Culture

I have a confession to make. I hate watching burly, sweaty men engage in repetitive, seemingly senseless attempts to beat the living daylights out of each other. That’s why I was never a boxing (and basketball) fan. But thanks to the perpetual advertisements, the amusing arguments by congressmen for trips to Las Vegas and the endless barbs thrown at each other by patriots and traitors to the Filipino race, I was finally hypnotized into standing still with the rest of the nation— for two whole rounds.

Well that was a whole lot of… How could Hatton disappoint us so? He broke even the hearts of some Filipinos, not the ones who were cheated out of twelve rounds of beer and oily grub (they went on consuming their cholesterol/hypertension feasts while watching the replays) but the ones who really looked highly at Hatton.

I had high expectations of Hatton. I thought that he would finally be the one who could send Filipinos spiraling into hopelessness and reduce a national hero to a 15-minute footnote in history. I felt so bad that he went down so easily and so quickly. By Hatton’s own admission, he got depressed over his loss to Mayweather. I can only imagine how devastated he is right now.

What’s next for Hatton?

I have another confession to make. The hype has taken over my consciousness so deeply that I stayed up till midnight to watch the Pacquiao-Hatton 24/7 documentary special. From the stark contrast between East and West, I’d say Pacquiao will have even tougher challenges to face than Hatton. At least the Hitman can return to his “quiet” (compared to Pacquiao’s) English life. Pacquiao has the tremendous burden of once more having to take upon his shoulders the weight of the hopes and dreams of a long suffering nation. He’d have to carry his cross all the way to Mayweather or (gasp! God forbid) all the way to congress!

Defeating Mayweather or the crocodiles in congress will mean he’ll have lifted us a few inches higher in our own esteem.

Last week had its fair share of environmental depressants. That’s thanks to the Sulu kidnappings, Manalili’s commuted sentence and Chip Tsao’s overboard apology. One piece of news though caught my attention in particular. Surprisingly, it was more amusing than depressing.

Mindanao Goldstar’s April 4-5 weekend issue published a paid article that presented a certain Dr. Salvacion Legaspi-Kempe’s claim that a Chinese settler once owned the Philippines. According to her documents, the English Supreme Court issued a decree on January 17, 1764 that gave Prince Lacan Acuña ownership of the Philippines. Kempe who is from Iligan is allegedly a descendant of Acuña. Which means…

Okaaaaaay…

Even if there is some truth to the claim, one would still wonder what the whole point of the article is. Does it intend to just make an announcement, to declare an intention to pursue the claim or to invite ridicule?

One would also wonder why anyone with functional faculties would like to present a counter argument against a collective racial inheritance. For whoever owns the beauty and natural wealth of our country also inherits the monumental troubles of a beleaguered people.

With that being said, would you want to be the sole owner of the Philippines if you had the chance? What would you do if you did own the country?

I know what I would do first. I’d require all aspiring politicians to go through a year of community service and immersion in impoverished communities, Abu Sayyaf lairs and calamity areas. That way, they don’t need to take acting classes to look more convincing when they try to relate to the common man in their political ads (By the way, Mar Roxas has already driven a trisikad on T.V.). Either that or they get to sit with John Lapus on national television for a session of Don’t Lie to Me.

Money was hard to get by when I got married. So although I was raised to be independent, I followed my husband’s advice to live with his parents. I figured it would be a temporary arrangement anyway till we could get our own place. Five years later and we’re still here.

Even if cash were not an issue, our options are not too pleasant. For 1.5 million bucks we can only get a 35 sq. m. matchbox on a 95 sq. m. patch of grass. I visited a model home once and I felt like Snow White in the home of the seven dwarfs. It sure wasn’t a good option for the claustrophobic.

Fortunately, I don’t have a problem with my in-laws. I do however have a problem about hanging my “laundry” in front of them. Even among people I consider my family, I never am comfortable making my personal issues known. More so when the issues involve altercations with my husband.

We had such an encounter a month ago. Neither of us wanted my in-laws to hear us arguing so we argued like constipated charade players or actors portraying a Greek tragedy in pantomime. Our little daughter who stays in the same room with us seemed to have taken our cue and wailed in full technicolor minus the sound.

This is yet again another reason to get a place of our own. I’m just not good in marital warfare in sign language.

We sit on a bench, all five of us, like birds on a wire for the shooter’s bullets. But our fates will be less dramatic. With blind obedience to experts who we hope really know better, we are set on the simple mission of finding out what a machine has to say about what our insides look like.

Because circumstance has forced us into each other’s company, we pleasantly exchange complaints about the length of time that we have been made to wait. It is almost noon. Three of my companions haven’t had breakfast yet and have swallowed eight glasses of water each for the procedure. We laugh when the oldest among us makes a mad scramble for the comfort room because she has already partially peed in her pants. We laugh harder when she gamely returns with another giant bottle of water and begins drinking again. The sign on the door says in all caps, “DO NOT URINATE.”

The mood becomes even lighter when our water guzzler shares part of her story. She says that the other day, it was at the mammogram section that she had an appointment. She says that it was so damn painful that she swore she would never consent to another one even if her illness killed her. Her seatmate counters that her mammogram was not as painful and that perhaps it was because she had a generously endowed front. We then make what could be a misguided conclusion— that all frontally challenged females are at a disadvantage with mammograms.

More amusing stories pour in from the others. I am only half listening. The life growing inside me and perhaps the hormones involved in its growth seem intent on beating the living daylights out of me. I still continue to shoot bile projectiles and the infection that is the result of my rising sugar levels has made every moment seem like a trip to la la land. But my companions, without even knowing my internal agony have a way of dispelling my distress. They start to talk about their ailments.

Two have large breast masses. One has four myomas in her uterus. The other one has a bleeding, inflamed cervix that has grown so large that even her doctor has a hard time recognizing it. Three of them hold on to previous medical reports with the words “malicious” and “suspicious” printed on them. The strange part is that they all continue to laugh while they tell their stories. They laugh too at the suggestion that women seem to have hordes of ailments to watch out for. The one with the bleeding cervix sums everything up by saying that worrying can do nothing. What else is there left to do but to laugh?

I am the only one among us who is pregnant and not seriously sick. That puts things into perspective.

There it is again. Despite being 100% Filipino, this Filipino penchant for laughing at everything never ceases to amaze me.

*Photo from Free Stock Photos
*PBA verification text PBA09r0oqn05

It has been about a week now since I decided that this blog fit the humor category better than any other. But I guess there are moments when humor has to park. This is one of them.

I would just like to take this chance to give my views on the death of Filipino Master Rapper Francis M. He passed away at the age of 44 due to the complications of sepsis, pneumonia, and multiple organ failure in Medical City, Pasig at 12:20 p.m. on March 6, 2009. He fought leukemia for almost eight months. His wife Pia with whom he has had eight children are left in his passing.

I first heard of Francis M from my mom way back when he was at his prime in the 90s. My mom was a huge fan and I suspect that she liked the guy for reasons other than his rapping. After all, imagining a woman in her late 40s singing, “Yo, yo, ito ang gusto ko (this is what i want),” is just plain creepy.

I was never a rapper girl myself but I would choose to listen to his music over today’s popular music in a heartbeat. What made him stand out in my book was his intense love for country, his genuine respect for people and his deep value for things that matter to the youth. I would listen to his music because his nationalism and drive for youth empowerment permeated his work and his soul. In these troubled times, he is the kind of man our country needs if only as a well of ideals.

Why do many of the good, young ones have to go so early?

May you rest in peace Francis M.

*Photo taken from Francis M’s multiply page

I was never a huge fan of most local showbiz personalities but I like some of them. One of those that stood out for me was Marky Cielo. I liked this guy from the start because he wore his local origins like a badge of honor. I originally came from Baguio City and it was such a proud moment for me to see someone in showbiz who was not ashamed of being an Igorot and who wore the local colors like natural skin and without shame.

Marky Cielo died yesterday amidst all the hubub and rejoicing over Pacquiao’s win. Indeed it was a pain to watch that local showbiz talk show where the hosts had to vascillate between gravity and glee in the light of both events.

I don’t know how he died but he might have died in his sleep. According to initial reports his mom went into his room and found him dead. Some sources suspect that the young actor may have gone the same way as Rico Yan. As of today though, Marky’s family is awaiting the official medical assessment. He was only twenty.

It is always a pity when young people die but it is even more of a tragedy when the young ones who die are the ones gifted with talent, humility, integrity and unaffected Pinoy pride.

Why do the good ones have to go early?

Photo Credit: kamza08

Someone once told me that idle minds breed idle thoughts. Despite rotting underneath a lot of work, my mind has been pretty idle lately. Apparently though, the evilest my mind could get was to get itself lost in the aging Asian videos and novellas in Youtube.

Do you remember those days when Filipinos of all ages and orientations swooned over those beardless, monotoned, emotionally challenged pretty flower boys from Taipei? I never really got into the craze because logic and two decades in a library filled to the brim with stuffy, constipated ancient Western philosophy forbade the enjoyment of pop culture. Now that my library in Alexandria has sunk 20,000 leagues under the sea and has been replaced by the endless struggle for survival in a paradise for capitalists, I have finally realized that pop media and culture truly are balms for folks under tedious yolks.

Having been detached for so long from this reality, I needed hours to catch up with whatever was hip 4 or 5 years ago. What did I learn? I found out that one of the F4 was a former waiter while another one was an engineering student. They probably feel that trading highlights and footlights for a tray or a T-square just isn’t cool because after so many years, they’re still alive and doing the same thing.

Obviously though, these boys are on the brink of showbiz middle age. Although they still show no signs of receding hairlines hidden under ball caps like Donnie Wahlberg of New Kids on the Block, the fact that they now have hairier armpits and locks that no longer look like they were treated on their mothers’ ironing boards (and secretly carry high class sophisticated million dollar lice) show that they are nearly old enough to release a “Best Of” album and to carry silver tipped canes on a reunion concert.

I also found out that Meteor Garden was not an original concept. It was borrowed from a Japanese manga whose creator had probably writhed in agony over the fact that no one cared that it was his idea. Japan now has its own version of the story but apparently, their leads are less smooth, hairless and metrosexual than the original F4 because very few are swooning.

I need my spaghetti fix. Unfortunately, I can’t prepare my own. It’s not that my culinary aptitude is so close to nonexistent that I do not know how to cook noodles in boiling water for five minutes and to heat a pack of Hunts sauce. It’s just that someone I live with doesn’t seem to like my spaghetti.

I am a Star Trek fan but will never really talk about being one simply because very few can relate to me. While my classmates talked about the latest foreign prancing units of testosterone and romantic literature of the popular and forbidden kind, I sat across my imaginary friend and talked about traveling at the speed of light, life in other planets and how William Shatner’s hairline got abducted by aliens. I was so enamored with the show that my invisible friend soon convinced me that I would one day navigate the stars too even if my mathematical abilities never went beyond addition and subtraction and my physics teacher came close to certifying me an idiot.