Saturday, December 22, 2007

Huh?

Had the weirdest dream. I dreamt that Elvira Manahan and Behn Cervantes were star-crossed lovers a la Hihintayin Kita Sa Langit. In my dream, Elvira Manahan was also Ava Gardner and she was always wearing a flimsy white pantulog. You know, like what Elizabeth wore as she triumphantly watched the fiery end of the Spanish Armada.

Anyway Elvira-slash-Ava died, still wearing that infernal pantulog, and as Behn Cervantes carried her across a desolate crag my lucid self interrupted, “E teka lang, di ba bakla si Behn Cervantes?! Ben with an “h” nga e!” And then I woke up.

PUTANGINA LATE NA 'KO SA PLANNING!


Postscript: I was at the Inquirer later that afternoon where I bumped into Elvira’s granddaughter, Juana Manahan. Double weird.


Sunday, June 17, 2007

Pimp my pahina

It began innocently enough. With one or two stories that smelled faintly of pakiusap. But as the months went by, the Sunday Inquirer Magazine seemed to have evolved into a PR practitioner’s wet dream. And today’s issue takes the cake. Six beaming wannabe makeup artists in matching Maybelline shirts are on the cover! Whatthefuck?! And the cover “story” is barely-disguised PR trash. Why the hell did they have to make Leica Carpo publisher?

O Alya where art thou and thy editorial integrity? Oh I know! You’re at a Moto party pimping the latest Razr.

Bwiset! Makabalik na nga lang sa Panorama!

Sunday, June 10, 2007

I love Mr. Chips

As a former choir geek I remember singing “You And I” and “Fill the World with Love”. I didn’t know that they were part of a movie musical until today when I saw Goodbye Mr. Chips on TCM. It’s a good movie—smart dialogue and touching in the right places without being too maudlin. When it came out in 1969, many viewers and critics were unimpressed with the soundtrack and were especially confused with the fact that the songs just played in the background as the characters’ inner monologue—or inner sing-along, if you will—a clear departure from the style of musicals at that time, in which actors suddenly burst into song mid-dialogue. While I have nothing against spontaneous musical numbers (I do it all the time), I personally thought Goodbye Mr. Chips’ rather subdued musical style was appropriate to the simple, quiet nature of the story. I would’ve been disturbed if Peter O’ Toole’s character suddenly let rip. (Though it would’ve been okay with Petula Clark’s character. She is, after all, Petula Clark.)

That said, I think I shall add Goodbye, Mr. Chips to my list of favorite movies and I look forward to seeing it again—at my favorite deebeedee- deebeedee store. Hehe.

Chips: Is my wife here?

Ursula: Wife? Which wife, darling?

Chips: She was called Katherine Bridges.

Ursula: Katie? Of course she's here! Did you say 'wife,' darling?

Chips: Yes.

Ursula: Well, that would make you her husband, wouldn't it?

Chips: Yes, it would.

Ursula: Then she's not here, darling. She's nowhere near the place.

Saturday, June 09, 2007

Gay cologne

My Evil Sister gave me this Marc Jacobs cologne called Ivy. And because I am really a bakla disguised as a lesbian, I refer to it as my Ivy Violan cologne. Ivy is one of those he-she type colognes much like CK One. Which leads me to wonder: why aren’t there colognes made specifically for gay men? Below are some fragrance ideas for gay Pinoys.

*My apologies for the crude Photoshop job. Kanina ko lang natutunan paano mag-insert ng text.



Booking





For those special nights na meron.








Dax_1










Mmmm…anino pa lang, ulam na.

















Wafu







Kung nasiyahan ka sa booking, ito ang maaaring iregalo sa kanya pagkatapos.










Shala_2





For cocktail parties, art openings, yugyugan sa Embassy, rampa sa Rockwell. Shala!




Thursday, May 31, 2007

Mine! Mine! Mine!


Astro Scout #3 Space Robot

Product Description

Japan Tin Toy "Astro Scout #3 Space Robot." Aprox. 8" inches tall and comes with wind-up key. An on/off switch is located at the back. Like the classic robots from the 50's, this wind-up tin robot was originally made by Yonezawa. He has a printed tin number three on his chest. His arms move back and forth as he walks. The body is painted silver and has a vintage looking finish. It is made of excellent quality and comes in a colorful classic style box.


Someday, you shall all be mine too! Mwahahahahahahahaha!!!


Thursday, May 24, 2007

Bato, meet my head.

I've been having a series of epiphanies of late. Actually, it was really a single epiphany that triggered an avalanche of serious soul-searching, a major reevaluation of my life, a short-lived panic to move to the far reaches of Quezon City and finally culminated in a two-hour harangue against the Almighty (for those who were at the Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament in Phase 1 BF Homes last Sunday between 9:30-11:30 pm, I sincerely apologize for the strange growling noises) and a nebulous resolve to give up what I’ve been doing all these years to earn my keep as a cook.

Yes, after nearly a decade of happy emotional retardation there is once again a disturbance in the Force and it’s scaring the living Yoda out of me. The recognition of it was disconcerting and not without a sense of foreboding because the first thought that popped into my head was “Tangina, patay ako dito.” Time and circumstance will, of course, tell if this dire prognosis will come true. Right now I’m too petrified to worry about that. Really, all I want to do at this point is to pack my bags and become an OFW in the first country that’ll have me. Preferably it’s some other Third World shithole where I’ll be too busy worrying about not getting knifed and sold for parts to think about anything else.

Fuck almighty, when did I get to be such a wuss at this thing?!

Anyway, I offer this James Morrison song along with the last scrap of my dignity to the fucking Universe. May it be kind and give me what I want.

You Give Me Something

You want to stay with me in the morning
You only hold me when I sleep,
And I was meant to tread the water
But now I've gotten in too deep,
For every piece of me that wants you
Another piece backs away.

'Cause you give me something
That makes me scared, alright,
This could be nothing
But I'm willing to give it a try,
Please give me something
'Cause someday I might know my heart.

You already waited up for hours
Just to spend a little time alone with me,
And I can say I've never bought you flowers
I can't work out what they mean,
I never thought that I'd love someone,
That was someone else's dream.

'Cause you give me something
That makes me scared, alright,
This could be nothing
But I'm willing to give it a try,
Please give me something,
'Cause someday I might call you from my heart,
But it might be a second too late,
And the words I could never say
Gonna come out anyway.

'Cause you give me something
That makes me scared, alright,
This could be nothing
But I'm willing to give it a try,
Please give me something,
'Cause you give me something
That makes me scared, alright,
This could be nothing
But I'm willing to give it a try,
Please give me something
'Cause someday I might know my heart.
Know my heart, know my heart, know my heart

Sunday, April 15, 2007

Flak me, baby, flak me!

This article from the Columbia Journalism Review sent my black PR heart all a-flutter. In a nutshell, the CJR reports that the public’s access to truthful and unbiased health-related news is being compromised as more and more news organizations across the United States use hospital-produced stories as part of their regular programming. As a practitioner of sorts I am always looking for new and creative ways to flog my client’s agenda to various media outlets and I am always excited to hear about successful PR efforts.


Of course this kind of quasi-journalism isn’t new in the Philippines where relationships with the right media people can land you (or more accurately, your client) a good spot in the news. Personally, I’ve always had a love-hate feeling towards public relations. As a reader, I hate it when editors get sloppy and let in too many PR stories in their pages. But on the other hand, I can’t deny that I feel a sense of fulfillment (albeit short-lived) whenever I see my client in the papers. A story means that your days of writing, scheming and groveling have paid off—for now. And in spite of myself, I can’t help but feel gleeful admiration whenever I see a good PR story take prominent place in the news. Bully for you fellow flaks!


Selling stories to the media isn’t really as shocking as it sounds. That, in essence, is what flaks do. What’s apparently disturbing about the CJR story is that it involves institutions whose supposed mandate is to care for sick people. But stripped of this lofty directive a hospital is really just a service-oriented business. And as such, it needs to take care of its bottomline. If selling feel-good but self-aggrandizing stories to an unsuspecting public is what will keep the “customers” coming then so be it. In the end, the onus falls on the media.


For all of the effort that goes into award-winning campaign strategies, brilliantly-crafted messages and well-written stories, PR is really all about getting your client out there. Sometimes it entails using disingenuous methods to get your stories across. It’s not pretty but it’s how flaks are measured in the end. And yes, even as I write this I suspect my soul is slowly turning hot and crispy in one of Hell’s many circles. But as Daffy Duck so eloquently lisped, “Well, it’sth a living.”


The Epidemic
By Trudy Lieberman

When 19 thousand viewers tuned in to the 7 a.m. news on KTBC-TV, the local Fox channel in Austin,Texas, in mid-January, they heard the anchor, Joe Bickett, introduce a story about a new electronic rehabilitation system for injured kids. “Sharon Dennis has more on that,” Bickett said. Dennis then described how a lively fifteen-year-old named Merrill, who had sprained her ankle, was getting better thanks to the computer-guided rehab program that Cleveland Clinic researchers are calling “the world’s first virtual-only gym.”


The professional-looking story had that gee-whiz feel so typical of TV health news, explaining how the technology was making it easier for patients to get back to normal. It ended with “Sharon Dennis reporting.”


Viewers could be forgiven if they thought they were seeing real news reported by one of the station’s reporters. But Sharon Dennis does not work for KTBC. The story had been fed to the station by the Cleveland Clinic, the health care behemoth. Dennis, who earned her broadcasting bona fides at ABC News and at KOMO-TV in Seattle, works in Cleveland as the executive producer of the Cleveland Clinic News Service, in a windowless office on the fourth floor of the Intercontinental Hotel on the clinic’s sprawling 140-acre campus. There the clinic has constructed broadcast facilities for Dennis and her four-person staff, complete with three cameras, a background set, and an ON AIR sign purchased at Target. Every day, Dennis sends out prepackaged stories to, among others, Fox News Edge, a service for Fox affiliates that in turn distributes the pieces to 140 Fox stations. What Texas viewers heard that January morning was a script written at the Intercontinental Hotel.


Read the rest of the story


Saturday, April 14, 2007

Sugod ever mga kafatid!

I am posting Michael Tan's column in toto to express support for Ang Ladlad's struggle against the Comelec. Though it seems like Ang Ladlad has lost the fight, I'm still glad that there was a fight to begin with. Ang Ladlad's struggle represents every gay Filipino's struggle for recognition and respect. This is only the beginning.

Abangan ang susunod na kabanata...

Phantom voters, phantom genders
MANILA, Philippines -- Danton Remoto and thousands of other Filipinos are fuming mad at Ben Abalos and the Commission on Elections (Comelec). Beyond the computer snafus and printing fiascoes, beyond the questions about whether they can count or not, Comelec officials are coming under fire now about the way they accredit party lists. While approving the applications of groups with the most obscure of constituencies (some nothing more than relatives of big shots), the Comelec has turned down the application of Ang Ladlad, which Remoto founded and which wants to give a voice to Filipino LGBTs (lesbians, gays, bisexuals and transgendered).

The Comelec claims Ang Ladlad is a party of “phantom voters.” Hmmm, phantom voters? I thought of the comic books of my youth and that hunk running around in skin-tight leotards and an eye mask, but the Comelec means something else: it claims that Ang Ladlad’s constituencies are unreal, are phantasms.

This reminds us that beyond the issue of party-list representation, Philippine society still has serious hang-ups about genders, an issue I’ve brought up in several columns.

Pink vote

The Comelec represents the gender ostriches, the ones who would like to think the world only has two genders and any claims to the contrary can’t be true. The LGBTs are mere phantoms lurking in the night.

Yet, we know there are many Filipinos who do recognize the other genders and are terrified, thinking we face an epidemic of “sexual perverts.” I am not exaggerating the fears here. I have been getting reports about a former Department of Health employee who goes around lecturing in different cities claiming that there is a global conspiracy, headed by the United States, to control population. According to this imaginative woman, this involves imposing family planning—and promoting homosexuality!

We’ll never really have reliable figures about the size of the LGBT constituency. We hear 10 percent cited quite often, based on the Kinsey survey in the United States back in the 1950s but that survey was problematic and only asked about male homosexual experience. Other more recent surveys in different countries give figures hovering between 4 percent and 6 percent. In the last Young Adult Fertility and Sexuality Study of the University of the Philippines, 15.1 percent of males and 3.6 percent of females said they had same-sex sex (sorry for the awkward terminology).

But surveys are always difficult to conduct when it comes to asking people for personal disclosure on sensitive issues, which means the tendency is for the statistics to under-represent reality.

Ang Ladlad has sent out a text message calling for a show of force: “On Friday the 13th (I think that’s supposed to sound ominous), 10 a.m., gays and lesbians will rally in front of the Comelec to show we are not the phantom, but the opera. Pls wear pink, white or come in costume. And join us in a show of the Pink Vote.”

Hidden genders

I’m sure the event will be well attended, but there might be almost as many media people (some themselves LGBT) as “phantom” voters. The problem again is that the rally is public and many LGBTs are not about to come out yet.

We need to go back in history to understand how we’ve progressed -- or regressed with gender rights. In the past, we had “lalaki” [male] and “babae” [female] and an occasional “bakla” [gay] who would get beaten up. But even amid that repression, there were already quite a few courageous “bakla” who were quite open about it. Philippine society responded by allowing certain occupational niches for the “bakla,” particularly hairdressing, dress designing, doing the laundry (yes, “bakla” used to be “lavanderas” [laundrywomen]!). Besides “bakla,” there were other words used, notably “binabae,” “biniboy’’ and “syoki.” All these terms reflected not so much sexual orientation than a concept of an effeminate male, “binabae” meaning “like a woman,” “biniboy” being a contraction of “binibini” [miss] and “boy” while “syoki” came from the Hokkien Chinese word that means weak-spirited.

With time, those terms have become almost extinct, perhaps emblematic of the way the “weak-spirited” stereotype has been challenged. It’s inevitable, as a global movement grows around the rights of sexual minorities. In the 1950s, “gay” was a term used to refer to the underground male homosexual culture; by the 1970s, thousands of women and men were marching in the streets proclaiming Gay Pride and protesting social discrimination. Filipinos were swept up by this growing awareness of the need to fight social prejudice and bigotry.

Pepper Boys

Many gains have been made to advance gender rights, of women, and of the LGBT. By and large though, gender discrimination remains prevalent, forcing many LGBTs to remain in the shadows. There’s a class factor to all this. In the past, the ones who dared to come out -- as captured in the term “ladlad” (to shed one’s cape) -- were mainly from the low-income groups. Now, more upper-class Filipinos are coming out, but still with trepidation because of the fear of being disowned, of bringing “shame” to the family name, of losing one’s job.

The shifts in gender labels actually reflect this paranoia. I hear people differentiating themselves as “discreet gays” from “parloristas” [beauty parlor attendants], a reference made with the kind of derision that accompanies “palengkera,” referring to a loud, lower-class woman market vendor.

The need to be discreet has given rise to the gender category “paminta,” which gives a new meaning to Spice Boys. “Paminta” means pepper, but the word is derived from “pa-mhin.” Further translation: “mhin” means “men” and “pa-mhin” means trying to be masculine, as society requires men to be. To be “paminta” is an attempt to escape society’s homophobic radar screens or sometimes even “gay-dar” (the radar screens of other gay men).

There’s more. Some of the Pepper Boys do a good job of it, and are called “pamintang buo” (whole pepper); others fail miserably and are mocked as “pamintang durog” (ground pepper).

“Discreetness” has become an obsession, sometimes a desperate attempt at camouflage. It’s not surprising then that even the English word “bisexual” has mutated in the Philippines to mean a “discreet gay” who insists on clinging to the last vestiges of acceptable sexuality, meaning having some kind of attraction for women. I once interviewed a Pepper Boy who said he was bisexual, but it turned out that in his 30-plus years of existence he only had one tryst with a woman, way back in his youth, when his macho “barkada” [gang of buddies] forced him to have sex in a brothel.

Filipino hidden gender categories go beyond sexual orientation; they speak of a liminal and, yes, phantom-ic, existence that is always in danger of becoming even more oppressive as religious conservatives go on the offensive like what they are doing now.

Phantom genders, phantom voters: there’s a sizeable constituency out there. And the Comelec, by denying representation to LGBTs, makes a travesty of the party-list system.

===========

First posted 00:17:17 (Mla time) April 13, 2007
Michael Tan
opinion@inquirer.com.ph
Inquirer

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

Food in books

I discovered an interesting tapsilogan near where I live. Unlike the usual 24-hour tapsihan which serves only tapsi, longsi and toci (really the cornerstone of every manginginom’s repast, come to think of it), this one has a more extensive menu which includes specialty longganisas (Vigan, Lucban, Benguet, etc.), a to-die-for ginataang adobo, bulalong sinigang (imagine large chunks of lechon kawali in sinigang broth made from beef bulalo—killer!) and deep-fried tawilis. I am a recent and eager convert of tawilis and try to eat it whenever and wherever I can get it. So I was happy to learn that Extra Rice (as this tapsilogan is gloriously called) serves tawilis. As I savored the crunchiness of the fish I thought, now I finally have something else to relate to Noli Me Tangere other than tinola. Yes, I’m weird that way. For some reason I always think of Padre Damaso whenever I eat tinola. Sisa and the loving way she prepared tawilis for her two boys also left a lasting impression but since I haven’t tasted tawilis up until a few months ago, I couldn’t really relate. Well Sisa, you are now part of my gastronomic landscape.

Anyway, my Extra Rice epiphany made me think of some of the more memorable grub in the books I read.

Oyster “he” Stew – Chesapeake, James Michener
There’s fat oysters, bacon, milk and butter, what more can you ask for?

Hot rolls and butter – Three Fat Women of Antibes, W. Somerset Maugham
Read this short story while on a diet and you’ll understand why.

Elegant Old World Filipino merienda – Cave and Shadows, Nick Joaquin
Parang mas sumasarap kasi ang tsokolate at ensaymada kung nakiki-kain ka lang sa bahay ng mayayaman.

Manna from heaven – Book of Exodus, The Bible
My Bible had pictures and the manna looked like pan de coco.

Rabbit – The Story of the Treasure Seekers, Edith Nesbitt
I loved the Bastable children and their strong attachment to sweets and rabbit dinners. That is, until I grew up and had Bunny Unit No. 1 (God rest your fat soul my sweet Unibit).

Spit-roasted wild boar, peacock tongue, jellied eels and other strange fare from the Middle Ages – The Once And Future King, T.H. White
I’m really just very curious.

Strangely enough, I wasn’t turned on by the food in Laura Esquivel’s Like Water for Chocolate. The hot bathroom scene was more memorable. I’m not a fan of Chinese food so Amy Tan doesn’t do it for me either. Anyway, I’m sure I’m forgetting many others.

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

A writer's life

This speech by Turkish writer and Nobel prizewinner Orhan Pamuk is by far the most insightful piece I read on the joys, agony, solitude and yes, even occasional pettiness of writers.

A writer is someone who spends years patiently trying to discover the second being inside him, and the world that makes him who he is. When I speak of writing, the image that comes first to my mind is not a novel, a poem, or a literary tradition; it is the person who shuts himself up in a room, sits down at a table, and, alone, turns inward. Amid his shadows, he builds a new world with words. This man—or this woman—may use a typewriter, or profit from the ease of a computer, or write with a pen on paper, as I do. As he writes, he may drink tea or coffee, or smoke cigarettes. From time to time, he may rise from his table to look out the window at the children playing in the street, or, if he is lucky, at trees and a view, or even at a black wall. He may write poems, or plays, or novels, as I do. But all these differences arise only after the crucial task is complete—after he has sat down at the table and patiently turned inward. To write is to transform that inward gaze into words, to study the worlds into which we pass when we retire into ourselves, and to do so with patience, obstinacy, and joy.

As I sit at my table, for days, months, years, slowly adding words to empty pages, I feel as if I were bringing into being that other person inside me, in the same way that one might build a bridge or a dome, stone by stone. As we hold words in our hands, like stones, sensing the ways in which each is connected to the others, looking at them sometimes from afar, sometimes from very close, caressing them with our fingers and the tips of our pens, weighing them, moving them around, year in and year out, patiently and hopefully, we create new worlds.

Read the entire Nobel lecture

Monday, April 09, 2007

Neighborly hate

Shootdog2_4I can say it now. I despise our neighbor. I welcomed Easter Sunday by screaming in the general direction of their house, “Puwede bang patahimikin niyo iyang aso niyo!”, and then sic-ing the association’s security on their ass.

You know that Filipino expression “Biruin mo na ang lasing, huwag lang ang bagong gising?” Well, I was both lasing and bagong gising. And if that wasn’t enough, I had this awful menstrual cramp. So yeah, the pesky neighbor was bound to get it.

I think my dislike began when they were still renovating the house. I suffered through months of waking up to “Kadyot lang, kadyot lang! Naka-Love ka pa ba?” courtesy of their lecherous, foul-mouthed karpinteros. (Karpinteros tap a hidden rage in me. Karpinteros and security guards, actually.) Of course their karpinteros’ choice of radio station wasn’t their fault, but it added up against them nonetheless. However, they personally became less than endearing when they built their roof so close to our house that if their alulod ever breaks, their run-off would fall straight down our backyard. The fact that my mother had to write several irate letters and do some serious lobbying with the association before they finally agreed to trim their roofline says a lot about the kind of people they are. Still, I suspended judgment.

They moved in right before the New Year and celebrated by setting up and lighting their fireworks as early as 7pm. Of course, it never occurred to them that blocking one side of the road with their fireworks whilst living three meters away from the village’s only entrance would fuck up the flow of traffic. But then I thought: New Year, new home. Maybe they’re just feeling really celebratory.

Then they started climbing our water tank to pick guava off our tree. Now I hate that tree. I actually don’t care if they pluck out the thing from its roots. But what truly pisses me off is the noise that accompanies their fruit-picking. Must they really shout and laugh loudly? Can’t they steal in silence? And who the hell picks fruit off their neighbor’s tree in this day and age?!

And then there are those infernal dogs. I used to have dogs when I was a kid. But as I grew older, I began to dislike their neediness and incessant barking. Hence, my cats. But I don’t hate dogs. What I do hate are dog owners who stick their dogs in cages and allow them to bark for hours and hours. For fuck’s sake, if you’re gonna get a dog, let him run around otherwise he’s gonna end up barking his head off. And YES, annoying the neighbors in the process. If you’re really an asshole and couldn’t care less if your dog’s unhappy then let him be unhappy somewhere else like in your closet or your car. Anyplace that actually muffles the sound of his barking. Or better yet, don’t get a dog at all.

Having said all that, here’s my post-Easter message to you Annoying Inconsiderate Neighbor: AJI-NO-MOTO.

Meow

Caught parts of the god-awful Halle Berry Catwoman on cable. And since I couldn’t stand Berry’s pathetic attempts to be a sexy pussy, I decided to popSelina_top_1 in Batman Returns and watch Michelle Pfeiffer’s brilliant Catwoman instead. And then because I am sometimes retarded enough to wonder about such things, I thought: If I die, would Pepe and Cleo invite their pusakal friends to rally around my lifeless body to bestow the breath of life? More importantly, what kind of Catwoman would I be if I’m fat? Would I be able to do cartwheels and leap and kick ass like Michelle Pfeiffer and Halle Berry? Can superhuman abilities transcend body mass? Would I look just as lovely in a catsuit and four-inch heels?

Hmmm. Maybe not.

Catwomanhallemau1_2 I read somewhere that the Hindus and Buddhists believe that being reincarnated as a cat is a step towards achieving Nirvana. So maybe this “cats bringing you back to life” can also be a symbolic thing, like cats helping to make sure that you come back as, well, a cat.

So okay, let me amend my retarded fantasy. If I die and my cats and their friends can’t suck off a gazillion pounds (on top of the breath of life deal) so I’d look like Michelle Pfeiffer as Catwoman, then I’d rather go with the other thing, which is, me being reincarnated as a cat.

And I know just the kind of cat I’d be.

Fatcat2

Yeah. "I don’t know about you Ms. Kitty but I feel so much yummier.”

Friday, March 30, 2007

You go, gays!

After my outrage at the myopic Benjamin Abalos, Sr. and his corrupt and inutile Comelec for declaring Ang Ladlad a nuisance party list candidate, I couldn’t help but be amused by this bit of information from Danton Remoto. In response to the Comelec claim that Ang Ladlad does not have sufficient funds to run a national campaign, he declared the following as proof of Ang Ladlad’s financial capacity:

  • P564,380 cash (deposited with the Bank of the Philippine Islands)
  • P500,000 in pledges by members and supporters in the form of goods and products — tarpaulins, buttons, streamers,T-shirts, banners, food and drinks for the campaign.
  • P500,000 worth of paintings, sculptures, Baccarat crystal, and coffee-table books inventory for auction sale

Baccarat crystal! Kundi ba naman talaga fabulosa ang mga lola ko!

Hay naku, sayang talaga. Para tuloy gusto ko magkatay ng straight at gawing lampshade. Wala lang.

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Love hurts (and then you die)

Watched The Painted Veil, an adaptation of a W. Somerset Maugham novel of the same title. I would have liked to read the book first but the pirated DVD (and impatience) won out in the end. A shame, actually, since I’m sure Maugham’s characterizations would have been a fascinating read; he always was adept at vivifying characters. Still, the film was interesting. The kind that has you dragging on a cigarette afterwards while you quietly ponder the tragedy of the characters. In the movie, Walter Fane, a young somber bacteriologist, travels to colonial period Shanghai with his wife, Kitty, a sociable but shallow young woman. Unhappy with her marriage and life at the colony, she takes on a lover but her affair is soon discovered by her husband. Wanting to punish his wife, he volunteers to work in a remote Chinese village where a cholera epidemic rages. Amidst the trials of living in less than ideal conditions and the uncertainties and challenges of helping a community in turmoil, the spouses overcome their bitterness and find a deeper, nobler purpose and in the process they rediscover and eventually forgive each other. In the end, it’s a story of personal redemption. Much like my other favorite, a similarly-themed movie called The Sheltering Sky, based on a novel by Paul Bowles. Kit and Port Moresby (a little inside joke by Bowles there), a blasé couple who fancy themselves as travelers ("We're not tourists, we're travelers. Tourists are people who think about going home the minute they come, whereas travelers may not come back at all."), embark on a journey to 1940s North Africa in an effort to escape from the familiar and perhaps, rekindle their marriage. But their journey across the Sahara only highlights the interminable gulf that has grown between them after 10 years of being together. As in The Painted Veil, redemption comes only after great suffering; and in both films, comes a little too late.

I’ve always been drawn to love stories that aren’t quite about love but rather about people struggling with themselves; the relationship merely acting as a catalyst that forces a person to come to terms with his flaws, his demons. In real life, love is as much an individual struggle as it is a drag-out battle between two people, which often leaves both parties deeply, if not, terminally wounded. Grace happens when the individual finds redemption for himself. When a couple still finds love amidst the ruins of their struggle for personal salvation, that’s a miracle. And the small miracles that sometimes happen between people are, ultimately, what these two films illustrate.



Sunday, January 07, 2007

A government of pimps


I never thought I would ever say this about my beloved country but "TANGINA, WALA NA TALAGANG PAGASA ANG PILIPINAS!" As the transfer of Smith back to U.S. custody and the DFA's (Department of Fawning Asswipes) intervention (AGAIN!) in the case against the thieving Chinese fishermen show, we cannot rely on our government to defend its own. We are literally being raped and pillaged by these foreign fucks and douchebags like GMA and Romulo are more interested in not offending those fuckers' sensibilities rather than protecting its citizens and precious resources. Like it’s not enough that hordes of our countrymen are already in foreign servitude ("bagong bayani" my ass, they're the government's "gatasang baka") because they couldn't get a decent life here, not even if they worked their ass to the bone. God, this government will pimp anything! Honestly, I just want to go all El Fili on the whole country. Aaarrgh, I hate this annoyance! Di ako makasulat ng maayos!

Thank you. Yes, YOU!

In spite of myself, the holidays have forced me to reflect on the people who I’ve loved and been my unfailing family all these years—my friends. I realize that my aversion for the niceties of maintaining relationships (text- and call-backs), manic-depressive behavior and selfish need for solitude can drive even the most loyal friend away. So to all my friends (old and new) who have kept faith and continued to seek out my company and help me through rough times, thank you. All your efforts, kind words and yes, even forwarded jokes, have not been lost on my cold, autistic heart. Your friendship keeps me sane and grateful.

Remember: I may be a lazy friend but I’m the lazy friend that loves you. And because I’m too lazy to be anything else, I’m still going to be your friend long after you thought it possible. Here’s to a lifetime of happy new years my friends!!!

Wine, women and song

Last night I went to Conspiracy bar in Quezon City to watch my friend’s pantasya du jour, Lyn Sherman, and was wonderfully surprised by another singer, Ms. Susan Fernandez. My friends and I were drinking in the garden when I heard what I thought was a softly-playing Esther Satterfield CD in the background. Turns out it was Ms. Fernandez and let me say this: you can’t sing “Love Is Stronger Far Than We” unless you have a pure, exceptionally beautiful voice. Anything less and the song would lose its pathos and become just another maudlin love song. Susan Fernandez had it. My friend JL helpfully clued in my ignorant ass (“Sino siya? Bakit di ko siya kilala?”) by explaining that Susan is, in fact, a well-known folk singer who used to be married to political scientist and writer (and “asshole husband”) Alex Magno. He further added: “Nung bata ako crush na crush ko iyan si San-su. Grabe ang ganda niyan nung araw.” (Aside: I was mildly amused by his comment. As the son of newspaperman Jose Burgos he probably did see a lot of these activists and folk artists when he was still a young boy. In fact, “San-su” is probably his father’s name for Susan which lends a touching gravitas to his innocent remark.)

While much of her repertoire leaned towards more popular songs, there was something about her quiet singing and the way she would occasionally preface her numbers with little back stories that gave her performance a certain depth. I suppose it’s the calm certainty of a woman in her middle years. In contrast, Lyn Sherman’s performance relied more on clever arrangements and stylized vocals that betrayed her relative youth and still precarious place in the world. But there’s no doubt that she’s good and can hold her own against even Fernandez though I had a sense that Susan’s performance threw her a bit and left her a little too awestruck. (Later, Mon and I would have a discussion: While I agree that pretty young things are great for sex, it’s really women closer to your age who are more compelling.)

The evening ended as all bangenge evenings should: with a heated argument about jazz, a clumsy reconciliation and unabashed, if drunken, declarations of “I love you” before we all staggered back to whence we came.

Postscript: I love you too, Egay. Your musician’s heart is true. The same holds for your writer’s heart, Charleson.

Go away, Santa!

Dear Santa,Grinch

I wish the holiday season was over. It's like a bad amusement park ride and I'm waiting for it to end with eyes closed, teeth set and fists clenched. Meanwhile, I'm easing my holiday discomfort via near-nightly inebriation. So please Santa, go away before my liver gives out. And take all my ho-hoing family and friends with you.


Love,
Joyce

P.S. I hope you enjoyed the milk and cookies I left out for you last night.