Synchronicity is the experience of two or more events which are casually unrelated occurring together in a meaningful manner. In order to be synchronous, the events should be unlikely to occur together by random chance.
The concept does not question, or compete with, the notion of causality. Instead, it maintains that just as events may be grouped by cause, they may also be grouped by their meaning. Since meaning is a complex mental construction, subject to conscious and subconscious influence, not every correlation in the grouping of events by meaning needs to have an explanation in terms of cause and effect. (wikipedia)
Swiss master psychologist Carl Jung coined this now household friendly (well, at least in educated ones) word. To my humble mind, synchronicity is just "meaningful coincidence." Meaning, just two (2) or more things happening on or about the same time where in one's perception, all the events have a somewhat logical (or sometimes even fantastical) relationship.
MANGA TRIVIA: In 2002, manga author Itagaki Keisuke based one of the story arcs of "Baki The Search Of Our Strongest Hero" on the synchronicity theme, presenting a story in which five death row inmates escaped at the same time, in different countries, each after surviving his own execution. Each inmate went back to Japan at the same time to meet in the same place for the same objective. That is, of course, to find out "who is the strongest hero." To those who have read Baki, or watched the anime, you all know who's the strongest.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
I call him "Andoy" like my great-grandfather
Three weeks ago today, at around 1:29 a.m., my son was born. I wept when I first saw him minutes after he came out of her mother's (my lovely wife's) womb. I think this is the second time in my life that I have shed tears for joy. The first time was when my ex-girlfriend walked down the aisle to meet me while I waited before the altar.
I named him (and my wife agreed) "Justis Andres." Justis, because when I was about 14 or 15 years young, I read in a MegadetH (80's-90's Bay Area Thrash Metal Band) cover sleeve that Dave Mustaine's (Megadeth Frontman/Guitarist extra-ordinaire) son is named Justis, and from that moment on, I have decided that I will name my future son "Justis". Andres, because my father's name is "Bonifacio." For those of you who might happen to read this who happen to be non-Filipino, or a non-fan of South-East Asian/Philippine Colonial History, "Andres Bonifacio" is a Filipino hero during the Filipino-Spanish war. Many consider him to be the bravest Filipino warrior-general during those times. Andres Bonifacio's like Leonidas, Geronimo, William Wallace, and maybe perhaps, Oliver Cromwell to some extent, except that he never gained true national power like Cromwell did. Like Leonidas, Bonifacio was betrayed by scum. Anyway.
I still get teary-eyed everytime I look at my son for more than a minute. He looks like a Million Bucks and more. Nevermind the things I do not have in life, which I thought I could not go on living without. My son is the proof that I have lived.
Don Justis Andres Garcia Y Rivera.
I named him (and my wife agreed) "Justis Andres." Justis, because when I was about 14 or 15 years young, I read in a MegadetH (80's-90's Bay Area Thrash Metal Band) cover sleeve that Dave Mustaine's (Megadeth Frontman/Guitarist extra-ordinaire) son is named Justis, and from that moment on, I have decided that I will name my future son "Justis". Andres, because my father's name is "Bonifacio." For those of you who might happen to read this who happen to be non-Filipino, or a non-fan of South-East Asian/Philippine Colonial History, "Andres Bonifacio" is a Filipino hero during the Filipino-Spanish war. Many consider him to be the bravest Filipino warrior-general during those times. Andres Bonifacio's like Leonidas, Geronimo, William Wallace, and maybe perhaps, Oliver Cromwell to some extent, except that he never gained true national power like Cromwell did. Like Leonidas, Bonifacio was betrayed by scum. Anyway.
I still get teary-eyed everytime I look at my son for more than a minute. He looks like a Million Bucks and more. Nevermind the things I do not have in life, which I thought I could not go on living without. My son is the proof that I have lived.
Don Justis Andres Garcia Y Rivera.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Looking through the eyes of Rufus Humphrey
To some, I may be born yesterday. Technically, I was born last week. That was the first time I watched sequential "Gossip girl" episodes. I survived life so far without ever seeing a single episode of "Grey's Anatomy" despite its infamy. But when by happenstance I came across Jessica Zafra's review of "Gossip girl," I knew I must get around seeing it sometime. Further, I had an educated hunch the show was going to be good since Ms. JZ in my book happens to be the Queen of all Cultural Snobs and she gave Gg (for brevity) a sort of a positive review in a major broadsheet. This last weekend, my lovely wife and my brother-in-law were watching a Gg DVD and I watched along. Unlike them, however, I still have to stop watching.
Now this peice is not going to be review on Gg--just watch the show and decide for yourselves as to whether or not the same is any good--but rather an in depth look into two of the peripheral characters in the persons of Rufus Humphrey and Lily Van der Woodsen.
Rufus is the father of Dan--who dated the lead, Serena Van der Woodsen--and Jenny, a.k.a. "Little J." Rufus is also the estranged husband of Alison, who is now living in Hudson, presumably getting fucked daily by his neighbor whom she met when she ran away from home under the pretense of moving out of the family environment in order to further cultivate her art as she is a painter. Finally, Rufus is the first great love of Lily Van der Woodsen, mother of Serena who had already married four times after she and Rufus broke up sometime in the early Eighties.
Rufus is a NYC small gallery owner by day and a songwriter/guitarist on the weekends. I have seen a fender Stratocaster, a Gibson Les Paul and a really cool, worn cherry Gibson ES135 which he actually played in gig in one of the episodes in season 1. He sends his son Dan and daughter Jenny to a geared-towards-Ivy League High School in Manhattan attended by kids coming from America's richest and most famous families, such as the Waldorfs, the Archibalds, the Richashell, the Whatelsehaveyous. How he does it? I don't know. He must sell a whole damn lot of those abstracts and hideous wrought-iron sculptures at his gallery. Well, you know the rich, they tend to actually buy all those stuff which ordinary people like you and me would just be satisfied by admiring them in museums and public art galleries. So the plot, while somewhat unlikely, is still plausible if you stretch your imagination a little bit.
Now I don't really care too much about the main corny-ass teenybopper story, as I find it a cross between 90210 and Sex in the City, but strange as it may be, I have a long standing fascination in the City of New York and through the years, have developed a certain propensity of watching movies and TV shows set in the Big Apple. To me, NYC is the City of all Cities, and someday, I hope to visit and it and be a part of the audience for the Late Show if David Letterman is still alive or haven't retired. BTW, how old is DL today? A hundred and twelve? Anyway, The Humphreys live in Brooklyn while Van der Woodsens and the Waldorfs are from Uptown Manhattan. They are all, however "Upper Eastsiders."
While not actually portrayed or acted out in the series, Rufus in his youth got to know young Lily an fell in love like star crossed lovers not unlike Romeo and whatsherface. Nevertheles, fate is always never that kind. It is not clear on exactly how they broke up but it is pristine that the root was the immense gap between their families' fortunes vis-a-vis the lack thereof. Rufus is from a working class family, and Lily, is a Van der Woodsen--the kind of family whose children never have to manually toil to earn their daily bread, as their ancestors had secured their futures a long time ago. To my eyes, their relationship could have worked though, if only Rufus had more balls and Lily wasn't too much of a damsel. Perhps due to the shortcomings of their youth, what love they had failed to hold together their relationship.
Peculiar, however, is that even after more than seventeen (17) years, it is apparent that they still have some feeliings for each other. Is it true that a person's first great love never really dies? Who knows these things anyway? It's like asking why is sea water salty. In one episode, right after Rufus finally broke up with her slut of a wife Alison on Christmas day, no less, he called Lily while standing outside the courtyard of the Hotel(!) where the latter lived (while the snow was falling hard and the former was without a jacket) just to tell her he misses her. Unfortunately, Bart Bass (father of Chuck Bass, and major a-hole) on that exact moment was unvieling an engagement ring that makes that given by Jay-Z to Mariah look like a cheap wal-mart deal. A few days after that, Lily, having found out that Rufus and Alison had gone their separate ways (finally, for the love of God) agreed to run away with Rufus over the weekend and see what would happen if they try to rekindle what they had. But as sure as the taxi cabs in NYC are yellow and not red like in HK, that plan failed to push through. As Lily was packing, her daughter Serena caught her shining with an uncharacteristic glow in her face, and the former confessed to her daughter in not so many words that she's going away with Rufus. Serena pleaded cryingly to her mother that Dan (Humphrey) is the most important thing in her life and that she would rater have Chuck Bass as his step-brother than Dan, begging her mother not to do it (whatever it is) to her. There, Lily's decision was made. Lily arrived the place where they were supposed to meet but not as Lily but as the rich Mrs. Van der Woodsen who saw Rufus as poor Mr. Humphrey from the Bronx. When Rufus left, Lily stood there lone at the corner of 86th and 9th contemplating whether or not she made the same big mistake twice in her lifetime.
Rufus still loves Lily and vice-versa. Perhaps they have chosen not to be together so what they had can never be spoiled and ruined by the mundane realities of life. Maybe they have chosen to be friends because they are truly soul-mates and they know deep inside their hearts that nothing can take away their love for each other no matter how many marriages one goes through or how many neighbors will fuck their spouses. In one bizaare episode, Rufus was taken along Lily's wedding gown shopping trip. When the latter oppened the fitting room curtain, the star-crossed couples' eyes revealed what I have just written. Towards the close of the first season, it is revealed that Rufus and Lily made love the night before her wedding, prompting her to have to make a decision between him and Chuck's father. Rufus surprises Lily in the brides chamber and offers to call off the wedding. Lily tells Rufus she loves him and then walks down the aisle to marry Bart Ass, I mean, Bass.
Now this peice is not going to be review on Gg--just watch the show and decide for yourselves as to whether or not the same is any good--but rather an in depth look into two of the peripheral characters in the persons of Rufus Humphrey and Lily Van der Woodsen.
Rufus is the father of Dan--who dated the lead, Serena Van der Woodsen--and Jenny, a.k.a. "Little J." Rufus is also the estranged husband of Alison, who is now living in Hudson, presumably getting fucked daily by his neighbor whom she met when she ran away from home under the pretense of moving out of the family environment in order to further cultivate her art as she is a painter. Finally, Rufus is the first great love of Lily Van der Woodsen, mother of Serena who had already married four times after she and Rufus broke up sometime in the early Eighties.
Rufus is a NYC small gallery owner by day and a songwriter/guitarist on the weekends. I have seen a fender Stratocaster, a Gibson Les Paul and a really cool, worn cherry Gibson ES135 which he actually played in gig in one of the episodes in season 1. He sends his son Dan and daughter Jenny to a geared-towards-Ivy League High School in Manhattan attended by kids coming from America's richest and most famous families, such as the Waldorfs, the Archibalds, the Richashell, the Whatelsehaveyous. How he does it? I don't know. He must sell a whole damn lot of those abstracts and hideous wrought-iron sculptures at his gallery. Well, you know the rich, they tend to actually buy all those stuff which ordinary people like you and me would just be satisfied by admiring them in museums and public art galleries. So the plot, while somewhat unlikely, is still plausible if you stretch your imagination a little bit.
Now I don't really care too much about the main corny-ass teenybopper story, as I find it a cross between 90210 and Sex in the City, but strange as it may be, I have a long standing fascination in the City of New York and through the years, have developed a certain propensity of watching movies and TV shows set in the Big Apple. To me, NYC is the City of all Cities, and someday, I hope to visit and it and be a part of the audience for the Late Show if David Letterman is still alive or haven't retired. BTW, how old is DL today? A hundred and twelve? Anyway, The Humphreys live in Brooklyn while Van der Woodsens and the Waldorfs are from Uptown Manhattan. They are all, however "Upper Eastsiders."
While not actually portrayed or acted out in the series, Rufus in his youth got to know young Lily an fell in love like star crossed lovers not unlike Romeo and whatsherface. Nevertheles, fate is always never that kind. It is not clear on exactly how they broke up but it is pristine that the root was the immense gap between their families' fortunes vis-a-vis the lack thereof. Rufus is from a working class family, and Lily, is a Van der Woodsen--the kind of family whose children never have to manually toil to earn their daily bread, as their ancestors had secured their futures a long time ago. To my eyes, their relationship could have worked though, if only Rufus had more balls and Lily wasn't too much of a damsel. Perhps due to the shortcomings of their youth, what love they had failed to hold together their relationship.
Peculiar, however, is that even after more than seventeen (17) years, it is apparent that they still have some feeliings for each other. Is it true that a person's first great love never really dies? Who knows these things anyway? It's like asking why is sea water salty. In one episode, right after Rufus finally broke up with her slut of a wife Alison on Christmas day, no less, he called Lily while standing outside the courtyard of the Hotel(!) where the latter lived (while the snow was falling hard and the former was without a jacket) just to tell her he misses her. Unfortunately, Bart Bass (father of Chuck Bass, and major a-hole) on that exact moment was unvieling an engagement ring that makes that given by Jay-Z to Mariah look like a cheap wal-mart deal. A few days after that, Lily, having found out that Rufus and Alison had gone their separate ways (finally, for the love of God) agreed to run away with Rufus over the weekend and see what would happen if they try to rekindle what they had. But as sure as the taxi cabs in NYC are yellow and not red like in HK, that plan failed to push through. As Lily was packing, her daughter Serena caught her shining with an uncharacteristic glow in her face, and the former confessed to her daughter in not so many words that she's going away with Rufus. Serena pleaded cryingly to her mother that Dan (Humphrey) is the most important thing in her life and that she would rater have Chuck Bass as his step-brother than Dan, begging her mother not to do it (whatever it is) to her. There, Lily's decision was made. Lily arrived the place where they were supposed to meet but not as Lily but as the rich Mrs. Van der Woodsen who saw Rufus as poor Mr. Humphrey from the Bronx. When Rufus left, Lily stood there lone at the corner of 86th and 9th contemplating whether or not she made the same big mistake twice in her lifetime.
Rufus still loves Lily and vice-versa. Perhaps they have chosen not to be together so what they had can never be spoiled and ruined by the mundane realities of life. Maybe they have chosen to be friends because they are truly soul-mates and they know deep inside their hearts that nothing can take away their love for each other no matter how many marriages one goes through or how many neighbors will fuck their spouses. In one bizaare episode, Rufus was taken along Lily's wedding gown shopping trip. When the latter oppened the fitting room curtain, the star-crossed couples' eyes revealed what I have just written. Towards the close of the first season, it is revealed that Rufus and Lily made love the night before her wedding, prompting her to have to make a decision between him and Chuck's father. Rufus surprises Lily in the brides chamber and offers to call off the wedding. Lily tells Rufus she loves him and then walks down the aisle to marry Bart Ass, I mean, Bass.
You have just got to see Gg to believe it.
x o x o,
The Rainmaker
x o x o,
The Rainmaker
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Expect nothing from nobody
"Pinocchio"(original art by Enrico Mazzanti)
Every single person is a liar. Show me a man or a woman who hasn't lied to anybody he or she know and I'll show you a donkey with three (3) heads. So expect nothing from nobody. Expectations are the cause of disappointment which in turn, leads to hate. Try to keep your promises, but never believe in anyone else's. Belief is the path to ruin--in belief, there is lie.
Even the kindest man I know lies occassionaly. That's because lying is all too natural and the truth is rarer than diamonds. If you don't believe me, try going to Sierra Leone. Words are but a spit in the wind. It is the actions which define a man. Don Juan (de Marco) promised the moon to every lady he slept with, yet in the morning, even before the sun comes up, he's usually nowhere to be found. Promises are for fools. Sometimes, however, we are all fools. Perhaps the trick in life is not to be a fool all the time.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
A day in the life of a lawyer in government service
A few weeks ago, while I was in the RTC (Regional Trial Court) library, I noticed a Soroptimist ( trans: really fuckin' old lady; a rich matron with a whole damn lot of expensive antique jewelry) mestiza making some sort of a ruckus with the librarians asking some stuff about a particular AM (Administrative Matter) SC (Supreme Court) Circular about TROs (Temporary Restraining Orders). I wasn't eavesdropping but I can't help but overhear the clanking of her gold bracelets and their loud hollers at each other even though they were just a couple of feet from each other. Funny how most women talk. They get excited easily over nothing and shout like their conversation partners are a mile or two away. HOY, ALAM MO BA SI ANO...YAKITY-YAKITY-YAK. My mother does it, my mother-in-law does it, and every broad I know does the same when they are above forty years of age. I'm not worried too much if my lovely wife does it too when we get old. I'd probably be partially deaf by then.
In order to enjoy some piece and quiet while I research the latest jurisprudence on a particular kind of estafa, I approached the motley crew consisting of the two librarians and the nice old lady. Turned out that she was indeed looking for a relatively new SC AM/Circular concerning the issuance of TROs. Coincidentally, since I've passed the bar just last year, I still know some of the stuff I studied during my review. So I helped the matron and in effect, the librarians by pointing them to the right direction. At that point, I had no idea on who the old lady was and she was glad that a young lawyer in government service like me could help her get out of the bind she was in, whatever that is, I didn't bother to ask. So I got the books that I needed and headed back to the ratty old building which housed our ratty old office.
Just this morning, that same sparkling old lady opened the office door. She said, "Attorney, you're here pala."
Reflexively, I answered "Good Morning po. What can I do for you ma'am?" While at that particular moment having no goddam clue on who she was.
"You don't remember me no?" she said, looking through my eyes. I was never a good liar. At least to women.
"Of course I do po. We met in the library." That stream of information rushing through my brain serendepitously.
"Yes, thank you. You really helped me back then." It wasn't really much, I told her. I was just glad to help. The truth is, however, I just really wanted to make her shut the hell up back then.
Anyway, she was there, apparently to follow-up on a particular case filed in our sala. A Section 5. (Section 11 of Republic Act No. 9165; trans: drug trafficking) She's got a partial copy of the case record and told me that the accused is one of her care-takers in one of the real estate she owns. She said the man was wrongfully accused. They all think they are, I thought but didn't say. While I was going through the papers she brought along with her, and trying to explain to her in layman's language the status of the case, I noticed that my boss the Judge came out of the chambers and was looking at us.
"Ma'am, the judge is here." Almost instantaneously, she turned her back on me and approached my boss as if they were classmates in Kindergarten school. Relieved, I leaned on my comfortable desk chair and motioned to a stenographer for her to come to me.
"Do you know that old lady?" I asked.
"Attorney, I thought you knew her. You were talking to her as if you do." Answered Rina, one of our highly efficient yet still funny stenographers.
"No I don't. I was just being nice to her since I remember her from the library. You know I'm not good with names and faces." A lie. I wasn't being nice, I just wanted to make a good impression of myself with the library staff and make the old bag STFU.
"Well, she's one of the richest old ladies here in the City lang naman attorney. She's Dona Veronica...Vernie, her friends call her." Said Rina.
"Ohh, really." I answered while pretending not to care.
Then I found myself asking for the case records of that case and reviewed the same for a minute. I went inside the chambers and found the judge sitting in one of the visitor's chairs in front of his huge-assed mahogany desk while Vernie sat across him. The boss never does this unless the visitor is really fuckin' important. He doesn't even do it for the Mayor, other Judges, and even his good old childhood friend the postmaster. The boss was explaining the status of the case as I was trying to do a little while before as I handed him the case records opened to show his last order concerning this particular case. After a few sentences, and a little back-up from me, we conviced her that the accused is guaranteed a fair trial in our sala. Somewhat satisfied, the topic of the conversation was changed. After shooting some bull with the matron, concerning several charitable and social activities she spear-headed, the boss asked her how did she get to know me.
She related the library incident to my boss and made the impression that:
1. I was really nice and helpful; and
2. I am very intelligent.
According to her, other Clerks of Court don't know the law as well as I do. I saw that the judge believed her and I was trying my very best not too look too smug. That's one other thing I'm not too good at: appearing absolutely modest. I think I actually blushed, taking into consideration my unmistakingly kayumanggi skin tone. I was thinking "Not too bad, Jorge, not too bad at all."
Then, after shooting some more bull, and talking nonsense about other people who I don't really know too well or care about, I opened the chamber door as the boss had another appointment he can't afford to miss and it's my job to remind him about everything. She continued talking with the judge as we headed out to the main branch office when the boss surprisingly blurted out so that everyone there could hear, "Ah, you know, your documents are going to be in order, as it's gonna be handled by my Clerk of Court. When Jorge does the job, drafts of orders, resolutions, decisions...I don't even have to check it anymore." Wow.
Suddenly, my head, big as it already is, grew into about the circumference of one of Jupiter's moons. I didn't even know what those documents are going to be. I was just flustered by the fact that not only does my boss thinks I'm the best man he can have for the job, he deemed it wise to announce that fact in front of all my staff. Then I remembered that I haven't lit a cigarette since morning. I got out , escorted the rich old lady towards the building gate exit and had the best puffs I've had since I started this job.
Now I really believe that appearances are almost everything.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Goodfellas
My good friend Armando is the genuine article. I met him on my first day of law school. I didn't know nobody else and I'm not the character who'd start talking to strangers in a strange place the minute I got there. When I started law school, I didn't intend to have new friends or in the coloquial, barkada--I already have a whole bunch of them stashed away. I was hell bent on going to school, studying my ass off, and then going home so that in a few years, I'd be a kick-ass lawyer. Along with this tall, dark guy, whose exact facial features or surname I can't recall at this moment (though I remember his first name and alma mater; Mike and UPLB, respectively), Mandy started talking to me and even though I can't fucking remember the contents of that conversation, or determine if the same was significant or not, that was the beginning of our friendship. Frankly, I have never met someone like Mandy before. He made his bones when I was six (6) years old. He sent himself to high school while working as a greasy gasoline boy at the same time sharing in the support of his family. While baking donuts for donut giant DD, he clawed his way to college. While working for a lawyer as a para-legal cum legal researcher cum Doctor (ng affidavits, etc.) he propulsed himself into law school. Now he's finally on his fourth (4th) year and I know for sure that soon he'll be more of a lawyer than many of those I know who have already taken their own oaths. He could've been my batch-mate if he hadn't taken a LOA (leave of absense) during our first year because he had this health issue back then. What more can you ask, he's already geezer. Hell, he's a college batch-mate of Atty. Espina, out professor of Constitutional Law I. A few years more and he'll be eligible for a discount card in buses, movie houses and drug stores. Nevertheless, the Armando I know won't stoop down to such travesty. He won't ever apply for a senior citizen card, and neither will I--if I live that long. Mandy's bible is The Godfather by Mario Puzo and his National Hero is Nardong Putik. I think he's one of the few who'd actually agree with me if I say "those who eat shit eat shit because they like to eat shit." He's one of the best friends I've made in law school if not the best, and I'll treasure his friendship until San Miguel stops selling beer, or even longer than that. I'm proud of this guy because he's living proof that free will exists. He continously wills himself to become a made man. He's on the way there, I think (and pray--though unlike me, Mandy doesn't believe in prayers, thinking it's foolish). He's alright, he's one of us, he's a good fella.
My good friend Renato is a saint. I've never met a man who's genuinely morally upright who'd want something to do with the likes of me. He's a straight shooter, much like how Chief Justice Puno or Ghandi is a straight shooter. He doesn't shoot the bull too much and he's really an intelligent man, after me, of course. Since he's my batch-mate and co-conspirator with our operation caochings during the exercise of law professors of what is called the Socratic Method, we've grown to be the closest of friends during law school. So close, that some people (those who don't know us too well, and those who are stupid as jars of clay) mistake one for the other. Ato has always been the one who stopped me (or at least tried to) whenever I decided to translate a stupid plan or idea of mine into actuality. And I'm the one who reminded him constantly to be careful with all the girls he flirts with in law school as he and his ex-girlfriend (who's now his wife) Joji were already soon to be married back then. We were partners both in crime and in acquittal. In fact, we already formed our law firm (JALO = Jorge and Ato Law Office "Mura na, Sure win pa") while we were in law school, me and him as partners, and the class valedictorian, Atty. Mary Ann Reyes, as our secretary. LOL. He and I had lots of fun in law school, as much as one could have there, anyway. Seriously, if I'd really have a partner in a law firm someday, he's still number one on my list. Though I seriously doubt if he has the cojones to do the things that have to be done whatever the cost, it's all gonna be fine because he's a person who lived his life so he wouldn't have to sully his hands with blood and dirt. I see him as someone who'd be right there with me when the family finally disappears into the legal fabric of society on the forthcoming retreat to civility. He's alright, he's one of us, he's a good fella.
Ato and Mandy are two very different animals, but they too are friends and I am just a person who's glad to have known them as a friend. After all, friendship is more valuable than most of the things in this world.
Then there's my cousin Carlo Noel, who's more like a brother to us (Me, David, and Marco) than a cousin. He's the second son of the Godfather, Don Marcelino. He's growing up to be a true Qualificato (qualified man). That tells it all though. For the family is the only thing more important than friendship. He's alright, he's one of us, he's a good fella.Wednesday, August 6, 2008
A horse-coach's tale
A poor kid I know (from a family who was poor ever since the beginning of time) in my hometown was thrown in jail yesterday. He's 20 years young. He's about the same age as my youngest brother Marco, who in a few years time will become a Doctor. A DVM (Doctor of Veterinary Medicine), but a Doctor nonetheless. Anyway, this kid, whose real name I can't remember or do not know at all, goes by the name of Jomar (probably Jose Mari, but I could be wrong). He's one of those kids who saw too many Robin Padilla movies as a young boy. And like all jerk-offs who thinks he's a "Bad Boy," he ends up being a loser, like 75% of all Filipinos think what they are, if you have seen the results of the latest Pulse Asia survey.
Apparently, Jomar together with another young thug @ Brando, beat the shit out of two other kids in broad daylight in front of the Public Market the other day. According to some kids I have talked to this afternoon, Jomar started the hit with a solid asero (alloy knuckles) punch to the face which cracked the face of his opponent. After that first hit, he and @ Brando pummeled and mauled the two other kids until their faces were as plump as tomatoes and their cheeks as fat and red like siopao with hotsauce poured all over. Unlike @ Brando who fled the scene almost instantaneously after the skirmish, Jomar went on to tambay and chit-chat with some other local kids, perhaps to convey the story of his great victory. Sure as hell, he was picked-up by the cops. By the time you read this, and in the words of a PAO (Public Attorney's Office) lawyer I know, "he's still languishing in jail." That's all detention and convicted prisoners do: languish in jail. Funny word, really--languish. I'm guessing its etymology would reveal that such is the by-product of the combination of the two words "long" and "anguish." "Long anguish" has been shortened to become "languish". Truth is, however, languishing may have stemmed from "laughing" and "fishing" for all I know. Who knows these things?
I have only known Jomar when he was a young kid. Since I have studied for most of my life in Manila, I only saw this "mini-goon" during the summers. I have always thought he was an asshole; the type that wouldn't easily obey my commands whenever I gave one. He always kept the change whenever I ask him to buy something for me. At times, when he sees me, he turns away in order to evade the chore he would have to perform for me. He did not refuse me straight out, as no kid in our neighborhood could have outwardly refused to obey me or my brother David, like no man in our shitty little backward town can openly refuse my father or my uncles. As early as then, I realized that I would have very little use of him in the future if he ever grows up.
Last year (or maybe early this year I can't really remember for sure), my mama took pity on the damned kid and asked my father if he can give him a job of sorts, so that Jomar could help out his family even a little bit. Jomar was hired to be a peon in the LPG (Liquefied Petroleum Gas) refilling plant. After two weeks or so, Jomar gave Papa a head-ache. Why? Because Jomar is an asshole. My father can not and does not tolerate assholes, especially in the business. Pa gave the order and Jomar packed his bags and went back home to return to being a small time hood. He might have stayed there at least a little bit longer notwithstanding the fact that he is lazy as a turtle (my apologies to turtles and all other amphibians who might take offense with my statement), but the darn kid even made an enemy of one of Pa's own crew. Pa told me that kid wanted to die so quick, but he wouldn't have it under his watch. There are just some folks who anybody can't make a decent man out of. He is what he is.
Apparently, Jomar together with another young thug @ Brando, beat the shit out of two other kids in broad daylight in front of the Public Market the other day. According to some kids I have talked to this afternoon, Jomar started the hit with a solid asero (alloy knuckles) punch to the face which cracked the face of his opponent. After that first hit, he and @ Brando pummeled and mauled the two other kids until their faces were as plump as tomatoes and their cheeks as fat and red like siopao with hotsauce poured all over. Unlike @ Brando who fled the scene almost instantaneously after the skirmish, Jomar went on to tambay and chit-chat with some other local kids, perhaps to convey the story of his great victory. Sure as hell, he was picked-up by the cops. By the time you read this, and in the words of a PAO (Public Attorney's Office) lawyer I know, "he's still languishing in jail." That's all detention and convicted prisoners do: languish in jail. Funny word, really--languish. I'm guessing its etymology would reveal that such is the by-product of the combination of the two words "long" and "anguish." "Long anguish" has been shortened to become "languish". Truth is, however, languishing may have stemmed from "laughing" and "fishing" for all I know. Who knows these things?
I have only known Jomar when he was a young kid. Since I have studied for most of my life in Manila, I only saw this "mini-goon" during the summers. I have always thought he was an asshole; the type that wouldn't easily obey my commands whenever I gave one. He always kept the change whenever I ask him to buy something for me. At times, when he sees me, he turns away in order to evade the chore he would have to perform for me. He did not refuse me straight out, as no kid in our neighborhood could have outwardly refused to obey me or my brother David, like no man in our shitty little backward town can openly refuse my father or my uncles. As early as then, I realized that I would have very little use of him in the future if he ever grows up.
Last year (or maybe early this year I can't really remember for sure), my mama took pity on the damned kid and asked my father if he can give him a job of sorts, so that Jomar could help out his family even a little bit. Jomar was hired to be a peon in the LPG (Liquefied Petroleum Gas) refilling plant. After two weeks or so, Jomar gave Papa a head-ache. Why? Because Jomar is an asshole. My father can not and does not tolerate assholes, especially in the business. Pa gave the order and Jomar packed his bags and went back home to return to being a small time hood. He might have stayed there at least a little bit longer notwithstanding the fact that he is lazy as a turtle (my apologies to turtles and all other amphibians who might take offense with my statement), but the darn kid even made an enemy of one of Pa's own crew. Pa told me that kid wanted to die so quick, but he wouldn't have it under his watch. There are just some folks who anybody can't make a decent man out of. He is what he is.
Jomar is not in jail now because he cracked that kid's face wide open; nor because unlike his friend @ Brando, he did not go underground a little bit after the hit so the cops wouldn't find him as easily as they did; and neither is he still in jail because the justice system is really tough. Jomar is in jail right now because he's poor and stupid. One cannot afford to be stupid when he's poor. And one cannot suffer to be poor when he's stupid. Being poor and stupid is a lethal mix.
Jomar went to jail because he did the hit against the wrong guys, at the wrong place at the wrong time. That's because he's stupid. If he weren't, he could have known that his "victims" are the nephews of a policeman, while his father is a mere tree-trimmer and ocassional "if-in-the-mood" fisherman; he wouldn't have made the hit in front of the public market, where everyone there saw them; and he wouldn't have scheduled the hit in broad day-light when everyone who saw the melee could easily make them out in a line-up. Jomar is still in jail because he is poor as a rat (this time, my apologies go to the rodent class). His family couldn't afford to even post bail, much more pay that the family of the "victims" what they are asking for. I heard that the sum is in the tune of 80 G's. I know a few guys who pay that much in a night in a posh QC night club, but even if Jomar's father walked the entire length of EDSA using his hands with his feet up in the air, and his mother turn to a whore in a cheap local brothel, they couldn't raise that money. You won't find more than 25C coins in the streets and they don't accept broads whose belly-buttons and nipples are of the same height and level even in the cheapest of all casas.
Being young, and therefore sometimes illogically merciful to the fates of others, I related all of this to my father. He said "Let him be." Without any other word, I understood completely. Jomar wouldn't have any use for us whatsoever as I have feared. His only talent is contained in his fists, and that, we have more than enough of. Que sera sera.
What is the lesson to be learned from all of this? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Plasticity
One of my favorite websites provide: "Plasticity generally means ability to permanently change or deform. (It differs from 'elasticity', which refers to ability to change temporarily and revert back to original form.)"
The ability to permanently change or deform. Permanent meaning "lasting for an indefinitely long time", or in the extreme sense, it may mean "without end, eternal". Change. Deform. IMHO, these words don't sound too good. While "change" is a neutral word, "deform" on the other hand is definitely a negative one. Deform may imply a change of shape through stress, injury, or some accident of growth. As a verb, "deform" means "to spoil in the form of; or, to become mishapen; or to be misfigured.
In view of all the foregoing, it is not incorrect for me to say that "Plasticity" may be defined as the ability to spoil, to become mishapen or misfigured for a lasting or indefinite period of time which may encomapss eternity.
Now I have a word for that pehonomenon which occurs to almost all (if not all) people who enter into Philippine Government Service.
After I finally became a lawyer (or in other words "a priveleged member of the distinct and noble legal profession") a lot of people were somewhat surprised why I chose to serve in the Judiciary as a Branch Clerk of Court. I always answer, "Serbisyo Publiko po muna in my first few years as a lawyer, as a way of giving back to society." or "Gusto ko lang pong tumulong sa administrasyon ng hustisya sa mga unang taon ko bilang abogado." I knew in my heart that although my answers were honest, they were incomplete. The truth of the matter is that I opted for a job in the judiciary also because I want to practice law (in the traditional sense) in the near future. And what better place to learn to swin than in the shark-filled ocean? Nevertheless, not a few people who receive such answers from me do not take such replies seriously (even though I say them out loud in a straight face that could make a world series poker player cringe). These people either think I was only joking or perhaps, label me as another hypocrite who preaches a certain belief or way of life, but do not in fact hold these same virtues oneself. Still, a few others just think that I am ridiculously out of my mind and believe.
BTW, the Greek word "Hypokrisis" is applied to any sort of public performance, while its counterpart noun "Hypokrites" was a technical term for a stage actor and was not, therefore, considered an appropriate role for a public figure. In Athens in the 4th Century BC, for example, the great orator Demosthenes ridiculed his rival Aeschines, who had been a successful actor before taking up politics, as a hypokrites whose skill at impersonating characters on stage made him an untrustworthy politician. This negative view of the hypokrites, perhaps combined with the Roman disdain for actors, later shaded into the originally neutral hypokrisis. It is this later sense of hypokrisis as "play-acting," i.e. the assumption of a counterfeit persona, that gives the modern word hypocrisy its negative connotation.
Anyway, I do not consider myself to be a hypocrite. I am just a someone who wills himself to become a man who earns his daily bread with dignity and respect, and someday make the retreat and disappear into the legal fabric of society as one of the pillars of the family. I entered in the service of the judiciary not to start a revolution of sorts. I am not here to drastically alter the state of things. I am not here to weed out the corrupt, to stop the graft, or even prevent it. There would be too much unneccessary risks on my part. And those who know me well know that I do not like unneccessary risks. I have chosen to work for the government to learn, earn, and at the same time fulfill my duties the best way I can in the service of my country whose soil I cannot leave out of pride and love. I'd rather be issuing subpoenas and signing warrants of arrests all day than taking care of old geezers in London or in the States or walking strange dogs owned by strange people in NYC. Five (5) years shall pass and hopefully by then I have done my share of duty towards the country and start making some real money to wet the beaks of my family. Then perhaps, I could finally afford a cozy little house and real car like a Mercedes and a personal driver cum bodyguard that comes along with the purchase.
Plasticity sets in at different times depending on the branch of Philippine Government where it occurs. Sadly, it is wide-spread in all branches and in all agencies. In the BIR, Customs, and the DPWH, I have heard that the same sets in in a matter of minutes. In the legislature, a few months, and in the Judiciary, a few years. Hopefully, I can get out before I catch it too bad. I just need to stay focused and try to keep my eyes on the goal. I'm way too near the basket to miss.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
One way to get home
Since the price of gasoline has been continually skyrocketing at a dizzying, if not mindblowing pace, many motorists-who, like me cannot be considred rich by all acceptable social standards (not yet, anyway)-have devolved into being work-week pedestrians. Yesterday marked my first jeepney ride home from work. Since there are no FXs plowing the route towards my parents' house, the worsening economy have done the impossible. It turned back time and made me a 15 year-old kid again commuting his way home from high school. I always wanted to be a teen-ager again but I guess there is an ounce of truth to the cliche, "be careful of what you wish for..."
Like most Filipino males who ride jeepneys, I opted to acquire a seat in the front, riding shotgun with the driver. Luckily, I got to the front seat first before anybody else could squeeze in. When I got inside the king-of-the-road PUJ, I instantly noticed that the cabin was more cramped than I had expected and imagined. Perhaps, over the years I have gained too much weight for my own good. To be sure, even a ninety pound (90 lbs) old lady wouldn't fit beside me and the driver in that particular PUJ cockpit. Apparently, the seat was cannibalized from an old, early 90's Toyota Crown or Corona--if I'm not mistaken. Meaning, even if the seat is initially designed to accomodate one (1) passenger, it is now living its second life constantly seating two (2) commuting passengers at a time. Further, there was too much clutter around the cabin: a toolbox, a water jug filled with what seemed like diesel fuel, a pair of old pliers, etc., etc..
I decided that I would rather sit alone in the front with the driver and pay for what is the equivalent of another passenger's fare than pay only for myself and get squeezed into extreme discomfort all the way home to my parents'. I asked for how much is the fare and with no sruprise on my part, it was almost three (3) times more than what I used to pay when I was a thin, rocker-wannabe school kid from UST High. I paid twice that amount and told the driver not to let anybody else sit beside me para hindi masikip. I wouldn't mind at all if someone who resembles Ara Mina or Angelica Panganiban would sit beside me, but in all probability, it could be someone closer to the looks of Max Alvarado or Tommy Abuel at the least. Hell, if an Ara or Angelica attempted to sit there, maybe I'd even let her sit on my lap. On second thought, maybe not. My lovely and loving wife might just kill me faster than GMA's government would eventually kill us all if I did such an immoral and distasteful thing.
In our profession, we are required to dress up every single God-given day as if we are getting shot by a TV or Movie camera. Lawyers must be at all times dressed to kill. At least, those of us who give a damn about proper decorum anyway. So its either a barong or a suit. No other kind of professional except a lawyer would be crazy or pompous enough to wear a tailored suit in this tropical weather. I have been taught in my law school days that wearing the same is an acquired taste, just like the taste for beer. Personally, I enjoy wearing barongs and tailored suits. I had five (5) barongs made at a time by "Exclusively His Tailors" a few months back and a nice charcoal black Brooks Brothers replica of a suit also made by the same tailor. On the questioned date with the jeepney ride however, I was just wearing an embroidered but comfortable yellowish "Onesimus" polo barong together with RTW pinstripe slacks that my wife bought at the local SM mall just a few days back.
Among the lessons in life that I have learned is this: Filipinos judge people they don't know by the way they dress, by the car they drive, by the watch they wear, etc., etc.. There is no distinction. The same is true whether rich or poor. In my mind, I saw that manong driver thought I was not the daily passenger type. Seldom must he have a passenger wearing formal leather boots and pinstripe pants. Conceited as this observation of mine may be, but this is a hard fact of life. During the course of our approximately half-hour journey, we stopped at a gas station. My earlier guess about the water jug was correct. It contained diesel fuel. Apparently, manong customized his beloved jeepney to employ this jug as a makeshift fuel tank instead of the proper one. At this point, I made my sort of a mistake. "Sort of" because I'm not really sure if it indeed was a mistake: I started talking with manong driver.
Evidently, I sensed that he talked to me with an air of respect, in contrast to the rude way he treated some of the passengers. Whenever a student passenger would say "bayad po, isa lang," he would ask, "ano 'to estudyante?" And whenever the student answers "opo," he would retort "dapat kasi sasabihin n'yo kaagad hindi 'yung ginagawa n'yo akong manghuhula!" Also, each time when an old geezer pays, manong would ask "senior ho ba?" After the old folk answers in the affirmative, manong would murmur loud enough to be audible something to the effect of "ayaw kasing sabihin, gusto talaga pahirapan pa ako'ng mag-tanong..."
The Rainmaker (TRM for brevity): 'nong, bakit n'yo diyan kinakarga ang diesel? I was referring to the water jug cum fuel tank.
Manong: Eh kasi ho eh masyadong malaki yung tangke ng krudo nitong jeep, yada, yada, yada. I was not really paying attention but only pretending to be. I remembered that I forgot my paperback copy of Mario Puzo's "The Last Don" at the office.
TRM: Mas ok yan, kitang-kita nyo kung paubos na ang krudo nyo, at at the same time, ma-cocompute n'yo pa konsumo n'yo. Kaya lang, hindi ba delikado 'yan? At that moment, I remembered that when I was a kid, I tried to light a small automotive oil canister filled with diesel fuel with a lighted match but unlike gasoline, diesel doesn't light-up so easy. I figured I'd be safe and I better stop talking to manong. So, I shut my pie-hole.
Unfortunately, it was too late. The series of subsequent events could best be described as similar to the tale of Pandora's Box. Manong did not shut up as I did. In fact, he must've seen an opening--an opportunity to have someone to talk to from a different envronment. Sad but true, I got treated to what me and my freinds call a Nobela ng Talambuhay. Honestly, I didn't really care about what the poor schmuck was saying, but I could truthfully say that I was listening and enjoying the conversation for solely entertainment purposes. Sometimes, when the circumstances and the conditions are right, shooting some bull with a jeepney, taxi, or tricycle driver could be more entertaining than watching a movie. Surely, talking with manong was far more entertaining than all the movies featured on the VIVA movie channel on cable.
Real life is much more fun and exciting than the run-off-the mill, illogical and over-acted local movie flicks. Particularly so when manong talked about local gossip involving local politicians and personalities whom I know on a personal basis or at least those who I have heard of through other sources in the past. John Grisham said, "Lawyers thrive on Gossip." As testament to that remarkable statement, I can say with conviction that almost all lawyers are chismosos and chismosas. Nevertheless, they are of a different breed of chismosos and chismosas than that of those who dwell on the barberias and palangkes. Chismis, or in another word--gossip is a source of information. To the untrained, it has more harmful effects than good, if any at all. But to those versed with the practical working knowledge of Relevance and Materiality, much valuable information could be strainered even from the most outrageous and unbelievable hearsay story.
When it was finally my turn to alight the PUV, I said "salamat, manong" and he answered, "thank you po, sir." Know that I haven't verbally revealed anything about myself and what I do for a living. I just listened to him (or at least tried to listen and at some points, pretended to) while he blaberred on what is the meaning of life. Manong is a regular Ted Failon, who always have an opinion of everything. He's an experienced expert on Saudi Arabia's culture, having worked there for a decade. He's afraid that when his daughter grows up to be sixteen (16), the latter might want to go and work in Japan. And like most Filipinos who are naghihikahos sa kahirapan ng buhay, he's the government's number one (No.1) critic.
"A man could live his life as a slave to earn his daily bread without dignity or hope, or he could will himself to be a man who commanded respect."
-Don Domenico Clericuzio, Mario Puzo's "The Last Don"
Like most Filipino males who ride jeepneys, I opted to acquire a seat in the front, riding shotgun with the driver. Luckily, I got to the front seat first before anybody else could squeeze in. When I got inside the king-of-the-road PUJ, I instantly noticed that the cabin was more cramped than I had expected and imagined. Perhaps, over the years I have gained too much weight for my own good. To be sure, even a ninety pound (90 lbs) old lady wouldn't fit beside me and the driver in that particular PUJ cockpit. Apparently, the seat was cannibalized from an old, early 90's Toyota Crown or Corona--if I'm not mistaken. Meaning, even if the seat is initially designed to accomodate one (1) passenger, it is now living its second life constantly seating two (2) commuting passengers at a time. Further, there was too much clutter around the cabin: a toolbox, a water jug filled with what seemed like diesel fuel, a pair of old pliers, etc., etc..
I decided that I would rather sit alone in the front with the driver and pay for what is the equivalent of another passenger's fare than pay only for myself and get squeezed into extreme discomfort all the way home to my parents'. I asked for how much is the fare and with no sruprise on my part, it was almost three (3) times more than what I used to pay when I was a thin, rocker-wannabe school kid from UST High. I paid twice that amount and told the driver not to let anybody else sit beside me para hindi masikip. I wouldn't mind at all if someone who resembles Ara Mina or Angelica Panganiban would sit beside me, but in all probability, it could be someone closer to the looks of Max Alvarado or Tommy Abuel at the least. Hell, if an Ara or Angelica attempted to sit there, maybe I'd even let her sit on my lap. On second thought, maybe not. My lovely and loving wife might just kill me faster than GMA's government would eventually kill us all if I did such an immoral and distasteful thing.
In our profession, we are required to dress up every single God-given day as if we are getting shot by a TV or Movie camera. Lawyers must be at all times dressed to kill. At least, those of us who give a damn about proper decorum anyway. So its either a barong or a suit. No other kind of professional except a lawyer would be crazy or pompous enough to wear a tailored suit in this tropical weather. I have been taught in my law school days that wearing the same is an acquired taste, just like the taste for beer. Personally, I enjoy wearing barongs and tailored suits. I had five (5) barongs made at a time by "Exclusively His Tailors" a few months back and a nice charcoal black Brooks Brothers replica of a suit also made by the same tailor. On the questioned date with the jeepney ride however, I was just wearing an embroidered but comfortable yellowish "Onesimus" polo barong together with RTW pinstripe slacks that my wife bought at the local SM mall just a few days back.
Among the lessons in life that I have learned is this: Filipinos judge people they don't know by the way they dress, by the car they drive, by the watch they wear, etc., etc.. There is no distinction. The same is true whether rich or poor. In my mind, I saw that manong driver thought I was not the daily passenger type. Seldom must he have a passenger wearing formal leather boots and pinstripe pants. Conceited as this observation of mine may be, but this is a hard fact of life. During the course of our approximately half-hour journey, we stopped at a gas station. My earlier guess about the water jug was correct. It contained diesel fuel. Apparently, manong customized his beloved jeepney to employ this jug as a makeshift fuel tank instead of the proper one. At this point, I made my sort of a mistake. "Sort of" because I'm not really sure if it indeed was a mistake: I started talking with manong driver.
Evidently, I sensed that he talked to me with an air of respect, in contrast to the rude way he treated some of the passengers. Whenever a student passenger would say "bayad po, isa lang," he would ask, "ano 'to estudyante?" And whenever the student answers "opo," he would retort "dapat kasi sasabihin n'yo kaagad hindi 'yung ginagawa n'yo akong manghuhula!" Also, each time when an old geezer pays, manong would ask "senior ho ba?" After the old folk answers in the affirmative, manong would murmur loud enough to be audible something to the effect of "ayaw kasing sabihin, gusto talaga pahirapan pa ako'ng mag-tanong..."
The Rainmaker (TRM for brevity): 'nong, bakit n'yo diyan kinakarga ang diesel? I was referring to the water jug cum fuel tank.
Manong: Eh kasi ho eh masyadong malaki yung tangke ng krudo nitong jeep, yada, yada, yada. I was not really paying attention but only pretending to be. I remembered that I forgot my paperback copy of Mario Puzo's "The Last Don" at the office.
TRM: Mas ok yan, kitang-kita nyo kung paubos na ang krudo nyo, at at the same time, ma-cocompute n'yo pa konsumo n'yo. Kaya lang, hindi ba delikado 'yan? At that moment, I remembered that when I was a kid, I tried to light a small automotive oil canister filled with diesel fuel with a lighted match but unlike gasoline, diesel doesn't light-up so easy. I figured I'd be safe and I better stop talking to manong. So, I shut my pie-hole.
Unfortunately, it was too late. The series of subsequent events could best be described as similar to the tale of Pandora's Box. Manong did not shut up as I did. In fact, he must've seen an opening--an opportunity to have someone to talk to from a different envronment. Sad but true, I got treated to what me and my freinds call a Nobela ng Talambuhay. Honestly, I didn't really care about what the poor schmuck was saying, but I could truthfully say that I was listening and enjoying the conversation for solely entertainment purposes. Sometimes, when the circumstances and the conditions are right, shooting some bull with a jeepney, taxi, or tricycle driver could be more entertaining than watching a movie. Surely, talking with manong was far more entertaining than all the movies featured on the VIVA movie channel on cable.
Real life is much more fun and exciting than the run-off-the mill, illogical and over-acted local movie flicks. Particularly so when manong talked about local gossip involving local politicians and personalities whom I know on a personal basis or at least those who I have heard of through other sources in the past. John Grisham said, "Lawyers thrive on Gossip." As testament to that remarkable statement, I can say with conviction that almost all lawyers are chismosos and chismosas. Nevertheless, they are of a different breed of chismosos and chismosas than that of those who dwell on the barberias and palangkes. Chismis, or in another word--gossip is a source of information. To the untrained, it has more harmful effects than good, if any at all. But to those versed with the practical working knowledge of Relevance and Materiality, much valuable information could be strainered even from the most outrageous and unbelievable hearsay story.
When it was finally my turn to alight the PUV, I said "salamat, manong" and he answered, "thank you po, sir." Know that I haven't verbally revealed anything about myself and what I do for a living. I just listened to him (or at least tried to listen and at some points, pretended to) while he blaberred on what is the meaning of life. Manong is a regular Ted Failon, who always have an opinion of everything. He's an experienced expert on Saudi Arabia's culture, having worked there for a decade. He's afraid that when his daughter grows up to be sixteen (16), the latter might want to go and work in Japan. And like most Filipinos who are naghihikahos sa kahirapan ng buhay, he's the government's number one (No.1) critic.
"A man could live his life as a slave to earn his daily bread without dignity or hope, or he could will himself to be a man who commanded respect."
-Don Domenico Clericuzio, Mario Puzo's "The Last Don"
Sunday, July 20, 2008
The Gospel according to the Rainmaker
Jesus told His disciples a parable of a Sower who went out to scatter seeds in his fieldAfterwards Jesus told another story to the people. This time he said: "The kingdom of heaven is like a man who sowed good seeds in his field; but while men slept an enemy came to the field and scattered bad seeds everywhere. These bad seeds are called tares. By and by the good seeds and the bad seeds both began to grow.
And after they became stalks, and heads of grain appeared, the servants of the man came to him and asked, 'Did you not sow good seeds in your field? How then are these tares growing everywhere beside the stalks of wheat?' The man answered, 'An enemy has sown the tares.' Then the servants asked, 'Shall we gather out the tares?' but the master said, 'Wait until the time for harvest, lest while you pull up the tares you also pull up stalks of wheat. When all are ripened together, I will send reapers to first gather out the tares and tie them into bundles to be thrown into the fire. Then they will gather the wheat and put it into my barn.'" When Jesus finished all his stories he sent the people away, and afterwards he left the boat and also returned to the city. Then the disciples asked him to explain the meaning of the story about the tares. Jesus said: "The good seed are the people of God; the field is the world; and the man who sowed the good seed is the Son of man. The bad seed, or tares, are the people of the wicked one, and the enemy is Satan.
The harvest is the end of the world, and the reapers are the angels. Just as the tares are gathered in bundles and thrown into the fire, so the wicked people will be separated from the good people at the end of the world. Then the good people will shine as brightly as the sun in the kingdom of God, their Father."(Matt. 13:1-53; Mark 4:1-34)
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I was born a Roman Catholic, raised in Catholic schools, and like those kids who read the Holy Bible daily when they were kids, I once dreamed of becoming a priest. No kidding. In this poor country, not unlike doctors and lawyers, priests are one of those who belong to a vocation which guarantees daily bread and freedom from starvation. And unlike doctors and lawyers, priests do not have to look for work or apply for a job. When a man becomes a priest, he does what a priest does: he officiates masses, administers sacraments, and count the donations of the faithful. The faithful never fails to provide the church of its daily bread. Banks may go bankrupt and governments may sink neck-deep in foreign debt but the church will never run out of money. There is only one catch: a priest may never know the many mysteries behind married life. Probably, there may be some hoodlums who disguise themselves in robes and secretly enjoy the best of both worlds under the cover of night and shadow of convents and nunneries, or even sick and perverse ones who prey upon innocent sacristans to satisfy their hunger for lust, but percentage-wise most priests, IMHO, are faithful to the custom of clergy celibacy and remain content with masturbation or in the alternative, perhaps some serious pillow-fucking.
Anyway, I have been invariably going to church again every Sunday, thanks to my wife, who wouldn't have things go any other way. Usually, we hear mass on the local SM mall, but this morning, due to a series of coincidental events that I rather not describe in detail in this post, she decided that we go to Chapel 1 inside the defunct Clark Air Base. The Bible passage above is the topic of the priest's homily. Common in parish priests are the giving of bland homilies. Unless they are bishops or one of those TV priests, parish priests give sermons that only the slow-witted or those not listening would not know its defects both in logic and in the interpretation of scripture. Also, when delivering their sermons in English, they have the tendency to utilize language cliches like "in the final analysis" (Was there a first one?), "firstly" (not following up with "secondly"), etc., etc.. This particular priest, after telling some stories which are boring enough to make an acute insomiac sleep on the pew, interpreted this Sunday's Gospel to the effect that he's saying that the good grain are the good guys and the weed are the bad guys. I cannot help but explain the ridiculous folly of that interpretation.
Let me try to go and tinker with this priest's interpretation of the 2nd parable of the sower. He said the good grain are the good people (perhaps the faithful of his church, but no innuendo was made by him, or none was needed in a crowd of similar faiths), and they are sown by God. He also concluded that the weeds are the bad guys, sown by the enemy who is the Devil under the cover of night. And, in the end time, the grain shall be separated from the weed and the weed shall be put to fire. Meaning, the good guys will be kept by the Lord and the bad guys shall burn in hell.
If this is the case, then we will all go to heaven. Aren't we all good from the very start of our lives? Does not the holy sacrament of Baptism purge the vile consequence of Adam and Eve's original sin? If we are sown by God as grain, we will not turn into weeds. A grain seed will never become a weed even if it grows amongst weeds. In the end of time, God's angels will reap us all and keep us in God's company away from the evil weed.
What are the weeds? This priest concluded that the weed are evil men who will burn at the day of judgment. If this was true, then he is saying that all men do not come from God's grace--that some men are spawn of the Devil. Further, these evil men, from the moment they were born, are destined to burn in the fires of hell and suffer eternal damnation. If he is correct, then are we God's grain living with those of the devil on this earth? Some people may actually spawn of the devil.
To me, the priest's interpretation of this gospel is pure bullshit. Why, because it contradicts the very foundation of my faith. I believe in God-given free will. In the words of Don Domenico Clericuzio, "You could will yourself as a slave to earn your daily bread without dignity or hope or you earned your bread as a man who commanded respect." No man is ever destined to become a good grain or become an evil weed. No man is ever destined to become a fisherman or a lawyer. He wills himself to become a fisherman, or he wills himself to become a lawyer. Man is not an animal who live only through instincts and reflexes. To those who are familiar with the study of Criminal Law, this is called the "classical school of thought," to those who have been educated by Dominican friars, this is similar to Aquinas' concept of free will, and to those who do not fancy such bullshit, this just means that "every man is responsible for the consequences of his actions." This is the only dogma that I believe in. This is the stuff my faith in God is made of. God is the owner of an aquarium we call the universe. We are but man, we do not and cannot know His nature, just like the fish we have in the tank who cannot know ours.
This is the meaning of Jesus' gospel for this Sunday: God was the sower of the grain. The grain are all men he put in this earth, for no man is a sinner the day he is born. The weed are all the evil in this world--temptations, hardships, and the attractiveness of sin. Since we are good grain seed, having been chosen to be given life by God himself, we have the capacity to live amongst the weed and survive until the day of the harvest. Meaning, we have been given free will, or the capacity to resist evil and avoid sin. Perhaps this is the reason why God forbade His angels to weed out his crops. Those who chose not to shall die before the harvest, and their useless remains shall be burned along with the weed.
"The world is what it is, and we are who we are."
The harvest is the end of the world, and the reapers are the angels. Just as the tares are gathered in bundles and thrown into the fire, so the wicked people will be separated from the good people at the end of the world. Then the good people will shine as brightly as the sun in the kingdom of God, their Father."
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I was born a Roman Catholic, raised in Catholic schools, and like those kids who read the Holy Bible daily when they were kids, I once dreamed of becoming a priest. No kidding. In this poor country, not unlike doctors and lawyers, priests are one of those who belong to a vocation which guarantees daily bread and freedom from starvation. And unlike doctors and lawyers, priests do not have to look for work or apply for a job. When a man becomes a priest, he does what a priest does: he officiates masses, administers sacraments, and count the donations of the faithful. The faithful never fails to provide the church of its daily bread. Banks may go bankrupt and governments may sink neck-deep in foreign debt but the church will never run out of money. There is only one catch: a priest may never know the many mysteries behind married life. Probably, there may be some hoodlums who disguise themselves in robes and secretly enjoy the best of both worlds under the cover of night and shadow of convents and nunneries, or even sick and perverse ones who prey upon innocent sacristans to satisfy their hunger for lust, but percentage-wise most priests, IMHO, are faithful to the custom of clergy celibacy and remain content with masturbation or in the alternative, perhaps some serious pillow-fucking.
Anyway, I have been invariably going to church again every Sunday, thanks to my wife, who wouldn't have things go any other way. Usually, we hear mass on the local SM mall, but this morning, due to a series of coincidental events that I rather not describe in detail in this post, she decided that we go to Chapel 1 inside the defunct Clark Air Base. The Bible passage above is the topic of the priest's homily. Common in parish priests are the giving of bland homilies. Unless they are bishops or one of those TV priests, parish priests give sermons that only the slow-witted or those not listening would not know its defects both in logic and in the interpretation of scripture. Also, when delivering their sermons in English, they have the tendency to utilize language cliches like "in the final analysis" (Was there a first one?), "firstly" (not following up with "secondly"), etc., etc.. This particular priest, after telling some stories which are boring enough to make an acute insomiac sleep on the pew, interpreted this Sunday's Gospel to the effect that he's saying that the good grain are the good guys and the weed are the bad guys. I cannot help but explain the ridiculous folly of that interpretation.
Let me try to go and tinker with this priest's interpretation of the 2nd parable of the sower. He said the good grain are the good people (perhaps the faithful of his church, but no innuendo was made by him, or none was needed in a crowd of similar faiths), and they are sown by God. He also concluded that the weeds are the bad guys, sown by the enemy who is the Devil under the cover of night. And, in the end time, the grain shall be separated from the weed and the weed shall be put to fire. Meaning, the good guys will be kept by the Lord and the bad guys shall burn in hell.
If this is the case, then we will all go to heaven. Aren't we all good from the very start of our lives? Does not the holy sacrament of Baptism purge the vile consequence of Adam and Eve's original sin? If we are sown by God as grain, we will not turn into weeds. A grain seed will never become a weed even if it grows amongst weeds. In the end of time, God's angels will reap us all and keep us in God's company away from the evil weed.
What are the weeds? This priest concluded that the weed are evil men who will burn at the day of judgment. If this was true, then he is saying that all men do not come from God's grace--that some men are spawn of the Devil. Further, these evil men, from the moment they were born, are destined to burn in the fires of hell and suffer eternal damnation. If he is correct, then are we God's grain living with those of the devil on this earth? Some people may actually spawn of the devil.
To me, the priest's interpretation of this gospel is pure bullshit. Why, because it contradicts the very foundation of my faith. I believe in God-given free will. In the words of Don Domenico Clericuzio, "You could will yourself as a slave to earn your daily bread without dignity or hope or you earned your bread as a man who commanded respect." No man is ever destined to become a good grain or become an evil weed. No man is ever destined to become a fisherman or a lawyer. He wills himself to become a fisherman, or he wills himself to become a lawyer. Man is not an animal who live only through instincts and reflexes. To those who are familiar with the study of Criminal Law, this is called the "classical school of thought," to those who have been educated by Dominican friars, this is similar to Aquinas' concept of free will, and to those who do not fancy such bullshit, this just means that "every man is responsible for the consequences of his actions." This is the only dogma that I believe in. This is the stuff my faith in God is made of. God is the owner of an aquarium we call the universe. We are but man, we do not and cannot know His nature, just like the fish we have in the tank who cannot know ours.
This is the meaning of Jesus' gospel for this Sunday: God was the sower of the grain. The grain are all men he put in this earth, for no man is a sinner the day he is born. The weed are all the evil in this world--temptations, hardships, and the attractiveness of sin. Since we are good grain seed, having been chosen to be given life by God himself, we have the capacity to live amongst the weed and survive until the day of the harvest. Meaning, we have been given free will, or the capacity to resist evil and avoid sin. Perhaps this is the reason why God forbade His angels to weed out his crops. Those who chose not to shall die before the harvest, and their useless remains shall be burned along with the weed.
"The world is what it is, and we are who we are."
Friday, July 11, 2008
You hate me, I hate him
Hatred or hate is a word that describes intense feelings of dislike. It can be used in a wide variety of contexts, from hatred of inanimate objects to hatred of other people. Prejudice or Bigotry against an entire class of people (e.g. racism) are examples of hatred.
Philosophers have offered many influential definitions of hatred. Rene Descartes viewed hate as an awareness that something is bad, combined with an urge to withdraw from it. Baruch Spinoza defined hate as a type of pain that is due to an external cause. Aristotle viewed hate as a desire for the annihilation of an object that is incurable by time. Finally, David Hume believed that hate is an irreducible feeling that is not definable at all.
In psychology, Sigmund Freud defined hate as an ego state that wishes to destroy the source of its unhappiness (source: wikipedia).
I say fuck faggot Freud and his gay shit. Descartes is right. (Now I know the etymology of the word, diskarte). You see something you don't like, you hate it. You withdraw from it. You stay away from it. You want it to have nothing to do with you. That is how simple the emotion of hate really is. You don't necessarily want to annihilate it like Aristotle would suggest, nor is it always a pain as described by Spinoza. Aristotle was gay too and Spinoza, well, was a Jew. My grandmother taught me when I was a small boy that Jews are bad people as they are the ones who crucified Christ. It's not that I really care about that shit, but hey, that's my grandmother who taught me that. She also told me that the Jews are like the Chinese, who are shrewd and cunning businessmen who kept to themselves and cheats the government on taxes. To her, all Jews and Chinese were evil merchants who tried to give her a bad bargain. God rest her soul in heaven. That's the reason why I find it hard to trust a Jew, or a Chink for that matter. No, my grandmother was not a Nazi.
(I am aware of the fact that the arguments I used against Freud, Aristotle and Spinoza are ad hominems but hell, I'm too lazy to do otherwise.)
Hate is cyclic and a common emotion felt by all people. Hate is cyclic because there is an orderly relation or a pattern of hate that progresses in a describable circular manner. Hate bites its tails, so to speak. It is common because all people have felt and will feel hate their whole lives. Now don't tell me somebody does not hate. Priests hate the devil, and in turn, (some) Muslims hate priests.
Hate is present in all aspects of our daily lives. It is present from the time we wake up, to the time we close our eyes to sleep. When I wake up and go to the bathroom to piss, I hate it when somebody is in there when I'm about to go, or whenever somebody did not flush to goddam toilet especially when there are still some residue of crap floating around fortuitously in the fucking bowl. When I eat my breakfast, I want to turn the TV on and watch the morning news show Unang Hirit, because I hate that SOB named A.T. on the other channel. I almost threw my plate once on the small screen after watching that fucker deliver his opinions on national TV like he knows shit. I hate that guy with a passion. I mean, who the fuck does he think he is? He's got absolutely no respect to the people he interviews on air and some of those people have made their bones probably when he was still sucking her mom's blackish tits. Not only that, he talks about issues and stuff that he doesn't have any inkling about like laws, government policy, and in general, the goddam English language. The only people who does not hate him are those folks who are as dumb or ever dumber than him. A.T. is one of the people in the media who thinks that they are gods and they can do whatever the fuck they want and say whatever the fuck they want to say. If I ever get a chance to meet him personally, I will probably collar him and whisper, "be very careful boy, this is the Philippines, where journalists and reporters get shot in the head or cemented alive in steel drums. This is my country, you just live here."
Then after breakfast, I drive to my wife and myself to work. I drive a sleeper Honda Civic Ferio from the mid-nineties, and I don't hate my car. I actually like it. But I absolutely hate most capampangan drivers. They are the absolutely the dumbest drivers in the world, tied at the bottom with Koreans. They have never heard of the signal light switch, or if they do discover the same serendipitously, they don't know how to properly use the damn thing. When they use the signal light to turn, they do it after making the corner. They haven't heard of the horn button too. But what kills me is that they drive insanely slow, especially on open roads. They speed up in traffic but they go 20-25 kph in a clear, well paved, and rain-dry national road. Sometimes I tell myself that the driver is getting a blow-job from his bitch and that's the reason why he's so slow. Then I pass him only to find out that he's intensely concentrated on driving with the driver's seat pushed forward so much that there is no space between the steering wheel, his chest and the seat. I'm serious. Almost all drivers from Pampanga drive like that. Like they all have difficulty seeing the road so they have to sit ridiculously upright, hugging the steering wheel.
Don't get me started on motorcycles. As a self-respecting motorist and car affecionado, I hate most people who "zoom-zoom" (my apologies to the Mazda Corp.) in their crotch rockets. They simply think they are invincible. (My wife always tells me that as she drives too. And mind you, she doesn't drive like a lady.) They have no sense of road courtesy and think that they own the fuckin' road. Perhaps they are of the seriously erroneous belief that traffic rules do not apply to them. To me and others like me (like my brothers and cousins), they are like big roaches on the street, crawling and infesting the highways with filth. The worst are the 4-stroke mopeds and tricycles. Those fuckers mostly do not have licenses to drive anyhow. A Chinese or Korean moped designed for 1 to 2 passengers over-loaded with 4 passengers one or two of which are children is a common sore sight all over Luzon. Indeed, that is a recipe for disaster. I have known and heard about senseless deaths via motorbike accidents over the years but the number of casualties still increase over the years. I do not hate the motorcycle per se, as I have driven one in the past (which ultimately led to an accident and injuries, of course) but that shit is totally dangerous if not driven with a clear head and responsibility. It is a mode of transportation like any other vehicle on the street so the same amount of responsibility should be practiced in driving the same. A couple of weeks ago, my car was rammed in the back by a big bike style motorcycle. It smashed my right tail-light. Immediately after impact, I got out of the car and got psychologically ready to beat the guy down if he made any remark I didn't like hearing. Turned out, he was a really nice guy and admitted his fault instantly. My car sustained no other damage apart from the busted tail-light. He made areglo and gave me 1400 Pesos to buy a replacement headlight. I got a perfect fit JDM (Japanese Domestic Market) one for a thousand bucks. Good thing I didn't shower him with profanities when I came out of the vehicle as I usually do in times like those, or took a swing on him with my big and heavy Maglite flashlight that I keep under the driver's seat--or I wouldn't have emerged from that situation with a small profit.
Since we're talking about cars, let me tell you that I hate clueless ricers. They give a bad name to self-respecting, Japanese car loving fellows like myself. They are the people who put huge-ass speakers in their cars or graphics and worst, those enormous but dysfunctional rear wings. Fuck Fast & the Furious and Pimp my Ride, man. That ain't the right shit. I also hate people who think they hate ricers but in reality, they don't really know what's a ricer. These are the people who drive American and European cars and hate Japanese cars. These are the people who lump Honda and Hyundai in the same category. (Just because they both have an [H] in the hood does not mean they are both made by the same manufacturer and have the same qualities.) These are the schmucks who look down at Civics but wonder why their gas-guzzling V6s and V8s get smoked on the freeway by a 2.0 K series engine-swapped early nineties Honda CRX. So people in BMWs and Chryslers must hate me a whole damn lot because I pass 'em all the fucking time like they were parked on the road.
But all these hating stops when I get to work. There, I have got to do my duty as a public servant and live according to my oath as a lawyer. I have learned to channel my hate and my aggression to more productive things. Hate is everywhere, all around us, present even without our knowledge. That is acceptable. What is not is when we get consumed by our hate and fail to function as a rational human being. Remember the lesson of Descartes:
"You see something you don't like, you hate it. You withdraw from it. You stay the fuck away from it. You want it to have nothing to do with you. That is how simple the emotion of hate really is."
Friday, June 20, 2008
Otaku Attack!: The Kouga Ninja Scrolls
IMHO, this Japanese novel is the east-asian equivalent of William Shakespeare's Romeo & Juliet. The Kouga Ninja Scrolls (甲賀法帖 Kōga Ninpōchō) is a novel written in 1958-1959 by the Japanese author Futaro Yamada. The novel has been translated into English by Geoff Sant, and was published by Del Rey in December 2006.
The year is 1614 AD. The story centers around two rival ninja clans; the Iga and the Kuoga; whose no-hostilities treaty is lifted by retired shogun Tokugawa Ieyasu to settle a succession dispute within the government concerning which of Ieyasu's grandsons is destined to become the third Tokugawa Shogun. At the center of the conflict is Kouga and Iga's two young heirs; Gennosuke and Oboro respectively; who had fallen in love in the hopes of bringing their clans together in peace. The novel traces the course of the conflict as both clans endure heavy losses and ultimately bringing Gennosuke and Oboro to face each other on the field of battle.
The classic novel was adapted several times into different forms of Japanese art:
BTW, what is an otaku?
The classic novel was adapted several times into different forms of Japanese art:
- Kōga Ninpōchō (1963), a manga by Haruo Koyama.
- Kōga Ninpōchō: Aratame ( 2003), a manga by Torao Asada.
- Basilisk: The Kouga Ninja Scrolls (Bajirisuku Kōga Ninpōchō, 2003), a manga by Masaki Segawa.
- Basilisk (Bajirisuku Kōga Ninpōchō, 2005), a TV anime series produced by GONZO based on Masaki Segawa's manga.
- Shinobi: Heart Under Blade ( Shinobi, 2005), a movie directed by Ten Shimoyama.
BTW, what is an otaku?
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Pelikulang Tagalog
Unlike my mama, I have never been a fan of Philippine Cinema. I often find local movies cheap and disgusting. Perhaps I too, have been brainwashed by Disney and Universal Studios. Nevertheless, like many Filipino kids who grew up in the eighties, I was also weaned on flicks like Ben Tumbling, Nardong Putik, Sa'yo ang Tondo, akin ang Cavite, etc. I remember most of the titles because I used to play teks when I was around 6 and 7 years old and these movies were the graphical contents of the small, rectangular, carton teks of which I used to own about a ton or two. These old school miniature cards, as I remember, were numbered so whenever someone makes a linear arrangement of the same, they tell the story of the movie. It's really funny--in an odd way--because I have tried doing that a few times and learned that the story in the teks was not the same as that of the movie counterpart. Mostly, the stories in the teks were really short-cuts or distortions of the movie's plot. I didn't care because I thought (and still think) that the art in the teks were really amazing and well, cool. I used to have a Nardong Putik pamato with just a drawing of Nardo's eye which looked really intense and that particular piece never failed me whenever I used it in a game. I swear to God.
The cinema of the Philippines has a history that can be traced back to the early days of filmmaking in 1897, when a theater owner named Pertierra screened imported moving pictures. The first film produced by a Filipino is Jose Nepomuceno's Dalagang Bukid (1919). The first sound film in Tagalog is Ang Aswang (1930), a monster movie inspired by Philippine folklore. The 1950s was the so-called Golden Age of Philippine Cinema, mainly because at this time, the Big Four studios (LVN Pictures, Sampaguita Pictures, Premiere Productions and Lebran International) were at the height of their powers in film making. The Big Four has been churning out an estimated total of 350 films a year. This number made the Philippines second only to Japan in terms of film productions a year, which made it one of the busiest and bustling film communities in Asia. (source: wikipedia) I vividly recall my mama watching all those crazy-ass black and white movies everyday during noon-time when I was still sneaking out of the house to play teks. However, IMHO, and I'm almost sure even my mama would agree with me on this one, Philippine Cinema after the Golden Age has taken the downward plunge. From Chiquito (LOLd at Asyong Aksaya) to Andrew E., Tugak & Pugak to Wally & Jose...from the bomba movies in the 1960's to the super-predictable formulaic romantic comedies we have today, there have been very few saving graces.
The last Filipino movie I saw was senator Lito-lito's Lapu-lapu. Atty. JS, law professor, counsel for the senator from the great province of Pampanga, and supporting actor in the same movie, practically made us watch the flick--under pain of threat of an absent mark in our legal ethics class in law school. That was about four (4) years ago. Needless to say, it sucked. Hard.
These days, TV stars are bigger than movie actors. There's no more FPJ or Rudy Fernandez of these times. Apart from the fact that they are both dead, their class of actors have died along with them. Richard Gutierrez or Piolo Pascual couldn't possibly make it as legitimate action stars. Nobody would believe. Nobody would put their faggoty mugs in kids' teks. There will never be another Megastar. Judy Ann ruined her career very recently because she played puppet for Meralco, and Angel Locsin destroyed hers when she transferred to ABS-CBN. Give it a few years more and nobody would remember them. Just like how nobody remembers the name Amanda Page.
Today, Philippine Cinema is in the ditches. Tomorrow, it should be in the sewers. There are as much stars in Philippine Cinema as there are in East Asia or Pegasus--so I have heard. LOL. Thank God for RA Rivera and the other good indy filmmakers-even though they are only good at comedies and sarcasm. I remember one short film (actually, it's too long) that consisted of only one scene: a pair of hands scrubbing a skull into a sheet of sandpaper until the skull was totally pulverized--that one you can only watch properly if you have Bob Marley's favorite smokes lit up in your hand.
I should quit smoking. Those things can kill you. Not me, but you.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Kung sumabog sana ang bomba sa lampara
Di nakakibo ang lahat. May nagsabi. Baka lasunin tayo. Binitiwan ang mga kubyertos. Lumabo ng ilawan. Iminungkahi ng Kapitan Heneral kay Padre Irene na itaas ng huli ang mitsa ng ilawan. Biglang may mabilis na pimasok, tinabig ang utusang humadlang, kinuha ang ilawan, itinakbo sa asotea at itinapon sa ilog, May humingi ng rebolber, may magnanakaw raw. Ang anino ay tumalon sa rin sa ilog.
from the novel El Filibusterismo, Dr. Jose P. Rizal
Hindi nagalaw ang pihitan ng mitsa na siya sanang magpasabog sa lalagyan ng nitroglisirina.
Simoun had an excellent plan. He invited and gathered all the government and church officials and their cohorts to a party and then plotted to bomb the place with a nitro lamp bomb to smithereens. To be able to do that, he played the devil. He seduced the colonial powers that be with money and power. He invested all his riches towards the accomplishment of this goal. That is dedication.
It is generally accepted that Rizal saw (at least a part of) himself in the Simoun character. In his letters, he wrote to Blumentritt that maybe, violence is the only solution left. For me, the lamp bomb ain't a bad idea after all. What could've happened if it exploded? Would it be the start of a chain reaction of other explosions? Would it be the spark that would fire the revolution into a blaze? Part of me believes that if the bomb did explode in the novel, those influenced heavily by the good doctor's novels would've had more motivation to fight and do more drastic and radical things. Maybe, if that were the ending of El Fili, history would have recorded beheadings of colonials and their skulls on spikes. The same part of me that believes that also thinks that such ending contributed to the further "pussyfication" of the Filipino.
Yet another part of me feels that such ending is the appropriate one: a failure. Certain people respond to failure as a challenge to overcome. You know how it goes, from the school of thought that teaches It's not how many times you fall but how many times you get up--that sort of crap philosophy. I believe more in the get it right the first time and winning is the only option kind of bullshit. Perhaps Rizal saw the Filipino masses as that kind of people. The kind that would get so pissed off with his second book's ending and end up picking up their sharp guloks and start gutting conquistadores and prayles.
At this day and age, I just wish I could be Simoun and succeed.
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Si Isagani ang kumuha ng ilawan at nagtapon nito sa ilog. Siya ang huling kausap ni Basilio na tanging nakababatid ng layunin ng ilawang iyon. Ang hindi niya naisisip ay ang layunin ni Simoun sa pagpapasabog sa bahay ni Kapitan Tiyago. Ang tanging nasa isip niya nuon ay si Paulita. Si Isagani ang pumasok sa bahay nang makaalis na si Basilio.
Sa salita na rin niya na kung ang magnanakaw ay nakababatid lamang ng layunin ng pagsabog ng ilawang iyon o kung makapaglimi lamang ito ng bahagya . Hindi sana ginawa ng ginawa ng magnanakaw na iyon ang gayon! At sa salita niyang Pantayan man ako ng kahit ano ay di ako lalagay sa tayo ng magnanakaw! ay isang paghihiwalay niya sa katauhan ng lito at baliw sa pag-ibig na Isagani at ng Isaganing nagsisisi at nalason na ng poot at pait ng pagkabigo at paghihiganti. Sa katauhan niya ngayon, ang ibig sabihin ni Isagani, ay hindi niya gagawin ang kanyang gingawang pagkuha sa ilawang iyon.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Esoterica Filipina
Esoteric knowledge is that which is specialized or advanced in nature, available only to a narrow circle of "enlightened", "initiated", or highly educated people. (Source: wikipedia)Henry Ford, the great American philanthropist said, "All History is Bunk." All history is written by the victors of conflict, to record their posterity, and not as completely accurate and comprehensive account of facts. What many people believe as doctrine are mostly half-truths and distortions of the same.
Philippine history is no different. I have learned from Prof. Ignacio (Hmmn...she always does that mid-sentence), my History 1 & 2 teacher in UP that the tons of information I was fed from DECS (Department of Education Culture and Sports) approved history and social science textbooks in elementary and High School are mostly lies. Before college, I have never heard of the phrases, "Divide and Conquer" or "Pueblo Syndrome."
FYI, Divide and Conquer, was part of the general strategem employed here in our islands by the Spaniards during the colonial times. Since the Philippine Islands comprises an archipelago, its different ancient peoples have been separated and isolated from each other for a long time since the technologies to build big river crossing bridges and convenient sea faring vessels were not easily available during those times. Natural borders comprising of seas, rivers, mountains and hills prevented one "tribe" from mingling with another. The Spanish sons o' bitches saw this and capitalized on this phenomenon. They did not build bridges. They did not make inter-island travel easier by providing cheap sea ferry travel. All they did was collect taxes to build unneeded churches. So the Taga-ilogs (Tagalogs) seldom mingled with the Capampangans and almost never with the Visayans during the time of Diego Silang. As a result, a native brand of racism started to brew. Tagalogs began to stupidly look down on Visayans and Muslims from Mindanao.
Your ancestors' surnames were part of the Divide and Conquer plan. Governor General Narciso Clavería y Zaldúa issued a decree called the Catálogo alfabético de apellidos (Alphabetical Catalog of Surnames) on November 21, 1849. Apart from the fact that the list was not alphabetical, a more sinister motive prompted the inclusion of ridiculous names in that list including, but not limited to Gajasa (gahasa; rape, rash), Bayot (Cebuano: homosexual), Bacla (bakla; homosexual), Otot (utot; flatulence), Tanga (stupid), Limotin (limutin; forgetful), Lubut (Cebuano: buttocks), Tae (excrement), Ongoy (unggoy; monkey), Aso (dog), Jalimao (halimaw; monster)and Yyac (iiyak; will cry).
This is how it worked: a copy of the catalog was distributed to the provincial heads of the archipelago. From there, a certain number of surnames, based on population, were sent to each barangay's parish priest. The head of each barangay, along with another town official or two, was present when the father or the oldest person in each family chose a surname for his or her family. Often, it was the parish priest who chose the name for the indio. These ass-wipes made the funny names available to those tribes that do not comprehend its meaning in another dialect. They gave Visayans the surname Ticol and the Ilocanos Bayot. They were like naming dogs. Curiously, my ancestors names of Garcia, Salvador, Lopez, and Meneses were not in that book. Maybe my ancestors didn't have to pick a name for themselves because they already have one. Or maybe, one or two of my maiden ninunos were fucked by some bald-ass friar from Aragon. I hope not.
All this talk of surnames reminds me of a legal story told by one crazy-ass professor I had in Law School: Professor JS., otherwise known as the self-proclaimed Kevin Costner of the Philippines. He has no resemblance to the the Californian who played Elliot Ness and Wyatt Earp. If there is any celebrity who bears a likeness, then that would be Rico J. Puno or if Spanky Rigor stayed out in the sun too long, maybe. The story goes as follows: A certain fellow, whose name appears in his birth certificate as Juan Biglanggahasa approached Prof. JS, and sought legal advice if he could do something to change his name because according to him, the name was the constant source of ridicule and public humiliation. In turn, Prof. JS accepted Mr. Biglanggahasa as a client and filed a petition in court under Rule 103 of the Rules of Court (Change of Name). The court granted the petition and thus changed the name of the petitioner to Johnny Biglanggahasa. (Laugh now, please. I beg you)
Now, do you ever wonder why that anywhere you go in the Philippines, especially in towns that were already in existence during the Spanish Imperial era, the town centers are laid out almost the same everywhere? In every town there is a town hall, across the street an old Catholic Church, and beside the church, a school run by either priests or nuns belonging to some Catholic order originating from Europe, mostly Spain. All around these ancient dated structures are the ancestral houses of the rich folk. I am not talking about the noveau, but those who had old money, those who were rich before the first world war. Some of them may no longer be rich, and some may have migrated to Forbes Park or wherever-the-fuck the rich live these days--how would I know? I came from a family who treasure honor more than money. My grandfather would rather pay his debts either the mah-johng or card table with a parcel of land he owned rather than be labeled a balasubas. He had a palabra. But my grandmother--God bless her poor soul-- taught me that palabra de honor does not put food on the table. Anyway, this town lay-out common throughout the country did not occur by chance, or by imitation. The same was by design.
The Castilian word pueblo, evolved from the Latin word populus ("people"), means "village".On the central Spanish meseta the unit of settlement was and is the pueblo; that is to say, the large nucleated village surrounded by its own fields, with no outlying farms, separated from its neighbours by some considerable distance, sometimes as much as ten miles or so. The town was nuclear. Meaning, each town was designed so that nobody had to leave town and go to other pueblos because they were all fuckin' the same. This syndrome further enhanced the rift between the different tribes of the colonial Philippines. Thus, when a country is divided, it is much easier to conquer. And conquered it they did. The rest is history. Or is it? You tell me.
Just the tip of the iceberg.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Personality Disorder Test: a "pulot" survey from multiply.com
Narcissus, the Greek hero after whom narcissismis named, became obsessed with his own reflection.
(Source: Wikipedia)
| Disorder | Rating |
| Paranoid: | Low |
| Schizoid: | Low |
| Schizotypal: | Moderate |
| Antisocial: | High |
| Borderline: | Low |
| Histrionic: | High |
| Narcissistic: | High |
| Avoidant: | Low |
| Dependent: | Low |
| Obsessive-Compulsive: | Low |
-- Personality Disorder Test -- -- Personality Disorder Information -- | |
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
La nuova sporgenza
"The new boss." That's what the blog title means in Sicilian. I mean, in Italian.
(Left: Carlo Gambino's picture taken in the 1930s)
Last Monday, I reported for work at the RTC (Regional Trial Court), and not out-of-the-ordinary, my boss, the Judge, was running late. It was a criminal case day. This particular branch (Br.6) has been specifically designated as an SCC (Special Criminal Court) for Dangerous Drugs related cases. In short, our branch is the bottom of the stinking viper pit, and I, answerable only to the judge, am the pit boss. The courtroom was already sprawling with caught hoodlums--in neon green DETAINEE shirts, hand-cuffed as couples and smelling like stink-bombs from 1990's Gary Lising's joke shop. (I think there were 28 or 29 of them detainee fuckers that day.) Present too are some of their relatives and friends, most of whom look poor and jobless. Then there are some uniformed Policemen, sans their sidearms--who were supposed to take the witness stand that day. These pigs are prohibited to carry any firearm within the vicinity of the RTC. Also present are the provincial and city jail-guards, who unlike the cops, are permitted to carry their guns. (I am not sure as to the reason behind the distinction, and whether or not the evil sought to be prevented by the measure is actually prevented.) There are lawyers of all sorts, from the old and sickly looking to the really old and sickly. All the (court) branch employees are there, some of us having snacks, some pretending to be doing something important, some just staring into the abyss, and some, particularly me and this PAO (Public Attorney's Office) lawyer I have just met, and whose fucking name I cannot remember, were shooting bull and smokin' cigs to pass the time away. This lousy schmuck was smokin' Winstons and I was glad I had a pack of Marlboros. BTW, smoking is strictly prohibited within the confines of the RTC compound.
On or about 10:30 a.m., I saw the red 2007 Sentra my new boss drives to work. You see, I have a lot of respect for this man, as he is mine and my wife's padrino, ( ninong, godfather) at our wedding. He is also the father of one of my closest friends, Atty. JS, the best man in my wedding. Aside from that, my boss is also a member of the family--another widow's son like my grandfather, my father, my uncles, their friends, and the friends of their friends. He is a brother of my father and uncles from a different mother--if you now what I mean. He's a made guy. He's connected. He has been raised more than a few years back, but a whole lot later in time than my father. My father sent me to work for him for a while. Until I grow my bones, at the least.
Instantly, I entered the courtroom before he comes in and reviewed the court calendar. After having triple-checked the day's calendar to know who's here and ready from those not here, to those notified and those with no proof of notification, I waited there amongst the sea of green smelly shirts inside our non-air-conditioned sala. After about ten (10) stinking minutes I have endured, the boss has yet to come out from his chambers. Impatiently, I stormed out of the courtroom to check on him. He wasn't inside his SCRA (Supreme Court Reports) and PR (Philippine Reports) filled room. Instead, I found the boss standing at the front door which was open, with his arms on his waist and it looked like that he was more than moderately pissed.
Instead of proceeding to his chambers, he ordered the RTC security guard and a couple of clerks to find out the name, and license plate number of a certain 2007 ceramic white Mitsubishi Strada parked across the street of the court building. Apparently, he had an on-road altercation with its driver. That is why he was standing at the door. When I asked him what happened, he told me "Aba eh gusto akong i-run off the road! wang-wang pa ng wang-wang at bunubusinahan at tinututukan ako. Ang ginawa ko, pinauna ko na at sinundan ko, akalain mong dito pa sa harap ng RTC paparada. Baka mamaya ako ang gustong tirahin nyan talaga. Kung ganoon eh ang malas naman niya."
This is what happened. Boss lives at Sta. Maria, Bulacan. That being the case, he takes the NLEX (North Luzon Expressway) everyday, entering at Bocaue and exiting at the Tabang interchange. This guy in the white Strada, for a reason unknown to any except himself, kind of dangerously tail-gated boss's red Sentra and wanked his siren and horn repeatedly, perhaps to make the boss give way to his stupidity-induced charge as the boss was about to exit the tollgate at Tabang. He continued doing this crazy-ass stunt until the boss gave way, right after their convoy has reached the confines of Malolos territory. The boss followed the white Strada and coincidentally, the Strada was also headed to the Capitol grounds, where the RTC compound is likewise located. The boss told me he felt it was going to be a hit. Damn, I haven't received the SC (Supreme Court) appointment papers yet and my boss is gonna be hit already? I hoped not. No, I prayed not.
While the RTC sikyu was, upon the boss's orders, talking to the driver of the suspect vehicle, the boss left my side and proceeded to his car. He opened the driver-side door and reached for something found inside the glove box. It was his nickel-plated Colt M-1911 copy .45 caliber pistol sheathed in its old-school looking holster. He took out the piece, cocked it, and placed it in the back of his pants. Afterwards, he began his approach to the pick-up truck. I didn't follow him because I was naked. I was packing very light. All I had was my Parker fountain pen which has my name engraved on its shaft.
Meanwhile, the driver of the Strada must've thought he was done talking to the rent-a-cop and decided to start his engine and leave like his ass was on fire. Boy, did he fuck over the wrong fella. I have to admit, sometimes, I did that sort of shit when I was younger but fortunately, I haven't screwed guys that mattered--'fya know what I mean. Pa always warned me that someday, out of road-rage, some random tough guy will knock the balls out of an asshole driver like I was. That's part of the reason I quit being an asshole driver. Another part is that I ran-over a six (6) year old kid some years back. The boy lived, and the family paid good money to fix the kid up and keep me out of jail. I had to be a lawyer.
After facts unfolded, we learned that the driver was a "back-up" (trans.: bodyguard) of a child of the Governor. His name is Too Damn Dumb. The boss's car plates say 16-C 6. The boss immediately called up the Governor's secretary, demanding the head of Mr. Too Damn Dumb on a silver platter. The boss called up a couple of other people inside his chambers, all of whom are friends of the family.
Out of twenty-eight (28) scheduled trials on the day's calendar, we heard just one. Hell, IMHO, nobody is in a hurry to acquit these disconnected and unaffiliated drug thugs into the streets. BTW, the prosecutor's nose bled --from the heat perhaps. Or maybe he was just damn too old and sickly to be doing his job. Beside his portfolio of cases, he had a mini medicine cabinet which are labeled by the hour (7:00 am, 8:00 am, 9:00 am, and so on and so forth). He must have diseases which surely surpasses the total amount of the remaining black hairs on his head. We had our recess at 12:00 and after a short meeting with him--mostly comprised of him telling me what he wants done and when he wants it done--the boss said he had other affairs to attend to and left the building. With nothing left to do that cannot be procrastinated until the next day, I followed suit and left early too. On the way home, I called up my Pa. He also had a laugh about this story when he heard it. I imagined my old man shaking his head and laughing at the same time.
Bunot Fernando!
Mental Note: I better get a PTC (Permit to Carry) real soon. There are a million asshole drivers these days. One or two might just get unlucky and stupid enough to try to fuck me over.
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