Sometimes life does imitate art

Over a month ago I was in Siquijor to take a break and take stock of my life after I had lost my job. Coincidentally, a few weeks before I went there I saw a film called A Good Year, about a driven, ruthless London banker who was suspended from his job while he was in France attending to his late uncle's estate. While in his uncle's vineyard he is reminded of life lessons his uncle taught him growing up and he also meets a girl who teaches him about love and how life is more important than money, etcetera.

In one scene, the protagonist and his love interest have their first date around a pool that's surrounded by trees and lights and candles. Just a few clicks from where I stayed in Siquijor there was also a large natural pool which the locals had set up with tables and food booths for the town fiesta and I was struck by how similar the movie and the Siquijor set-up looked (the banderitas and the terrible picture taken with my phone camera notwithstanding). And there was a band too but instead of French songs, the Siquijor band played, of all things, jazz music. That scene was actually my favorite part of the movie because I was charmed by the set design and so it was a bit uncanny to find something similar in Siquijor.

That night in the pool, engulfed in the heady aroma of beer and roasting meat, surrounded by cheerful locals and listening to good music, was one of the happiest I've ever been in a long time.

Before I went on that trip I resolved that I would open myself to anything and everything. I also added a self-imposed rule: I would talk less and listen more. I would not edit what people said (either in reality or in my head) the way I'd gotten used to--only listening for information that I needed to do my work, not caring to hear the rest of what people had to say.

And so I listened. How was it that only a month ago I wouldn't have cared? I suppose that, like the Russell Crowe character in the movie, I too had lost that part of myself that was good in the course of trying to be the best at what I do.

I can't say I'm out of the woods yet but I do hope that like the character, and in the tradition of feel-good movies, I will also find salvation in the end.

Cat People

I’ve been spending a lot of time at my best friend’s house where they have a dog, a little shih tzu called Maki. Now I have to confess that I used to detest shih tzus largely because they’re the dog of choice of every fucking sicko anthropomorphic dog owner in the country. Shih tzus are the Barbies and Baby Alives of these idiots, cossetted like children and decked out in every ridiculous gewgaw imaginable. I actually pity them slipping and sliding in their shoes and sweltering under their doggie clothes while festooned with ribbons galore. Cats would never allow themselves to be treated with such indignity. Which brings me to the subject of cats and their humans.

Cat lovers get no respect. We’re ridiculed for loving an animal that doesn’t seem to offer any pay-off—no shimmying joyously when we come home, no manic licking of our faces to show love and devotion, no coming when we call. And that’s true too. We don’t get any respect from our cats. But I submit that for cat owners, a cat’s lack of obsequiousness is precisely why we’re so powerfully drawn to it. It’s really a question of space. Cat people like their space. And so do cats. When we come home our cats are there to welcome us too, not with frantic shaking, but with a meow or three, a few dignified swishes and then they’re off doing their thing and we too, are left to do ours. And that’s true for every day of our mutually-agreed co-existence.

But I love how our cats don’t need us.  

Sure they come to us for food and shelter but it’s really because they’re opportunists with a keen sense of survival. But left to their own devices, they can hunt for food and clean themselves, which is all that matters really. If I never existed, I’m sure my cat Pepe would have survived on his own, feeding on rodents and human scraps, occasionally brawling with other feral cats for territory, maybe siring a few hairy kittens of his own. And I suspect he would have been just as happy.

That’s why I believe the time we spend with cats is more magical. When we come together to play or sit companionably near each other, it’s because we both want to. In that brief moment at least, we are connected. Nothing comforts me more profoundly after a late night at the trenches than to have Pepe sit under my chair while we both stare out into the dark, thinking our own thoughts.  No expectations, no drama, just him being him and me being me. After a while I go off to bed and he goes off to wherever he goes to each night. We can, and did, leave each other’s presence anytime with no hard feelings. It’s just what it is. And that’s why it’s a peculiar person who can love a cat. I think that cat people are more welcoming of other people’s oddities. After all, we live with a creature who would stare at dust motes for hours before suddenly tearing around the house as if possessed. We’re also happy observers. Much of the enjoyment we get from our cats is not through active play but through quiet observation. And lastly, we’re emotionally low-maintenance people. Not to say that we love less than the average person. In fact, I believe cat people love more intensely just that it’s not a needy, show-offy, bromidic kind of love.

Denys, Robert Redford’s character in Out of Africa, is perhaps the best example of what a cat person (and a cat) is like. In one scene where he’s arguing about love and freedom with Meryl Streep’s character, he sums it up thusly:

Why is your freedom more important that mine?

It isn't. And I've never interfered with your freedom.
No. I'm not allowed to need you.
Or rely on you, or expect anything from you.
I'm free to leave.
But I do need you.
You don't need me.
If I die, will you die? You don't need me.
You're confused. You've mixed up need with want. You always have.
My God. In the world that you would make, there would be no love at all.
Or the best kind. The kind we wouldn't have to prove.

In the eight years he was with me, Pepe taught me to love without expectation and has made my life all the richer for it.

 

PR Myths: So you never have to wonder again

Many years ago I had a conversation with a reporter and we ended up talking about books. At one point he said, with genuine surprise in his voice, "I didn't think that you read." Being the PR trouper that I was, I managed to offer a gracious smile. But I was stunned. For a voracious reader like me, who's been reading classics before the age of ten, his remark was unexpected and offensive. How dare he?! I probably read more books during the first 15 years of my life than he ever will in his entire lifetime. And I’m not talking about paperback pop trash either.

But I suppose it's the pitfall of my occupation. PR people generally don't appear very bright to newsmen. And why should we? If we’re not pimping our latest press release, we’re bugging them to come to our client’s endless and sometimes, to be honest, mindless events. Our discipline prevents us from saying anything other than what’s acceptable to both clients and our own agency, always careful to appear friendly and neutral lest we betray what we really think. Even Facebook is heavily self-censored. What appears on our pages is generally acceptable pap. Nothing too controversial, language controlled (if we must swear, we use asterisks and only write innocuous cuss words like sh*t or d**n), photos sanitized (no drunk-ass pictures, nothing sleazy, no candid shots where we’re looking decidedly unglamorous), no political opinions, no commentaries on business issues, nothing in fact, that will give people an indication that we’re intelligent people. Of course it’s all standard rules of corporate behavior. Except that as PR practitioners, we set the bar higher for ourselves because we not only represent our agency, more importantly, we represent a multitude of clients, each with their unique standards of acceptable behavior. To be honest, it’s enough to make us a little schizophrenic. “Wooh look at me partying with a glass of whisky,” (because I represent a liquor brand); “Oh but notice that I don’t look at all like I’ve drunk a drop of this amber liquid and I’m still wearing a proper, non-skanky suit,” (because I also represent several corporate clients). “Oh wow, look at me running in Bonifacio High Street for some charity-or-other,” (sports apparel client plus do-gooding CSR points).

It's true that we’re not all that we appear to be despite what people think they know about us. For instance, I’m always irritated when I tell people that I work in PR and they immediately conclude, “Ah so ma-PR ka pala.” What the fuck does that mean anyway? That ALL I do is talk to ALL people ALL the time? That I’m a sleazy operator who’ll use gab or cash to get my way? So just because I have a sudden bug up my ass, here’s a rundown of some PR people myths that I’d like to dispel:

Myth #1  We’re highly sociable people 
Most of us reached the top of our game because we’re brilliant campaign strategists, exceptional writers, excellent managers and hard-working tacticians. Yes, we have enough people skills to get along with clients and the media but it’s not like we’re scintillatingly vivacious 24/7. We can turn it on when the situation requires it but it’s not our default. You’d be surprised how many of us prefer to be alone most of the time.

Myth #2  We love making small talk 
With the exception of a few airheads in our profession (I’ll get to them later), PR people are not natural chatterboxes. In fact, for many of us, the worst part of our job is attending press conferences and events where we’re required to talk to a lot of people. It’s extremely tedious work. If we had lip-readers in our events, we’d often be caught saying things to each other like: “Parang habag, ilayo mo na ko dito, nauubusan na ‘ko ng sasabihin”; or “Leche, di pa ba matatapos ‘tong event na ‘to, nangangawit na iyong mukha ko sa kakangiti.” All said through clenched smiles of course.

Myth #3  Our job consists mostly of going to parties 
Just because you always see us in clubs or events doesn’t mean that that’s all we do. We’re not in these events because we’re unrepentant party animals, we’re there to work. When you see us going around talking to people, know that we are actually working, not partying. Oh and before that bangin’ whisky party in that stinky, pretentious club? Yes that’s right, we were working all day, answering emails, thinking up new campaigns, writing press releases, attending endless meetings, making phone calls, printing press kits, packing press give-ways and yes, making sure that the venue is ready and beautiful for your arrival. If we had our way, we’d rather just crawl into bed because after everything’s been said and done, after all that “partying” ‘til 4am, we still have to get up for a 7am presentation.

Myth #4 We’ll give in to (almost) anything
I can see how some media people could be tempted to see us as nothing more than well-dressed peddlers of press releases or glorified event hostesses who'll offer the sun, moon, every known star just to get a pick-up. After all. it’s the bulk of our interaction with them. And even on those rare occasions when we go out just to go out, we remain circumspect with our words and our actions, sharing only what we think they want to hear, not challenging offensive behavior because we believe, rightly or wrongly, that appearing friendly and indulgent is somehow a “goodwill investment” in the relationship. Well guess what, it can’t be a relationship worth “investing” in if the other party is a mean, self-aggrandizing, or sexist scum. It’s really ironic considering that PR practitioners are arguably the smartest, most opinionated, and most eloquent people in the communications industry. Although it certainly doesn’t help that we also have bimbo airheads within our ranks, girls who have nothing going for them except vacuous conversation, doltish giggles, cloying flattery, manic perkiness, a desperate need to be desired, and acres of make-up. But I suppose that even for the best of us, this desire to please, to be ever-conciliatory makes us forget when to draw the line between being gracious, offering an honest opinion, or just plainly declaring, “Shove your cheap innuendos up your ass, you fucking slimeball!”

Myth #5  We’re nothing but dumb corporate mouthpieces 
Okay, before we were sucked into this soulless business we were actually writers, journalists, teachers, financial gurus, marketing practitioners. That press release that you’re basing your story on? We wrote that. That CEO speech you found so inspiring? We wrote that too. And that APAC business report on which you’re basing three of your top stories on? Yup, we did the data analysis and wrote the recommendations. That awesome viral campaign you’re sharing with all your friends? Uh-huh, we thought that up. Get the picture?

Myth #6  We’re liars 
No we’re not. Truth has several dimensions and what we offer is truth that’s based on hard, established facts, along with conclusive studies and recommendations made by reputable, independent and globally-recognized organizations, as well as unbiased stakeholder experiences. Iyon na!

Create or Else: Tham Khai Meng

"Emptiness. I think that's one of the scariest things but yet one of the most beautiful things." - Tham Khai Meng

Playing nice in the year of the wabbit

Like all dreams it was a mix bag of moments barely hiding issues long forgotten. The holidays have brought back with it memories that, in the course of the year or years, I have conveniently tucked away in neat little cubbyholes in the hope that they might simply disintegrate with the passing of time. It was naïve of me, obviously, as these things have a way of tumbling back out when least expected. As it was the holidays and everyone had too much time on their hands, it was actually my closest and dearest who coaxed them back out without so much as an excuse me.

And now I am left with a mess that even managed to sneak into my afternoon nap.

It’s my least favorite thing—taking stock of myself. And I’m not referring to that cursory self-awareness exercise we engage in after we turn out the light. I mean the kind where you have to squint your eyes hard to read into the near and far future including a long hard look at the past and think, really think, how on earth you can get from point J to point Q using the mess of mind, heart, fat and gristle that you currently are. I’m tired. And all I really want to do is motor on, dragging whatever bits of me is left that haven’t fallen off or been eaten by hyenas. But taking stock is actually the easy part. It’s the rebuilding and retooling I dread. It’s that Jack Nicholson moment where he admits, “You make me wanna be a better man”. Only instead of an underpaid, oppressed waitress, I have to admit it to myself. And frankly, Me is too old, too tired to be saying that to Me.

Everything starts with a decision, I’ve always maintained. In the past, I’ve made several decisions that I felt good about. Smug, even. I thought I had gotten rid of the monkeys on my back. I never thought they would come back but some did. Not as alive as they were but as awkward zombies trying to see if they can still nick parts of me here and there. And then there are the new monkeys. Ones that I haven’t yet retooled myself for.

I remember when I was young, my Uncle, when he was still working for IRRI, told me a story about how the good scientists were once stumped by a particular strain of pest that threatened to wipe out the year’s harvest. This strain proved resistant to even the most sophisticated pesticide they could come up with. Until finally they had the brilliant idea of introducing another strain of pest—an old, primitive strain that they had long since eradicated. It worked. The current strain was so used to having all sorts of sophisticated cures thrown at it that it learned how to evolve and mimic the properties of the cure and use them to its advantage. But it was no match to the older, simpler strain. It was just too primitive for the sophisticated little bugger to understand. And fight.

Therefore in 2011 I have decided to eschew all forms of sophisticated thinking in my personal life. At least none of the numbing analysis, the tedious pros and cons, the painful back and forth and the meticulous self-editing. Without realizing it, these things have become my monkeys too. Looking back I think I may have hurt myself more by over-thinking everything. Worse, I have hurt others. Some even crawled out of the woodwork to say I’ve hurt them. Oof.

So in 2011 I have decided to be good. And I absolutely mean it in that simple, near-insipid way children promise to be good. It’s Kindergarten once again and I’m waiting for my turn at the swing. Let’s see if Me can still make Me a better (wo)man.

Of massacres and mendacity

Nearly 20 years after the Vizconde Massacre and the hysteria continues with the recent release of Hubert Webb. Time has a way of making you see things from a different perspective. Seeing Lauro Vizconde back in the limelight I can say this now: he is a self-aggrandizing sack of shit.

It's unfortunate that with all the sympathy that surrounded him during the height of the Vizconde trials, and even after Hubert and company have already been sent to prison, no one bothered to check who Lauro Vizconde really is.

For instance, did anyone know that for years he and his family had been living with his father-in-law. When he went to the United States, he had, in fact been long estranged from his wife and family. I doubt that his reason for going to the United States, allegedly to find a school for Carmela, is even true. If he couldn't even afford to support his own family, how can he send Carmela to a school in the US? And to stay there for three years? That's a pretty long time to be looking for a school, don't you think? In Che-Che Lazaro's documentary, when she asked him what he did in the US in all that time, he gave a vague response about helping in his cousin's restaurant. And while he was "helping" out his cousin, what did his wife and children live on? In fact, the house in BF, which he said was their "surprise" for him, was not even bought by his money but from proceeds of the sale of his father in-law's Valenzuela property. The reason he didn't have any idea that his wife bought a house was because it was no longer his business as they were already separated.

I am not saying that this information should cast doubt on how much he loved his family or in any way diminish the depth of his grief from their gruesome deaths. It is however, a glimpse into the man's character and the real state of his relationship with his family at the time of their deaths.

Then came the Vizconde massacre. Of course I deplore what happened to the Vizconde family. It was inhuman and whoever did it should suffer. But even then I had a strong feeling it wasn't Hubert. There were too many inconsistencies in Alfaro's testimony and Hubert's documentary evidence was too strong. And yet everyone believed that then Senator Freddie Webb tampered with evidence and paid people. And yet amid the wild rumors circulating at that time many still wondered, can you really present fake US documents as part of evidence in a highly-celebrated case without the United States government uttering a word of protest? Even if he was a Senator, Freddie Webb wasn't that powerful.

And so the conviction came, with Webb and family protesting his innocence throughout. And now that the Supreme Court acquitted them, Lauro Vizconde is once again in the limelight. I will not discuss the fine points of the case. Anyone can read the Supreme Court decision online. Neither will I argue why I think Hubert is innocent as people will have their opinions and biases. But what disturbs me is Lauro Vizconde. Since the time of the murders and subsequent trial he has apparently been appointed to the board of two government-owned offices because as he pitifully explained, "Alam naman nila wala na 'kong hanapbuhay..." What qualified him to be a member of the board? If he had not been a prominent "victim" and member of the VACC, would he have been given those positions?

Listening to Mr. Vizconde and reading his pronouncements I strongly feel that something is amiss. There is something hypocritical and faintly disgusting about his "justice is only for the rich and powerful" argument (Isn't he the one who's now cozy with government? They even gave him a job, right?), his pa-awa mien and not to mention his contradicting stories. It's incredible how people still believe him when his inconsistencies, lies and embellishments are so plain to see. For instance, he insists that prior to their deaths, Carmela told him she was being courted by a son of a politician but admits that she never once told him his name. He said he confirmed that it was indeed Hubert and company because of what psychics told him. PSYCHICS?! And to declare that the Supreme Court justices have been paid off, that's something. How rich and influential does he really think Webb is? First he paid off the US government so he can get all those documents for Hubert, but Hubert goes to jail for 15 years anyway, so now in a last-ditch effort he pays off the Supreme Court justices to rule an acquittal. Wow. Even at face value, his claims stretch credulity and yet people still believe him. But I have a feeling he knows exactly how his outlandish claims and accusations and pitiable demeanor will play out to the public. My impression is that he no longer cares about the truth. All he wants is for somebody to pay for what happened to his family. That it should be Webb and other "scions of rich families" is certainly convenient and to a large degree, popular. I mean suppose it was discovered that it was really a group of dirt-poor karpinteros who did it. Do you think he would have enjoyed the public sympathy and prominence that he had throughout these years? I don't think so.

Sadly stereotypes are indeed hard to destroy. And what the Vizconde massacre has become is a battle of sterotypes locked in a storyline that's as old as time. Rich against poor. Powerful against the weak. I guess what people really hate is not that Hubert and company have been freed. What they hate is that the acquittal of Webb rudely subverted their morality tale's happy ending. And Lauro Vizconde is desperately playing to the public with all that he's got because he knows that the curtain is about to fall.