Society

Just when I was about to raise the white flag on my dream of becoming an industrial slave, a company noticed my desperate display of colorful feathers and invited me for an interview. Although the company is admittedly miles away from my preferred companies of milk and honey, I thought its aroma of artificial sweeteners is the closest I can ever get to what I want. So I charged into the thick of the city smog in my borrowed heels that cut deep into my sensitive, rubber shoe-pampered feet to be on time for my appointment with executive intimidation.

I have a preoccupation with death. If I earned merits for every time I thought or spoke about death, I would have been promoted to the rank of Death’s assistant. One friend who has managed not to run away from me thinks this is irritating. She feels I owe it to the Creator to sing and dance with glee at the prospect of waking up in the morning to the sound of birds twittering, the sight of the sun rising and the smell of bad breath emanating from within. She shouldn’t really be alarmed though. My fixation may seem abnormal but it is really the harmless side effect of years of reading Russian literature.

I was on my usual pointless foot trip one day when a heavenly scent abruptly penetrated my nasal passages and nearly sent me into a pleasurable seizure of epileptic proportions. The scent held characteristics that betrayed its edible origins. Being the gustatory slave that I am, I had considered ending my agony and letting my nose lead me to whatever secret sanctuary was sending off the irresistible aroma. But I had to hesitate. There were precious few establishments in sight that I could suspect of being the source of the olfactory signal. It had to be the popular street kitchenette that had been around for ages.

A recent paint job has given the kitchenette a makeover. In its old unpainted version however, I remember getting a glimpse from the street of an old yellowing counter over which rows of dishes covered with plastic bowls were arranged. To the left of the counter was a kitchen, viewed on the outside through a small, screened, decrepit window that looked more like a dust and insect filter. A casual peek revealed a couple of men in various states of dress and undress, sweating over mysterious dishes that sent off divine-smelling smoke.

The rest that was and still is unseen is left to the imagination. My husband’s friend sums it all up by concluding that this is the place “where people are clueless.” Rumor has it that the kitchen has assistants that have more than two legs, are each less than an inch tall and are gray or brown in color. They say that these assistants hold the secret to the oh so yummy goodness of every dish served by the kitchenette. The loyal patrons of the kitchenette however don’t seem to care or to want to know the place’s culinary secrets. It’s enough that they get their fill of cheap delicious food.

I suppose this kitchenette isn’t the only one of its kind. Take for example the old chicken stand somewhere in Cebu that’s shrouded in darkness and is accessible only through a single narrow foot path. Their delectable chickens have bones that can glow in some spots if you happen to catch a glimpse of the slim white crawlers that have been burrowing through the meat long before your first bite. And then there’s that little eatery somewhere in Manila that’s almost like a makeshift sauna in the middle of the day because of its plain, heat-enhancing corrugated roof. Their house specialty is THE BALLS of cattle immersed in oil-saturated broth and mixed with pepper and other unidentified animal parts. I can go on naming other delightful culinary pit stops but there are places and dishes that defy description.

But therein lies the beauty of Philippine underground cuisine. It’s an adventure to remember, full of flavor, mystery and opportunities to eat all you can of creatures you normally wouldn’t even think of licking. If you are a foreigner, a balikbayan or a local aristocratic snob, then dimly lit street eateries should be your next stop as soon as you’ve hurdled the balut challenge. These are perfect venues to train for the next million dollar Fear Factor-ish reality show. (Incidentally, I always thought that, with the kind of food our humblest of citizens eat, we would have won any Fear Factor food challenge in a heartbeat).

It has been a week since the Ces Drilon kidnapping incident. As her mother station has suggested, it would be best for everyone not to make conjectures or even educated guesses on the matter.

But people have been making comments if not particularly about the incident then generally about the state of the nation. The internet is bursting at the seams with socio-political commentaries running along the lines of lamenting the gross lack of national stability on all fronts that has rendered our country inhospitable and nearly uninhabitable. This flies smack against the basic tenets of freedom and democracy for which our government still calls itself a champion of. How can we be free if we cannot go where we want to without fearing for life and limb and without having to pay ransom which is now officially known as non-ransom-mandatory-board-and-lodging-or-you’re-dead fees? Which is a better form of government, one that openly espouses tyrannical order or one that only puts up appearances of espousing democracy and the greater good?

There is no need to even think of an answer. All the sources of collective national grief (conspiracies not excluded) have already been excessively dissected. I shall leave other greater minds to look for new angles to old issues to rant and lament over. My only issue now is the media giants’ bid for exclusivity. Are the current real life dangers faced by our media avoidable circumstances that are willingly sought because of the mad scramble for something exclusive to feed the judges of the evening ratings?

Princesses who lived happily ever after are never welcome in my home. It’s not because I have anything against two dimensional singing characters in pink and baby blue. My daughter just never liked them herself. Despite my genuine attempts to appeal to her toddler logic that Disney’s perpetually optimistic heroines and now trying hard feminists can be viewed in moderation without any risk of brain damage, she has chosen to set her own preferences. She has ditched the ladies in long gowns and pitch perfect voices for radioactive turtles, the arachnid with four limbs, the knight with bat ears and the man of steel in red underwear.

Call me a bad mother if you must but I am having a hard time weaning her from men, women and aliens in spandex. The worst part is that I’ve gotten hooked too. While I do put up a front and exert my full authority to manage her viewing time and habits, I do sneak to my own room with her discs to watch her heroes wreak havoc to prevent havoc. My current favorite is the Justice League, well, the one that includes the rest of the world and not just America in its agenda.

While I do still wonder how metropolis can withstand the endless cycle of being destroyed and rebuilt, why superheroes think there’s nothing funny about living with other people in colored tights, why DC superheroes have such unimaginative names, why Superman and Batman can’t wear their underwear underneath their tights and what happens to Wonder Woman’s clothes when she spins into her star spangled undies, I appreciate the controlled depth of the Justice League stories. Who would have thought that these characters, who badly need a fashion consultant, could have such a deep grasp of life’s realities and still be entertaining?

In this week’s episode, Batman unintentionally sums up a Filipino reality. After he and his colleagues return to their regular adult forms after having been magically transformed to their kid selves, Wonder Woman comments that it felt nice to have become a kid again. Batman retorts, “I haven’t been a kid since I was eight.”

At least the eight year old Bruce Wayne probably had all the bonbons he could eat while he was mulling over his business empire’s financial documents and while learning to jump gracefully, mysteriously and safely from 70 storey buildings. The eight year old kid I buy corn from every afternoon is no Bruce Wayne. My friend would probably have to endure more days of trudging underneath the heat of a tropical sun with a basket of corn, not to mention more experiences of hardship that will test his will and motivation to surpass poverty and the lack of education. Right now, he can barely even endure not being a child as he cranes his neck from outside to get a glimpse of the Justice League on our television set.

My friend is not the only one. Watch Wish Ko Lang every Saturday and you will realize how many other Filipino children have stopped being kids at the age of eight. They are everywhere selling goods, polishing shoes, massaging tourists, clinging on jeeps and picking pockets. How much more emotional and physical trauma do they have to endure before they can transform into masked heroes to save themselves and their families from the poverty of Filipino life?

If only these kids could all surpass the tragedies of life to become Bruce Waynes, Clark Kents and Dianas. We sorely need a Justice League of the Philippines.

I remember not eating chicken for a decade or so. I did not become a vegan. In fact, I now eat chicken and other kinds of animal meat with so much gusto that I am fairly convinced that either cholesterol will kill me or I will have haunting dreams of all my juicy victims. I stopped eating chicken for some time because as a child, I personally witnessed the execution of a chicken by lethal bleeding just so we could celebrate my brother’s decline into an older age. The sight of that blinking bleeding chicken distressed me so much that I couldn’t eat another drumstick for years. I never realized until now though that my brother’s birthday dish was by far a lot more fortunate than others of its kind or other animals for that matter.

• Dolphins- We see them all the time in television shows helping swimmers in distress. Well, someone should tell these dolphins that humans won’t be as kind. Many dolphins in sea shows are kept against their wishes. They go blind because of chlorine in the water and die only after a year or two in captivity in spite of the fact that they normally live up to 45 years.

• Orangutans- Ninety-seven percent of orangutan DNA is similar to human DNA. Unfortunately, humans still have the remaining 3% upper hand. The clearing of forests in Indonesia and Malaysia have led to the displacement of these creatures. Orangutans often raid plantations for food. To solve the problem, humans capture, bind and deprive raiders of their hands. In most cases though, orangutans are simply slashed or shot on the spot.

• Whales- The oil of these sea creatures is still used for cosmetics. Whale hunters shoot harpoons through whales. Modern harpoons have bombs at the tip which explode inside whales. The explosion is often not enough to kill them so a ship has to drag a whale down to drown it. It can take up to 30 minutes more of suffering before a whale dies.

• Sharks- The truth is that the fins of sharks do not have any taste. Even so, humans continually hunt sharks for their fins for shark fin soup that is really broth flavored. Since not a lot of people eat shark meat, fishermen simply cut the fins of sharks while they are still alive. They throw the bodies of the sharks back into the water where the sharks wait for death to claim them.

• Cats- Felines in China provide fur. The cats aren’t killed immediately prior to skinning. They are actually skinned alive. While under the knife, they are gradually strangled or drowned using water-filled tubes through the mouth. These techniques are said to improve fur quality.

• Bears- The bile of bears is an ingredient in some Chinese medicinal preparations. The bears that provide the bile are kept in cages lying down or in a crouched position. Some bears are clamped down to their cages. While in these positions, bile is extracted using a tube stuck through open abdominal wounds. Any bear in this situation would wish for death. Unfortunately, the bears in these farms live up to 5-15 years. They stay in the same cage, position and condition for the rest of their lives.

• Hens- Egg laying hens do not have it easy. In Mexico, some egg producers keep them in small cages where they cannot stand or move. These cages are kept in large, stuffy, closed storage rooms where they are piled over one another. Often, hens are deprived of food and water for some time so that they can lay more eggs once they are fed again. Sometimes, their beaks are mutilated to avoid injuring themselves out of distress.

• Chickens- Those that can’t lay eggs are candidates for digestion. Before they are slaughtered, human handlers may intentionally break their wings, tear off their beaks or break their legs for fun. Those that don’t get handled in this way get injured anyway when they are stuffed in large, windowless sheds too full to allow movement or even breathing. In slaughterhouses, their throats are slit by automatic machines. Those that survive the slitting are dunked into vats of boiling water alive!

• Others- Umm, apparently some humans like to have sex with animals of all kinds. To hell with mutual consent. This kind of sexual practice is apparently too controversial though to universally label as a form of animal cruelty. Some people (click here for an example) believe there is nothing wrong with having sex with animals.

I shouldn’t be writing about this. I shouldn’t even be thinking about it, but I can’t help it. Brain Gorrell’s blog has to be written about.

Apparently, he doesn’t need my help or this post. A guy whose blog gets 40,000 hits a day, who has been featured in national T.V. and in broadsheets and who has bloodshot loyal readers numbering in the hundreds can afford not to mind an insignificant spec of a blogger like me who belongs to the dregs of blogging society. The point though is not to help Brian get a Google page rank that’s infinitely higher than 1. I want to write about Brain because what he has revealed is relevant to who we are as a Filipino people.

I find it nearly impossible for some netizens not to have heard about Brian. If however, you have been living as a hermit for the past few months or working at a 9-6 job with only your boss’ dour expression to rest your eyes on during breaks from pretending to be busy, then there is a chance that Brain has escaped your notice. Brain is an Australian national who was ALLEGEDLY (I took care to add that last word in case Brian isn’t 100% correct or in case the libel secret service come in the dead of the night to dispatch me) tricked by his then Filipino boyfriend into parting with his hard-earned $70,000 life savings.

ACCORDING to Brian, he waited for months for his ex to achieve a 360 degree exorcism of his inner demons, awaken his sleeping dwarf of a conscience and pay-up. When his ex didn’t budge a single muscle in his neck, Brain opened a blog in an attempt to get his money back. How does a blog hope to do that? Brian has IMPLIED that he will attempt to get his savings back by revealing the truth.

What is the truth? ACCORDING to Brian, his ex and his ex’s circle of bosom buddies are ALLEGEDLY morally depraved, sex-crazed cocaine addicts in signature crocodile skins. It gets even better. The ALLEGED individuals belong to the royalty of Manila high society. He calls them the Gucci Gang.

This is where the real issues about Brian’s blog begin. The dissenting voices surrounding it do not just belong to those who believe or do not believe in Brian. Some of the voices belong to those on the ringside. Those who fancy themselves intellectually inclined believe they have fingertips too noble to be soiled by the putrid vapidity of gossip. There are also a couple of cautious individuals who simply warn against taking sides. Actually, among the upper echelons of society, the caution part is born as much from real prudence as from the fear of getting deleted from reality.

The real point though is not whether or not the Gucci Gang really wear Gucci or whether or not they are who Brian says they are. The point is whether or not we can go beyond the gossip aspect to see the deeper issue. Brian has unconsciously exposed our selves to ourselves. Without really meaning to, Brian has given us a mirror and showed us how stoned or wasted we all are. The corruption, ignorance, graft, apathy, pretension and every other bad word that doesn’t start with an “f” or an “s” in our society has been drawing us into real poverty of the body, mind and spirit. After more than a hundred years, the social cancer described by Jose Rizal is still in our system. This time, it has grown malignant and resistant to chemotherapy (or to Cardinal Rosales, Bo Sanchez, Jessica Zafra, Bob Ong, Conrado de Quiros, Stephen Covey or the Purpose Driven Life).

Don’t say you have nothing to do with this. Don’t pin the blame on your mayor, your congressman, the president or your dog. Don’t even say it’s the ALLEGED Gucci Gang’s fault or their clones’ fault. The degeneration or mutation of Philippine society really is our fault— each and every one of us. After all, society is not some invisible entity. It is all of us and each of us. You can’t seriously do nothing more than just sit back and read Brian’s blog for mere entertainment.

I studied for 16 years in an institution run by nuns. I worked for nuns for another 3 years. In all my 19 years with nuns, it was only last year that I learned of the truth behind the veil. I was told by a lay insider that underneath the veil lay short, short hairs. Not poodle trimmed hairs but unevenly cut strands of untreated hair. Nuns apparently keep their hair short and unremarkable because hair is a symbol of vanity.

I remember when I was young. We didn’t get to hear carolers every night but when we did, the singers were often well rehearsed. Even the simplest and littlest carolers knew every letter of their songs even if they sang them off key.

It’s a little different now. Sparsely clad little carolers come in droves. They sing in a hurry, as if they were running in a formula one race track during an actual race. Their words are as devoid of feeling as their bare feet and on top of that, they sing so off the mark that it’s hard to tell which traditional song they hauled up and murdered. Oh, and they don’t make the slightest bit of sense.

I didn’t mean that figuratively. You’d think they were singing in Klingon but there’s actually no telling which alien species kidnapped them and forced the garble into their minds. Here are my favorites so far:

Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all da way. O wat fine it is to right in a one halls open sway hey…

Joy to da whorl the whorl is come let er receive erning. Let every part prepare im roon and eber da watusi and eber da watusi and eber and eber da watusi…

My original theory was that the songs are an alien invader’s way of subtly and incomprehensively hypnotizing human listeners. Then again, I think there are far more logical reasons why our little carolers have evolved into horrific, senseless, tone deaf parakeets. Here are my two main theories:

1. It’s possible they can’t understand what they’re supposed to sing because they can’t relate to any song with Santa in it. They just can’t imagine how a man in a fur-trimmed, blazing red suit can survive in an infernally warm country. Besides, Filipino hospitality aside, suspiciously dressed night lurkers are eyed as potential burglars or worse, pedophiles who are candidates for mauling. There are also no chimneys to squeeze through in tiny houses and the nearest people have been to snow is the ice on the fridge.

2. Our little kids never took the time to learn their songs right because they could go to bed with just saline solution in their stomachs again if they aren’t quick about harrassing one household after another.

It’s terrible. I don’t mean the carolers and their songs. It’s terrible that there are signs of the times even during Christmas.

*Photo credit: Bigfoto