Stupid is what a stupid does

November 25, 2008

I just gotta get this off my chest.

 

But before going to the meat of the story, let me provide a bit of background to better appreciate the gravity of the faux pas.

 

Last December 7, there was a shootout between a cop and a known toughie (with a name like Allan Tirador, you have to be) in one of the downtown communities. The cop was called around 10 in the evening to check out a report about the ruffian throwing his weight around while his .45 caliber pistol was visibly tucked at the waist.   

 

The cop had a beef with his neighbor about an earlier incident where the troublemaker allegedly pointed a gun at his father. So he left his house and found the suspect, who appeared to be intoxicated, at the back of the barangay hall.  Upon seeing the cop approached, the suspect drew his gun and fired at the cop wounding his right hand. The cop sought cover and Allan fired two more times at his direction. The cop fired back and hit the suspect on the stomach, apparently a graze wound or so hospital records later revealed.  

 

In the volley of bullets, a civilian caught one bullet at his lower back and was brought to the hospital. He was just strumming his guitar and jamming with his friends in one of the sari-sari stores when the incident occurred.  
That’s the official police report.

 

There’s another version however, the suspect’s own.

 

According to him, the policeman opened fire first, prompting him to defend himself. I have no way of verifying the information of why he was carrying a gun in the first place. Anyway, claiming to fear for his life, he sought assistance from the TV reporter, who obliged by bringing him to the government hospital. Sure, that’s understandable but here’s the thing: possessing wisdom, experience and foresight unmatched in the history of local journalism, the guy picked up the bullets, wrapped them in paper, and brought them to the police precinct himself.

Now, that’s what I call initiative.

 

Pop quiz hotshot: what do you call a police evidence handled by a civilian? Worth shit.   

 

I believe the legal terminology would be tampering with evidence or obstruction of justice. Take your pick.

And since they are contaminated, any self-respecting judge will never accept the bullets as evidence now to pin down the suspect, who only needs to get rid of the gun and he’s scot-free. Where’s the suspect, you ask? After getting first aid, he flew the coop.

 

Policemen will not file a case against the reporter, with the misplaced notion that the whole media industry will come bearing down on them once the shit hits the fan. And the reporter? Just saw his stupid mug this morning, smirking.

 

Congrats asshole, you just brought me back from the dead.  

Man’s folly

September 19, 2007

Man’s sublime existence has been largely undermined because of too much rationalization. How simple things would have been if we were like the bird who greets the morning with a song.  The bird doesn’t think why the sun always rises in the east, nor question the caprices of the seasons — it just lives. Enjoying whatever surprises the morning offers, totally oblivious to the approaching afternoon armed with the knowledge that nature holds whatever it requires. With that realization, only a food wouldn’t burst into a song.

Why do we think that we are greater than nature? Why do we feel the need to control the universe and take comfort in science and religion? Do you think that identifying the parts of the tree you claim it as your own? Do the bird’s physiological and anatomical characteristics define what it is? Don’t you think its soul, its life force, characterizes the bird regardless of species and form? For example, If I have the structure of a man but I have the animus of a woman, would you call me a man? I think my superficial qualities are incidental; my design makes me what I am.

Our ego is so great that we dismiss everything as false until we say it’s the truth. We dismiss the idea that the universe will continue without us; we dismiss anything that we can’t identify and explain as an illusion; we dismiss the idea that we are made of the same element from the lowest grub that crawls the earth. We dismiss the idea that we are not gods.

How great is the man who knows that he is nothing for only in knowing that we are a mere dust in nature’s eye that it can easily flicker away can we truly marvel at the vast wonder of the universe. Only in knowing that we are small can we begin to be great.

All our lives we are made to believe that we are special; that we have the faculties to design the world as we see fit. We took a passage from the book of Genesis that we are to be the caretakers of the earth, distort it and gave it new meaning — that we can do anything we like with it.

But how can we call ourselves caretakers when it’s been nature that’s taking care of us all along? She could have easily annihilated the human race with a mere sneeze, but she chose not to. She endured the destruction that we inflicted. Nature endured for us. Now, how can we presume to take care of her when we’re the ones hurting her?
Man thinks that his ordinariness is his curse and that’s why he constantly denies it.  I think Angela Hayes played by Mena Suvari in the movie American Beauty summed this impulse to be better when she said: “I don’t think there’s anything worse than being ordinary.”

And that’s where fools exceed geniuses, because they never claim to be otherwise than being ordinary. Why do we revere geniuses anyway, are they better than us? Do they possess special faculties that weren’t sprinkled to everybody when the gods distributed talents? Was Shakespeare a better man for composing all those literatures, however majestic they were? Was the Greek philosopher Plato superior because of his dialogues?

Genius is but an offspring of necessity; man’s involvement is unintended.

Why do you presume to be better than anybody else? Is it your intelligence, your wealth or good looks? You die like everybody else and worms will feed on your belly. That means, dear sir, you will succumb to the laws of nature just like everybody else.

For is it not conceit and self-delusion that make us kill an ant without guilt and yet almost worship the television set and all the modern appliances we have on our living rooms?  We think that the television is more precious than the ant. We think our creation is better than nature.

Can we not grasp that the single step an ant makes is much finer that the most advanced robotic limb invented by man? That a single particle of sand possesses qualities that are much more complex that the most expensive computer known to man? Yet, it’s there on the ground to be walked upon, totally ignored!

Man’s folly is thinking he’s not one; for presuming that he breathes the same air as gods; for presuming that he is greater than his own nature. If he just but pause and think how inconsequential he is in relation to the workings of the universe, how insignificant society that he created is, then he can truly appreciate the reason why he is here in the first place — to experience life.

The thin red line

July 16, 2007

Ever wonder how thin a line is that separates frustrate and infuriate?

If you study the etymology of both words, there’s not much correlation other than the end result. The word frustrate was conceived in 1447 from the Latin word frustatus that means to “deceive or disappoint.” Infuriate, meanwhile, was coined 200 years later from the Latin word infuriate or “to madden.”

Sure there’s no connection but when you examine the root word of frustrate which is fraus, you get the literal translation “injury or harm.” Isn’t that the consequence of rage? Sooner or later, you put yourself or others in harm’s way.

And you know what’s interesting? When you detach and spell out the missing letters that separate the two words, we get S-I-N, maybe to explain the jump between plain frustration to infuriation, if we have to be all religious about the whole thing.

What’s my point? Well, I’m now teetering on the edge of a precipice – standing on the thin line between frustration and infuriation; a step away from the tempest ahead while looking back longingly at my own footprints imprinting their mark on my bruised ego.

I look at my footprints and I realize that I know each indentation and ridges all too well. I know that my right foot leaves the bigger dent because of an anomaly in the way I walk. My walk, even to the most observant eye, may appear even but that’s not true. My right heel crooked downwards by force of gravity every time I take a step as my left shoulder and hips rotate while struggling to compensate. The impression my right foot creates – from heel, instep, sole and the hallux — is deeper than my left foot.

You know how models are taught to walk the straight line? That’s how I strive to walk so that the weight of my steps shifts on the outside soles.

I brought up the subject of my walk because when I cross that thin line towards rage, my walk would be insignificant since fury has a way of making me dash like a rabid dog on crack. The rush of adrenaline you get is not unlike the lightheaded feeling of somebody who’s high on drugs.

Under the influence of anger, you don’t walk. You fly.  

Never mind the amount of destruction on fury’s trail as realization sets in after the level of adrenaline subsides. I say, that’s a collateral damage. If the government is allowed to kill civilians in its war against communist insurgency and chalk it up in the name of collateral damage, I don’t see why I can’t leave behind some bleeding hearts and battered self-worth. If you dance with the devil, prepare to get burned. Besides, I miss the rush.

As if you didn’t know, rage is addictive, too.

 

Knowing Thai

May 7, 2007

It's disorienting to be in another country and you don't speak the language. Thailand is especially difficult because they don't speak English well, a downside of its nationalist policy I guess. Even the shows on cable television are dubbed in Thai and the subtitles are also in Thai. Wtf!

I think it's only here where you couldn't be so smug about knowing the English language well. Filipinos carry that distinction around like a badge of honor everywhere they go but here, I just feel so illiterate. I can't go beyond the Thai phrases "Sawasdee Krap" and "Korp Krun" for hello and thank you and that's on me. That's my badge of shame.

Thais are pretty friendly and the place is not every expensive (not cheap either) but I just know something, somewhere along the way, would be lost in the translation and in this case I'm reduced to a bumbling fool flaying my hands in a desparate attempt to get my message across.

Somehow, I just know that I'll have to use my hands soon and slap somebody silly.  No translations needed there. That's universal.

 

 

 

It’s not global warming, it’s hell

April 18, 2007

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.