Bullet points

October 18, 2007

 

Two nights ago, I heard shouts from outside and when I peeked, I saw our boarders fighting. The woman was shouting her lungs off while the man was sitting in the corner all subdued and very silent. The argument was about man’s total lack of financial support for their child. From what I understood, the woman was raising their kid alone somewhere in the province.

So I got bored listening to her and went back to my room to watch TV. I only heard a day after, since tattletales abound here, that the man slapped the woman allegedly leaving a mark on her face. I told one of our boarders to advise the woman to undergo a medical examination to file a case against his partner.

As it turned out, the woman already left for the province at daybreak. Of course, the man and his mother who we rented out our room to had to go. We don’t tolerate women-beaters here.

I’m not saying that she deserved it with her incessant nagging. I don’t know the whole story so this post is separate, though somewhat related, from what I just described above.

I read somewhere that a man speaks only an average of 2,000 words per day, while the average for a woman is about 22,000 words. That’s an amazing disparity. When you think about it, men could never joust tongues with women and expect to win an argument. Just when women are about to heat up, we are already stretched to our limit.

So don’t be angry if we clam up all of a sudden in the middle of the argument. We had to save a few of those 2,000 words for more important things like food, water, or beer. And by the time we get to the remote, all we have left is a growl.

Call us tomorrow instead so we can resume the argument.

Women, too, could never get drive their point across if they are going to bleed men’s ears with a deluge of words. Do you think we are still listening? Men are not hardwired to do that. From being kids, they are expected to be active and explore the world while the girls stay at home, play with dolls, and listen to mother as she breaks down the household chores for them. You know, in preparation for when they get married?

In cases of argument, don’t lash out and show your claws outright because you’d be seen as a direct threat. You goad, poke, and provoke and you don’t expect anything bad to happen?

Let’s review: If men are not hardwired to listen, how were they coached?  Men are driven by instinct. Sure, he can be trained through education, nurturing, and social interaction. However, that doesn’t take away his primal instinct to preserve himself, be the leader of the pack, compete, coordinate and resolve conflicts through direct actions.

Watch your man while he’s with his friends and you will hardly recognize him. He’s loud, raucous, callous, and coarse. Peer pressure? Not at all. That’s him in his essence, devoid of trappings of social customs and proper behavior since the pack has now become more real to him than all the non-representational societal politesse. Consider, too, that most thrill crimes – rape, mauling, stealing, or riots — are committed by packs.

I remember when I was involved in a riot. From a mere dirty look supposedly directed at one of my friends (which on hindsight wasn’t all that dirty to me) from the other table, the situation quickly escalated into taunting, bottle-throwing, and exchanging of blows. That wouldn’t have happened if one of the two tables was grossly outnumbered.

On the flip side, if one of those tables is outnumbered, he’d have been viewed as prey. My kuya had the habit of getting into fights. He never went out without his posse and sometimes I went with them and well, let’s just say, I have the knack of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. One time, my kuya and about three of my male cousins ganged up on one man because he had the temerity to lay a hand on my girl cousin. Of course, while they were beating the man, I dug in and offered him a Pablo knuckle sandwich.

The higher the man climbs the ladder of abstraction, the better he is at controlling that instinct. In fact, the most successful marriages have men allowing themselves to be subjugated by their wives.

Along with that primal instinct is the longing (believe it or not) to protect and provide for women; that’s ingrained deep into their mammalian brains; a whiff of the days when Neanderthals hunt for food while women take care of the brood. 

Now it’s a matter of turning that knowledge into an advantage but I ain’t about to tell you how.

Though to drive your point across, I’ll give you a hint in two words — used most effectively in Powerpoint presentations and to explain cumbersome data.

Bullet points.

New begginings

October 16, 2007

New beginnings are always awkward. Yesterday, “fresh meat” attended our Monday meetings as a newly-hired employee. Now, it wasn’t necessary that he had to stand in front to introduce himself to the group, so naturally somebody suggested it.

So he was talking about how he liked how informal the whole protocol in the office was and how he wished we all would get along, or in his own words, “get close” (Man, you couldn’t get gay-er than that).

I do think the casual and easy atmosphere in the office make it seem more like a boarding house than the stiff and reserved corporate organization that it is. Our old office in fact used to be our boarding house. We sleep, change, eat and defecate there. Well, not in the office. We had a toilet for that, err… shit.

Those were great times. We are all almost the same age, give or take 2-3 years. So mornings we go out for field work, go back to the office in the afternoon, play some games, chat and work at the same time. In the evening, while waiting for the boss to do his thing, we hook the Playstation on the TV then play into the night while some of us play some girl in the MIRC chatroom.  When we get bored, we went out to grab a few drinks then around 3 or 4 a.m. go to Bankerohan to eat breakfast before going back to the office to sleep. 

We woke up again at 8 a.m. to do some fieldwork and another cycle began.

Of course, that was when we were still young and stupid. Things have changed because most of us are now married AND stupid. Also, our new office is much more regimented on rules about computer games, chatting, and other “non-office” work. I guess they learned from experience not to give us too much rope with which to hang ourselves.

But the relaxed manner that we deal with each other is still there and I think that was fresh meat meant. Anyway, this post is about awkward beginnings so this is what happened.

FRESH MEAT: So, unta masabtan nako inyo batasan ug masabtan pud ninyo ako batasan.

ME: Unsa man diay imong batasan?

FRESH MEAT: ha, kuwan…
(Awkward pause as everybody waits for  his answer)

FRESH MEAT: Melancholic.

 Hahaha! How can you react to that? I wanted to say, “Hey, you have something in common with Mark, he’s also addicted to alcohol.”

But I held back because I think the wittiness of that reply will zoom past him and could even earn me an enemy.

Besides, I’m like Valium. Best taken in small dosages.

Pride

October 8, 2007

Manny Pacquiao won by unanimous decision and I betted on Barrera to win 12 rounds, so I lost.  

Well, at least my prediction is lost… err, wrong. Whatever.  I don’t gamble as much with my money anymore. Not after being burned too much since I always bet on the underdog and unlike in the movies, the underdog always gets slaughtered. And unlike in the movies, I never learn. That is, until recently.

I wasn’t alone in the forecast as most experts thought that if the fight went the distance, Barrera, with his wiliness and dirty tactics, would win over the Pacman on points. Well, Pacquiao won but Barrera didn't lose.

I consider myself a student of the sport, because apart from basketball, it’s the only sport I play. Well, used to anyway. I’m too good looking to let somebody bash my face now, ehem.

Anyway, being with the family I’m in, it’s natural that I get drawn to contact sports like boxing, basketball, rugby, and badminton. Hehe, okay, I’m kidding, not badminton. Jeez! Just wanted to make sure you were paying attention.

I was crazy about boxing in elementary and high school. I did not play professional or even amateur boxing, mind you, because I’m too lazy and undisciplined for that. This is boxing/streetfight/free-for-all where you throw two boys with gloves bigger than their heads in a circle while the spectators served as a ring.

There are several advantages to this concept:

    1.) it takes the edge of pesky little boys who otherwise might have scuttled around endlessly until their energies run out ;

    2.)   it settles conflicts quickly, that is, with their fists;

    3.)    it addresses the question of who pisses farther, and;

    4.)    it makes for better entertainment than watching soaps.

And just to be clear, boxing or even a downright brawl doesn’t hurt as much as you’d think. In fact, it doesn’t hurt at all. You get a sense of this punch landing on your face and your head snapping back but that’s just about it. Adrenaline mutes the pain, I think; unless you get kicked in your balls because no amount of adrenaline could kill that pain. No siree!

Of course when the match is over, prepare to experience pain on muscles you didn’t even know existed. It’s also interesting to note that punching somebody in the face, though exhilarating, is very tiresome and dangerous, too. One time, I broke my hand from boxing. I guess his face was just too hard or my hands were just too soft and delicate, like a ballerina’s.

To train, we fashioned a punching bag out of sawmill dust (bagaso sa bisaya) into an empty sack of rice, tied the end and hung it on a hook. To prevent cuts from the sharp fabric of the sack, we strip our shirts and wrap them around our hands. I watched my kuya spending hours on the punching bag while I held it for him. When he was done, we traded places.  

I remember one time, during one of his matches, when he knocked somebody silly with a right hook. My father always told us that my kuya had a nasty hook. I, on the other hand, was quick. In boxing parlance, he was a brawler while I was a boxer and the difference is my kuya will knock you out while I will bore you to death by dancing and prancing around, and once I sense you getting sleepy, Wham! I pounce. You’re too sleepy to either get up or to continue. Victory for me, baby! Now, who’s your daddy, bitch!?!

There was no rhyme or reason to our matches. Unlike in organized boxing where the scales and managers dictate the match-ups. Regardless of his weight and circumstance, you fight because somebody challenged you, period. There were also our ever thoughtful uncles who dipped their hands into who’s fighting who. They pit their sons or nephews against you for the simple reason that they hate your guts. Who cares if their sons and nephews are bigger and older than me? I wasn’t about to dishonor my father by refusing a direct challenge.

It’s that shitty pride that got me a bloody mouth and a nasty mouse on my cheeks in the end. But it’s all good considering the alternative: being known as a coward. I think my father knew my motivations, too.

I remember one bout where I was overmatched. He was bigger than me, older than me, and he played amateur boxing, for Yoda’s sake! We played three rounds at two minutes per round. Three minutes might seem long for premature ejaculators, but if you’re getting pummeled, three minutes is an eternity. I knew I said boxing doesn’t hurt but hammers do, and it felt like being hit by one when his punches connected. I knew I could never hurt his granite face so I repeatedly dug into his ribs after watching him fold two days earlier from a wayward punch that cuffed a funny nerve underneath his left rib.  

The referee whistled. End of round.

I sat to my corner and my father whispered as I wipe the blood from my lips: Kapoy ka na. Unsa man undang na (You’re tired. You want to stop now)?

I was surprised he knew. It was a ruse, you see. I always claim fatigue when I knew I was overmatched. I wasn’t considered a thinking boxer for nothing and besides, I wasn’t about to destroy my pretty face for something I could not win. So when my father asked me that, it wasn’t out of compassion. It was a direct challenge and I don’t back away from any dare.

So I continued and got beat up some more for three more agonizing minutes. Afterwards, I walked towards my beaming father with a smirk on my face. He was triumphant but I didn’t lose. Just like with Barrera, he lost to Pacquiao but everybody was expecting him to go down in six rounds and he proved the experts wrong. With his Mexican pride, that proved to be most important after sensing that he had no hope of winning the bout.   

You see, not every beating is a defeat.

Season 1 ends

October 2, 2007

 

Finally. Commission on Elections chair Abalos resigned yesterday and if there’s any doubt as to how the public regard him, he only needed to listen to the cheers of the crowd that gatecrashed his press conference. Well, he did listen actually, judging from the way he looked as he paused in mid-sentence everytime the crowd jeered and heckled.

It’s sad really. He could have never envisioned an end like this when he decided to go into public service. He didn’t pull his wife, Cora, aside one night and told her: “I will take the job as Comelec chair so I could mess with it and fuck the Filipino people.”

I guessed he really thought he could make a difference. I wonder what happened from THAT to what has become of him now as the second most hated man in the country, next only to First Gentleman Mike Arroyo.

But this is a good move, if only to deflect the public attention on him now (Besides the fact that he only had four months to go before his tenure ends). A few hours after his resignation, already we hear sympathies for him. Even former president Cory Aquino commiserated. Remember her during the “Hello Garci” row actively asking for Ms. Gloria to step down? The Hello Garci controversy occurred during Abalos’ watch and so did the P1.3 Mega Pacific deal.

What’s next for Abalos? I’m sure everybody wants a piece of him. The administration wants him placated for what seemed to be a betrayal, when Romulo Neri, the president’s alter-ego sided with the younger Joey de Venecia and accused the Comelec chair of giving out bribes like it’s out of stock. On the flip side, the opposition wants to sue him, hoping the pressure will push him to name names. After all, he could no longer hide under the Constitutional protection that his position afforded him, nor could he shout “executive privilege!” when he’s backed into a corner.

The equation here is simple: when Abalos is vulnerable, everybody is vulnerable.

And why shouldn’t he welcome a court trial if he says he’s as innocent as he is? That should be the proper venue for the prosecution to prove his guilt, shouldn’t it? That would be the proper venue for him to be vindicated, if not as a Comelec chair then maybe as an ordinary citizen.

In the next few days, we could expect Palace propaganda advising the public to just move on and feel sorry for a 72-year-old grandfather; Miriam Santiago pontificating; or Alan Cayetano fuming, Escudero rationalizing; and the old reliable, Ermita lying through his teeth. Where’s Justice Secretary Raul Gonzales when we really need him? He could really simplify all this confusion with a few barbs and once he speaks, he leaves little doubt to the public’s mind as to who’s guilty. Just look at who he’s defending.

Meanwhile, I have my finances to attend to, my job to go back to, and my life to pay attention to. In a few months, everybody will forget about this just like Erap would be pardoned eventually. Life does go on, doesn’t it?

Exit: Lights fade out. Curtains fall down. FG laughs.  

Would there be Season 2? Abangan!