Tuesday, October 31, 2006

Eratum and clarifications

I hope my ate Gie, my eldest sister, is not offended with my portrait if her as the human cat catapult in “My Eldest Sister and the Flying Cats”. Ate, I’m just having fun with my reminiscing and accuracy is the farthest thing in my mind. My ate is a Christian and she’s not an animal rights violator.
I just to make the clarification lest Regan and his gang sue my ate for not providing those cats survival equipments like parachutes and helmets.

I was pouring my emotion about how I hurt my daughter and how guilty I felt complete with the choking and the emotions…but when I reread the essay (which I seldom because I have this tendency to press the delete button and erase all my poorly written essays)… when “Depravity” caught my eyes, it should have been deprived Filipino children, deprived children not depraved…(George say it ten times, deprived, deprived, deprived, deprived…) I apologize. It destroyed the honesty and the emotion of how I felt that time. Anyways…I better start learning how to revise…a single letter and the whole thing becomes comical…better be careful because a single letter can mean a massacre—REMEMBER THE LESSON OF SHIBBOLETH!!!!!

Jdg 12:6 Then said they unto him, Say now Shibboleth: and he said Sibboleth: for he could not frame to pronounce it right. Then they took him, and slew him at the passages of Jordan: and there fell at that time of the Ephraimites forty and two thousand.

Deprived, deprived, deprived, deprived, deprived, deprived,…

My imagination is running wild. What if the kingdom of Cainta declared war on its neighboring municipality and provinces what word would it use to identify if you’re from Cainta….
“High Blood”

Then said the king of Cainta unto them (‘gotta be gender sensitive), Say now High Blood: and they said ‘igh blood” for they were from Pampanga, and the other said “high blar” for they were from Cardona, and the other said “he blud” for they were from the visayas, and the other said “alta presyon” for they were Chabacanos…Then they took them all and slew them and fed their bones to the janitor fish in the mighty river called the Pasig.
I mean, funny isn’t it?

Monday, October 30, 2006

My Eldest Sister and the Flying Cats

My sister Dadai told that me that she told her classmates that I once buried a family of cats alive. I can’t remember how she told me the reactions of her classmates were, but if I remember her words, she might have told me that her classmates were shocked at my cruelty. Well, her story is accurate; I did bury a family of cat alive once. But believe it or not it was the most merciful thing to do at that time.


We used to have a lot of cats. I remember a cat that my father brought home; he bragged that it was from Taiwan but it looked just like the common Philippine stray cat (we call them pusakal) and when it was released by my father the first thing it did was to poop. Correct me if I’m wrong but a cat’s poop is more powerful than a dog’s poop. “An apt nationality for a cat that poops, Taiwan” (tai-iwan in Filipino means someone who poops and leaves without cleaning it.) My mother laughed.


Animals were welcome in our home. In fact according to my mother and my siblings, I was too young to remember then, my late father used to have a menagerie in our front yard. He had a pair of sheep, a pair of goats, a civet cat, a family of cows, pigeons, and rabbits etc… even monitor lizards. My late father was one of those frustrated frontiersman. He loved living the primitive life. He used to bring home these large felled trees where my big brother would then saw them manually using those big, long two handed logger’s saw. Sometimes I would help him by holding on to the other hand and pretending that I’m sawing too. But I am more of a liability than an asset, I made his work more difficult, but he didn’t mind. Then my father would stack the cut logs the way those American frontiersman do, and daily he would get his axe chop them to small sizes just like those American frontiersman do too. We didn’t have problems with LPG then because we used wood fueled stoves that turn our house black and sooty but mosquito free. In fact my father loved western movies and actors. He idolizes Charles Bronson, Lee Marvin, Lee Van Cliff, Paul Newman etc. he also liked to watch those Terrence Hill and… I forgot his partner’s name, Bud Spencer I think his name was…movies.


Anyway, that cat from Taiwan became our official cat and that cat was the forefather or the foregrandmother (I didn’t know the sex of that cat from Taiwan) of the family of cat that I buried alive. I say it was the merciful thing to do then for it was really the merciful thing to do then. Why? Because of my eldest sister. My eldest sister was the official cleaner of the house. As far back as I can remember it was always she that did the house cleaning. I’m not saying that my other siblings didn’t do their part in housekeeping but, I don’t know, it was my eldest sister who made the greatest impression on me. Maybe it was because of the way she threw those cat and kittens through the door or the windows whenever she was cleaning our house. It was amazing. It’s like watching a school of flying squirrel gliding though air but with one exception—the flying was uncontrolled. Reminded me of those Japanese Mitsubishi Zeros hit by American anti aircraft guns complete with the dying whine of its engines, meooooooooooooooowwwwwww blag, blag, blag the only thing missing was the explosion.


No, my eldest sister is not cruel nor is she an animal hater. It was just that the cat poops. A single cat poop is a nuisance, two cat poops is nauseating but six or seven cat poops is a different matter, it is on the level of a biological weapon. Why? First it was very difficult to find them. They’re under the ref, on the bookshelves, under the sala set, in the laundry basket, etc. and this is what drove my eldest sister nuts because she had to smell her way to it which drove her crazier than ever and by the time she found one she’s already rabid and by the time she found and cleaned the fifth deposit she’s already psychopathic. She would pick these cute little kittens and throw them away with such force that one would think that they were canon propelled. But of course it was all a practice in futility. Cats have this ability to land on its feet no matter how high or a how forceful you throw it.


Second was the hair. Cats and kittens love to cuddle and since we have allergies we never pet them. We live with them, feed them or let them feed themselves, but petting was a no, no. Our cats and kittens deprived of human affection and warmth must look for alternatives and the best alternative that they found was to nest in our clothing cabinets. Cats’ hair on cloths is embarrassing, you know, it’s short about the size of nose hair, and if you have a lot of them hanging on your shirts people would think that you were losing your nose hairs. My golly, the sneezing was another thing. Those hairs were an asthma trigger. So, whenever my eldest sister found cats’ hair on her clothes she’ll pick one of them kittens and off they go to another air combat mission.


I got tired of this scene. I have two alternatives, one was to get rid of my eldest sister, or two get rid of the cat and her kittens. Since my mother would never allow me to do the first, I had no choice but to do the second alternative. What I first did was to gather the cat and her kittens, put them in a rice sack, circled the sack around our house post three times and left the sack to an unidentified location very far from our house. You have to circle the cat around a housepost three times because according to the science of animal magnetism and polar magnetic shifts, this must be done to haywire the cat’s global positioning system so that they can never come back home when they are left in the wilderness. But of course they were back before I did. I realized that you cannot get rid of cats by getting them lost. They have an efficient biological global positioning system that I think deserve some study—better than the pigeons’ may I say.
Abnormal as I may be, I don’t like blood, so, cutting the cat and the kittens’ throats was out of the question and you cannot buy over the counter poison here especially if you’re a twelve year old cat murderer like me. I did was I think the best alternative then and that was to bury them alive.

I was young then and the ethical treatment of animals never entered my mind. In fact majority of Filipinos never think about the ethical treatment of animals. I read Tom Regan’s (American Philosopher and animal rights activist) “The case for Animals Rights” and I am convinced by his arguments—“animals are not our resources”, of course this does not mean that I will adopt his view to its fullest—no meat, no burgers, no hotdogs! No way! There’s also Jurgen Moltmann (a theologian) who argued that in creation there is the image, the mirror of the majesty of God, there is a part of God in creation, and that what we do to creation reflects... It is the misunderstanding of creation that brought about the environmental disaster that we are in, especially the biblical passage about the “subduing the earth”.

I don’t know, but when what it comes down to is that animals have rights too and they are not “resources” as emphasized by Regan (I hope he only eats non--biological food because if he does otherwise I’ll be very disappointed) and whether they reflect God or not is beyond me to prove although I believe that God everything created is good. What I’m trying to say is this, animals have rights but once that right impinged on man’s right to be free from biological waste and asthma, then the higher order specie must win (this is called speciesm and I don’t care).

Anyway, I have learned my lesson and I think I’m getting the bad karma. See, my younger brought home a Labrador retriever. We have two native dogs and a pedigree Labrador. I have no problem with dogs except their hair. They make me sneeze to amithereens. But I love them anyway. The problem is when they poop. My brother and I take turn cleaning their habitation. Now, a native dog (a little larger than a cat) poop is one thing but a wet Labrador poop is another humongous thing.

What moral lesson did I get from my eldest sister and her flying cat and kittens, don’t hurt ‘em lest they haunt you back in the form of a large dog.


(My borther’s Labrador’s name is Princess Tamia and she’s one fine Labrador. Good mannered, a people dog as they say, it’s just the poop, my gulay! The poop…anyway I’ve grown to love the dog and the other thing is my brother bought the new computer I am using now, so, as they say in Filipino “don’t bite the dog of the hand that bought the computer. He, he, he,)

Sunday, October 29, 2006

The day i hurt my daughter

The last week of this semester was a very busy day for me. Aside from the preparation for the final examination, editing of my thesis, editing of the student publication, wrapping up of the campus student commission on election work, the dance practice (I will write about this dancing thing later), I was also busy organizing the moving up ceremony for the pioneering day care laboratory conducted by our class (see earlier post “sem break”). My time is really, as we say in Filipino, in pursuit (naghahabol). I’m stressed, and when I’m stressed I’m irritable. I’m busy that the care of my daughter was left to my sister in law who has her own four children to take care of herself.


I recall the day my daughter was born. It was April 4, 1999 Easter Sunday. The night before, my wife already felt something, so, what she did was to pack her bag ready to go to the doctor anytime. She was packing while I was out there drinking with my buddies. That morning of April 4 my wife went to the lying in clinic with her sister and not with me. Why? I was out there, somewhere, playing bass guitar for someone’s birthday celebration.


I don’t know how many times my brother in law went where we were performing (if you can call it that) to tell me that Myra, my wife, was already in labor. But the problem with me during those days was that once I tasted alcohol, I cannot be removed from the bottle and the guitar. So, my brother in law was there waving his hands, calling me, but the amplifier blast and the ear shattering voice of the singer made even more atonal by the fact that we are using an old “Karaoke” machine as an amplifier drowned my brother in law’s calling. I was tipsy too and had no care in the world but my playing (which is no good at all). Of course when my brother in law could not make me come; they called in the marines. This time it was my mother who did the extraction operation. She stood there in front of me holding an umbrella and pleading with me. “Geeeeooorrrrggeee”, she softly told me, “have pity on your wife she’s already in labor.” With that kind of performance, I had no choice but to lay down my weapon (bass guitar) and immediately went to the lying-in clinic where my wife was already writhing in pain. In retrospect, I don’t know how much psychological pain my wife suffered during those times. She was in birth pain while her husband was out there having fun with his drinking buddies when he should be at her side comforting her, encouraging her, helping her. When I walked in through the clinic’s door, I was reeking with the smell of gin, beer, tofu, soy sauce and onion, garlic, cigarette, sweat… And the funny thing was, when I looked at my wife I laughed at her. I couldn’t help it. She looked funny especially when she was grimacing in pain. It was so comical that I laughed my heart out. I don’t know, it was very cruel of me but, anyway, I have a very strange sense of humor.



My daughter is now on her second grade. She’s at the top of her class. I don’t know if it matters that there are only eight pupils in her class.
My daughter is now starting to assert herself. Everyday is becoming a daily exercise on logic, legalities, and negotiations. She’s starting to become analytical and critical of her parents’ talks and actions. If there are inconsistencies with what we are saying with what we are doing, her comments usually make me and my wife stop and think. No, she’s not that smart and she’s just like any ordinary child. The difference between her and other children her age is that my wife and I listen to her and the listening made her more open to say whatever she likes. My daughter is expressive and sensitive albeit a little spoiled--a natural consequence of being an only child. I remembered when she got mad at me because I suspended her TV for a week because of a “major infraction”. This is my usual punishment. The morning after, I woke up to find a graffiti on our room’s wall calling me a….I will not tell and I will not print it here because she already apologized and its already forgotten.

There is something about having a child. It does something to people. It softens them. It also hurt them. I don’t know but having a child can hurt. Having a child can make parents suffer because becoming a parent is becoming sensitive to the plight of other children. Becoming a parent means becoming the parent of all the children because seeing a child suffering is seeing one’s own child or at least an image of one’s own child suffering. Seeing deprived children is seeing one’s child deprived too, and there are a lot of deprived children in the Philippines. This feeling is always, it is innate.

Last Thursday October 19, I walked my daughter to school. We were holding hands both sleepy and just walking and talking. She kept asking what time I will be back, and I told her that I will be home for lunch. After walking her to school, I took a bath and went to school myself. I came home for lunch and found her bag, shoes, and uniforms scattered on the floor. I went to my sister in law’s house and asked if my daughter’s already home and she told me that she was, that she had eaten her lunch, and that she was with a classmate playing. I assumed that she was just around the neighborhood.

When I came home that afternoon her bag, shoes and uniforms was still lying there. I picked them up and put them in the laundry. I sat on my favorite spot, the steel window with the view of our roses, and read. After reading, I went on to writing my reports, when I noticed that it was already getting dark. My daughter was not yet home. I began asking around. I went house to house. I went to her classmates near our neighborhood but she’s not there. I was getting worried because our neighborhood was not the way it used to be. It is now a dangerous place because of the invasion of the squatters. What was once a rural and beautiful place is now a slum area full of good people as well as bad people. I don’t know most of them and they don’t know my daughter. I was getting desperate that I almost went to the police. My daughter never leaves our area. Where could she be now? My mind is already on panic mode. What if her classmate brought her someplace and she got lost? What if she was hit by a passing vehicle? What if she was drowned in the river?


I went to the nooks and crannies of the area we call the coconut village (it was called coconut village because most of the houses was made from coconut lumber). The place depresses me. I have not been to that place for a long time although it was just a few meters away from our house. Three hours of walking and worrying and still I can’t find my daughter. I told my sister in law to tell my wife to go home early from work because I’m getting desperate. Her classmate that was with her was already home but she still was not.

My sister in law found my daughter. She was at her other classmate’s house. When I found my daughter in my sister in law’s house, the first thing I did was to hit her on the buttocks. I lost control of my emotion. I was so worried and relieved at the same time but I must show to her the gravity of the worrying she had given me. In short I punished her. Hurt her in fact.

It’s been two weeks now and I still think about what happened. Can’t sleep and can’t talk about it. I must ask for an apology not from her because she already forgiven me.
“Child do you know what happened?” I asked her later. “Yes, Tatay (father) I was bad and I will not do it again...” “Are you angry at me”, I asked her. “No, (hindi po)”. She smiled.


Parenting is not about being an adult but, based on what happened to me, on how I hurt my daughter, parenting is all about becoming a child again, trying to see everything from a child’s point of view. My daughter lost track of time because she’s engrossed with playing. The way I used to be engrossed with drinking. I held her accountable for something that she cannot be held accountable for-- my worrying, my suffering, my threes hours search for her, my panic, the torture of all those thoughts…what are these to a child having fun. I punished a child for having fun. I hurt my daughter for having fun.



She had forgiven me but I haven’t forgiven myself.

Saturday, October 28, 2006

Transactonal Theology

A reflection on Jephthah’s Folly

Jdg 11:29 Then the Spirit of the LORD came upon Jephthah, and he passed over Gilead, and Manasseh, and passed over Mizpeh of Gilead, and from Mizpeh of Gilead he passed over unto the children of Ammon.
Jdg 11:30 And Jephthah vowed a vow unto the LORD, and said, If thou shalt without fail deliver the children of Ammon into mine hands,
Jdg 11:31 Then it shall be, that whatsoever cometh forth of the doors of my house to meet me, when I return in peace from the children of Ammon, shall surely be the LORD'S, and I will offer it up for a burnt offering.

Jephtah’s vow is as relevant today as it was in the Old Testament. Jephtah’s vow reflects three things about him. 1. His Lack of Faith 2. His Pagan Environment 3. His Transactional Understanding of God.
Jephtah’s lack of faith is shown by his doubt about God’s granting him victory against the Ammonites. The fact that he made a vow to God offering whatsoever comes out of his house showed the religious practice prevalent in his time. There are two different views about the conclusion of Jephthah’s vow. The first view is that her daughter was offered as a burnt offering to God, and the second view is that she was consecrated as a “virgin” servant of the Lord. There is even a view connecting and relating the act of the sacrifice of Jephthah’s daughter to Agamemnon’s sacrifice of his daughter Iphegenia to the Goddess Artemis.
The conclusion of Jephthah’s vow is not as important as his motivation for making that vow (dark vow, as one biblical scholar say).

Jephthah’s action, despite having the spirit of the Lord, and despite understanding God’s clear and emphatic ban against human sacrifices (Lev 18:21) showed not only his lack of faith but it also showed one misconception about God that is very prevalent today—the thinking that anyone can exert or to use a stronger term can negotiate with God by offering something that is very important to them. This is a pagan logic. But Jephthah fell into the same thinking as his pagan neighbors. He forgot or maybe doubted that God is the sovereign God “the Iam” even though he is learned about the patriarchs and the prophets’ earlier teaching about God and his sovereignty. His thinking was clouded by the taste of victory that he was willing to sacrifice his only daughter—an unnecessary sacrifice that God does not require of him. The consequence of this action is the death of his daughter, if she is really sacrificed, or the death of his bloodline, if she was really consecrated to remain forever a virgin in the service of the Lord.

Jephthah’s case is very much alive and is in fact reflected in the theologies espoused by preachers today—the claim that God can be manipulated or swayed to act in one’s through the merit of one’s action like anatomical prayers, fastings, etc. There’s nothing wrong with these practices, in fact they are encouraged in the Bible (Mat 7:7) (Act 14:23) the problem is when preachers make prayers and fasting a sovereign act that can be used to manipulate or even to transact with God to grant their petitions. The sad case is these petitions usually centered on the monetary success. The thinking is that the welfare of the church is tied to the monetary capabilities of its members! Thus the power of prayers is debased and rendered transactional.

Praying is the most misunderstood and even the most abused aspect of the spiritual life. It is considered as a panacea. It must be understood that praying is not limited to the ask, seek, knock aspect. Praying is not praising nor is it worship. Praying is not limited to the spoken communication with God. It is the bulk, the whole of the spiritual life. It is holistic, act and talk—communicating verbally and nonverbally. In short, prayers are not meant to replace what can be done with action and action is not meant to be done without prayers nor is prayers to be judged by its length and emotion or the pretense of emotion to be efficacious.
Prayers not only reflect spirituality but it also reflects a person’s mindset, a person’s conception of what God is to them. Thus a person that prays a lot about monetary success can be safely assumed as having a very unhealthy conception of the nature and sovereignty of God, and the kind of relationship they have with Him.
Jephthah’s folly should have been a very clear illustration about the consequence of the wrong conception of God but instead it had become the theological foundation of the transactional theologian--the belief that God can be swayed, His prerogatives can be claimed. The belief that man’s “religiosity” is a currency with God—a reversion of Christian theology to pagan theology.

Friday, October 27, 2006

The Church of Voltes V

What is reality? Do I have choices? If God knew what would happen and if He knew that I would go to hell then my fate is sealed. If things are foreordained then where is choice? If there is human freedom and God does not know what will be the individual’s choice, then God is not God for he had limitations?
My best friend Dude kept asking me these questions. This was the last time we had a bonding session (beer bonding to be exact). I don’t know what the matter with him is, but every time he had beer the topic would always shift to these metaphysical questions. He may not have the finesse and the technical terminologies of a philosopher and a theologian but with a little alcohol Dude can do a lot of heavy philosophizing and theologizing that will confound even Plato, Aristotle, and Barth and the rest of his neo orthodox theologian gang.

Once in my life I grappled with these questions. I even had the feeling that I was not normal. My friends were all busy with the worldly things, yet here I was dealing with the questions of reality, of God, Evil and Good, and the next life. With the death of my father and the separation with my siblings—they all studied in the seminary—the thread that holds my faith together snapped. These questions began to have a life of their own. They became my justifications—which that time I honestly believed that I was an atheist—for my unholy actions. It was then that I discovered alcohol. And this is also the time I found out that my best friend had the same enlightenment that I had. We discussed theology and philosophy (our own brand of it anyway), and we found that we share the same views. We even came up with the idea of inventing a religion based on nature--which I later learned was called pantheism and panentheism.

Now I’m older. The answers to these questions I had already found. The answer was “there was no answer”. This may sound strange. But when one accepted the fact that the intellect can only do so much and when one started to realize that one’s mind is finite then this is the only acceptable answer. And to try to further would only lead to manic depression and insanity.

One thing that happened with my acceptance of the “no answer” answer was that I became open to faith. With so many questions unanswered my priorities changed from finding the answers to these questions to asking the right questions. And from asking the right questions I later realized the need for faith for the questions I asked defied thinking.

I stopped my spiritual explorations (drinking sessions) and contended myself on what I can understand and believe. But my best friend is made of different stuff; last time we talked he proposed inventing a religion that would accept all religious dogmas while promoting the deity of Voltes V. and the sainthood of the Armstrong brothers: St. Steve, St. Little John, and St. Big Bert. He’s not crazy and I know he’s just joking but the scary thing is he might succeed.

But of course finding faith does not mean one is holy….It’s a painful daily struggle for me to be holy.

Thursday, October 26, 2006

Amplified bikes

There are two types of gasoline engine that I know of: the two-stroke engine and the four-stroke engine. The two-stroke is characterized by its high-pitched whine while the four-stroke is characterized by its low-pitch hum. The thing is, I can’t identify what type of engine my Kumpare’s scooter has. It’s no smaller than my dog but it creates a lot of rumpus whenever it passes by our house. Our dogs’ howls, our windows rattle, and its sonic boom will beat an F16 jet fighter anytime. I never know that scooter engines can create electrical interference especially from a distance but my Kumpares’s scooter’s engine does. My TV reacts every time he starts the engine, the audio sizzles and the video exhibits an “ant march” due to whatever energy the engine emits.

I asked my Pare (pal) where he bought his scooter, and he told me that he bought it second hand--it was an imported Japanese surplus. Now, I was wondering, is it possible that what he had bought is an experimental secret weapon that the Japanese was developing? That it was a prototype that was stolen and accidentally mixed with the surpluses? What other explanation is there for the scooters strange capabilities. I think the Armed Forces of the Philippine’s Intelligence service should take a look into this.

First world countries’ motor-industries spend millions of dollars on research to lower the noise emissions of their engines. They employ the best acoustics specialists and engineers to design sophisticated and efficient exhaust systems that will balance the engines need for ventilation, and at the same time meet the legal requirement for noise emission. I noticed that here in our beloved motherland the opposite is happening. Our “gingeeners” are designing special mufflers that will make a Honda Dream 100 cc. or a Lifan Waaves 125cc sound like a 2000cc Harley Davidson Easy Rider. I don’t know what they wish to accomplish with this, but even if they put a 100,000 watts Pioneer audio amps on the butt of these bikes it will never go as fast as the Harleys. That’s the problem with most Filipinos they want to attract attention even in the most obnoxious way (like putting an H to every syllable on their name). Now, if they want the sound of big engine, why don’t they just get a bigger bike instead of buying a scooter, setting it up, and spending more money, which if you add up will enable them to buy a new car. Motorbikes are good if use for what they are designed for; that is, to move people and goods, and for leisure and recreation, but if used as a sonic weapon it is dangerous and can be fatal.

Now, I talked to my Kumpare (pal) about his bike, I told him about the problem and the inconvenience his scooter is giving the neighborhood, he promised to fix it, and he did. He bought and installed a new muffler and the effect is amazing. Now instead of hearing the sonic boom of an F16 fighter jet what I hear now is the thumping sound of a helicopter. And instead of being rudely awakened I now can sleep except I kept having “flashback” nightmares of the Vietnam War every time the scooter pass by our window. Anyway he’s a good Kumpare (pal) of mine so I’ll just keep my nightmares to myself and keep the friendship.
But I still think that the AFP Intelligence service should take a look at that scooter.

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

A Little Philosophy



I am not a philosopher. I am not a not philosopher also. I just like to read some philosophy especially the existentialist for it provided me what antihistamines and cold tablets cannot give—yawns and sleep. I mean, philosophy is the most soporific of all the literatures with the exception of theology.
I discovered existentialism through Nietzsche’s “The Madman”. Although I read some of his allegories “Zarathustra,” and that “Will to Power blah, blah, blah,” It is really “The Madman” that bothered me. God is dead and we have killed him said the madman. Although many regard Nietzsche, especially the fundamentalist or the fundamentally mentally fundamental, as an anti-God and an anti Christ, he was in reality, just one of those people who are so disgusted with organized religion that he’d rather had God killed than join religion. “What are these churches now if they are not the tombs and sepulchers of God?” The Madman retorted. Hair raising isn’t it? But oh so true! He demolished everything—hence nihilism (nihil means nothing.) From skepticism to Cartesian doubt to Kant’s critique of pure reason to Berkeley’s idealism, Nietzsche tops them all. Why doubt existence, why doubt reality, why doubt perception? Why not destroy them all! His nihilism is so powerful and influential that he is now regarded as the father and the saint of the age where we now belong—the postmodern era. I mean I’m not an authority on philosophical system but there’s one thing so understandable about Nietzsche and that is his philosophy is based on and looked forward to destruction—no system, no doctrines just the bleak reality that we are all doomed. I admire him for his honesty.

Of course the guy went mad.

I also liked to read about the Greeks like Plato and his forms (or ideas) and the becoming. According to him the material reality is just an imperfect reflection or a poor representation of the world of ideas (or form). For example we have a Kris Aquino here who acquired syphilis, or is it gonorrhea, or crabs but in the world of ideas (or forms) there is a perfect Kris Aquino who follows her mother’s advice and does not go around hosting quiz shows with stupid lines like “deal or no deal” . And to top it all, according to Pluto, our perception of reality is a recalling or a remembering of the ideas (or forms), imperfect as they are. Now, if there’s Plato there must Aristotle (Aristotoel is how it is pronounced but it does not matter the guy’s dead anyway.) He invented logic. (The subject that made me famous in the campus. Here’s the story: Our instructor asked us to construct a syllogism and here’s my syllogism “1. Painting is an art. 2. Mona Lisa is a painting. 3. Therefore Moan Lisa is an art.” “No, wrong conclusion, Mona Lisa can also be a song or a person.” The instructor calmly told me. “But premise number two says she is a painting! How can she be a song or a person” I argued. And the war started. I didn’t back out, in the end it was a draw. I was surprised because despite the argument, I received a very good grade in logic. I found out later that she, my instructor, was a law graduate.)

Back to Aristotle, Aristule was not only a philosopher but he was also a famous biologist known for his scientific theories on physiology and anatomy. Let me quote from Jim Hankinson’s erudite book The Bluffer’s Guide to Philosophy: Be an Instant Expert on Philosophy. “For Aristotle, semen is not produced in the testicles, but in the spinal column. (The testicles function apparently as a sort of rest area for the traveling sperm); furthermore, cold semen is infertile, and the further it has to travel, the colder it gets (hence the well-known fact, he remarks, that men with long penises are infertile, but they aren’t; therefore they have no testicles.)” I don’t know if Aristotle said this but…Here’s another from the same book “Snakes have no penises, because they have no legs and they have no testicles, because they are long.” (De Generatione Animalium) I don’t know, but I’m beginning to doubt Aristotle’s logic…

The Greeks are interesting, as shown by the biological theories of Aristotle and the metaphysics of Plato, because they dare to say what is obvious…I mean, they dare to theorize. There are a lot of these Greek philosophers but I don’t have the time nor the references to write about them But there is one underrated Greek philosopher that I believe possessed the truth, Anaximenes (not related to Joyce Jimenez) he theorized that all things is made up of one element—air.
Listen to politicians, movie actors, rock stars, and once in a while to Willie Revillame and you will realize that this Jimenez…err…Anaximenes guy is right. People are air. Not stupid, not bright just empty; Nietzsche’s right we’re all doomed.

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Pronoun Blues



Each manager is responsible for his/her department. He/She must ensure that productivity meets the company’s projection. Each manager is also responsible for the welfare of his/her workers. He/She must ensure that they get the best provisions in operational safety both in training and equipment. Each manager must also ensure that his/her boss is always happy, and that he/she always smiles because a person who smiles a lot is a happy person.*

The introduction of this essay is not supposed to make any sense. It is just a series of sentences I made up to show something that has been bothering me for a long time, the he-slash-she thing. I like my reading to be smooth, but whenever I encounter this he-slash-she thing it slows me down. It’s cumbersome, complex, and the slash gave it the appearance of a mathematical formula. (I suffer from a genetically acquired psychosomatic allergy to mathematics. Translation: I hate mathematics.) What made it more difficult is that it destroys the rhythm of a sentence. To illustrate: A student should turn his/her assignment on time. How will one read this sentence? “A student should turn his or her assignment on time” or “A student should turn his, her assignment on time”. Both readings are correct but there is a price to pay—fluidity.

The he-slash-she is the modern solution to one of the difficulties in grammar, the gender pronoun antecedent agreement (as the opening paragraph shows). The he-slash-she is the convention used to avoid sexism. Before, the generic (covers both sexes) pronoun used is “he”. Although still acceptable, it is now considered as sexist, chauvinistic, and politically incorrect. The argument is obvious, “he” is a masculine pronoun and the gender sensitive people feel that it connotes “male priority and superiority”. But this was not always the case. The generic “he” is an innovation introduced by grammarians only in the 18th and 19th centuries. Before, at least from the 1500’s, the correct sex-indefinite pronoun is “they”, which is still used in casual English today but is now considered as ungrammatical.

This hullabaloo about generic pronoun is just as much a linguistic quest for accuracy as it is for gender equality. But to press this search for gender equality in language further would result to absurdities. If the argument in using the he-slash-she is to avoid sexism, then why not push it a little further and use she-slash-he to prioritize “she”. In fact, I read an article arguing that for those people who find he/she cumbersome, in the name of fairness, since “he” has been used for generations, should consider using “she”. Fine, but isn’t that sexist too. (Even in theology (religious study) this sexism in language is creating debates. Consider this footnote from an essay on the Holy Spirit and Liberation Movements by Dr. Richard Tholin: “One form of oppression is found in language, in this case, the use of masculine for all generic terms. Much of the quoted material in this paper uses male generic language. In the lecture form that language was changed to more inclusive terms. Readers might well attempt the same discipline. In addition, where the pronoun is used for the Holy Spirit the spoken version used “she”…there are some hotly debated linguistic arguments for this usage. In any event, use of the female pronoun for the Spirit can be a constructive way to move beyond exclusively male designations for the triune God (Trinity).” This is absurd. What should be done instead is to avoid using pronouns for God. )

If gender sensitivity is the issue, then we should also reconsider using the word “woma(e)n”. Since woman is derived from the root man—in short, woman is a marked man (no pun intended). “Marked” in linguistics refers to the alteration of meaning by adding a linguistic particle that has no meaning of its own. The unmarked (base) form of the word carries the meaning. The word mann in old English denoted either “man” or “person,” and the compound word wifmann meant female person. The base “man” is masculine and the “wo” from “wif” is the added linguistic particle denotes the female gender to the root man. So, woma(e)n should be out for the obvious reason.

“Female”, following the above argument should also be out. “Male” from Latin ”mas” is the unmarked word that means “man” and “fe” from the Latin “femina” (women) is the added linguistic particle, thus, “female” transliterated could mean “feminine man” (no pun intended also). Female, definitely, should be out too.
Although many consider “lady” as aristocratic and inappropriate in a classless society, it is still used today. In greetings, it’s “Ladies and Gentleman” (notice the precedence of Ladies which is condescending to some), in comfort rooms, it’s “ladies”, etc. for some “lady” denotes class but for some it is an anachronism. Is lady then an alternative to “woma(e)n” and “female”. This may come as a surprise but “lady” comes from the old English “hlaefdig”, “kneader of bread”. No expounding necessary, “lady” definitely is out. That pretty much clears the slate.

To be free from masculine tinge, this search for a term for the other gender can go on (“other gender” is problematic too since “other” implies the precedent existence of the “first” gender thus the need for the qualifier “other”) but still it will not solve anything. Words mean what we want them to mean and its connotations can change with convention. Today, in Hollywood, the word actress is disdained. Alfre Woodard (Desperate Housewives), an Oscar nominee for best supporting actress says she identifies herself as an actor because “actresses worry about eyelashes and cellulite, and woman who are actors worry about the character we are playing.” I once heard a Filipino woman government official insisted she be called “The Chairman” and not “the chairwoman, or the chairperson (I think it was the late PCGG Chairman Haydee Yorac) because she reasoned that she is as good as any man. The suffix –ess and –ette can also connote frivolousness that it is now seldom used formally. It’s now director and not directress, host and not hostess, etc. Isn’t this confusing?

If “women” is historically derived from man, hence connotes inferiority hence it should not be used, and if female is also a derivative of male, hence inferior too, and if lady is a “kneader of bread”…no discussion here, definitely out. Who knows, why not also object to the use of the noun and the adjective “human and humane” because of the “man” in there. Why stop there? “Humanity” has man in there too.
I’m not a linguist. Heck, I’m barely into grammar and punctuations. But what I’m trying to say is, why complicate things, why not just be politically or grammatically incorrect than use this he-slash-she thing. The damned formula disrupts my reading!

It’s a good thing Filipino pronouns are neuter.

*(Of course the paragraph can be rephrased using the third person plural. Managers are responsible…They must…etc. I used the third person singular for illustration.)








Monday, October 23, 2006

Where are you David?

I am watching today’s quiz show, and I am shocked at the way it is being done now. It’s now all about money, money, money—disgusting and infuriating. No wonder we have living brain donors joining as contestants in an event that requires thinking. For illustration (this actually happened): Q: what is the Filipino word for Ocean? A brain donor contestant answered, Pacifico?! A guess, a stupid guess, a gamblers guess and that is what these so called quiz shows really are—GAMBLING! Grrrrrrr…Kris Aquino, Michael V, Tito, Vic and Joey, and that multi-nefarious-reprehensible, disreputable, degenerate, infamous, perverse- Wily Revillame…a transgression is what they are… may the wrath of the vengeful Klingons and Romulans fall upon these pretentious pseudo-quizmasters. (My gulay! I am a Hitler!)

Will somebody tell me where did David Celdran go? For in my dictionary, thesaurus, and hymnals he is the real deal. The real quizmaster that no one can ever, ever surpass. Not even Kris Aquino with her G.I. wire-powered breast lifter and blood clotting cleavage can and will ever, ever surpass the class and the academic air that exudes from dear David.

During my elementary and high school days up to my first college days (about ten years ago, this is now my second college days...err…third…err…fourth…never mind), Saturdays after lunch was religiously reserved for the greatest quiz show of them all—“Battle of the Brains.” The dela Paz’s from my late father, to my mother, to my ate, kuya, ditche, me, Dadai, Dong, up to our little curly haired anemic youngest sister Beng would be sitting at the sala staring at the 12 inch plastic NIVICO TV set watching quiz master David storm the contestants’ brains with his academically relevant questions while we try to beat the contestants with our very own wild and sometimes off the planet answers. We were all vicarious participants in that contest, and the victorious glee of guessing the correct answers brought smiles to my mother’s lips. “I’m blessed, my children are smart.” She might have been thinking during those moments. (This is how I interpret her smile, I don’t know, all along she might be thinking the very opposite, “Oh my gulay! My Children are simpletons.”)
Battle of the Brains was a family affair, a religious family affair.

The joys that the winning contestants felt were our joys. We always root for the lesser known schools. If Ateneo Grade School was pitted against the Hapay na Mangga Elementary School, the dela Paz’ would always root for the mangoes.

The joy of winning then was the joy of winning--not the joy of winning money—but the joy of simply winning. The joy is the joy that all those readings and research made by the student contestants finally paid off. You can see the parents sitting with the audience smiling and clapping their hands in that demure and classy way. (So unlike today where we see the grandfather, grandmother, the father, the uncle, the neighbors, the infant half brother of the contestants all shouting baaaawwwwwiiiiiii!!!!or noooooo deeeeeaaal. Grrrrr!) The joy of the winners is the joy of their family, classmates, teachers, and the school they represent. The loser were treated with respect and not ridiculed.

The prizes for the winners were scholarships, educational package for the school; the prize money will not make you rich. What was important then was the prestige of winning up there in the brain area not down there in the pocket area.

The times they are a changing, It is now important for quiz mistress (pun intended) to show a lot of cleavage so that the televiewers will be intellectually stimulated, I mean, down there and not up there, The questions now are mostly trivia (showbiz or whatever) that are way, way off the academic radar screen and the prizes are meant to arouse greed in one’s heart. Sad.
Where are you David? Mate, I missed you. I hope you’ll do one more Battle of the Brains season for the sake of my seven year old daughter.

Sunday, October 22, 2006

Only in the Philippines


This is my top ten “Only in the Philippines” list. Some are old news but their humor and irony is timeless.
  • In line with the effort of the Philippine National Police to improve its image, the First Gentleman donated dentures to its operatives. It can now be said that the Philippines has a police force with a teeth. Bite the criminals!
  • Where will you find the largest septic tank in the world? In the Philippines it’s called the Pasig River. We love kangkong or water spinach and where do you think they are cultivated?
  • Did you know that the Philippines is the monogram capitol of the world? Here you can find the initials of politicians everywhere in waiting sheds, trash cans, railings, overpass, underpass, service vehicles, private vehicles, ambulances, caritons (pushcarts), calendars, candies, buko stand, candies, funerals, weddings, etc. Mark of the beast they are.
  • The Malabanan Family would have been one of the most successful families in the Philippines, that is, if they had not divided the family business and competed among their selves. They would have had a monopoly on the septic tank “liposuction” business and maybe even have established a business empire that caters on the sanitary needs of the Filipinos. But only in the Philippines will you find a family split literally over “liquefied excrement”. Now they are competing against each other searching for the largest deposits of you know what, not oil definitely.
  • Only in the Philippines will you find stores that conducts clearance sale, 50% off sales, special sale, and buy one take one sale, on a daily basis. I wonder why they never suffer losses or how are they able to make a profit. I know the reason. We are all mathematically dead.
  • The Philippine congress passed a law that is supposed to prevent political dynasties. But instead of stopping political dynasties what it did is to promote it in a more destructive manner. Instead of dealing with the political power of just one person in a family now we have to deal with the wife, mistress, husband, brother, sister, cousin, maid, and other nincompoops who is made to run for public office as a dummy of the incumbents whose terms ended. I won’t be surprised if I find out that there are comedians running for the vice presidency of the country. Ha? There was one…Amay Bisaya ran as the VP of Imelda Marcos? How low can we go? But definitely there will never be an illiterate in the senate. Ha? There was one…there was a senator who was once an actor and a governor that hired “listeners and readers” to translate and decipher English documents and discussions in the senate. I…
  • Only in the Philippines will you find a Montessori school located in the middle of a stressful and congested city. Sorry, Maria Montessori.
  • Why is it that despite the depreciation of the peso, lowered credit rating and terrorist bombings, fiscal deficit and poverty, shopping malls continued to sprout like mushrooms in the city? Even here in my beloved Taytay a new SM Mall is being constructed. There has to be an explanation for this paradox. Asthma, maybe.
  • There was news coverage of an accident where a speeding vehicle plowed through two or three children. It was found later that the driver is an amputee. The question is how in the name of Odin and all the fatalist gods of Valhalla can an amputee get a drivers license to drive a vehicle not designed for his handicap? Only here in the Philippines. This is tragic because the lives of those children would have been saved if not for the criminal negligence of the authorities. Brain amputees.
  • Only in the Philippines will you find the greatest number of Divas. There is the divine diva, soulful diva, inspirational diva, rock diva, R&B diva, dance diva, Korean telenovela diva, mega diva, leaning diva, birit diva, novelty song diva, jazz diva, pop diva, etc. In fact due to the popularity of the word in the Philippines Webster, the dictionary company is now studying the possibility of redefining the word as a tribute to the Filipino “divas”. They proposed to change the definition from goddess to singing tonsils and nose lifts (I see some semblance between Michael Jackson and Regine Velasquez, promise.).


    I love my beloved country because here you can die laughing at the insanities of the Filipino’s inanity or at the inanities of the Filipino’s insanity. Now some politicians are trying to change the country’s constitution to better improve the country’s government. How logically illogical or illogically logical can one get?



Saturday, October 21, 2006

songs in A minor



I spent last Holy Week with my wife’s family in Gumaca, Quezon. They held their family reunion, and in the province if there is a reunion there has to be a slaughtered pig. One of the most enjoyable activities during reunions is the food preparation. In one area you have the women slicing and chopping the recados while talking about their good looking suitors who never made it to their hearts, how they fell in love with their ugly husbands, and all that stuffs, including sex that only married women talked about. On the other side, you have the men chopping pork and roasting the pig’s head while drinking, telling jokes, and counting how many beautiful girlfriends they’ve had before marrying their ugly wives. Of course these were all tall tales, but as long as its funny and entertaining who cares? Here and there are the nephews and nieces playing, making up for the time that they are not together, bonding. This is what I like about the Filipinos, no matter what our deficiencies are, we are a family people. .

My wife’s family reunion will not be complete without my father in law Tatay Indeng’s guitar playing. My father in law is one of the last breeds of authentic kundiman folk uwido (plays by ear) guitarist. He plays the guitar ala bandoria. I’m a guitar enthusiast myself, but his guitar playing technique is beyond me. His finger plucking style is complicated. I’m humbled, and I’m happy to play second guitar for him whenever possible. It is also amazing how he rearranges pop songs to the A minor family chord pattern, the usual kundiman chord progression, and accompany them in that provincial kundiman rumba style.
It is painful to witness the forgetting of our traditional music.

Friday, October 20, 2006

Why I'm not surprised

I took the "what classic movie are you and the what world leader are you test similar to whatt my kuya did, and here are the results.

My kuya's a Schindler List while I'm a platoon and also a Hitler at that! How depressing.

Thursday, October 19, 2006

PC Blues 2

Thank Heavens my younger brother brought home a new HP PC. I'm back to normal. My headache's gone. My rheumatism's gone. My ticks gone. The funny thing is I don't believe in that Freudian-Jungian Psychosomatic psychiatrical blah, blah, blah, stuff. Maybe my pc blues symptoms is caused by the sudden loss of exposure to the sterilizing radiation of the monitor. Psychosomatic symptoms....give me a break.

My kuya Joey is right, we're all becoming slaves to technology.

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

pc blues

It is time I start writing manually.

My computer conked out. It is now time to practice writing manually. The thing is I have forgotten how to write in long hand. It’s been five days since I last touched my computer, and I’m getting irritable. My wife is starting to take pity on me. She told me to buy a new old used computer but I can’t; I need the money for my enrollment. I’m getting depressed. I can’t write anything if I’m not at home and the computer rental is killing me.
I am no stranger to withdrawal syndromes, I have experienced them before. I was once a chain smoker and a drinker, but through all those nonstop petitions made by my mother, siblings, and churchmates asking God to bring me back to the fold, the Lord made me stopped. I cold turkeyed both the drinking and the smoking. Quitting is the easiest thing to do; the most painful part is the psychological struggle of quitting. The symptoms I am experiencing now is very similar to what I experienced before, I think I’m suffering from computer withdrawal syndrome.

I’m restless. My fingers are always tapping on something. I can’t read because I can’t write. I’m having nightmares. I am developing ticks. I’m always thirsty.

I can’t wait till Friday. I think my wife is really happy because my PC conked out. I see dead people! Purple

Haze! I see Purple Haze! My daughter plans to kill me! I’m hallucinating.

I need to get my computer fixed.

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

I miss old Cainta

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Where are the butterflies?
Where are the bees?
Cause what we have here now
Are huge flies that are blue

The giant catterpillars
That metamorphose into royal moths
are now gone
replaced by the dangling cellophanes
brought by menstrual floods

Can't hear the concerto of crickets
And the symphony of the of the night
Cause it is drowned out by the sound
of weeping abused wives and the cries of malnourished infants
Noises that cause nightmares and sleepless nights

The smell of young rice
being pounded by hand
are replaced by the aroma
of overpopulation and poor sanitation

The funny thing is
All these squatters
Have DVDs
Fancy cellphones
But they lack proper orientation
on the care of their environ

The bittersweet smell of carabao dungs
That once offended me are now gone
What we have now are human dungs
packed in plastic bags
Some even in Mcdonalds food packs

Oh, bring me back to the days
of leeches and turtles
when floods brought with it fishes
and not bags of garbage

When morning dew creeps through the house crevices
and not the stench of urine and human feces
When the music that lulls me to sleep
Is nature's nocturnal music
and not the high pitched irritating sound
of my neighbor's shouts

When rats have hair
and mice are shy
When cockroaches are afraid of people
and dragonflies rule the air
when people are nice and not chemically high

Roses are red
violets are blue
I hope the North Koreans
Test their nuclear bombs
on the local politicians
who destroyed this place
I call my home.

Monday, October 16, 2006

Bird Tale

What does a chicken and a duck have in common?

During my grade school days one of my favorite game of chance was the chicks and the ducklings lottery. This was the game where you buy a small piece of paper for twenty five cents, wet it with your saliva (it tasted like soap), wait for a number to appear, then match it with the number painted on a piece of plywood. If you had a match, you either win a chick or a duckling. I tried it once, or maybe twice, thrice, who’s counting anyway. I made two matches and I chose a piece of each—a chick and a duck.

I took care of both of them. Placed them in the same cage, fed them in the same feeding bowl and I even put a light bulb to warm them at night. I did not do this for experiment; it was just that it was fun watching two different animals bonding. They grew up together, played a lot together, and they even developed the habit of singing a quacking and a cackling duet. We had a big backyard then. My father loved gardening and whenever he hoed the soil to plant, an earthworm would pop up. The chick would always be there ready to snap at them. The duck would also be there but since his bill was not designed for pecking it could not catch any worm. The funny thing was the duck kept imitating the chick, all the time the only thing it caught with its bill was earth.

Things started to change when the chick matured. It started to roost on the old talisay tree besides our dirty kitchen. Naturally the duck tried to roost with the chick but its webbed feet were not made for grasping branches, it cannot hold on and it kept falling down. The duck had no choice but to sleep under the talisay tree. Things didn’t go well with the chick either for when the duckling started to wade on our fishpond the chick can’t swim with it, it can only watch on the bank and wait for the duck to emerge from the water. Despite the developing behavioral and anatomical changes, their relationship was not affected. They still foraged together, sang together and played together. They are an epitome of inter specie friendship.
I remember an incident with our neighbor Mommy Panyang. Mommy Panyang passed away just a few months ago. She was the mother of my brother’s best friend and one of the gentlest old ladies in the neighborhood.

Momy Panyang was changing her clothes and was wearing only her undies when all of a sudden the chicken and the duck flew through her window, and then there was mayhem. She was shouting my name, throwing anathemas at me, calling on the holy family, and at the same time chasing the dynamic duo with a broom. I don’t know which is funnier a shouting seventy year old lady in her undies chasing a cackling chicken and a quacking duck or cackling chicken and a quacking duck chasing a seventy year old lady in her undies. Of course my father castigated me for the behavior of my pets. I think it was one of the reasons why Mommy Panyang had steel grills installed on her windows. Looking back and since Mommy Panyang is already gone, I hoped she had forgiven me for my irreverence to her.

One day I went home from school and found the chicken with a broken leg, a slingshot hit. I tried to mend the injured leg but the injury was bad. It was really a miracle that it was able to hobble home at all. I can’t help but think of the duck encouraging the chicken or maybe even helping it limped home. The chicken was slaughtered and cooked. My heart was so heavy that I found it very difficult to eat the tinola. I kept thinking of the duck and the effect the chicken’s death would have on it. I love both of them. I was really so stressed and depressed that I can’t even look at the viand. I realized that I was not the only one having difficulty with the tinola. My siblings were also having difficulty chewing and swallowing it. I was touched by their silent sympathies. When I finally had the courage to taste the tinola, I also found it very hard to chew and swallow for the chicken meat was like a rubberized chewing gum (the chicken was a tough leghorn known for their egg laying ability and not for the tenderness of their meat.) This time it was I who felt sympathy for my siblings. After a few days the duck lost weight. It started to waste away and we had no choice but to slaughter and cook it. My mother cooked ginataang adobong pato, the classic Flipino recipe for ducks. Despite a heavy heart I ate the viand.

I had lots of pets. I have had many dogs. I had Turko the giant Peterson chicken, Botvinnik the Albino rat who had sex with black rats, and sometimes I catch glimpses of his mulatto descendants in our kitchen. I have had guinea pigs, hamsters, rabbits, spiders, fishes, etc. All of them I cherished and some even hated but never had I seen friendship between two animals like these two extraordinary birds. It’s a pity I didn’t even took the time to give names to these two noble creatures.

Sunday, October 15, 2006

Stein

One of my hobbies is hunting for used book. Aside from the fact that books cost so much here in the Philippines, there is joy in discovering and rediscovering old books. One of the most surprising books I discover this year is Gertrude Steins lectures and wrtings. I am shocked by her unconventional writing style. Her repetitions annoyed me, but on later re-readings, I found her style, er, refreshing. I realized that there are more to English than all these grammar rules and blah, blah, blah. She uses only two punctutation marks the comma and the period, and she used them so sparingly that reading her is like riding on a water slide. Her sentences is a paragraph long, her conjunctions are repetitive...I mean she's different.

I hope my instructors of English read Stein's work. It will help loosen their grammatical dogmatism.

Sem Break



Our class held the first small laboratory daycare class for the neighboring barangays of Cainta where our campus is located. This was part of the teaching strategy curriculum for the University of Rizal System Cainta where I am on my junior year. Being the kuya and the daddy of the class, I was the natural choice to lead the program. I tried to desist and to resist from the burden and the responsibility (my classmates may think that I can do anything because I am old, but unknown to them I am easily stressed), but I can't. My young classmates can be very persuasive especially those cute little girls. The program lasted three months and a half and everybody got a chance to teach those makulit little children. My job as the leader was administrative, and in retrospect I am happy that I took the job because I experienced being a student principal even for just a few months.

The most difficult part of the program was the moving up ceremony we held last Oct. 13, 2006. My classmates were apprehensive because of the date, Friday the 13th. But the program went well. The experience has taught me a lot especially about the possibilities of ministering to the children. Education especially children education is the best mission field.

I was a little worried about my course-elementary education--many consider the course way below the prestige scale and intellectual level blah, blah, blah... The choice for the course was one of those economic decisions. I enrolled the course because it offered the best possibiltiy for an old student like me. There so few elementary education teachers in the Philippines. (In my class of forty' there are only five males and four men.) Well, anyway, talking about my college course, who knows di ba? Humble as it may seem, but the possibilities for the ministry is great.

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

Church Bands

I am a musician. Not a true musician as in musician. My theoretical background about music is limited to what I read about Jimi Hendrix and the othe blues master. Although a frustrated guitarist, I am now involved in the ministry as a band coach or as the "maestro" as the church musicians call me. Although I feel uncomfortable with the title, reminds of that old FPJ movie, I can't tell them not to call me that because i know that it is a term of affection.

Despite being a "liberal" when it comes to church music, I still find choirs beautiful and more appropriate for churches than band music. The reason is that band music is intoxicating, performing in front of a live audeience is intoxicating. I know this from experience. And the more I see my church bandmates get better musically, the more the chances that they will be performing than worshipping.

This is the danger of church bands, and I can only pray that they not forget their mission and vission and that is to worship and make disciples.

Camote Cue

A simplified and “improved” version of The Bean Story

Shirley is a beautiful girl who loves camote cue. Whenever she craves for camote cue, she always buys one or sometimes two oblivious of the gaseous effect it had on her. One day her boyfriend surprised her. He told her that he will pick her up from her house at six in the evening. Shirley was excited and impatiently waited for her boyfriend. While waiting, she noticed her neighbor selling camote cue. Without hesitation she bought two and ate them with delight.

At exactly six o’clock her boyfriend arrived and picked her up. Before entering her boyfriend’s fifth floor apartment, her boyfriend blindfolded her and guided her to sit on a chair. “I have a surprise for you. Just wait a few minutes while I go downstairs to get it from the car.” Her boyfriend whispered to her ear. She heard the door closed and the door knob clicked. The camote cue began to take its effect on her. Counting seconds, she calculated that her boyfriend will not be back for at least two minutes. So, without any inhibition, she lets out a resonant, baritonous, and moist fart that she was even surprised at the depth of its tone. She then touched the back of her skirt to check for leakage, then she smelled her hands, wrinkled her nose, and then she flapped her hands wildly to aerate the room. After three minutes, she heard the door knob click and the door opened. “Surprise! Happy Birthday darling?” Her boyfriend shouted while handing her a present. She removed her blind fold and found her boyfriend’s parents, siblings, and friends staring at her agape.

Monday, October 09, 2006

thesis

Hay naku insomnia nga naman! Ang thesis ko an dito nakatiwangwang gusto kong itapon! Nakakatamad gawin! Tapos bukas finals pa sa literature! Tapos inieedit ko pa student publication! Tapos andito ko sa harap ng computer kung ano-ano sinusulat! Tapos !tapos!


Thesis

I hate my thesis
Who’ll love it anyway
It’s written in two days
With little thought or planning

All I did was write the intro
Chapter one and chapter two
Collected all the references
Put one and one into two

And then defended the damned thing!

Now I’m into revising
And the thing needs editing
Who’ll edit a thesis?
Unless he’s in mental crisis

Next, the stat is coming
Summation of this and summation of that
T-test this, anova this
And I’m asking anova this?

Questionnaire this
Questionnaire that
Are the respondents serious about that?

Module this, module of that
Instant noodles is what they are
Feasibility of this, Feasibility of that
No one can accept that
Marketability of this, marketability of that
I say kabayong bundat!
Assessment of this, evaluation of that
What the heck is that all about!

Yes, the theses may one day be
An income generating asset for the university
That day will come
When all the papers these theses wasted
Amounted to ten tons
then the university can sell
The whole lots of them
To the junkman

Thesis, anyone?

Sunday, October 08, 2006

Mother' gift

My Mother’s Gift

I don’t know how I can portray my mother. She’s strange, as I think most mothers are to their children’s eyes. She’s a walking contradiction, one moment she’s angry and the next moment she’s laughing. I don’t know but my mother is weird. My mother is not educated. She kept telling me that she only reached grade two, but boy she reads a lot. My mother is a nagger. Heavens, she can drive people nuts, and I admired my late father’s patience because when she nags, boy, she really nags. My mother is a hysterical historical. Whenever she gets angry she blabs about how she does things for us, how she sacrificed her time for us, how she cook food for us etc. And I hate her when she does that. My mother is a bigot. She judges people harshly and unfairly. My mother is a politically incorrect person—she’s impulsive and tactless. My mother is poor she has no money. My mother is an imperfect mother.

After the death of my father I became a bumbling drunk. I was in second year high school then. I was confused and full of anger, and my mother became the object of all the anger. But still my mother bought me my first guitar just to inspire me to study, and I did study—how to play the guitar. And I made a career out of playing the guitar. I became the most sought after guitarist in purok dos. In lamays, in pangngaluluwa, pagkakaroling, pagtatambay name the occasion and I would be there strumming those chords away. And I would see my mother watching me from a distance. Whenever and wherever I am drinking there she was watching in the shadows like an angel of darkness...err…I mean my guardian angel hiding in the dark.

She enrolled me to colleges whenever I get the urge to study. And the urge usually lasts a month or two. I collected two college IDs, one computer institute ID, and two vocational school IDs. That’s how far it went. No, class cards just those damn IDs. I don’t know how many times she cried because of my failures.

I never realized how strong and good my mother is until I looked at the wall of our old house. My mother is the mother of seven children (five biological, two are nephews that she adopted). Two of her children are doctors of theology (i.e. if the one finishes his dissertation), two are masters’ degree holder, one in education and one in divinity; two are fresh graduate one is a logistic specialist and the youngest is now a teacher. How can a so imperfect mother have children like these? Fate, faith, luck, I don’t know. If you’re counting, I’m the seventh, a son, a walking migraine. (Formerly...eh…formerly)

My mother is strange, she’s a walking contradiction, she’s not educated, she’s a nagger, she’s a hysterical historical, she’s a bigot, and she’s a politically incorrect person.

There are a lot of better mother but no matter how imperfect my mother is, she gave me the best gift a son can have—a second chance (or was it the third, maybe the fourth, or maybe fifth, sixth…I lost count) and I never even apologized to her.

Saturday, October 07, 2006

Tia Mely's Surprise

Cousin, cousin come with me
My mother told me that we’ll all go to her office
She has a surprise for us today

I will, I will, just let me change my short pants
My shirt smelled sweat
And my hair still smells like my bed
Wait, my cousins while I change

Cousin, cousin, come with us
Our cousin’s mother will treat us
We’ll go to her office and wait for her there

I will, I will, let me change to a new pair of pants
Wait, I’ll wash my face and brush my teeth
I still smell like stale saliva

Cousin, cousin is this our aunt’s office?
Yes, cousin, it is
Oh, sorry I forgot, our aunty is a nurse
We’ll just wait for her to come out for our surprise

Cousin, cousin, here comes your mother
She’s beckoning you
Go there and be surprised

Cousin, cousin, here comes aunty
She’s now calling you
Go there and be surprised

My aunt is calling me
I wonder what is her surprise.

Cousin, cousin, look at my thing
It looks like an overripe tomato
Cousin, cousin mine’s better
It looks like an unwashed potato
Cousin, cousin, mines the best
It looks a lot like a dirty Santa Claus do

Cousin, cousin, this means we now can’t take a bath in the rain
Like we used to do naked, without underwear
For we will be exposed, humiliated with pain

Cousin, cousin this is our aunt’s surprise
Our foreskins divided, folded, and stitched
With it our eyes were opened
And we lost something

We are now men and our childhood’s gone

Friday, October 06, 2006

Tongues

One of my classmate asked me why Baptists don’t believe in tongues. (She belongs to a charismatic church that practiced glossolalia or speaking in tongues.) I declined to answer her question because I don’t want to offend her. But she was insistent on hearing my (a Baptist) view.

I told her that I and most Baptist believe in tongues but that it had to have a purpose, that it must be authentic and not induced by subtle or sometimes forced suggestion or by emotionalism, and that the tongue spoken must be a real language and not just noises. Baptists do not practice it because we believe that it became unnecessary with the completion of the Scripture. But it does not mean that we don’t believe in it. We believe in tongues i.e. in authentic ones.

I had never seen or heard actual speaking in tongues but I read a few books that described it. The Pentecostals believed that Christians who do not practice this gift are underprivileged for they are not enjoying the fullness of the Spirit. These hullabaloos about tongues made me recall an experience that neighbors on the phenomenal and…err….forgive me for saying this biblical.
I used to be a dipsomaniac, okay, alcoholic. I love to drink especially after work. I call it decompressing. I had lots of drinking buddies and because of this I accumulated a barangay of godsons, which to my last count numbered twenty something. I can’t remember all of them and I don’t even personally know some of them. (I don’t know what it is with Filipinos but if someone likes you or if they want to return a favor their first instinct is to make you a godfather of their son or daughter. It’s taboo to decline this honor. And there is even an instance of someone telling me that he will make a new baby so that I can be his kumpare. It happened. My Kumpareng Larry, as of the last count, had nine children and the current youngest is my goddaughter. He loved sealing friendships with kumpare-hood. He had lots of friends, and he is well liked. But to keep up with his growing number of friends, he has to make more and more babies. In order to keep up with his accumulation of friends this kumpare of mine even manufactured children with other women. Come to think of it, I think what the catholic church should do is limit the number of infant baptism to just three infants per couple. If the couple refuse to obey the priest would just refuse to perform the rite. This will discourage...err….overpopulation, I think .)

It was during one of these infant baptism receptions that I actually saw my first speaking in tongues. There were times that I get easily drunk, when I’m tired or not in the mood, but there were also times when I’m in the mood and when I’m in the alcoholic mood, Oh boy, I’m alcoholically immortal--this is dangerous for you can’t tell if you are on the verge of alcohol poisoning. This reception was one of those “in the mood” days. The drinking session lasted till the evenings. I am still standing and rational while most of the people are drunk. It was then that I noticed two of my new kumpares talking and drooling or rather drooling and talking...err….more accurately they were drooling and talking at the same time.
“Paye, peww fret jing kee kitt rew anshfdzzns jung, sssssshhhp” one said to the other.
“SSShhhhhhppp…Shuklashi griejng hingerstuff gdhhuisssh pewee,” the other replied.
What was amazing was that they perfectly understood each other. I mean, the people who witnessed the Pentecost have a point in concluding that the apostles were drunk. I don’t know, but I think there are also circumstances like these that happened with me being the drunk, speaking in some alien language to another drunk, but in my recollection, I always understood what the other drunk was talking about. Maybe the sober people observing will think that we couldn’t understand each other but we did! It’s hard to explain but it must be the spirit of the high octane aircraft fuel in the gin.

Anyway, my classmate is one of those speaking in tongues phenomenon—her tongue can speak the language of angels yet her eyes can’t stay on her test paper.

Thursday, October 05, 2006

I miss Harry Gasser and our Zenith

I was watching 24 Oras and something happened to me: I suddenly realized that I missed someone. I missed someone that I grew up with on television. I missed Harry Gasser.

During the early eighties we had successions of TVs that didn’t work well. I never knew where my father got those successions of large cabinet type vacuum tube TVs with missing channels, but I had an inkling. 

When I was four or five years old my father would always tag me along wherever he went. One day we went to his kumpare’s house. This kumpare of his was a TV repairman. My father saw this cabinet type Zenith just lying there under his kumpare’s house (silong) collecting dust. This was how my father operate: he would first start with small talks, then a little compliment, and then he would glimpse at the TV and then his kumpare would look at him looking at the TV then the small talk would continue while the glimpses continued,too. My father had this aura of something, I couldn't describe it that compels people to give in to him.. 

The kumpare made the first move, “pare sira nay an din a binalikan kung gusto mo sayo na”. ( I didn’t know maybe he paid for it. I’m young then, and I’m just recalling and spicing these stories.) And that’s how we got the Zenith with missing channels and the other TVs too, I think. Aside from those TVs with missing channels we also had refs that didn’t make ice, a water pump that always needs welding, electric fans that was more noise than air, electric iron with melting handles, an oven without any burner, a mercury spotlight that dies and resuscitates like Christmas lights, fluorescent lamps that hums like a hornets’ nest, …I didn’t know where my father got these things but…Ooh, I almost forgot to include the largest cigarette lighter that I’ve ever seen in my life, it was a road grader’s dynamo that you had to crank three to five times in order to produce a tiny spark that would in turn light a gasoline fueled lamp made out of an old cotton rag and an empty tiki-tiki bottle.

Our Zenith was the TV I grew up with. I recalled how my father would (always) open the back panel so that he could change channels, or how he or sometimes my kuya would climb up the roof to rotate the antenna so that it could get a better reception. Sometimes my father also moved the Zenith this way and that way. This was the ritual that he did day and night so that we could watch TV.

This was also the TV where I grew fond of Harry Gasser of RPN nine’s Newswatch, that is, aside from the fact that that channel was the only intelligible channel that the TV could receive. (ABS-CBN was still the Banahaw Broadcasting Corporation then, a Marcos station.) Harry’s news casting was straightforward. No hype and no embellishment. The voice was authoritative and well modulated, perfect enunciation, good lips movements and his poise relaxed and confident. This was the age where the newsmen do their news sitting down, executive like; not standing up, like stand up comedians.

My respect for Harry wavered when I found out that he was the husband of Flora Gasser. “You’ve got to be kidding me”, I told my ate when she told me that. But I realized later that love is not all about physical attraction. There’s something deeper, noble about it. 

I recalled Harry Gasser sneezing and how he got away with it. He simply said “excuse me” not the way this AM radio announcer who is better off inside a radio than on national TV do today “eeeeexcuuuuuuuuse meeeee pooooooo….” I mean…(I don’t want to violate his human rights.)

The way Harry carried himself, I couldn’t imagine Michael V or anyone parodying him.

RPN was my favorite channel then for aside from falling in love with Harry, I also fell in love with biology thanks to David Attenborough’s “Life on Earth” series. (I thought I’d be a biologist going to different places in search of new species…but…you know what happened, I became a spiritual explorer.) There was also Champoy, John en Marsha, Flordeluna, Johny Midnight, ..etc. There was also this guy who was a  cross between a Hasidic Rabbi, a zookeeper, a laxative and a shampoo model, a philosopher, a theologian and a mystic. He has this late night program called Space 2000 E.T. where he preached salvation through alien blah, blah, blah, blah…. He had a conclave somewhere in Banahaw and the guy is still alive! Of course it’s now 2006 and the E.T.s are still somewhere out there in space looking for him and the rest of his X-files gang.

When my dear mother got her wage from the small time neighborhood cooperative we call paluwagan, she immediately bought a plastic Nivico 12 inch television . That was the end of the beautifully crafted Zenith. I wished I’d save the cabinet of that TV, lots of memories in there.


Tuesday, October 03, 2006

Walk and Talk

I walk every afternoon. I developed this habit not because I want to lose weight (I accepted the fact that I am genetically fat) but because I needed a little exercise. I take my walks in a circumferential road in the unfinished part of Greenland Subdivision in Taytay where there is still a remaining rice field. The afternoon breeze there reminded me of the rural atmosphere we used to have here in Estrella. The smell of burning hay and the sound of tractors made me wished that I am a farmer--close to earth and very near to nature.

I had been walking for almost two years now. Rain or shine I made it a point to do it every afternoon. There are many people who also take walks in Greenland usually the elderly. I met this old lady who walked counter my direction. If I were going clockwise she would go counter clockwise and if I were going counter clockwise she would go clockwise. She would smile every time we met. I noticed that she always carry this piece of stick and she would draw a line every time she passes a turn--she was counting laps. One day she asked me what time it was and this started a little chat. She told me that she was suffering from diabetes and high-blood pressure. The doctor advised her to exercise to maintain her sugar level and blood pressure. Her husband would bring her there to walk while he chats with his buddies in the unfinished drainage canals. She was getting paler and thinner as the days passed by. I haven’t seen her for almost two months now. I don’t know what happened to her but I hope she’s still alive or much better I hope she’s already dead.

During summer the circumferential road is a magnet for kite fliers and bikers--reminds of our backyard before the invasion of the squatters. People of all sorts of life go there because space is becoming a scarce commodity in Cainta. The exclusivist attitude of the executive villages made the homeowners selfish closing their gates and requiring a battery of IDs just to pass thru their subdivisions how much more to promenade in their private roads. This is insulting since most the residents are not even from these towns or they’re not even from Rizal, yet here they are acting as if they own even the entire village. Original residents of Cainta are now the strangers in their own town. They are now the second-class citizens, why, even the mayor is not an original of the town. It hurts to think that before the development of these agricultural lands

Cainta had a rural atmosphere and the people were the kind of people that you can leave your house open unattended without worrying. But development brought with it moral degradation brought about by materialism. I am thinking of how will the future be for my daughter. With the Filipino’s disrespect for nature and their propensity for disregarding city plans, I am looking at the bleak reality of my descendants living in Bronx like environment similar to the 70’s B-movies I used to watch as a child.

There is an owner type jeep that I regularly see with my walks. I think there are three generations inside that jeep. There is the lolo the driver, her two daughters, and her daughter’s children. This summer was the first time I saw them. The lolo loved flying kites while her two daughters chat atop the concrete pipes. I can imagine what the subject of their conversations. Who knows they might be talking about this guy who does nothing every afternoon but walk aimlessly back and forth. But since it’s starting to rain they stopped going there. It is lonely walking there during the rainy season.

But there are surprises walking in the rain. I had this strange experience one late cloudy afternoon. I strayed from my usual routine and instead of walking I rode my bike on the newly cemented highway connecting San Isidro to Floodway or what they politically call “Highway 2000”. The road was closed to heavy vehicles. Pedaling leisurely I noticed that it was getting dark but it was too early for sunset. So I alighted from my bike and observed the sky and the cloud movement. It was amazing. The cotton candy like clouds are merging with the water filled darker clouds. It’s like the clouds are battling among themselves with the darker forces winning. What made the movement of the clouds seemed like war was the lightning show. I can see (in my imagination) the dark clouds releasing their energy beams against the docile white clouds while the white clouds fought back with their own energy beams. It’s not difficult to understand why the primitives thought of the sky as the home of the gods. I was so enthralled by the show that I forgot that I was in an open field. I was a sitting duck for lightning strike. I once read that when you’re in an open field and you felt your hair standing it is one sign that lightning is about to strike within your immediate vicinity. Your first defense is to lie face down and pray to God that you will not get hit. (Which reminded me of Martin Luther and the reformation.) How will you know when you got hit or not? If you saw flashes of light that means you’re not hit, but if you saw darkness that means you’re hit. You’re either unconscious or dead. I‘m still alive and not a Martin Luther at that.

Taking a walk after the first rain is very rewarding. Mushrooms sprouts emerging from the cracked dry ground, seeds breaking open with their leaves, and the smell of thirsty earth being quenched by the first rain of May. These things open up a lot of memories from my high school days. I remember when my friends decided to go trekking at Maya-maya in Valley Golf. We slept in Aris’ house so that we wont have to go house to house to wake everybody up. Aris’ house has an unfinished room that temporarily served as their balcony. That’s where we slept that night. I can’t forget the way Randy mimicked Brother Mike Velarde on the radio, which Ka Este listened to. The poor lady just kept on hissing to quiet the laughing irreverent gang. I think that night was the most traumatic for Dude. What happened was, he was taking a leak outside when Eding Lugaw spotted him and asked him what’s he was doing. He answered respectfully for he noticed that Edi was drunk. He went back to sleep after that. But a few minutes later here was Edi pulling his legs and trying to yank him outside. So we were roused from sleep and run like hell for our lives. Edi was crazy drunk and out of his mind. He was giving us the trip.

Rainy days remind me of freedom. I was biking home and was admiring the beautiful homes of the subdivision. I can’t help but feel sad for these people. Here they were in a beautiful neighborhood with the landscaped gardens and concrete pavement. But their houses looked more like a prison house than a home. Their windows had iron grills and they had double doors that will beat a time delayed equipped bank vault. I will not exchange a nipa hut home than live in a beautiful house that reminds me of Bilibid prison. These people spend money to enjoy a prosperous life but they were virtual prisoners of their own prosperity, insecurities and fears. There is comfort in thinking that all my problem is how to get by day by day, surviving on what was available, and not spending sleepless night thinking of how to make more and more money, and later spending it trying to buy back the time I’ve lost. People are trying their best to prepare for financial security. They spend the best years of their lives working their butts off to prepare a comfortable life for their children and prepare a comfortable nest for their old age. They take the risk of working overseas to achieve this only to realize later that they even barely made it even. Yes, there is financial prosperity but at what cost. Usually it’ the relationships that first suffers. No amount of financial success can compensate for a broken family.

There is no such a thing as security. I read a biography of Howard Hughes, once the richest man on earth, and despite his money he lived a miserable life. Money is good but not the ultimate good. On reflection, maybe I’m writing all of these to rationalize my situation-- I have no money, not even a single centavo in my pocket while writing this essay.

That Strange Feeling

This was how it felt,
And I’m telling you I didn’t add more or take less
For this was indescribable and only a full story
Is what would do justice and nothing less
After I swallowed the bitter medicine, and drank my cup of water
I suddenly felt ticklish like a feather was in my underwear
I felt altitude as if riding on a Ferris wheel
Going down, from up, exhilaration was what I felt
The tickling was unbelievable and my heart was murmuring
I dreaded seeing but I can’t help feeling
The butterflies in my stomach were fluttering,
And the bees in my heart were buzzing
Sitting, waiting, and my buttocks were itching,
Stand, walk, trot, and run to make time fleeting,
What’s more killing than my anxiety
To pull and see what was bothering me.
They were all there as far as I could tell
All my siblings, mother, father, and the neighbors as well
They were all expecting for something to happen
It’s like they’re waiting for the launching of Apollo eleven
At last I can’t take it no more, I cried out, Father, it is a fore’
A torn newspaper and baby oil, my father, pulled it a sure’
And I’m cutting this story short, for I don’t want to be gross
‘Cause what I’m here tellin’ was the effect of my first dose
Of that medicine called combantrin!
And I’m sure you know what Im tellin’
Yuck!
I wrote this poetry (if you can call it that) for the literary section of our school paper. I hope you…err… enjoy it.
I remember tatay with the pliers trying to scare the hell out of me.

I got a bikelog?

A year ago, I asked my daughter for a loan so that I could buy a mountain bike. This was in the middle of May 2021 and the pandemic was stil...