! At least, other religions feed you with a sandwich and juice. If you have to be fucked in the behind, might as well be fed for it. I draw the line with Quiboloy and his Kingdom of Christ, however, they not only not feed you, they make you sell pulvoron in the guise of scholarship as well. The only thing which sucks more than that is my blog.

I've been called a lost child, an agnostic, atheist, or even a satanist. Sometimes I welcome the labels, just so I know I belong to something. Don't get me wrong, I envy those who don't question and just let their faiths steer their destiny. They seem so cute and placid, like sheep. Awwww…

It's easy to think that being amoral sans responsibilities is fun but it's difficult to suspect what has dominated and continues to dominate all aspects of my life; it's especially difficult to doubt when it's all I have left of my lola. If nothing else, religion was our connection. She was proudest when her apo led the novena for the first time and our neighbors praised my skill. She never said a word but I'm sure she looked at the empty space beside her when she recited the Angelus in front of the Sto. Niño.

My lola is now dead. I cried hardest when at the time she needed it most, I couldn't even allow myself to recite a short prayer for her. I wanted to but that seemed hypocritical. I guess at that moment, there's no turning back for me.

Yet, this whole crap is so embedded in me that even as I conclude this entry, I mentally make the sign of the cross.

A stranger walked…

A stranger walked solitary.
As the sharp edges of the
Sunset wounds the sky,
Casting a fiery shadow;
Tainting the horizon
With blood— painting it scarlet.

The remorseful sun
Inconspicuously hiding
Behind mountains benighted.
Hoping no one notices its crime.

The wave’s orgasmic sighs,
As they make love to the
Sandy beach, drown
Dusk’s screams;
And the nightingale’s songs
Muffled the sun’s hasty steps
As he makes his escape.

Nobody notices the transgression.
Not least the stranger —
Who’s presently revolted
By the mud silts clinging
To his pants as he makes
His way to the disco next town.

Hidden Talent

Eherm! Man! this quiz is accurate… hehehe. Now, where did I put that hammer and nail so I could frame this.

Two words: Advertise baby!

In Bukidnon, Cows don’t Moo

I always associate Bukidnon with the Kalachuchi.

For what reason, I don't know. But even as I write this post, the smell of the Kalachuchi waft through the air and its overpowering scent disturbed the equilibrium of the room. The intrusion is not at all unpleasant. Like a friendly greeting from an old friend; or a slice of chocolate cake in the middle of a diet.

I was about 11 or 12 years old when my family spent a summer in Bukidnon. We lived with an evangelical pastor who was the partner of my father in a potato farm business a few kilometers from his house.

His house sits on a hill. No, it's more like a anomalous growth but the dirt road knew better than to cut through it and offend the sensibilities of a messenger from God. So the road snaked around that mound — adorned with fruit trees, bermuda grass, a small garden of gumamela, violets, baby's breath and shrubs — before it staggers and get lost around the bend.

At the back of the house stands the Kalachuchi. So huge it seemed to dwarf the two-storey house but that's not true, of course — its dimensions forever distorted by a distant memory. Without fail, right after daybreak, the pastor's little girl religiously fetched the goat from its pen and tie it to the Kalachuchi. A bald spot around the Kalachuchi where the grass couldn't seem to grow just shows how long this custom has been going on.

At night, the shadows seemed endless; fractured only by flourescent lights dangling precariously on creaky lampposts. You could count shafts of light in the main road before the darkness swallows the rest of them. As the light of moon pallidly touched the winding path, the flowers of the Kalachuchi perfumed the air, adding to the ghostly atmosphere.

"It's the moths," the pastor told me one night. "The Kalachuchi tricks the moths into thinking it has nectars to give and so the moths come back again and again."

Again and again. Quite a deceitful one, that Kalachuchi.

But this post has nothing to do with Kalachuchi.

It was our first night at the Pastor's house. I was lying between my two brothers in the sala. My father was in one room with my mother; my uncle and two other cousins slept in another room near the kitchen. In the dark, the ordinary furniture looked menacing. Naturally, we couldn't sleep. As the crickets and toads crooned, we listened… for strange noises, for a deviant clatter, even a familiar thud (the kind that falling dead bodies make when clumsy psychos stumble).

Nothing. Every sound accounted for. The hum of the electric fan, the rustling of the wind on the tin roof, my heavy breathing. I start to doze off.

Then suddenly. I heard a faint sound in the distance.

I listened.

"Mooo."

"Mooo."

I heard what a cow sounds like when it "moos" and I knew THAT wasn't a cow. It sounded guttural, like a raw wheeze from deep in the stomach; a drowning man struggling to breathe.

And it's coming from the kitchen.

"Mooo."

"Mooo."

The sound is defeaning. A pause then a moo. I pulled the sheets up to my head. My brothers followed suit.

Moo. Pause. Moo.

It surrounded the house. It swallowed the house. I didn't know how I managed to sleep that night. All I remember was waking up all covered in sweat. I went to the kitchen to drink Milo and walked into a conversation among the adults. Obviously, I wasn't the only one who had a difficult night.

"Sabaa ning Janwart oi! Sige lang ug Moo Moo, di ko katulog!" my cousin complained.

Apparently, when my uncle snores, he moos.

There's no moral to this story but nobody snores like my uncle. Nobody should have to. That's inhuman. You scare little children that way. Even cows stop to moo when they sleep.

Which Superhero Am I?

Your results:
You are Hulk

Click here to take the "Which Superhero are you?" quiz…

Maayo na lang na Hulk ang pinakataas… hapit pa ko na catwoman. hehehe

Higher cause

If you're a government worker and you think about retiring anytime this year, you might lay down on that plan for a while.

It seems that bright boys in Congress dipped into the retirement payment of state workers worth P3.6 billion and realigned it for something more consequential — to nearly double their pork barrel allocation from P6.24 billion in the 2006 budget to P11.445 billion this year.

Budget Secretary Rolando Andaya was quoted by the Inquirer as saying that his office submitted P6.2 billion but it was increased by the bicameral committee (composed of both the Senate and the House of Representative).

“From an initial glance at the budget, the P3.6 billion came from the retirement pay of government workers,” he said.

Simply put, if the Department of Budget could not find another source to reimburse the retirement pay, about 8,000 government workers who are due to retire this year won't get anything.

I guess the retiring government employees would have to sacrifice this bit of inconvenience for the country. State workers already spent their whole lives in the service of the public, why not extend their service after retirement? Don't be such selfish ingrates as to deny your retirement pay from our distinguished representatives. I mean, where's our sense of patriotism?

After all, our legislators are only doing this for the benefit of their constituents. Forget that the timing is suspect since it's election season; forget reports that as much as 30 percent in commission from the projects approved by the legislators goes to their pockets; forget that project allocation by Congress is already redundant to the duty of local government units to identify and implement projects within their boundaries.

That's just talk man. And talk, just like pirated DVDs from china, is cheap.