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.

Personality Disorder Test: a "pulot" survey from multiply.com

Narcissus, the Greek hero after whom narcissism
is 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 --

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.

The Rainmaker's take on the government, the russian mob, and cheap-ass zombies

A friend--a learned law school professor--taught me once, when I was still one of her students that Marcos institutionalized graft and corruption within the framework of the Philippine government. That may be true, but while the late strongman Marcos these days is as stiff as my dick on a Sunday morning--lying there chilled in his goddam glass sarcophagus in forgottenland--the cumulative ill-effects on Philippine governmental culture still haunts us Filipinos to this very day. The government has mutated from being the organization where the will of the people are formulated, expressed and realized to just The Organization whose workings are very similar to that of the Russian mob.

Here's a little background on the Ruskie mob: The breakthrough for the so-called Russian Mafia occurred during the economic disaster and mass emigration of the 1990s that followed the fall of the Soviet Union. Many former government officials turned to crime, others joined the large numbers of Soviet citizens who moved overseas primarily to the United States and the Mafia became a natural extension of this trend. Former KGB agents, sportsmen and veterans of the Afghan and Chechen Wars, now finding themselves out-of-work but with experience in areas which could prove useful in crime, joined the increasing crime wave. The Russian Mob's own members have been known to call their crime group "Организация" ("The Organization").

However, unlike the Russian mob, notorious for its underground operations and clean transactions, the crime organizations operating under the cloak of Philippine government is not known for its secrecy and non-flamboyant manner. These assholes have no shame whatsoever. Under the guise of a republican government, these motherfuckers are characteristically sloppy and have no sense of honor in any sense of the word. Endless barrages of mudslinging and all sorts of dirty tactics have exposed almost each and every one politician as a corrupt crook. I am sure you have all seen the imp and her evil houseband's picture at ZTE's. The Palace admitted that the picture was legit but tried to dismiss the controversial issue as "a mere social call with ZTE officials" and that it "should not be blown out of proportion." A social call my ass. Further, it is my good looks that should not be blown out of proportion, not the ZTE scandal. (BTW, some movie and TV guy in the past told me to call him if I ever wanted to be an artista when I was a teen-ager, but my father said he would disown me and strip me off my heritage if I jumped in the swine-pit world of show-business. So here I am, a lawyer for the public and the default consigliere for the family.) In the Senate, the government pawns who testified under the Senate Blue Ribbon Committee denied all allegations that their boss ever had a meeting with ZTE bigwigs. Now which is which? I understand that the evidence against the duende are circusmstantial, but the rules of evidence provide under Section 4 of Rule 133, that--

Circumstantial evidence is sufficient for conviction if:

(a)There is more than one circumstance;

(b)The facts from which the inferences are derived are proven; and

(c)The combination of all the circumstances is such as to produce a conviction beyond reasonable doubt.

What more can we ask for? An open court admission? Let's get real. Even a street thief wouldn't do such a thing. At least not without some torture or threat of an ass-fucking. Maybe that's what GMA needs, a threat of an ass-fucking by the multitudes of people she had screwed.

Just a few months ago, I was listening to my morning shows on the car's AM radio and I heard one funny-ass comment from Erap. He said something to this effect: "The GMA administration is like a book with a very thick cover. They are very good at making cover-ups." Erap sure has his moments. I almost rammed the goddam jeepney in front of me as I was laughing my dick off after hearing that ridiculous interview. Funny shit, but that goes deep man. Fuckin' Deep. Some friends of mine, not me, but some friends I have believe that president evil and her organization of filthy ass amateur crooks are responsible for the Glorietta bombing, the sky-rocketing oil price hikes, the rice crisis, and even our huge-ass electric bills. They insist that all of these problems we are facing are the brainchild of the government aimed at covering up the multi-million dollar scams they pull on us every single fuckin' time the opportunity arises. I do not agree. They are not that smart. Certainly, they are not part of the solution and part of the goddam general problem but I think it is hasty and erroneous to conclude that they are the proximate cause of these problems. If I believe that they are, I'd probably holding an automatic Kalashnikov (IMO the new tommy gun) right now and not my fountain pen.

Corruption is defined (in Wikipedia) as a general concept describing any organized, interdependent system in which part of the system is either not performing duties it was originally intended to, or performing them in an improper way, to the detriment of the system's original purpose. Its original meaning has connotations of evil, malignance, sickness, and loss of innocence or purity. The corruption in the Philippines is so deeply rooted, that if you trace back its origin, you'd end up in Spain. And, if you go back further, you'll find its origins in China. I do not want to talk about that aspect of this topic because I know, that even if I do not look it, I might have some Spanish or Chinese blood flowing through my veins, like most Flips.

Corruption is a dysfunction which encompasses bribery, extortion, cronyism, nepotism, patronage, graft, and embezzlement. Rizal said it is a disease similar to cancer with no known cure. Some cancers have vaccines now and some are made currently curable by the advances made by modern medicine. Perhaps the martyr's description has become inaccurate for our times. Perhaps corruption is like a zombie bite. Once you get bitten, you transform into an undead zombie like zombie movie-nuts see in those cheap-ass zombie movies. If that's the case, the only way to cure the corrupted is to blow its head off with a shotgun or cut the damn thing with a bad-ass motorized chain-saw. The only problem is that in those zombie movies, everybody else but the hero and the girl dies. Only they see the sunlight after the overnight onslaught. Now who's the gonna be the hero and the girl? Not me. I'm just a family man who has friends who have some more friends. I cannot afford to play hero and try to chop zombie heads. I just hope the family and these zombies can do business. If not, let's just say that someday maybe I'll make them an offer even they cannot refuse.

Mediocrity

The traditional formulation of the Copernican mediocrity principle is usually played out in the following way: Ancients of the Middle East and west once thought that the Earth was at the center of the universe, but Copernicus proposed that the Sun was at the center. This heliocentric view was confirmed a hundred years later by Galileo, who demonstrated with a telescope that Jupiter's moons orbited Jupiter and that Venus must orbit the Sun. In the 1930s, RJ Trumpler found that the solar system was not at the center of the Milky Way Galaxy (as Jacobus Kapteyn claimed), but 56% of the way out to the rim of the galaxy's core. In the mid-twentieth century, George Gamow (et al.) showed that although it appears that our Galaxy is at the center of an expanding universe (in accordance with Hubble's law), every point in space experiences the same phenomenon. And, at the end of the twentieth century, Geoff Marcy and colleagues discovered that extrasolar planets are quite common, putting to rest the idea that the Sun is unusual in having planets. In short, Copernican mediocrity is a series of astronomical findings that the Earth is a relatively ordinary planet orbiting a relatively ordinary star in a relatively ordinary galaxy which is one of countless others in a giant universe, possibly within an infinite multiverse. (Source: wikipedia)

As a way of life, I despise mediocrity. I always try to strive to be the best at what I do. More accurately, I set a standard for myself which is always above the average. That way of thinking is what led me away from the sport of basketball. As a child, I loved the game. I even had an authentic green laminated Boston Celtics poster proudly displayed on a wall in my (well, mine and my brother's) room. I played varsity ball for elementary school. I thought I was really good. I scored an average of 8-12 points a game and had about the same number of assists as an off-guard. On my first year of high school, my hoop dreams were shattered. I transferred back to the University of Santo Tomas (I started elementary school there, but transferred to Bulacan). I was 12 years old and had classmates as tall as PBA players. All the kids who played basketball were at least 5'8" on their freshmen year. A couple were as big as 6' tall. I got my fair share of hard bumps, sharp falls, and nasty basket rejections. That resulted to a whole lot of (kid) brawls for me. No one could make me look like a fool even as a kid without risking having my foot in his ass. I decided after 3 or 4 games (fights) with these kids that basketball, although I enjoyed the game very much, was not mine. I found out that basketball was not for everyone. That game is only for the tall. Don't get me wrong, I'm no pip-squeak, I'm about as tall as Robert Downey Jr., or George Clooney--just not basketball tall. (Maybe soon I'll post a blog entry about basketball and perhaps other sports)

When I was born, I was the center of the universe for my parents, my grand-parents, my uncles and aunts. I am the first-born son among my brothers, sisters and all first cousins. I was their Copernican sun. When my first-born son (or daughter) is born this November, he (or she) would be like me, first-born among all in his generation. He (or she) will become our Copernican sun. If drowning on the depths of mediocrity means having your own dreams made flesh, then I would love to be labeled mediocre. I can't wait to see my reflection at the sparkle of my baby's eyes.