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Monday, November 16th, 2009
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According to the most recent survey, Noynoy Aquino will most probably win, which is awesome, because even more Kris Aquino news will flood the tri-media, blurring the line between showbiz and politics even further, so that soon our kids will not know the difference between heads of stations and movie outfits and cabinet secretaries.
But none of the bad stuff, because we know that Cory and Ninoy raised them - Balsy, Viel, and Pinky (see, I actually know them) - to be nice little God-fearing boys and girls. The beaming quintessence of a devout Filipino family who can do no wrong.
Five years ago, joint military troops and HLI security people fired on the picket line of protesters. Protesters who have been in the hacienda even before Noynoy was born. They were protesting the sad state of their employment with the Cojuanco's. Which is absolutely odd because who would protest and speak up, risk their miserable lives, if after all the deductions, your monthly salary amounts to a whopping P9.50.
Your eyes are fine, folks.
Of course, Noynoy is blameless. He was only senator when this happened, and his shares in HLI are diminutive, almost insignificant. What can he possibly do? What can he possibly do?
You vote for him in the 2010 polls and decry any future inaction, perhaps denounce a scandal, or demand accountability for an overlooked agenda, and expect to get the same retort: what can he possibly do?
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Comments: Read 17 or Add Your Own.
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Thursday, November 12th, 2009
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In Seattle's Best in Mega to finish pro-bono review of tibak play and avoid planner-hungry horde:
- The past couple of weeks, around four people I know broke up with long-time boyfriends (more than 3 years), a trend that would typically elicit from me assignations of portentious heaviness courtesy of some unaligned planets, out-of-sync stars, or, this time, the tail end of a dying decade. 2009 had been harsh, had been because I like it to be over, the deaths and endings it has wrought, and maybe a little wrong tense can make it go a little faster.
- That being said, I was in a dark corner of Meat Shop in Katips a couple of weeks ago, trying to comfort a friend by reminding him of the nearing holidays, an occasion that would come regardless of our gloomy apprehensions and misgivings. Do I resent the holiday season more because I'm alone? Perhaps, but I remember cursing the hearts and Cupids of Valentines this year and I had a nice enough boyfriend then, so no finger-pointing on the loneliness.
- Alaysa has a rather harsh fight with the parents.
Glenn: just give in a little.
Glenn: compromise mads.
Alaysa: okay, nasa fighting mode pa ako eh
Glenn: mads. ano ba.
Glenn: tanders na e
Alaysa: eh hindi naman tama lahat ng sinasabi ng tanders
Alaysa: kung aayusin, kelangan klaruhin ang maraming bagay
Glenn: e yun na nga.
Glenn: kung wala silang foresight for compromise, ikaw na lang ang magsimula.
Glenn: mads, that's love, i think.
Glenn: from the little that i know of it.
Glenn: YUCK GLENN.
Alaysa: HAHAHA. :))
Glenn: sorry kadiri.
- Talking to the be-pierced ex from four years ago, one of the casualties of November, who is more concerned about not feeling anything about the breakup than the breakup itself. Keen to suggest this certain river in Egypt, but from what I know of him, awesome at rationalization and moving forward. Normally, he'd get a tattoo or new piercing but worried there's no room left for latter (except internal organs, but can be fatal).
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Sunday, November 8th, 2009
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Wala nang pagpapanggap, haha.
Jesus in Yellow, Patricia Evangelista
You are not alone, they say, but who stands with you? Anne Curtis? Ate Shawie? Marielle Rodriguez? Just recently, Noynoy promised to give up his share of Hacienda Luisita, and yet denies knowing of eviction notices to farmers even while the case sits in the Supreme Court. Laza continues to march in rallies, five years after a bullet ripped a good man away. Nothing has changed, the same songs, the same names, the same injustices.
(See how far Patricia Evangelista's politics have come from her borderless world days? From naively heralding globalization and proclaiming the Filipino diaspora as "not as ominous" as people said, she now makes brilliant juxtapositions, Jesus the martyred Luisita farmer vis-a-vis Noynoy's messianic portrayal. It's amazing. It cuts through the crap.)
The crap, of course, is this, this showcase of idiotic sentimentality awash with celebrities and token "normal" folk, peasants, youth, Muslims, all passing fire via torches like they are about to storm a manananggal's house. The crap that says we don't need definite plans, we only need a song and inspiration.
The first time I saw the crap, I really liked it, in spite of myself, because I like Regine Velasquez, shows of solidarity, and songs with really high notes. Then I remembered there are also high-pitched shrieks when paramilitary troops in Hacienda Luisita open-fired at the protesters. Hard-hitting Cheche Lazaro asked him about this during his turn on Probe Profiles last week. I remember distinctly what he said - I'm not a majority shareholder. Right there and then, I wanted to cry, and I wanted to hurl the sofa I was sitting on to the television.
How dare you, Noynoy? How dare you proclaim yourself a sharp alternative to this fascist, fascist regime, when the strongest opposition you can muster toward a daylight massacre in your family's hacienda is a nonchalant cry of innocence? How dare you enjoin Filipinos to rally behind you and your reformist ideals, when clearly, you cannot rise above your class and side with the the disenfranchised? How dare you claim to stand for so many, when it's it's obvious, like yellow sunlight, that you stand for a few?
Noynoy's opponent, Harvard-trained Gibo Teodoro, is already using the mind-versus-heart dichotomy for his campaign. "Hindi lang dapat puso," or something. Naive and misguided, slightly, because on one hand you don't want to perceived as heartless, with the Filipino's penchant for dramatics. Yet more importantly, Noynoy may have the soft demeanor and the caring eyes, the magnanimous smile and the erstwhile genes, but is he passionate? Is he caring? Has he heart?
Seven people, dead five years, will not be able to tell you.
PS. Giddily expecting Conrado de Quiros' rejoinder to this strongly worded column. Two of Inquirer's best columnists. Let the fireworks begin.
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Friday, October 30th, 2009
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Realized belatedly that urge to not go down at one's designated stop when commuting is by no means original, revolutionary activity. In fact, was the first scene of a Banana Yoshimoto short story stumbled upon on Jade's apartment one Sunday morning while chugging left over beer from last night.
(Little side note: Alecks Pabico died of liver cirrhosis last month, former Collegian editor-in-chief and PCIJ assistant to the training director. Just saying. Only, prolonged abstinence from alcohol renders one harshly coherent and therefore dull, maybe even with sense for a change?)
Around couple of months back, shuttle whizzed by stop in a blink, and one had neither the vitality nor desire to bonk driver's head and tell him to stop. Wasn't asleep or even drowsy; in fact, it was clear and vivid, the sight of familiar street signs flurrying by the second until vehicle was climbing strange flyover and shuttle was in Quiapo.
Was not alarmed, not remotely, but instead took pleasure in relishing illusory control over one's own life, for a change. Thing with routines is, (as Milan Kundera said) repetition produces comfort and eventually happiness. After a while, however, routines just become cages, like every single option you make in scheme of things, like your comfortable, high-paying job or your smart, good-looking boyfriend, or your bourgeoisie choices that weren't really choices only masquerading as such.
Didn't really know what got from that little detour, only assurance that can still commute from Quiapo to one's house in one piece, and that one doesn't look that vulnerable in v. high-risk environs as hoity-toity elders say. Gosh hate being vague and pedantic, but useful for future decoding skills assessment.
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Wednesday, October 28th, 2009
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To begin, a story.
A year ago, the tipping point of the Matt Episode was bawling over a plate of spaghetti one innocent October morning upon the realization that all was lost, and broken, and irretrievable. Last night, got home around midnight to, wouldn't you know it, a warm plate of spaghetti left from Sophia's two-month bash. There were no tears, though, no matter how fervently and repeatedly Norah Jones asked if I were lonesome that night.
Coincidence? Or the universe conspiring oh-so-lovingly?
There was this little exchange when Summer (Zooey Deschanel) told Tom (Joseph Gordon-Levitt), rather nonchalantly, that she got married quite quickly, when all the while she had this "wall" and told Tom she was incapable of commitment:
Summer: I woke up one morning and I just knew.
Tom: Knew what?
Summer: What I was never sure of with you.
Wanted, right there and then, to reach for the carpeted floors of Podium's nearly empty cinema 2, lie down, and just sob helplessly. Not that it was unexpected, a couple of people warned me of something sad, but the line was so simple and direct, and heartbreaking in its simplicity; a simplicity, by the way, that is by no means easy to put into words, horrendously intangible, but no less true.
All rom-com's share this purpose of trying to articulate love and how it feels. Heck, all of literature is about this project. 500 Days of Summer is quirky, its protagonist will remind you of Pushing Daisies' Ned (Lee Pace), and Summer will conjure images of Chuck (Anna Friel). Is it revolutionary? No (non-linear narration doesn't do that). Is it edgy? No (music from The Smiths and Simon and Garfunkel and Feist don't give you that).
A story, to end.
In the last month or so, three parties have gone v. close to breaching the wall, something that was years in the making. People have died on that wall, I, several times over (yuck emo). There was nothing wrong with them; nice grades, nice bungalow house, nice set of teeth, but just like Summer, there's no escaping the inexactitudes of this somber affair, and that is both its beauty and its tragedy.
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Monday, October 26th, 2009
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I covered this teacher conference at the Ateneo last weekend again, and now I have a rather bad cold (initially typed bold - bad cold?) because I've been working for 13 straight days. This, however, was hardly work. Katt and I just lounged around the place, sat through a few sessions and listened to some speeches, and voila, half a month's pay in two days. Super.
The highlight of the weekend, though, in spite of myself, was Kris Aquino, who graced the occasion last Saturday; by graced, I meant drop by for around 30 minutes, no prepared talk, drone on about her willingness to take pictures with everyone so long as they vote for her brother, and flipping her hair.
Last year, there was Boy Abunda, who, despite his pretentious claims at being astutely well-read, at least said something. Katt, who had to cover the session and was beside me, was bristling because she didn't say anything substantial, and the catchiest, meatiest quote she could use was a v. enthusiastic, "I super value education" and "I super appreciate teachers." Brainstorming for the headline, I offered 'A 'Super' Day' - but it was rejected summarily because Kris might be super irked and the organized might not find it super funny.
There were hush-hush remarks made at the sidelines; that Kris Aquino wasn't this willing to take pictures with people before, that she actually hates it, that it's odd that all of a sudden she willingly surrenders herself for photo opportunities. The teachers, all 168 of them except a few of the males perhaps, shyly shuffled to the front of the auditorium and posed with her by region, Ilocos, Cagayan Valley, Central Luzon, Western Visayas, ARMM, Caraga, then the ginormous NCR delegation. I was in the front row, and I may be seeing things, but I swear there was a glint of get-me-out-of-here from the minutest corners of Kris' perfectly made, smiling eyes. Hiding things is not exactly her biggest forte.
The photographers, meanwhile, grumbled and bristled, because Kris' complexion rendered all shots of her too white, because light bounced off her flawless skin without fail. The following morning, an hour before sunrise, I rewatched Sa Ngalan ng Tubo from Alaysa's laptop. The check tucked between the pages of Atwood's The Robber Bride seemed torturous and not so super all of a sudden.
PS. Best part - she brought Baby James!
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Friday, October 23rd, 2009
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December darkens and darkens,and the streets sprout forth their Christmas tinsel, and the Salvation Army brass band sings hymns and jingles its bells and stirs up its cauldron of money, and loneliness blows in the snowflurries (1992).
- Margaret Atwood, The Robber Bride
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Wednesday, October 14th, 2009
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Of course, I won't be happy. If a guy fawns over me or calls me the love of his life or tells me he'd been waiting all these years to finally meet me, I get turned off, naturally. Regardless of whether he, as a person, has merits. Regardless of whether we have a connection (whatever this devil means). Regardless of everything else. However, if he changes his mind, shows the slightest hint of hesitation, or altogether drops the idea and maybe even be a trifle revolted, expect me to, inexplicably, find him attractive and plead that he stay.
Everything revolves around this ironic conundrum, hardly desirable, but not exactly deliberate. Because I'm not clinically insane (yet - yuck, pretensions of bipolarity, claims to being complicated), I recognize that it's a telltale sign of passive-aggressive behavior. Let's check the symptoms:
- Ambiguity or speaking cryptically (yes)
- Chronically being late and forgetting things (oh dear yes)
- Fear of competition (not particularly)
- Fear of dependency (yes)
- Fear of intimacy as a means to act out anger: (yes)
- Making chaotic situations (not really)
- Making excuses for non-performance in work teams (sometimes)
- Obstructionism (no)
- Sulking (yes)
- Victimization response (yes, a bit)
In short, a passive-aggressive is a drama queen, so laden with issues, both self-made and perhaps real, that he inadvertently causes more harm than good by being both negative and pedantic - kind of what I'm doing now. But what can you do?
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Thursday, October 1st, 2009
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Of course, September won't go down without a fight. Found out something about last relationship, which was a good half a year ago, and something involving a friend/acquaintance, something not pleasant at all that dealt the ego a disconcerting blow (and not the good kind). No idea why it stung, slightly, since absolutely no feelings left at this point, except momentary reminiscences some random Tuesday morning, which are given if one's not Frankenstein. But seriously. You have to give me a break. Not only was that story long buried in attic, it has started to gather cobwebs and mildew (as what happens to things not given museum-like care over time). But September isn't September without awakening the dead.
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Monday, September 14th, 2009
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State U
Yano
Parame na ng parame
De kotseng estudyante!
Administration policy
Itaas ang tuition fee
Pati na din ang dorm fee
Baket walang nagrarally?
Kahit may demolition
Private corporation
Barat na allocation sa education
Commercialization, colonialization
Privatisation, kawawang oblation!
Sa state universtiy!
State u! hate u!
PS. Haha. Medyo makasarili ang theme, at parang tayo lang ang nakaintindi (especially the Hari ng Sablay at sablay na pang-graduation, blue book, at ikot), pero para kanino ba nagpeperform ang pep squad, kung hindi para sa sangka-UP-han. Sabi nga ni Claren, 86.10 (FEU) at 83.40 (Ateneo) na walang mali, at 83.10 (UP) na may mga glaring errors, you do the math.
At yes, wala ang UST sa top three. In fact, when UP was announced third and both the FEU and UST crowds started cheering, the UP crowd, although shaken, started chanting Ateneo. When Ateneo was announced first runner-up, the UP crowd started chanting FEU (medyo I found it a little disconcerting, pero sabi nga ni Alan,m minsan lang naman). By this time, the UST gallery started committing collective harakiri. Kidding.
Although after watching the videos in YouTube, medyo off-putting ang Ateneo placing second (kahit na .3 lang ang lamang sa UP). Milya-milya kasi ang layo ng level of difficulty. I'll say this categorically, lahat ng ginawa ng Ateneo sa routine nila, the UP Pep Squad has done in the halftimes. Hehe. Pero tama na, move on na. Sana next year, you bring more people! Sayang the seats.
Pero para sa UP Pep Squad, ang galing! Salamat sa pagpapaalala sa mga conyong bagong salta sa UP kung ano ba dapat ang esensya ng ating pag-iral bilang unibersidad. Bayang, bayan, bayan ko, 'di pa tapos ang laban mo. :)
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Friday, September 11th, 2009
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So. You know that feeling that you'll be single for a long time. Sadly, I have started to harbor something close to it, in spite of myself. No explicit reason. Just a feeling in the general gut area and the attendant remorselessness and apathy. Unfortunately, almost always, it turns out to be accurate, so I'm bracing myself for an extra chilly holiday season, something I'm no stranger to, but still dreads, every time.
To make matters worse, there are at least a couple of weddings in my December calendar that sort of require a plus one. This doesn't worry me much, because I have a quite healthy arsenal of hot, articulate guy friends to take just in case. But you know, weddings. When sober, I'm quite proudly immune to senseless and consumerist mush (as opposed to the deep, no-frills thing), just ask my most recent ex.
However, however. At 23, I know how it goes. That, as Melane said, torment breeds baby torments after excessive contemplation (in her pedantic Filipino, "Ang alalahanin, 'pag inisip nang sobra, nanganganak ng iba pang alalahanin"). Therefore, singleness issues, rearing its always ugly head, have a tendency to encroach on other things - work, family, your art, etc. It's probably its nature. It's probably its importance.
Nevertheless, there was a rogue Cyndi Lauper tune in my head this morning. "You smile, and the spell is cast." There was no guy, no silhouette descending down a flight of stairs and parting the crowd, and no promise of awesome sex. There was a baby, cradled in my arms, smiling for the first time and revealing a pair of dimples.
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Saturday, September 5th, 2009
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So. Let's try to be relevant. Noynoy for president.
But wait. Just like dear old mum, Noynoy decides to scoot off to some far-flung religious place for discernment, for contemplation. I have absolutely no frigging clue how Noynoy's god will talk to him without doing a Judiel Nieva Agoo (what the fuck, she has a Wikipedia entry?). To the religion-inclined, please enlighten me (hehe pun). Does this mean if someone prays long enough and hard enough, the answer will mystically come to him? And who holds authority over what the purportedly 'correct' decision is?
 Much has been said about the following: Noynoy's inexperience, Noynoy's over-reliance on his almighty surname, Noynoy's lack of charm, Noynoy's unappealing comb-over. On the other hand, those who enjoy hailing themselves as reform-minded peeps never forget to point out: Noynoy's unblemished track record (conveniently forgetting to mention a single frigging law he had authored), Noynoy's ability to unite a fragmented anti-Arroyo force, and Noynoy's heroic genes.
Upon Mar Roxas' decision to give up his presidential hopes (to which he is the first to shower himself praise, gracious, heroic, heaven-sent almost), someone in my Facebook protested in huge capital letters: Tangina, trapo rin naman.
In more sober translation, it escapes people that while Noynoy is surely a virtuous, nice, god-fearing man, he comes from a long line of politicians, that he belongs to a landed clan who once massacred more than a dozen people in broad daylight (sorry, there's just no forgiving the Hacienda Luisita Massacre in my book). And surely, Noynoy didn't order the military guarding their precious hacienda to open-fire at the protesters. However, he was already in government then, and he didn't say anything. Whoever said that for evil to prosper, what is only necessary is for good men to do nothing. Noynoy is a good man, that is agreeable, but did he do anything?
If it indeed comes down to Noynoy Aquino, it only means our criteria for presidents are no longer skill and advocacy, but instead have been reduced to morals and circumstance. Clearly, we are in deep shit. Because morals, that is a human construct, and circumstance, will we always need Marcoses and Arroyos, dictators and frauds, to make us aspire for reasonable good leaders?
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Wednesday, September 2nd, 2009
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In the height of noon, you burst through a wail, and shed a layer of cynicism from my shell. I was never a believer of all the inspirational, Oprah-esque drivel that consumerist society assigns to motherhood, but with you, I don't remember praying so hard and so fervently, that you arrive strong to our lives, and your mother, my sister, emerge from it unscathed.
They refuse to name you Verisimilitude, in spite of my insistence. Instead, they chose Sophia, wisdom, the Bulgarian capital, the name of the protagonist in a feminine wash commercial. I still harbor a semblance of resentment, but what's in a name? To label something is to claim ownership, and to be named is to submit to subservience, but I reserve discussions of cultural theory when you at least can turn to your side without assistance.
You were born in the most ominous of years, people dying left and right, death working overtime, its presence and proximity continuously hounding those whom as yet it laid no claim. As such, the earliest instance you can, relish everything and appreciate it. Don't ignore life's incendiary fucked-up-ness and smile like a fool; instead come to terms with this imperfection and know that therein lies the beauty of it all, and the majesty.
Despite your faults (your father is a willing pawn in this state's fascist agenda, for one), you have brought me happiness that I can claim for myself and no one else's, something very, very few people have successfully done. For that alone, you are worth my time, something I can say to very, very few people.
<3 Tito Glenn
PS. If my journal still exists when you turn 18, I shall give you this. But by that time, I'll be 41 and may be dealing with serious age-related issues.
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Monday, August 24th, 2009
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Updating because I want to remember it, but won't stay long because I've become shit scared of random and out-of-character torrential outpour.
- Because I like to salvage any semblance of health and fitness left in my body, dragged Alaysa to go jogging in UP Thursday after work (no work the next day, thank you Ninoy). So after one round - yes, one round - was tired as hell and may have even hallucinated a bit. Then met her friends and Om in Yellow Cab in Katips, rendering whole point of jogging nonexistent, but that was to be expected. Then went to Papu's for a few bottles then went home.
- Friday, went to the wake of Prof. Mabuhay Alonzo, practically first and last professor in college because I had him for Educ 100 (intro) and Educ 180 (practicum). Aced both subjects, but this isn't about me. Sir Buhay was one of the more annoying profs, because he was one of those who'd require his students to go to the Senate to listen to committee hearings or go to Mendiola to join a teachers' demonstration, etc. But at the end of the day, he epitomized what a UP professor should be all about - the fucking thankless country.
- So Alan and I headed to our weekend getaway - Starbucks in Matalino. Then it happened. Went home at around 3, about such time, it started to rain - hard, very hard. So hard, in fact, that manong driver asked if we can park for a while to wait for a little let-up. We did, because Araneta was virtually not passable. We shared a can of pringles.
- After around 30 minutes (with the meter running), manong decided to go. Lo and behold, Araneta and every road that lead to my house were rivers, with one vehicle after another turning around, their drivers with smirks in their faces. It was also raining just as hard. So bottom line: in my jeans and good shirt and bag full of books and phone and notebooks, I walked through waist-deep flood water for around 15 minutes, my Havs in my hand, barely able to lift my feet thanks to the soaked denim.
- Saturday, saw the UP-La Salle game because The Arena is 10 minutes away from my house and I have free admission courtesy of the almighty press ID - I just wonder how long will they buy the college paper writer thing. During the fourth quarter, while UP held a tenuous lead, I mumbled a silent bargain with jesus. Make UP win and I won't have sex for a month. So that was stupid. Then at the dugout after the win (hehe), the coach said something like, "Pang-higante lang tayo." Then went straight to our haunt with Alan again. While waiting for the cab around five hours later and wishing for no rain, I asked him, absentmindedly, how long will we be able to do this?
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Tuesday, August 18th, 2009
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Some dude sang this Saturday night over cocktails and jalapeño cheese sticks at Masas in Greenbelt 3.
Interesting stuff: some six or so years ago, three people lined up to get their books signed by this writer who wrote something about American divinities (Neil Gaiman, if you somehow miss the synonym). Let's call them Glenn, Matt, and Albert. Glenn was there with another friend Tim, who knew Matt and saw him in line, while Matt got to know Albert because they were in line for 13 hours.
Six years going forward, a lot of things happened. Glenn kind of dated Matt, while Albert dated - and is still dating - a good friend of Glenn's in PeopleSupport, where Albert also worked. So the three met again one night in a place in Greenbelt that is also the name of a part of a house (Kitchen, if you again somehow miss the hint). Glenn was catching up with Matt, while his other friends, which included the girl whom Albert was dating, were on the next table.
I forgot the whole point of this, but while Matt and Albert recognized the familiarity and tried to put faces to events, I thought of sequences of events that lead to grand but also inevitable conclusions. The sum of all our fears is that everything is fated and all effort is futile. I thank you.
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Friday, August 14th, 2009
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Is it too soon to be making Kris Aquino jokes?
Glenn: Shet i was crying all day yesterday.
Glenn: Pesteng Cory / Kris.
Reign: Ay oo puta.
Glenn: I'm sorry moooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmm!
Glenn: We lied to youuuuuuu!
Glenn: It would take a lifetime for us to be okaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyy
Glenn: We lied to you mommmmmmmmmmm
Reign: STOP QUOTING HER!
Reign: I CAN HEAR HER!
Glenn: Siguro they're making banter in heaven.
Glenn: "You're the politician, but you were only senator. Ako presidente. Beeh."
Reign: Ninoy we'll be like, "After your term NANAY KA NA LANG NI KRIS."
Glenn: Hahahaha.
Glenn: And Cory will be like, wala ka naman sa Time Magazine.
Reign: Ikaw nga you let our daughter have Chlamydia!
Glenn: Hahahahahaha.
Glenn: Hoy below the belt!
Glenn: Literally.
Reign: HAHAHAHA true.
Reign: Oooh and by the way is SOLEMNO a tagalog word?
Glenn: Hahahaha.
Glenn: Ces Drilon ba yan?
Reign: ANG HILIG NIYA SA GANYAN!
Glenn: Solemno. Ang panget.
Reign: I bet she feels stupid after saying that.
Reign: She's like SOLEMNO? WTF?
Glenn: Sabi talaga ni Ces Drilon WTF?
Reign: Yeah. HAHAHAHAHA.
Glenn: Nakidnap ako WTF?
Reign: They freed the cameraman and not me WTF?
Can't wait for dinner tomorrow!
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Tuesday, August 11th, 2009
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Last na.
Even Alaysa, hardcore rah-rah Marxist-Leninist Alaysa, said over beer and cucumber last Saturday that Carlo Caparas shouldn't be crying the class card regarding his selection as National Artist and the barrage of criticism that followed. It's not an issue of class, for a change. In the same manner, people hurling insults at him shouldn't go down the path of class or education or even artistic taste, for crying out loud. The country's intelligentsia and academia is already perceived as a bunch of stuck-up elitists as it is, bemoaning Carlo Caparas' inclusion to their ranks by sheer virtue of aesthetics or form will do little to salvage that cause.
Besides, almost all forms of artistic production in the country subscribes to the same fucked up capitalist mode of production, subsumed like everything else in the legal and political superstructure.
Anyway, what manner of fuckery is this, really, when there is no shame involved when someone who is presidential adviser on culture gets awarded something by the president herself? If you don't find anything wrong with that, something is wrong with you, because the sheer simplicity of the conflict of interest evidenced by the choice and the fact that it escapes the powers that be puzzle a lot of people. Cecile Guidote-Alvarez furiously said she wasn't an idiot before becoming National Artist. Well, care for a little reassessment now?
PS. Via Facebook, Karl relayed something Carlo Caparas told Bien Lumbera on some morning show. "Ang komiks, hindi naman yan pagsusulat lang na madali lang, tulad ng ginagawa ni Bien Lumbera." Singlehandedly, Carlo Caparas just undermined the very discipline of writing, not just Bien Lumbera, whom I'm not exactly fond of to begin with. It's easy to call this retort uneducated, tasteless, ignorant, arrogant, bobo, shunga, etc, but confronted with such brazen insensitivity, you can only open your mouth in disbelief.
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I cried, in spite of myself. I'm betting you did, too, and will on Wednesday.
Tried to drown the melodrama by mentally recalling images of the Mendiola Massacre. Some fibers of my body were telling me I cannot possibly cry for a Cojuanco, hello. I have seen Sa Ngalan ng Tubo. But, but. Oh Cory. Everything was cheesy and suddenly magical and beautiful. The sudden downpour were torrential tears from the heavens. Cory saw the light, and Ninoy, in her plush, first class Makati Med room, and once again Filipinos are suddenly not bent on changing their nationality the first chance they get. Just listen to their accents and favorite television shows.
I learned the news Saturday morning when I went to the living room and found my lola and sister crying. Throughout her prolonged ordeal with cancer, I was determined to have no sympathy for Cory, determined to historicize, to counter the blind one-sided barrage of tribute from mainstream media for her. But how can you, when even when she lies there, limp, dead, perhaps ironically yellow, she brings to fore why the country is dying with her. Why democracy is dying with her. With one Cory documentary after another, we realize we don't always have crappy, self-serving pompous asses for leaders. We realize there was a point in our history when we actually believed in what our politicians say.
In death, the bombardment of images and tales about Cory's humility and integrity sheds a layer of cynicism from even the hardest of non-believers. For one, it underscores how utterly, utterly corrupt and undignified the Arroyo regime is by inevitable comparison. As trite and corny as it sounds, once again, we will remember we don't suck so much as a nation, that we have a concept of a nation to begin with, and that in picking our leaders, we need not scour the garbage for the least dirty, but instead hike our standards and pick the best our people has.
Here's hoping the euphoria doesn't die after Wednesday. It probably will, but let's still hope.
PBA097qn3nn4
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Thursday, July 30th, 2009
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On the occasion of our esteemed president meeting with the even more esteemed so-called leader of the free world (and those who inhabit it - didn't you see Transformers? They're the de facto global police):
Obama (on the phone): May I speak with that small but great Filipina who is the pride of all Filipinos?
Gloria (in her inimitable monotone): Speaking.
Obama: Oh hi Charice.
But seriously, if Obama so much as reads any Philippine newspaper or visits any news website, he is bound to know that Gloria is not the petite, innocent lady she appears. Their 30-meeting tête-à-tête will probably sound something like this:
Obama: So. Famed international human rights person Philip Alston said the Philippine armed forces is to blame for all those extrajudicial killings and disappearances?
Gloria: Economy!
Obama: And Fil-Am Melissa Roxas went back to the PI just to testify that she was abducted and tortured.
Gloria: Economy! Economy!
Obama: Oh well. I guess I owe you one for the whole Daniel Smith thing, don't I.
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Isn't she lovely
Isn't she wonderfull
- Stevie Wonder, Isn't She Lovely
So my lola was vindicated. She hates Gloria with a passion for usurping the presidency from her idol. Not me. After all, Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo was a promising senator, a Georgetown-educated economist, and a seemingly meek and humble woman who went to church everyday; certainly, an upgrade from the bobong artista that the middle class and the intelligentsia so vehemently abhorred.
Oh how quickly things change.
A state of emergency,
How beautiful to be
- Bjork, Joga
Lest we forget and be shocked at her transformation (not just with the boobies), by 2010, Gloria would have been president for nearly 10 years. If you had a baby in 2001, he would be in the fourth grade by then, eating street food you told him not to, and probably taking a mild interest in smut (pardon the middle class examples).
We've seen the transformation, and we should've seen the signs. To thank them, she appointed tons of generals to cabinet posts, never mind that the lack of experience. Going forward, all but one of her losing senators in the 2007 polls were shoved ridiculous positions, Recto to NEDA, Sotto to DDB, Singson as deputy national security adviser, and Pichay to some agency that rations water. Patronage politics at its best.
Recently, Fil-Am activist Melissa Roxas accused the military of abducting and torturing her. Now never mind her case. The numbers of disappeared and killed activists in the Arroyo administration has exceeded that of Marcos'. Oh wait, that's right she created a commission to investigate it. Only, when the findings surprisingly led to her armed forces' camps and airfields, she opted not to divulge them.
Hey all right! If I get by, it's mine.
Mine all mine!
- Jane's Addiction, Been Caught Stealing
How can Fernando Poe, Jr. win the elections when I don't know a single soul who voted for him? How silly. Oh wait, what's this? "So will I still lead by more than 1M?" "Pipilitin po natin, maam." Oh no she did not. That is clearly not her. OK, hold on. "I was anxious to protect my votes and during that time had conversations with many people including a Comelec official. I recognize that making any such call was a lapse in judgment. I am sorry." OK, fine, she called Garci. She cheated. It's still better than than a Poe presidency. Let's move on. Economy! Economy!
Kayo po na naka-upo
subukan nyo namang tumayo
at baka matanaw
at baka matanaw na niyo
ang tunay na kalagayan ko
- Upuan, Gloc 9 feat Zelle
There's this bloggers thing on Sunday, a day before Gloria's ninth State of the Nation Address. I don't really know what for, though. If she and her minions can ignore several-thousand-strong demonstrations right smack in the middle of the country's financial district, what makes you think she'd care if a bunch of bloggers, conveniently lodged behind their monitors and screen names, write angry, oh-so-angry entries of rebuke and castigation.
She has ignored every single call to lend the tiniest tinge of decency in her presidency. When the people don't trust you, any project, good or bad, any word that comes out of your filthy mouth, will be met with suspicion. This is saying a lot in a country like the Philippines, where the entrenched clergy deems forgiveness a virtue and suffering a ticket to heaven. It means that when the people don't like you, you've done something horribly, unjustifiably, irreparably wrong.
If these people - the usually couldn't-care-less youth, the snooty academe, the typically cordial business community, and even the frigging church for chrissake - think you're wrong, and you say the effects of your efforts are just yet to trickle down, they have the reason to suspect. They can't all be wrong, could they?
PBA09393p0qo
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![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
glenskie's journal
blah.
blank.
bouncy.
sick.
cold.
calm.
OK.
bored.
happy.