That’s it. I need a back up plan. It’s been more than a year and I’m still in my little workspace beside my bed. It hasn’t been for lack of trying. I’ve gotten browner and I’ve lost the soles of my shoes to the heat of concrete pavements, once nearly walking barefoot in an industrial jungle. It was after a hopeful chat with yet another weary executive who probably wished he could’ve swapped soles with me if it meant a moment of freedom from the rigors of his suit and brick cage.
Bird Training
There are a lot of important circumstances to direct our attentions to such as climate change, poverty, hunger, terrorism and talks of a Dela Hoya-Pacquiao bout. I however, have chosen to postpone sitting under some tree of enlightenment to attempt to find a solution to these weighty matters so I can focus on animal welfare, that is, one animal’s welfare.
The Reaping
I have a preoccupation with death. If I earned merits for every time I thought or spoke about death, I would have been promoted to the rank of Death’s assistant. One friend who has managed not to run away from me thinks this is irritating. She feels I owe it to the Creator to sing and dance with glee at the prospect of waking up in the morning to the sound of birds twittering, the sight of the sun rising and the smell of bad breath emanating from within. She shouldn’t really be alarmed though. My fixation may seem abnormal but it is really the harmless side effect of years of reading Russian literature.
Blissfully Clueless
I was on my usual pointless foot trip one day when a heavenly scent abruptly penetrated my nasal passages and nearly sent me into a pleasurable seizure of epileptic proportions. The scent held characteristics that betrayed its edible origins. Being the gustatory slave that I am, I had considered ending my agony and letting my nose lead me to whatever secret sanctuary was sending off the irresistible aroma. But I had to hesitate. There were precious few establishments in sight that I could suspect of being the source of the olfactory signal. It had to be the popular street kitchenette that had been around for ages.
A recent paint job has given the kitchenette a makeover. In its old unpainted version however, I remember getting a glimpse from the street of an old yellowing counter over which rows of dishes covered with plastic bowls were arranged. To the left of the counter was a kitchen, viewed on the outside through a small, screened, decrepit window that looked more like a dust and insect filter. A casual peek revealed a couple of men in various states of dress and undress, sweating over mysterious dishes that sent off divine-smelling smoke.
The rest that was and still is unseen is left to the imagination. My husband’s friend sums it all up by concluding that this is the place “where people are clueless.” Rumor has it that the kitchen has assistants that have more than two legs, are each less than an inch tall and are gray or brown in color. They say that these assistants hold the secret to the oh so yummy goodness of every dish served by the kitchenette. The loyal patrons of the kitchenette however don’t seem to care or to want to know the place’s culinary secrets. It’s enough that they get their fill of cheap delicious food.
I suppose this kitchenette isn’t the only one of its kind. Take for example the old chicken stand somewhere in
But therein lies the beauty of Philippine underground cuisine. It’s an adventure to remember, full of flavor, mystery and opportunities to eat all you can of creatures you normally wouldn’t even think of licking. If you are a foreigner, a balikbayan or a local aristocratic snob, then dimly lit street eateries should be your next stop as soon as you’ve hurdled the balut challenge. These are perfect venues to train for the next million dollar Fear Factor-ish reality show. (Incidentally, I always thought that, with the kind of food our humblest of citizens eat, we would have won any Fear Factor food challenge in a heartbeat).
The Dead Shall Bury the Dead
I just came back from burying the dead. I had been gone too long but it couldn’t be helped. I needed time to accomodate the wealth of Filipino customs and traditions that I had no idea accompanied funerals and burials. It seems Christ’s biblical exhortation to let the dead bury the dead is unheeded in this largely Catholic nation.
Nonetheless, I deeply respect tradition and I have chosen to follow its requirements among people who believe in them. Besides, Filipino SOPs for the dead are interesting cultural elements to mull over.
Death By Diabetes
Dear Readers,
Someone close to me just died because of the complications of diabetes. My take on the preferred Filipino disease however, and my discovery of the real reason why poor folks in the Philippines apparently have less costly diseases and preludes to death than rich folks are for another post entirely. Right now, I simply wish to inform you that I shall be taking a brief break from serving the freshest wit and sarcasm known to man.
I am now currently knee deep in making my services available to the bereaved family. I do this even if I still do not fully understand why we must stay up all night playing mahjong and drinking killer spirits when most of us in the room are also diabetic; wear white when we are not Chinese and pray on the 9th and 40th nights when half of what the manalabtan (prayer leader of sorts?) is saying is in a tongue seemingly foreign to all known life including her own. I shall be back next week when I am done with propagating tradition, staying awake for the rest of the week, raising my blood sugar level, musing over the meaning of life and bidding my fellow being a great afterlife.
Godspeed.
Gracia El Caustica
Exclusive
It has been a week since the Ces Drilon kidnapping incident. As her mother station has suggested, it would be best for everyone not to make conjectures or even educated guesses on the matter.
But people have been making comments if not particularly about the incident then generally about the state of the nation. The internet is bursting at the seams with socio-political commentaries running along the lines of lamenting the gross lack of national stability on all fronts that has rendered our country inhospitable and nearly uninhabitable. This flies smack against the basic tenets of freedom and democracy for which our government still calls itself a champion of. How can we be free if we cannot go where we want to without fearing for life and limb and without having to pay ransom which is now officially known as non-ransom-mandatory-board-and-lodging-or-you’re-dead fees? Which is a better form of government, one that openly espouses tyrannical order or one that only puts up appearances of espousing democracy and the greater good?
There is no need to even think of an answer. All the sources of collective national grief (conspiracies not excluded) have already been excessively dissected. I shall leave other greater minds to look for new angles to old issues to rant and lament over. My only issue now is the media giants’ bid for exclusivity. Are the current real life dangers faced by our media avoidable circumstances that are willingly sought because of the mad scramble for something exclusive to feed the judges of the evening ratings?
Justice League of the Philippines
Princesses who lived happily ever after are never welcome in my home. It’s not because I have anything against two dimensional singing characters in pink and baby blue. My daughter just never liked them herself. Despite my genuine attempts to appeal to her toddler logic that Disney’s perpetually optimistic heroines and now trying hard feminists can be viewed in moderation without any risk of brain damage, she has chosen to set her own preferences. She has ditched the ladies in long gowns and pitch perfect voices for radioactive turtles, the arachnid with four limbs, the knight with bat ears and the man of steel in red underwear.
Call me a bad mother if you must but I am having a hard time weaning her from men, women and aliens in spandex. The worst part is that I’ve gotten hooked too. While I do put up a front and exert my full authority to manage her viewing time and habits, I do sneak to my own room with her discs to watch her heroes wreak havoc to prevent havoc. My current favorite is the Justice League, well, the one that includes the rest of the world and not just America in its agenda.
While I do still wonder how metropolis can withstand the endless cycle of being destroyed and rebuilt, why superheroes think there’s nothing funny about living with other people in colored tights, why DC superheroes have such unimaginative names, why Superman and Batman can’t wear their underwear underneath their tights and what happens to Wonder Woman’s clothes when she spins into her star spangled undies, I appreciate the controlled depth of the Justice League stories. Who would have thought that these characters, who badly need a fashion consultant, could have such a deep grasp of life’s realities and still be entertaining?
In this week’s episode, Batman unintentionally sums up a Filipino reality. After he and his colleagues return to their regular adult forms after having been magically transformed to their kid selves, Wonder Woman comments that it felt nice to have become a kid again. Batman retorts, “I haven’t been a kid since I was eight.”
At least the eight year old Bruce Wayne probably had all the bonbons he could eat while he was mulling over his business empire’s financial documents and while learning to jump gracefully, mysteriously and safely from 70 storey buildings. The eight year old kid I buy corn from every afternoon is no Bruce Wayne. My friend would probably have to endure more days of trudging underneath the heat of a tropical sun with a basket of corn, not to mention more experiences of hardship that will test his will and motivation to surpass poverty and the lack of education. Right now, he can barely even endure not being a child as he cranes his neck from outside to get a glimpse of the Justice League on our television set.
My friend is not the only one. Watch Wish Ko Lang every Saturday and you will realize how many other Filipino children have stopped being kids at the age of eight. They are everywhere selling goods, polishing shoes, massaging tourists, clinging on jeeps and picking pockets. How much more emotional and physical trauma do they have to endure before they can transform into masked heroes to save themselves and their families from the poverty of Filipino life?
If only these kids could all surpass the tragedies of life to become Bruce Waynes, Clark Kents and Dianas. We sorely need a Justice League of the Philippines.
Sensational News
I don’t remember a lot of news stories from the past. What I do remember though were the men and women of the media— the dead ones to be exact. Even before I found out the shocking truth that fairy tales, Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy are really adult inventions designed to trick kids into believing that life is beautiful and that there are no inane politicians that plague our country, I was already made aware of stories of journalists who disappeared into the night and appeared the following morning in ditches with bullet holes in their heads. Unfortunately, some journalists continue to suffer the same gruesome fate today. It seems the current invertebrates in power still have dirty secrets to keep so the guardians of truth must be silenced.
This is probably why despite my obvious inability to tell the difference between algebra and gibberish, I would have chosen Engineering over Mass Communications if they were the only two courses left in college. Obviously, I am not a brave soul and I do not want to suffer the same slow, painful prelude to death that I suppose many journalists have had to endure.
My own cowardice however only serves to heighten my admiration for the people of print and broadcast media. It is not just their courage that I find amazing. It is also the fact that many of those employed by provincial newspapers and radio stations continue to risk their necks and limbs for a pittance. Why on earth would they want to court danger when they can’t even afford to buy a bulletproof vest or insurance? Their outright disregard for their safety could only mean that they have such deep passion for the truth that, rather than bury the truth, they would have themselves buried instead.
Apparently though, the dawn of the ratings war in radio and television has changed the face of journalism forever. It is no longer just about accuracy and integrity. It is also about who has the whitest smile, the best pose and the most impressive overemphatic articulation. I thought I would never see the day when journalists would pose in front of cameras displaying false gravity and atrocious fashion.
I suppose though that sensationalizing the exterior of journalists and their news shows would have been bearable considering that different stations and channels do report the same events so the only real way to draw viewers and advertisers would be to parade like peacocks. What is thoroughly unacceptable though is when the news too gets painted. With due respect to the men and women of the media, they do continue to report the facts. The many different angles in which they do so however have shaped exaggerated public opinions.
Case in point: I once admired a radio broadcaster for his fiery attacks on a corrupt government official who had been reaping the benefits of construction job contracts. The broadcaster was so good at spewing fire, brimstone and spittle that within a few years, he had turned a great number of people to his side. People believed in him so much that he got himself elected to a government position from where he continued to throw stones at his political target.
After a few more months of aggressive monologues on air, the broadcaster began receiving death threats. His car got shot at a couple of times and the service vehicle of his station got torched. He hasn’t been heard on air ever since. For a moment I thought he had finally gone belly up and his loyal supporters would finally have to don black shirts bearing his face, take to the streets and irritate stalled motorists in the name of justice. Rumor has it though that the broadcaster turned politician had to resign from his job as a broadcaster because it was found out that he had been the one sending himself death threats. Apparently, he was also the one who stuck bullets on his own car and burned his station’s vehicle.
I don’t know if all the rumors are true but if they are, that would make me feel like shit. He reminds me of Spiderman’s Jonah Jameson, nearly turning an entire city against the Crocodileman in city hall, but the similarity ends there. Jonah never went hunting for spiderwebs to lie on and claim victim status. Isn’t it a pity that a former guardian of truth is now as diseased as his political adversary?
Hurricane Fiesta
There were a lot of things to write about last week. I wouldn’t have wanted to miss blogging about the government plot to convince people that they are stupider than they really are, the captive chickens in my in-law’s backyard, the tragedy that is American Idol and the reasons why Wyngard and Jolina shouldn’t be spewing pieces of advice and diluted expletives in Pinoy Idol. Yeah, I should have written about all that but I’ve been busy reserving all of my physical and mental energies for an expected social calamity— the town fiesta.