capricornian

Sleepless in Davao

2009-11-30T16:29:00.000-08:00

This blog has been idle for quite some time until I decided it's about time to post an update. Getting busy with work, on both paid and voluntary basis, have so much to do with this, not to mention getting caught by the usual cycle of that dreaded tardiness and unproductivity.

I knew I missed a lot of events that are worth writing on dozens and dozens of webpages, foremost among them the tragedy that Ondoy brought all over Metro Manila and the nearby provinces of Rizal, Laguna, and Bulacan, and the succeeding typhoons that turned many parts of Luzon into a virtual waterworld.

Finally, I found that elusive inspiration to be blogging again, this time in a cozy corner here at Las Casitas, a homey budget hotel here in downtown Davao. I'll try to capture in bytes the troubles and joys, and the estrangement and familiarity of the place, the people, and the culture of Davao.

Flying in late for two hours, no thanks to PAL's (Plane Always Late) legendary inefficiency, and being seated in the middle of the wide-bodied A330, I felt sorry to have missed the bird's eye view of the city, which was covered by a mass of unkind clouds that normally descend late in the afternoon.

The Comic Side of the National Artist Award Tragedy

2009-08-07T01:27:00.000-07:00

In defiance to the gloomy skies and faces of thousands of Filipinos who are still mourning, here I am in my corner of the office in an unreasonably gleeful state despite missing an important protest march, the threat of a cancelled movie date and the prospect of going home very late due to heavy traffic. This joyful exuberance has nothing to do with some future good luck such as hitting the lotto jackpot or of being inserted to the now much-derided National Artist Award. However, this has to do with the National Artist Award, yes, or how its honor was scandalized, disrespected, corrupted, and bastardized by ignorant, inutile, and reckless imbeciles whose passion and sole purpose of existence seemingly is to make our political and artistic life miserable.

We all know by now how those Fantastic Four--Alvarez, Caparas, Manosa, and Moreno--were inserted into the horror list courtesy of presidential prerogative, an exclusive power solely exorcised by the highest official of the land with the lowest moral wisdom and judgment, so far in history.

We all know by now also that two of the F4s, Alvarez and Caparas, have since broken their silence, them being the favorite ridicules apparently because they are the most deserving of the undeserving list.

Alvarez lawyered for herself, and rattled off her accomplishments in trying (in vain) to convince us she deserved the honor for being such a theater luminary.

Caparas, on the other hand, painfully lectured about the millions that flocked to watch his obra, the retake of the Maggie dela Riva rape saga, proudly his only one film with lesser relevance and contribution to the development of the local film industry because the rest of them have no relevance and contributes nothing at all. The four million he claimed to have watched his film watched not because it was a Carlo Caparas film; they watched because it was a Maggie dela Riva retelling, which was both fashionable as a story and as a genre during that period in the 90s when beautiful coeds in Metro Manila and in some parts of the country turned up in some canals badly beaten, raped, and shot to their death.

Arousing mere curiosity, as well as capitalizing on the penchant for flesh on the big screen especially among the male species, in all honesty does not and will never qualify for sensible, significant, much less critical contribution to the growth of the local film industry. Maybe Caparas is only referring to box office returns when he asserts his right to being chosen for the honor. While Viva could vouch his box office claim, it could not measure the real benchmark of a remarkable film simply because it had none, except perhaps for reminding that once upon a time, a beautiful actress was gang-raped by men who belonged to the elite members of the society. And then what? As we call it then, Caparas films belonged to a unique genre of 'pito-pito' films that had seen better days in the 90s. But it was gone too soon, much to the delight of the more discriminating taste of the moviegoing public that certainly deserved more than just the endless flesh-gun-and-knife formula of those 'pito pito' obras.

Alvarez may have some claim to fame, or honor for that matter. Maybe. Yet, credentials is not the be-all, end-all of the Order of National Artist. Credentials what? Will you please explain clearly, Ms. Vilma Labrador, if you can? Admittedly, I'm no fan of either Lumbera or Almario as artists, but I have no agenda in joining the furor except to question the logic, if any, in choosing these Singit National Artists, in the process abrogating the established tradition of collegiality in the selection process. Surely, nobody could explain the mess here, except for Labrador who, unlike her counterpart in the CCP, the eminent Emily Abrera, could never lose a sleep over her and her big, little boss' latest indiscretion. Her insistence smacks both poor and bad taste, not to mention it lacks an aura of delicadeza because there was none, there is none, and there never will be until she has summoned all the courage to decline the honor and save not only herself but the Order of National Artist itself as an institution. She had already declared it would be her joy to accept it and share it with her family. How could she, or you, or we, undo that? She can't, you can't, we can't.

NCCA commissioner Elmar Beltran Ingles seems to be the lone sensible voice today, more sensible than that Malacanang twitter who is not as lovely as her namesake pet looks, he who acknowledged the critical nature of selection as it involves people's money and trust more than anything else.

These are unbiblical times yet we must lose no hope for a change of heart, as hoping for a miracle seems to be an exclusive affair of the umblemished souls, of angels, that are not on our side these days. Change of heart we make this a mantra with the following supplication that the Fantastic Four, most especially the beloved two of them, decline the honor. When everything else fails, then the other three awardees should do it for them, i.e decline the honor. I believe with this final act, the Fantastic Four, especially the beloved two of them, will live forever haunted by the ghost of a scandalous, disrespectful, corrupt, and bastardized award offered by ignorant, inutile, and reckless imbeciles with whom they are so beholden.

National Artists of Honor

2009-08-03T03:25:00.000-07:00

I was trying to make sense out of the latest tragedy that has befallen the artistic community after it suffered, yet again, another blow when Malacanang, in its darkest bowel form, named its three proteges to the honor of National Artist, now officially named Order of National Artists.

The announcement of the latest batch of National Artists is normally less controversial because, normally, only the hallmarks of excellence in an artist’s craft—excluding producing violent komiks and films and society couture—are carefully considered. But in abnormal situations such as the one we are having right now, even the mention of an awardee’s name provokes fire, especially if that awardee has been nominated but rejected twice for two different categories. But thanks to that awardee’s persistent patron saint in Pasig, now he can finally bring him home his beautiful trophy, courtesy of a fellow National Artist, his medical and life insurance (assuming he is still insurable), and a sweet smile for the rare honor of a state funeral (if that is something to smile sweetly for).

As Bienvenido Lumbera, National Artist for Literature and chair of the Concerned Artists of the Philippines, confirmed in media reports, only four names have been submitted to Malacanang for approval, and certainly not for insertion: Manuel Urbano a.k.a. Manuel Conde (posthumous, film and broadcast arts); Federico Aguilar Alcuaz (visual arts, paintings, sculpture and mixed media); Lazaro Francisco (posthumous, literature); and Dr. Ramon Santos (music).

But Malacanang did what it was famous doing best: it did a Garci, in the spirit of the forthcoming elections. So now, we have the -1, +4 formula: it omitted Santos, and added Cecille Alvarez (theater), Magno Jose Carlo Caparas (visual arts and film), Francisco Manosa (architecture), and Jose Moreno (fashion design). This brings a total of not one but four insertions, very much like the fund appropriation for the road that traverses the property of a senator who wants to become the next president. On this note, Malacanang just bested Villar's best record of two. So who did the Garci? I have a suspect but as it is . . . a suspect. Perhaps we can share details through our private inbox here.

Caparas and Alvarez incurred public ire with almost the same degree by virtue of them being both close to Malacanang and having the same guts to leave decency aside for the sake of an honor that they don’t rightfully deserve. But it would be unfair to artists close Malacanang not to be conferred such an honor, right?

Caparas has been nominated and rejected twice—first for literature and second for visual arts—both acts of which we can rightfully construe as failed attempts by the same cabal of ignoramuses inspired by their equally moronic patron whose cerebral wavelength is as short as her frame. But Caparas’ dogged determination and audacity (of hopelessness) proves much more powerful than basic decency and delicadeza could even muster together.

On the other hand, Alvarez could have done better by choosing to be honorable enough to decline the nomination by virtue of a rule that bars members, officers, employees and staff of CCP and NCCA from being nominated. She is the executive director of the NCCA, whose duty among other functions includes receiving the names of the shortlisted candidates. Delicadeza? What the hell is that?

Alvarez defended her nomination by rattling off her previous awards, awards that her patron convinced were worth enough for her insertion. Surely, she had her fair share of artistic endeavors that brought her, her family and her country some good and these might have enriched her ‘body of work.’ Yet, wisdom would tell her to wait, as the time is not yet right. Yet it happened; she was named. There must be a higher wisdom that guided Malacanang’s insertion of Alvarez, Caparas and Moreno into the list with a sense of an urgency beyond reproach. This higher wisdom must have eluded the highly respected peers of Alvarez, Caparas and Moreno in counting them off from the final list of four. Whew! Higher bullshit is now the new higher wisdom!

While there is really nothing new about presidential insertions in the honorable roster of National Artists, the latest act by Arroyo’s minions—with her divine imprimatur, of course—effectively rewrites the rule and history of the Order of National Artists, a welcome change for those who could not make the cut. During the administrations of Ramos and Estrada, they made one insertions each on the list of candidates chosen and endorsed by their peers in the artistic community. Arroyo, ever the ebullient, feisty politico she has become in her almost two terms of office, is certainly in for breaking records: she inserted three. Now, that’s hard to beat.

The choice and endorsement by peers is not something to be taken against the person who usually makes the final choice—the president. Not that presidents know nothing about art, or that art such as poetry is far less exciting than pork, a presidential favorite and the official congressional diet especially these days when senators and congressmen are preparing themselves for 2010. Rather, this choice of and by peers ensures that those who are inducted into the so-called ‘academy’ are only those who have way, way satisfied the standards they themselves set, i.e. the hallmarks of excellence in their craft. For this purpose, we don’t have any need for a NCCA chairman or executive director who doesn’t understand, much more appreciate, the artistic milieu of our artists and cultural visionaries. And most certainly, we despise the guts of those whose sense of accomplishment, self-righteousness and self-importance could not even stand a preliminary selection process, if it were to undergo one.

We may ask if there's a way to restore honor in this process. Yes, there is. And I can only think of the most difficult yet the best solution to this. If the four stooges will cling on to their tainted honor, then the three should refuse to accept theirs. The challenge is now on the side of the right and reasonable. It is difficult, yes, but it is not impossible.

Substance, Packaging, Timing (or the lack of these among government communicators)

2009-07-23T02:22:00.000-07:00

. . . are elements that define good communication, this Gary Teves learned the hard way, courtesy of his now unenviable and equally stressful job as finance secretary; a hundred times more stressful than his former post as president and chief executive of Landbank, confessed the gray-haired former congressman of Negros Oriental.

Gary Teves was the guest speaker and inducting officer at the annual general membership meeting of the International Association of Business Communicators Philippines (IABC Phils.) held at the Filipinas Heritage Library.

Though he admits to be far from being an expert in communication, Teves makes us listen whenever he responds to questions from the media, be it a calculated or a plain dumb question, with the latter in abundance. It could be because he is the finance secretary and whatever he says will have far-reaching market implications. But he certainly knows how to play the game here; he knows his SPT the way smart kids know their ABC. Personally, I prefer him to be the press secretary; his manner of speaking is both elegant and intelligent, his language sharp yet witty with trademark Gary Teves touch--empirical as it is relational. Yet, Teves proves to be too honest and straightforward for the job that is normally reserved for spinmeisters and euphemists. On the other hand, the job of improving revenue collection might be too challenging (and equally tempting as well) to be given away to those whose only mission in life is "to make more and more money for tomorrow we shall all perish."

Lest I be mistaken for selling Gary Teves to voters for next year's poll, let me make it clear here: I was there to attend the meeting and listen to him share his perspective and lessons in communication; lessons that I myself almost/nearly mastered but nevertheless need to be refreshed as learning never stops.

Lesson learned: government executives, especially those in the upper echelon, should learn how to communicate effectively. Certainly, there is a better way of informing us citizens where the hell our blood taxes go than just announcing it on oversized and expensive billboards and, in keeping with the forthcoming election season, on television via brainlessly thought-out commercials by political wannabes. F@#$%*g morons--by this, I mean the politicians and their PR handlers.

Essentially, the line-up of wannabes who are itching to replace Madam La Gloria Vda de Inutil are all UNSALEABLE items. They are all bootleg, pirated copies, much like the goods Edu Manzano is running after. Edu can only run after because he could not, and probably will never, run ahead and catch them. But at least he should run along, di ba? But these gremlin, fungus-faced (sorry Aling Miriam), white leghorn of presidentiables are willing to drop the price rock bottom, as in SALE at up to 70% off! Wow! That cheap, really. As in a big mall sale that is becoming famous this side of the world, people will flock to where the best bargain is. The cheapest gets the vote, er, bill. Needless to say, this is the best example of a worst communication practice--selling the unsaleable. It's like eating poison; since poison is cheap, go eat it! Now, I'll have more poison below:

I M P O R T A N T N O T I C E

ATTENTION: MAR, LOREN, ERAP, NOLI, GIBO, CHIZ, MONEY VILLAR

Lito Camo and Willie Revillame will be holding a political campaign strategy workshop 90 days before the election period. There will be song and dance sessions, speech clinic, and many more. Major PR and law firms will also participate in the workshop. Call Lito or Willie for more details.

An Inconvenient Truth (About Going to Ilocos These Days)

2009-07-20T00:23:00.000-07:00

We trek up north Wednesday night for the MLE forum and launch of Sukimat. To save your precious time, let me just paste here the portion taken from the blurb for a preview. Here we go: " . . . Sukimat—the work of scholars, academics, and cultural workers committed to the exchange and diffusion of knowledge and information on Ilokano and Amianan Studies—offers a way to rethink of education to democracy and freedom."

A few weeks before, I had been to La Union on a related business, and thought the Ilocos trip was no different, except that it would take five more hours on the road. I took the Partas bus to La Union and it was relatively a good ride, except that, again, I could not and will probably never sleep while travelling by either bus, car, or plane. Maybe my insomnia or probably some unresolved psychological issue has something to do with this inability to sleep during travel, except by boat on a long trip.

I assumed then that the longer the trip takes, the more comfortable the ride is. I was darn WRONG! The four of us had purchased our ticket about 10 minutes before departure. It turns out we got the last four seats on the de luxe bus that was to take us to Laoag. Except for Dr. Agcaoili who had taken seat No. 24, Dr. Nolasco, Lucy, and I and a lady passenger from Paoay had the misfortune of occupying the last four elevated seats with defective backrests and recliners. WORST, the seats are too high that our legs were hanging like columns of chicken feet being drained in a Mongkok kitchen. The "ottoman" or the leg support was defective, too, making it extremely difficult to stretch our already tired hanging legs.

Minutes before rolling along EDSA, I had asked the conductor if he could lend me something to keep my back from being reclined too much and he was kind enough to part with his still unopened inflatable pillow that looked like he rarely used it. I had no choice but demand some comfort. After all, I paid not just the miles but for a comfortable ride. Remember it was "de luxe," whatever that means to Lakay Chavit. The defective seats, I learned from the conductor, had been left unrepaired for weeks already and I was given the lame excuse that repairs can only be done once the parts--purchased by bulk--arrived from Mars or Jupiter!

Will someone blow this bus into pieces, please? I'm sure, replacement will come faster that they can claim insurance.

That inconvenient seat had me behaving like a little boy who has yet to undergo deworming; I could not settle down my seat from Manila up to Rosario, La Union. I must have tried all possible seating positions just to make myself calm, collected, composed, and comfortable to my supreme frustration. I had to keep my cool although I could smell blood and gunpowder already!

After La Union, I thought my ordeal was over because early on I had psyched up for a sleepless day or two and kept telling myself to get a full doze in my bed on weekend. I was wrong again. As soon as we hit Tagudin, signs of more inconvenience were all over the roads.

A few months back, the region had been battered by storms, and its network of national and provincial roads took the beating to the worst. Bad timing!

The bad roads and the ongoing repairs along the southern stretch of Ilocos not only lengthened travel time by more than an hour; it kept most passengers awake as the bus negotiated with potholes and had to tilt left and right more often than we could curse DPWH and the bus company management.

By the time we reached Santa Maria for stopover, I was too tired to complain of my misery and resigned to the fact that I didn't have enough vision to appreciate the majestic Ilocos coastlines at sunrise. I had to give up taking shots of the mighty Abra River as it pours into Bantay. Though weakened by my misery, I still managed to take some shots of the inconvenient bus and its inconvenient seats that gave me my most inconvenient ride to date.

A Few Good Men

2009-07-15T03:24:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, July 14, was the feast day of an Italian saint from Lellis, who founded a society of young, privileged men who dedicated their lives to ministering the needs of the infirm--the sick (physically and otherwise). Today, his followers call themselves Ministers of the Infirmed, and usually attach a two-letter abbreviation M.I. after their names.

As customary in this predominantly catholic republic, feast day of saints are eagerly celebrated not only by their devotees but even by the most unsaintly among us for various reasons. And in keeping with tradition, we also held our own de facto feast--a feast made merrier by the retelling of stories and memories of days of innocence, of submission, of awakening, and finally, of realizing that we have had enough.

Most often our 'tragic' stories are intertwined, have the same plots, involve the same characters and persona, and would always end up a comedy. As one would recount a chapter of his own life story, we could not help but laugh out loud together, and curse together the character/s whom we love and hate together with equal fervor. It was this sharing of common feelings for or against certain character/s that we find ourselves united and unfied not just by our tragicomic experience but more importantly, by the lessons we have learned as we dealt with those who made our lives both heavenly and hellish back then.

In hindsight, life back in the hills of Marikina was a process. Whether it was designed deliberately or by sheer divine will is now less important; what matters really now is that the process has resulted in quantifiably favorable results.

I can only speak for myself and for a few good men who have not lost the candor in the face of the changing and challenging times when principles and honor become a commodity in the free market of lies and deceptions, as well as divine interventions. Not that I have morphed into someone with whom the world owes its inspiration to survive; nor I'm Salman Rushdie of the Muslim world. No. The quantifiably favorable results have to be found in those minority voices that, when they tell their stories together, command the attention of the world. This is far, far better than a voiceless, headless, nameless, candor-less, and ultimately, a useless majority.

The de facto feast therefore is a feast of and by the majority. A minority feast.

"Politicians . . .

2009-07-10T01:51:00.001-07:00

like diapers, must be changed very often for the same reason: they're dirty."

--Tom Dobbs, the protagonist played by Robin Williams in the political comedy hit Man of the Year.

Nationalize or ban religion, take your pick

2009-07-06T02:30:00.000-07:00

It's not an easy choice. In fact, even to friends, it's a crazy idea.

(to be continued)

Who's Afraid of Charter Change?

2009-06-23T02:10:00.000-07:00

Not me.

It's been 23 years since Cory's ass-sungots (assembly of ingots) last tinkered with our Constitution, inserting provisions they claimed to have leveled the playing field right after the Marcos dictatorship that virtually left the country in misery after the massive plundering by the strongman and his minions.

Understandably, the 1986 Constitution endeared Cory not only to the masses but also to the select few with whom the dictatorship has wronged. These select few would, of course, include the Lopezes who were able to stage a comeback only after the vestiges of dictatorship had been cleared. Or, were they really ever cleared? Not only these people came back; they also expanded far and wide beyond our imagination. It's back to business, and big business at that.

But why change the Constitution?

Overall, the 1986 version seems to be working just fine. But for whom?

Okay, by changing the charter, it simply calls for tinkering/fine tuning only some of its provision that are deemed outdated and tend to favor particular minority interests to the detriment of the majority.

One case in point is the blatant disregard of the separation between church and state. We all know what the church has been doing all these years and what our political leaders have not been doing all these years. I believe that provision there is a nuisance if not a silly joke because it is never adhered to. We can always argue that we have the best law, or the best Constitution for that matter; yet we also have the worst implementation/implementers of such laws. Which is which?

(photo courtesy of artfromthesoul.com)

Which brings me to my second point. Remember the proposal of Gringo and Flavier before of taxing the church. I may not have the record or evidence to prove but businesses owned and controlled by the church rake in millions, if not billions, every year. Where do all the monies go? Not the coffers of the national treasury, of course, but to their Vatican accounts. Let us do the math here: think of how much De La Salle, University of Asia and the Pacific, Ateneo de Manila, and University of Santo Tomas make each year from those expensive tuition and fees they charge each student? How much of that money is actually returned to the taxpayers, who pay for their access roads, foot bridges, and even security? How much of it is remitted to Benedict XVI?

That no institution would survive these days by giving away its services for free is not an argument. The argument really is: How much does an institution invest on social development? Is it enough to transform lives and communities? We do not have an accounting of their investments, thanks to that constitutional provision prohibiting taxing on church businesses cleverly disguised as social services which by decent definition should be very affordable, if not totally free.

Another important change in the Constitution has to do with population. Again, the influence of the church and its robed flock seem to scare politicians to hell to debate on the merits of a sensible and strong population management program. In this republic, we can only count with our fingers politicians, nay leaders, who can square off with a minister on contraceptives and other means of reducing population. But all these really lead us back to that provision on separation of church and state, which goes like this: What is good for the church is good for the government, and the country for that matter; what is good for the government is not necessarily beneficial to the church.

That is what is going on here and now. And it's been going on since the invention of commerce.

What is more crippling is the inability (or total disability) of our leaders to stand up to this medievalization. And of course, the 1986 Constitution had, in two decades, spawned a new class of vampires, err, oligarchs who have been sucking the resources of this country as if they never run dry. These are the very vampires who are against changing their enviable lifestyle as guaranteed by the Cory Constitution.

Other than these points, I believe the Constitution is still worth adhering to. Term limits? No. In fact, the term limit for a president should be shortened to, maybe, four years. A shorter term limit puts pressure to deliver, and save the country from a collective heart attack over the misdeeds of whoever is in power.

Business and land ownership? Well, when the framers of the 1986 Constitution were debating and deliberating, there was no Internet yet. No Google, Yahoo, Facebook, Twitter, AOL, etc. So, their definition of strategic interests were mainly confined to the old bastion of agriculture and its related industries. But big business, rather global business, has always a way of encroaching into protected domains for and in the name of profit.

Part of being Pinoy is to accept the truth and the fact that many companies doing small, medium, and big business earning small, medium, and huge profits everyday are dummies.

How do we manage this? Maybe the anti-Dummy law can handle this? Of course, only partly. The ever growing and hugely profitable dummy phenomenon is guaranteed by the Constitution through its tacit approval in liberalizing sectors in the name of investments that are admittedly hard to come by these days.

Who defines what is strategic and therefore off-limits to liberalization. Man, who else, but the same vampires we identified earlier.

It's really a no-brainer. Change the Constitution to get rid of these suckers! This is the long and short of it.

Approve the RH Bill Now!

2009-06-23T02:02:00.000-07:00

Frankly, I have not read the entirety and the fine(r)print/point of the bill, so that puts me in a bind. But no, even without reading it, I could tell why it has become so controversial that bishops and self-proclaimed moralists are moving hell and high water to block its passage.

As usual, these idiots of churchmen do not and will never understand what it means to eke out a living simply because they live in tax-free charity. In other words, L I M O S. Men, they would argue for such entitlement since after all, they are working for the glory of God and salvation of mankind! F&%@#!G S^%T! Whoever told them to work for free? A moron, perhaps. In France, many religious organizations do their part in nation building. Yes, they do work. Members hang up their cassocks and get their hands dirty in factories and some offices to earn their keep. Not in the Philippines. Priests are lords here, especially in the rural areas where neocolonial/neo-feudal systems are very much in place.

The church, meaning all denominations who oppose the bill for that matter, simply speak from a position of comfort. And they are not bothered because after all, members of their congregation defer to their authority, nay, ignorance. This may not go for the men of the cloth who lead "double life" by taking the vow of celibacy and enjoying great sex--either with a male or a female partner--discreetly and siring children (in the case of a female partner) along the way!

(image courtesy of http://images.thetimes.co.uk)

But why is the church so against it? The passage, no, even the crafting, of the bill exposes, or better yet, reveals that the teachings of the church of Gaudencio, Manalo, Mike Velarde and Bro. Eddie were great failures as far as alleviating poverty in this country is to be measured. Why a failure! Simply because their "teachings" are mere supplications to ensure survival and in the case of Velarde and Villanueva, good life of their offspring. That is why Villanueva is not giving up on the presidency because aside from the power and the financial rewards of the office, he can afford to bankroll an expensive campaign. It seems pseudoreligion, like entrenched religion, is immune to the threats and dangers of economic recession. It seems the coffers at JIL never runs dry. Bless you Pilipinas, bumangon ka, bangon! The same goes for Mike Velarde, who is still hoping against hope that the balding bishops in Intramuros would annoint him for the 2010 derby. Oh Lord, what the fuck is happening in this country?

I am not advocating abortion, which is also NOT the gist of the RH bill, contrary to the misreading and misinterpretation of the misled bishops and self-proclaimed moralists who are trying to mislead people by their so unbiblical antics.

RH bill is about choice, or making people choose responsibly if only to help them manage their family, their finances especially. It's population management, as Rep. Lagman has been trying to explain it to the deaf and dumb bishops and so-called prolife advocates, another misled class in this overpopulated society.

(photo courtesy of flick.com)

I have been advocating, on a personal capacity, a stronger population management by this government and the reason I believe Gloria will not make a difference in her presidency is precisely her inability to resist from licking the (im)moral asses that that have been hounding her adminsitration and the seven-point agenda, specifically the one on population management. La Glora, Madam, it's time to shove these moral asses aside and move ahead with a stronger population management program.

Okay, let's call a spade a spade. I want a more aggressive population control measure in place. This governmnet cannot and must never be held hostage by the antiquated tenets of the church and the self-serving agenda of its leaders. This is sadly what most of us mere mortals fail to appreciate, nay, understand, or better yet, refuse to understand.

That population is power is only true when that population in empowered. But how can a hungry nation of 90 million people can ever exercise, or even possess, power? Will the church share its power, or its millions stashed in banks elsewhere? Will a daily dose of the gospel make people empowered? Will the sermons of Velarde and Villanueva combined really make the a dying country rise, as in Bangon Pilipinas, Bangon?

(I have to pause on a hungry note.)

Pasundayag

2009-06-01T01:49:00.001-07:00

Wow! Beautiful! Fantastic!

I would say it's wonderful! Or, as my Boholano friends would say, pwerti!

Indeed, the Pasundayag 2009, literally meaning show, was grander and far more sensible and worth attending than the ones going on in the senate these past few weeks. It was definitely more than a show by any standard. It was an experience that even experienced showgoers in the capital should not miss, or should have not missed as it was the closest thing to the real Bukidnon deal, at least for a Bukidnon like me. People, products, culture, life, art, traditions, beauties and charms (and babes, too). Name it, you'll definitely find it there.

Dick Gordon, the senator, was right in coming and standing grand on stage at the Pasundayag than grandstanding on the senate floor. He was right in not joining Sen. Bobong Revilla in his stupid and idiotic appraisal of events, actuations, and disruptions by so-called victims, perpetrators, and spectators, most notably Abner Afuang with whom Sen. Bobong suspected to be Hidden Hayden's cohort. Gordon, after all, was the prime mover of the Department of Tourism's WOW PHILIPPINES (the opposite of which is, well, YUCKY SENATE!). Of course, Gordon remains to be the public face of WOW PHILIPPINES what with all those paper fans, pamphlets, brochures, streamers, etc., bearing the familiar round basketball-like face of this erstwhile Mayor of Olongapo, SBMA Chair and, as his pep squad would claim triumphantly, "the Savior of Subic and Olongapo" (bless us, small Dick, amen).

My friend James Fajarito, Letran's Language and Linguistics department chair, joined me at the Pasundayag even if he was nursing a bad cold. It was nothing to fear, he assured me, because it was not the dreaded AH1N1.

I was at the Clamshell 1, the venue of Pasundayag 2009, a couple of minutes before 4:00 pm, the start of the show but had to while some time because Gordon was nowhere in sight yet. There's nothing new about VIPs coming to events fashionably late. After all, he was to cut the ceremonial ribbon formally opening the exhibit. Not wasting my time waiting for the opening, I surveyed and took some photos of the different booths representing the unique products of Northern Mindanao, specifically Region 10, the region where I come from.

Region 10 is comprised of the following provinces: Bukidnon, Misamis Oriental and Misamis Occidental, Lanao del Norte, and Camiguin. A few years back, the region included Agusan del Norte and Agusan del Sur, minus Lanao del Norte and Camiguin was subprovince of Misamis Oriental. But bad politics, no, bad politicians, have their way of arranging, nay, tampering with geography. So, in honor of the bad politicians responsible for such tampering, let's just call it bad geography or, well, bad geopolitics.

While the addition of Lanao del Norte may not be correct (geo)politically, it offers some refreshment to the cultural landscape of the region. The infusion of Maranao traditions--at least a good serving of it--is certainly a welcome formula towards adding more color to the already vibrant culture of the region, sans the violent past that Lanao and a tiny speck of its population have come to be associated with, thanks to media's self-serving interest and huge appetite of blowing things grossly out of proportion.

Now back to Pasundayag, which this post is all about. After about an hour, I covered the whole of Clamshell 1, having chatted with Bukdinon vendors and some tribesmen belonging to either of the seven tribal groups that originally inhabit the Bukidnon plains and the uplands: the Bukidnons, the Matigsalugs, the Tigwahanons, the Umayamnons, the Talaandigs, the Higaonons, and the Manobos. (I'll spare you the punishing discussion on these seven tribes. I can discuss these tribes in some future post.)

I normally arrive at an event before it starts because being an early bird gives me the opportunity to meet with key people of such event, i.e. organizers, funders, resource persons, leaders, etc. I have an open (attention Hidden Hayden) agenda/idea of coming up with a coffee table book on everything Bukidnon, inspired as I am with the relative publishing (marketing, I don't know) success of the book I did on coconut. No, I have been nursing this idea long before the coconut book project landed on my computer table. At the moment, I only have the proposed cover of the book, and I have yet to draft the foreword and introduction before I can parade around my bare coffee table book plan. Momentarily, I had to forget my open agenda.

Gordon finally arrived, was led to the ceremonial entrance, accorded welcome ritual of good luck and cheers (for the long shot at Malacanang in 2010, who knows?), and then finally ushered to the front row VIP section. I had earlier parked my butt in a row for guests (yes, I'm a guest, minus the invitation, but I had to sign up the official logbook, he he) right behind the congressmen's (from Northern Mindanao, I suppose) row but had to yield it to curiosity that earlier had me scouring the food and dry goods booths and check their offering.

When the show started at 5:00 o'clock, James and I were did not notice the passing of another two hours as we were glued to the awesome performances of the Impasug-ong Cultural Performers, the Bukidnon State University (formerly BUSCO, or Bukidnon State College), and several other groups representing various tribes in Northern Mindanao. I only knew it was supposedly dinner time when the hosts announced the break for some cocktails. Of course, we piled up for the long queue but we were not lucky this time. The caterer run out of plates, reducing us hungry mortals to mere witnesses in the gradual disappearance of cocktails on giant tables, including the delectable lechon from Cagayan de Oro, one of the best tasting this side of the planet. And there were not just one but two of these pigs (lechon). Whoooaaa! But God never abandoned the hopefuls as we managed a few slices of tuna sandwich and barbedogs (barbeque hotdogs). We had to comfort ourselves with the thought that what we came here for was not the food but culture! O, di ba? Ha ha ha!

Past cocktails, the show had just actually started. More talents, charms, and skills from the different groups, notably those from Bukidnon, were displayed to our delight. It was James' introduction (and mine a refresher) to Bukidnon culture and beauty (as in the lovely babes who were resplendent and equally beguiling in their colorful ethnic head gears and dress.

The mostly-thematic numbers were both a retelling of the unique, rich cultural heritage of the region that lends it its identity in the face of changes and challenges that swept the entire cultural landscape of the archipelago, beginning with the Spanish intrusion and the continuing Westernization in the country and the rest of the world. To say that the performances were very educational would be an understatement. It did not only inform us of the many ways of using/wearing the malong in a rather fashionable manner as displayed by the Kagay-an dancers from Cagayan de Oro; it tells us to help promote the industry. The Impasug-ong cowboys and cowgirls did not just delight us with their witty cowboy number; they instruct us to revive the once dominant cattle industry in Bukidnon. The Talaandings who did breathtaking stunts on ultra-long bamboo sticks were asking not only loud applause from the audience; they want their land back that Bukidnon settlers and lowlanders took away from them in exchange of promises written in the air and a few gantas of salt.

The six hours I spent at Pasundayag 2009 was worth every minute, every second. For one, it reaffirms my love for that "far away Bukidnon land." It made me prouder that I was born, raised, educated, politicized (for the best), first fell in love, frustrated and almost gave up, moved on, and fought for my principles in Bukidnon. There's no place like Bukidnon My Home. How I wish I can sing here the song that keeps the moist in my eyes whenever I see something that reminds me of home. But here's the lyrics:

Wherever I may roam

the distant land to see

I long to go back soon

to sweet Bukidnon home

Her lovely mountains high

her forests old and grand

bring memories to me

the home I long to see.

There my heart, yearns to be

in far away Bukidnon land

Under its blue starry skies

where love and joy never die.

There is a Binukid (Bukidnon) version of this anthem but I couldn't sing it. Well, I leave to my Bukidnon brothers. Yet the message, the emotion, the passion, the conviction, the hopes and aspirations of a great people we are whenever we sing this remain pretty much the same.

Should Hayden Have Hidden?

2009-05-21T00:35:00.000-07:00

I guess so, with at least two outed sex videos now playing on everyone's computer at either office or home showing him and Katrina Halili dancing in one video and &%^$ing in another. Holy shit! I don't know who's luckier between the two of them, that is before the videos came out on the Internet and presumably, in Evangelista. The ad below must have stoke some fire in their bellies (and between their legs).

But Hayden is just one of those guys out there: he also gets the hots especially from hotties like Katrina. Who wouldn't. We could not possibly which of the two videos was made first. But I have a theory: It was the giling-giling video first, then came what the self-proclaimed moralist senator Bobong Revilla called perversity, the second video (assuming/granting I guessed the correct order.) Only Hayden and Katrina could tell us for sure which act came first, right? With a bombshell like this one below, it's perfectly logical to have Hayden's testosterone levels shooting up (and down and sidewards) like they never before with you-know-who. Just oogle a second time and you fully understand what I'm trying to get through here.

The left photo (courtesy of asianfleshdaily) was taken it said during her pre-stardom days and that famous boobing tits may have been (or may haven't been) subjected to the masterful strokes of Doc Hayden's fingers, er, scalpels. We don't know. But any one with a 20/20 vision and a keen eye for details in digital imaging (and manipulation) could probably tell the difference, if they can.

But wait, did Sen. Bobong Revilla tell something about perversity in reference to Hayden Acts 1 and 2? But frankly, I find some senators more pervert than Hayden! Look at what they are doing, what they have been doing and what they could not do because they simply can't do it! It's disgusting! Just this morning over ANC, Pinky Webb had two of these perverts, er, senators, throwing shits at each other over another pervert. First on the phone was Madrigal, apparently itching to comment on the Hayden-Halili sex video circulating in cyberspace but was made to face off with Cayetano, who is ever loyal to his patron Villar. Why were the two perverts on the phone in the first place? Well, Villar invited media people to the controversial roads to show them there was no insertion--we might as well ask Hayden or Katrina about this--and Madrigal was asked to comment on the video. Cayetano, on the other end of the line, was asked to react to Madrigal's comment.

And that started an exchange that would have gone haywire had Pinky not hung up on Cayetano. Madrigal stayed on the patch to field the now infamous Halili-Kho sex video which I shall call, for brevity, Halikho.

Lesson learned, this one Pinky should learn: Never put two perverts on the same spot.

I Survive

2009-04-16T23:13:00.000-07:00

Exactly two years ago, April 15, I took the vow of a married life, a vow far from the previous vocation I was contemplating on--priesthood. But how far apart they are, or, are they really far apart?

Maybe yes, because priesthood, for all its purported "sacredness," is devoid not only of sex; more profoundly, it is devoid of real life struggles (that are sometimes bloody), pains, frustrations, and depressions that almost always characterize married life in innumerable instances. Okay, priests took part in mobbish activities being parlayed as citizens actions but these hardly qualify as real life struggles. This solidarity kuno with the masang Pilipino is pure bull#%$%!

Let's move on. First, sex is mentioned not because priests don't know anything about it. On the contrary, many priests are very good at it, whether they do it with a male or with a female partner. Probably four in 10 Filipino Catholics, at least those who know some priests, could tell you about a priest who is having sexual affairs, again, either with a male or female partner.

In the institution where I once belonged, sex among and between males, i.e. priest-to-priest, priest-to-male student, was more prevalent than sex between opposite sexes. A story was even told about these two priests caught offhand kissing one steamy Saturday night (as in the photo below, thanks to flickr.com and dailycontibutor.com) right in the living room of the storied Father's House. The witness, or the one who caught them, was the student council president. He had gone to the Father's House to show the VCD titles to be shown that night for their (the priests') approval. The fathers were the MTRCB of that institution, so they had to approve for viewing movies that we students with raging hormones wanted to view. Unfortunately for them, the council president did not knock first before entering. So unbiblical was he, I would tease him later, about his "revelation." But he could have a different version or understanding of that biblical knocking: knock and you shall be opened, open and you shall be knocked out! It was a knock out, indeed!

But there was an aberration to the usual male-on-male sex in that institution as another priest was rumored to have trysts with one of the lavanderas there. It turned out the rumor was true! One early morning around 4 AM, the kusinero was surprised to see the priest emerging from the washroom in such unholy hour. He did not pay much attention and the priest casually told him he was trying to fix some leaking pipes. Good gracious, padre tubero, you can have it fixed by someone later in the day, right? A couple of minutes later, the subject laundrywoman emerged from the same washroom and hurriedly made her way to the exit without a word. The kusinero was baffled, to say the least. He thought the leak was a major one it required two people to fix it pronto! That incident earned the leaking, este, the plumbing priest the infamous monicker—tuberong walang gamit. I contested the description by arguing that he has with him a lethal plumbing tool built right in between his legs. I was right; a few months later, poor lavandera was “dismissed” for the better. Come December, one of my classmates who had gone home for vacation and who happened to be kababaryo of tuberong walang gamit saw the poor lavandera in their barrio with her tummy bloating. Bad plumbing!

I can fill all the allowable space within this post with stories of male-to-male sex in that place we, former wards, now call it The Hill, but I'd rather go for the deserve-the-best-for-last route. If you can wait any further, I am collaborating on a book that we hope to publish sometime this year. The book, of course, will contain stories of struggles and strangles of you-know-what. Seriously, we are trying to tell our stories, a no-holds-barred telling of the story of everything we know about The Hill from an insider's point of view, stories that will guarantee to arouse and enrage the reader, depending of course of his/her preferences, sexual or otherwise.

So much for the plug, the bottom line here as far as priests and sex go: priests, like any average male, craves for sex. There is nothing abnormal and disturbing about this, only that some of them lack discretion (when performing it, especially with their male partners.)

Priests sire babies, save for those who lacked the numbers (sperm count), and mostly support them and their mothers later on, even sending the kids to Catholic schools where female students were exhorted to keep their hymen intact until the first night after their wedding. In the diocese where I came from, an acquaintance once told me that 80% of our priests were carrying out affairs, mostly with women (thank God!). I'm not sure as of this writing what's the percentage like these days. But I know several of them who have sired children who were forced to spend their formative years with their mothers, away from their "fathers."

Lest I be accused of bastardizing the “sanctity” of the priestly vocation (one priest friend once told me the ‘sanc’ is now gone’ only ‘tity’ remains), I would like to make it clear that I still have respect left for some well-meaning priests who are trying to make a difference in their chosen vocations in the context of the oppressively antiquated and equally pretentious hierarchical church. I believe that priestly institution sorely needs an updating for it to be able to respond effectively and efficiently to the current realities and challenges that shape and influence our world today and the future.

Unlike priesthood, marriage is more attuned to reality if we go by how people who profess this vocation deal and respond with the daily realities and challenges of poverty, homelessness, joblessness brought about by severely contracting economies worldwide, and helplessness in the face of inhumanity. A multitude of those who profess this vocation worry about their existence on a daily basis. To them, salvation is rice on the table, minus the ulam and dessert. Shelter and clothing are options, not standard features. Of course, they could opt but that would cost more.

Marriage is not just about sex; it is also about sharing the bills and equal responsibility of raising responsible children to become responsible citizens later on. Marriage has its own perks and rewards, but it also has its fair share of “punishments.” Just think of your personal exemptions when paying your taxes to the BIR; but remember to be home by 12 PM. Otherwise . . .

Unlike marriage, priestly vocation comes loaded with features not found or not available in marriage. When Padre Dominic or Ignacio moralize about poverty and hunger and the need to do more to lessen these evils, they are speaking from a position of comfort. Let me simplify: they are telling you to follow what they preach, and not what they do! So unchristian that Gandhi once declared “I love you Christ, but I hate you Christians.”

You may ask why I chose a featureless vocation. My answer: I’m a realist and while I live in the NOW, I nurture a simple vision of an egalitarian future although I’m aware this is next to impossible. I could stand the indifference and I choose to be as human as possible, minus the pretentions of sanctity. I find more colors and hues in marriage; I only saw black and white before, and got close to becoming blind. And though it came late, I realized that the convento or any of its social extentions is such a small place to party and play. I don’t believe in ecclesiastical power, much more bask in its glory, although it is very much in play in the land of Gaudencio and Gloria and their gang of zealous katekistas.

Next post, I will be writing on sex and tax. Interesting? Share your thoughts.

The Uncertain Future of Zubiri Politics Part 1

2009-03-12T01:38:00.000-07:00

This opinion piece by Marcos C. Mordeno on Mindanews, I guess, is worth anybody from Bukidnon's cents' worth. Here's how it goes:

Media outlets in Bukidnon have aired Gov. Jose Ma.. R. Zubiri Jr.'s plan to run for vice governor in 2010.

Now on his third term, the former congressman and father of Senator Juan Miguel Zubiri is not about to hang his jersey and sit on the political equivalent of a bench. And with the rout of the Acosta family in the 2007 elections, nothing seems to stand along his way and that of his chosen successor, Vice Governor Alex Calingasan.

But the local media has been timid enough to say what the grapevine has known all along: Zubiri will ask Calingasan to step down after six months so the former could regain the top provincial post. It looks like Nonoy Joe would just be taking a brief sabbatical. There will be no real transfer of power, only a token period of time for Calingasan to get a feel of being governor.

A source said that as quid pro quo Zubiri has promised the future ex-governor (Calingasan) the post of agriculture undersecretary. That, however, depends on who succeeds Mrs. Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo. Calingasan, who worked at the regional agriculture office before joining politics, will have to keep his fingers crossed that Zubiri can still rub elbows with the next president. In other words, his fate may rest on his patron's choice of 'presidentiable'.

If it is of any consolation, the elder Zubiri has shown adeptness in dealing with major political players. Like other traditional politicians he bets on the perceived winner and is always ready to jump ship whenever the situation calls for it.

Zubiri's choice of guests of honor for Bukidnon's foundation day celebration would always betray his political preference for the moment. Last year, he invited former Senate president Manuel Villar, whose presidential ambition is known to everybody and who was then leading in surveys.. Although allied with Malacanang, Zubiri, in 2007, campaigned for Villar as well as for Senators Francis Escudero and Loren Legarda, sure winners who all ran under the United Opposition.

But the Senate shakeup last year, triggered by the C-5 controversy which implicated Villar, saw Senator Zubiri switch loyalty to the new Senate president, Juan Ponce Enrile. Such decision could only have been made after consulting the governor. Villar had lost father and son and possibly a huge chunk of Bukidnon's half a million voters.

So for this year's Kaamulan the province has invited Legarda as guest of honor, a few days after the Pulse Asia said a Loren-Chiz (Escudero's nickname) tandem could get 40% of the votes cast in 2010.

Surveys, however, as the late Senator Raul Roco said, are just roadmaps. They never show the humps and potholes along the way to Malacanang. What it all means is that Zubiri's choice could still change until the last minute depending on what would benefit him most. Only one thing is sure: he will win as vice governor and get back the governorship after six months.

Calingasan, on the other hand, will only sit it out for six short months inside the capitol before relinquishing his would-be post to the old occupant.. If he runs out of luck, i.e. if he does not get the undersecretary portfolio, he might just retire in his ranch in small Libona town and wonder if he really became governor.

Talk about eradicating dynasty.

Now my two cents' worth:

By going a notch lower, without necessarily demeaning the post of vice governor, I must stress, Gov. Joe Zubiri proves my longtime suspicion that he would cling to Bukidnon politics against all odds. Is he desperate enough? Why?

There would, understandably, more questions raised than sensible answers here. For one, the governor has reached the end of his political road. He has nowhere to go but down, NOT UP. Blame it on Migz? Well, it can be easily argued that Migz' accomplishment in politics, so far, is all about generational improvement. Get the drift? With the exit of GMA, Joe Z is not yet so sure as to who he would align himself with post-2010. The political climate these days is uncertain, this is for sure, making it very difficult for him to corner a significant post, cabinet or otherwise, with a significant clout after he bows out in 2010, if he bows out out and goes further up.

Also, it could be his genuine concern for his constituents. But then, again, he has been around Bukidnon politics since 1984, when he ran for the National Assembly together with Aki Dinlayan. Men, that's 25 Years already! He reigned in Bukidnon longer than Marcos ruled the country!

What's the point? Simple. He feels he needed to do more, or, he has not done so much. Why? Probably, and I believe Neric Acosta would agree, because he could not do it. I concede there are many ways of seeing things even in Bukidnon politics, but the way it is seen, it's just plain and simple: He could not do it, and he could not do it any longer. And buying more time won't change this; it only exposes one's weakness, if not his indefensible logic, of we can even call it one.

The next best thing to do for Gov. Joe then is to retire from politics. After all, he has been around it for more than two decades, quite a long period for public service at the end of which you expect some returns--modest as they maybe be if one retires with his dignity intact, but nevertheless rewarding especially if one never loses a single sleep every single day feigning thoughts of karma and retribution.

There is much to be done outside and beyond the Bukidnon political sphere, this I can assure him. But then I'm also completely aware that politcians, very much like passsionate businessmen and sabungeros, will breathe politics and die politicians, probably. By then, I rest my case. (Photo credits: mindanews.com)

Good 2008

2009-03-12T00:44:00.000-07:00

It's been a long while since my last post. Been very busy lately doing nothing. Really? Well, yes.

Lost the drive to blog about anything.

2008 has been very kind to me, of course minus the dream car that I've been fantasizing about. For this, I'm giving myself until December of 2009 to buy my own drive, brand new of course. It's not a Bimmer, nor the LS460L, mind you. How I wish! But dreaming is for free. Yes, but I'm not dreaming! I'm damn hot on getting my Altis or the New City, whichever fits my budget and my self-imposed deadline. So, I'll have to contend with my commuter life these days.

The bad news? Well, 2008 presided over the collapse of several financial institutions in America and elsewhere in Europe and Asia. As they say, if America coughs, the rest of the world sneezes. Quite true.

The good news? As a minor or small market, our damn/ed republic is not gravely affected, at least for now. Tip: don't get yourself too affected by what the sometimes irresponsible media tell you on TV, radio or newspaper regarding the state of our Philippine economy. We all know why, right?

Give yourself a break. In times like these, GO SPEND, SHOP until you drop!

Air21

2008-11-18T01:00:00.000-08:00

I faxed this letter to Mr. Barrios in exasperation over the way he handled the Air21 team protest, a protest he eventually dismissed for reasons that still puzzle me. Anyway, as I stated below, this is the only way I can express my disgust. So be it.

17 November 2008

Mr. Sonny Barrios

Commissioner

Philippine Basketball Association

Dear Commissioner Barrios,

As a basketball loving citizen, I believe I am entitled a space to express my utter disappointment over your decision to deny Air21’s petition for consideration regarding the bad judgment call of Mario Montiel in its game against the Beermen on November 5.

Needless to repeat, but the video replay of De Ocampo’s shot was and ought to be counted for as 3 points not 2, ensuring therefore the Mailmen’s victory in the first overtime.

While the Air21 team played on for the second overtime, which you might have taken as a waiver of protest over De Ocampo’s 3-point shot in the first overtime, this did not change the fact that the Mailmen had already won the game had the management cared to review the footage and listened to the protestations of team manager Angelito Alvarez and some members of Air21 team, informal as it was. It is futile to explain to you, or to the public, why Air 21 went on to play for the second overtime when in fact and by clear evidence, it had already won the game.

In the spirit of true sportsmanship, I was hoping that you could rectify the erroneous call right after game. But I was wrong. You made the matter worse before it got even better by upholding the unfair decision. At the very least, the incompetent referee and the unyielding and unreasonable table official should have been sanctioned accordingly.

Is this really the way things are being handled in the country’s premier basketball league? I expected heads will roll, but my expectation, seemingly, are quite high.

May I remind you that in the world of sports, we do not only play by the rules and technicalities that govern them: We also play according to our moral convictions and in the spirit of fairness and healthy sense of competition. This calls for competent and fair and transparent officiating and game administration, and not simply saving faces of thick-faced referees and table officials.

In my book, professional sports is about character just as it is about raw athletic power. I was so disgusted that the head of the country’s most prestigious ballclub has shown symptom of un-athletic and unsportsmanlike behavior. But as in any disease, I wish for your speedy recovery. And let the healing process began.

Since no heads rolled, I firmly believe you owe an apology to the entire Air21 team and management and to scores of fans whose hearts you broke, including mine, with your unsportsmanlike decision. Surely, your apology will not redeem Air21’s loss in that game but I believe this will salvage the integrity of the concerned referee and table officials, whatever little is left of it.

You may refer to lesson in the PBA history where earlier bad decisions were turned and overturned for the sake of just and fair officiating. Just a warning though: You may lose face in trying to save it, but at least you will do justice not only to Air21 but to all those you offended, insulted, disgusted, and disappointed with your unfair decision.

Finally, to ask for a replay may be an impossibility, but I’m a firm believer of man’s capacity to change. I can only hope that you share this belief of mine.

Black Barack

2008-11-04T20:09:00.000-08:00

So Black Barack is the new president of the United States? What the %&$*!

I still could not rid my bias against blacks, Obama most especially. I admire the blacks for their athletic prowess, but not their political acumen or the lack of it. I don't understand why the American voters, majority of them whites, would trust the presidency to an inexperienced black African.

America is going to the dogs, and this is the saddest day for Uncle Sam.

Black Barack will never enjoy the respect of his peers in the world stage. His victory is simply a personal glory--a glory for a black who made it to the top of the world. Very much like Erap. Erap wanted to be president because he thought it was the coolest thing on earth. He was in deficit of qualification, character, and grace, and all. Who knows, an actor could be the next president? Unfortunately, it came true. Obama went to Harvard, right. So that entitled him the White, er, Black House?

Black Barack was driven more by personal glory and nothing else. Isn't it great for a black to lead a nation of whites and the rest of the colored race? Of course, it is.

But I hate to think that the victory of Black Barack is the triumph of the American minority. Rather, it is a display of weakness and incapacity of the American majority, mostly whites, in forming and supporting better leaders than Black Barack. This deficit in judgment and leadership will plunge America into a situation far worse than the financial meltdown.

Democrats are politically withdrawn on the world stage, an act that connotes smugness and non-participation, two attributes that run counter to the globalist and engaged kind of leadership that the world needs today. (Remember that Bill Clinton was very good at withdrawal).

When Obama took on the Black House, he will have all the excuses to all his failures because he could easily claim that the first half of his term were spent on undoing the wrongs of Dubya and his party. I knew it! What the fuck, again.

So what’s next? A black British premier, black French premier, black Russian president?

Benefit of the doubt? Let's see what mess Black Barack will bring to the White, er, Black House.

Heaven or where?

2008-11-04T02:50:00.000-08:00

"In heaven, all the interesting people are missing?"

--Nietszche

I guess, it says it all. But wonder where the interesting people would spend sweet eternity? I tried to speculate below the likely places where the interesting and equally restless denizens would congregate. That is, if you agree that the kind of people I'm about to name below are indeed interesting.

a. The capitalists, financiers, Wall Street raiders, VCs (venture capitalists) traders, economists, businessmen, salespeople, alumni of Harvard Business School, Kellog's, AIM, Ateneo Business School, etc. are likely to occupy the junction between the heaven and hell. The place is quite strategic for business opportunities and growth.

b. The UP-type (you know what I mean, come on) would probably be in the outer rim of hell. Of course, they would still be protesting for, first the lousy judgement, and second, the lousy treatment God has accorded them.

c. The Ateneo conventual type would probably be itching to know if their UP comrades are still doing their stuff in the outer rim of eternal fire.

d. The La Salle type are distributed in either A or C. Being in B is a rarity, if not an impossibility.

e. Those who do not fall in either of the above may be happy to wait in purgatory for the final verdict on their appeal.

But what to you are an interesting people? After pointing out their likely tambayan, it's great to determine their qualities, right? Below are my criteria of interesting people.

1. Maginoo ngunit medyo bastos (sorry po sa lyricist ng paborito kong kanta)

2. Hindi masyadong mabait, pero di naman masyadong gago.

3. Playboy pero loyal sa asawa. (Meaning, hindi nang-iiwan, bagkus, nagdadagdag lang. The principle on dagdag-bawas does not apply here.

4. Maginoo ngunit tarandado din.

5. Gentle but furious and ferocious.

6. Kind but unforgiving.

7. Malambing pero brutal.

8. Mabait na malibog.

9. Maingay pero may lalim din.

10. Kadalasang tama kaysa mali.

11. Gusto binebeybi, lalo ng magandang babe (patay tayo dyan!).

12. Marunong gumawa ng kasalanan, ngunit handang humingi ng tawad at tumanggap ng parusa.

13. Kayang makipagdiskusyunan mula hapunan hanggang tanghalian kinabukasan.

14. Hindi kinukubli ang kanyang pagiging bakla, tomboy, or AC/DC, or anupaman.

15. Nagmamaneho nang either (a) paso ang lisensya or (b) menor de edad.

16. May asawa na, may girlfriend/boyfriend pa. (Hindi po kabit ang tawag dun, okay!).

17. Gumawa ng limpak-limpak na salapi sa sariling kayod. (No further explanation needed).

18. Nakaka-appreciate ng jazz, metal, at classics with equal passion and intensity.

19. Loves poetry and porn in equal intensity and passion.

20. Has a sense of fashion, either alternative, mainstream, or what, basta meron.

21. Can talk about paleontology in relation to the emergence of high-tech gadgetry ala james bond.

Okay, please add up as much as you can starting with the number below.

22.

Photo credit: http://laist.com/attachments/tony/davidla

Memoirs of The Hill Series 5 (The Long Road)

2008-10-23T00:27:00.000-07:00

The idea of entering the seminary did not sink in until it was about graduation time, when everybody was busy dreaming and fantasizing about college life in the city and all the (mis)fortunes awaiting small town boys like me. We would imagine the naughty colegialas and the kilometer-long stretch of girlie bars very close to the university downtown where we dreamed about enrolling in college. Just a thought of those fortunes tickled our bones and the muscles to the hilt. But those were just a dream. After all, the wholistic education that the Ignatian university offered was and is still beyond every aspiring probinsyano's dream. The best we could afford was a "hole-istic" kind of education offered beyond the confines of that walled haven. There, outside the walled haven the world is much, much larger, much stranger, more cruel and brutally real where sinners and saints don't make any difference and where hunger pangs make the rules.

Graduation time was painful especially for those who have built solid friendship only to be broken by virtue of forced separation for a better, some say higher, cause. But it was a new beginning for the clumsy high school boys who wanted to become fine young men and make the difference. Leaving the stage for the last time after receiving the diploma presaged already the act of bidding farewell to your loved ones who would be seeing you less often that it was before. But life is a motion, a perpetual movement from one point to the other, regardless of its order as long as it is moving. Some move upward, some moved south. No ifs, no buts.

By mid-June, I was already late two weeks late for reporting to The Hill as new recruits were required to report earlier. As usual, it was all about money. We didn't have yet the money to pay for the boat ride because somebody who owed us had not paid yet. (No plane ride back then as it was too expensive). Finally, with less than a thousand pesos coupled with a dose of hope and determination to become a brother first and father later, I left for the big city.

It was not a smooth ride. I was stranded in the Visayas for a week and had to subsist on DSWD-supplied packed meal consisting of rice and hotdog that was too hard and whose taste I could not even remember anymore. When the storm subsided, the boat sailed with a passenger load good for three (3) trips! Before reaching the big city, I had the one of the most memorable boat-ride memories of my life. Wait! This is not about hitching a colegiala aboard, or having a three-some or what-have-you. The boat had trouble maneuvering the gigantic waves in that shark-infested area famous for drowning ships especially on bad weather. Bad weather! That was it! I thought the boat I took being the largest in the country would not bother the waves but I was wrong, DARN WRONG. When it tilted to its left for about four long minutes, I felt it was already bound to the ocean floor. That set us into panic. Everybody was grabbing life jacket and I grabbed mine--two of them. I thought one jacket would not float me up so I grabbed two. But before anybody could jump overboard, we heard the captain's voice on the loudspeaker urging us panicked passengers to calm down. There was no order to abandon ship, okay?

On that memorable trip I met a marine graduate by the name of Albert, who I befriended while we were stranded in the Visayas. When we reached the big city, he offered me an extra room at their family home somewhere in Roxas District for the night. It was too late to travel to an aunt's place up north so I decided to stay. In the morning, the first thing I did after breakfast was to call the then beloved rector of The Hill, informing him that I made it to the big city, albeit late. No problemo, come iho mio to The Hill right away. I was touched. But of course, I was determined to come no matter what, remember?

Oh! Baby!

2008-10-16T18:42:00.000-07:00

Who wouldn't love to drive this baby, ha? But which one?

Of course, you don't drive the limo yourself. Here it comes with the driver. You drive the driver and you will go nuts, believe me.

Remembering the Forgettable (Romance)

2008-10-14T04:34:00.000-07:00

Below is the draft of a note that I never sent to the apple of my eye before:

Dear mahal,

I believe I'm falling for you already. You may probably ask why. I don't have an answer. But I can talk to you about it.

Will you hate me if I tell you I love you?

Yes, I already love someone, but is it wrong for me to love another, to love you?

I care so much for you and I knew I needed you. I only wish you care for me, and need me, too.

But I really don't care. What I care is that I tell you how much I care for you, how much I love you, how much I need you. I don't expect anything in return, except to continue inspiring me.

Love,

Mahal

Sounds corny, but true. That was the hopeless romantic in me. I made wonderful love letters for my friends way back in high school. After college, I made a few, this time, for a lady who was desperate to bag this guy (not gay). She got him, and she did not even bother to invite me to her wedding although I would like to believe my letters were not entirely responsible alone for hooking him up.

But look at the draft above. It's lousy, right?

Memoirs of The Hill Series 4

2008-10-14T03:41:00.000-07:00

That distaste for karatula led me to consider pursuing other options than becoming a titled one. But I never gave serious thought on becoming a priest, either. I was in my senior year when a brother came to our school to talk about priestly vocation and seminary life. The rest of his blah-blahs did not register, nor it left an impression about something very promising.

It did not help that we had this weirdo and socially withdrawn asshole for a parish priest who drove his faithful to Iglesia sa Dios and some society of nocturnal devotees who would rouse the whole town from sleep with their pasyon-cum-orasyon amplified on loud speakers at dawn, starting at 2:00 AM to be exact. This weirdo minister never cut his hair for the entire duration of his short-lived ministry in our town; he was recalled after he figured in shouting match with a resident who was furious over the asshole priest's refusal to allow the resident's husband's remains to be brought inside the church for that reason: the shouting match.

That asshole priest also invited vandals to his convent and there were nights when stones would rain on his roof as disgusted and disgruntled parishioners vented their ire over his asshole ways. He mostly refused to say mass in the barrios, and he locked the church doors most of the time. His Sunday sermons were downright dry and boring it made me wonder why such an asshole could become a priest, supposedly a good communicator, an excellent marketer of salvation. He was one of the worst preachers I have ever encountered in my life, though I must confess I stopped listening to sermons many years ago for fear of damnation caused unnecessarily by a bad preacher!

That asshole priest made me rethink my decision to enter the seminary. But I had a way of convincing and reassuring myself that I would not become like him. When I asked for a recommendation, the asshole priest readily gave me, although I never got to see what was written inside the sealed envelope. (The one I handed later on to the (e)rector of the seminary.)

Fast forward to December of the same year. Six of my schoolmates trooped to city to take the exam and joined with the rest of prospective seminarians in a two-day get-together. But I went there as an excuse to see my favorite city, no more, no less. Then two months later, I received a congratulatory letter, saying I qualified for the seminary. I was the only one who made it. Two of my classmates were dying to enter but were unlucky. In two weeks, a fraile came to see me and family, probably checking if they were in the position to send me to the seminary.

News of my qualifying spread quickly, and friends and neighbors came congratulating and wishing me success daw in the seminary! Mukhang napasubo na yata ako, a. There's no turning back. What about the girls? Well, I kept them of course! I even added one shortly before graduation. The more girlfriends the better to keep you inspired (no argument, please).

Everything went fine and in three months, I was ready to enter The Hills.

Memoirs of The Hill Series 3

2008-10-13T03:31:00.000-07:00

Before recounting and recollecting all those fond memories of The Hill, I thought it is good to share and recollect, among other memories, how the fancy for the sutana ever started.

My religious (in)sensibilities developed late. Though I grew up a Lola's Boy, and by extension a Catholic, I find my mother's Lutheran faith more attractive for both selfish and selfless reasons. I loved and hated Sundays when I was very young. That would mean I had to be dragged to the Sunday service that would take a good four hours. Sunday playtimes were short, and humid chapel and boring speakers were the order of the day. But by 11 AM, my mood would automatically shift from gloom to joy. It's Sunday school. Did I love the lessons? Of course not! I would only light up because there I would get to see my crush then, Ms. L, the minister's daughter. Just seeing her would make my day! For that little joy of a child, I became the object of envy among my friends because I found out they had a big crush on her! But they were not Lutherans, fortunately! Bigotry was strong as far as I could recall so they had no way of getting closer to her unless they abandon their grandmother's vow to Rome. What a pity!

Fast forward to few years. Now, for that attraction to sutana. In high school, I had the (mis)fortune of having X-Men as friends, both priests and seminarians, who early on understood the mysteries and miseries of their faith and left the convent in disgust. It is to them that I drew much inspiration (and desperation) from their inspiring and equally despising/despairing stories of their quest for the holy grail, er, the sutana.

The sutana projects power to the one who wears it, regardless whether he is a she deep inside and in disguise. Power is a magnet, especially for those weak creatures who need to mask themselves with the trappings, in this case, of divinely blessed and immaculately white vestments. This concepts I wanted to validate.

Sutanas aside, I could find fulfillment and ecstacy higher in degree than say manu strupatio (your indulgence please) or plain great sex in the stories of struggles that my X-Men friends shared, including those life and death situations they found themselves in during the dark days of Mang Ferdie's kleptocracy which went on for so long due in part to the silence of the apostles of Sin. (I should stop here, now.)

I was amazed, with the feeling very much like that of awe-and-sh0ck effect Dubya had promised the Taliban when he bombed out Afghanistan. Their stories were so engrossing, engaging, inviting, and at times, titillating. Before I realized it, I wanted to be like one of them for the reasons I just stated--the many irresistible -ings.

I knew back then that having a piece of karatula bearing your name and title hanging in front of your house was and is still something, especially in a place bereft of titled men and women, some honorable and some never mind. But I began to suspect that I did not like hanging my name and my title in front of our house. This began my infatuation towards something more profound, something beyond the daily and ordinary course of living, whatever than meant I didn't care before.

Whew! Break muna.

Isang Gabi, Tatlong Babae, Memoirs of the Hill Series 2

2008-10-13T02:34:00.000-07:00

The then newly-opened Robinson's Galleria was so tempting to be explored for a barrio (but not barriotic) boy who only had sari-sari and at times sira-sira (had to close for stacks of debts) stores back home in the boondocks of Mindanao as hang-outs.

But the most inviting part of that mall along Edsa and Ortigas was its cinema that was showing what was to be a seminarian's dream flick-ST films, which were very much in fashion at that time. Not that I, nor were they deprived of skin flicks because back in the province, we had seen films hundred times racier and hotter than those offered in some Cubao theaters or elsewhere.

But it must be different when you were on a restriction: the stakes are higher and the thrill simply unimaginable. This thought I shared with three of my fellow X-Men, who agreed to avail of our Sunday liberty and partake of the skin flick on the big screen. But we were plain curious about how much that starrer could arouse our sensualities as boys of the cloth. We were young boys, yes, but our young testicles were oozing with advanced testosterone levels, mind you.

I could still remember the three ladies who made me perspire despite the ultra-cold AC and my heart beat faster: Cristina, Greta, and Rita. The three X-Men had the same trouble, only that they made more frequent trips to the RR where they must have poured out their 'sama ng loob,' with the lone flourescent lamp hanging overhead as their only witness .

Aftr two hours, we left the place grinning, recounting the most titillating parts that mostly left stains on our undies, we found out later.

That's how we enjoyed and not just fantasized and looked at sexual freedom in the context of sexual repression. Some X-Men brought their sensualities to the next level, but I restrained myself for fear of ST + D. Hitching should not have been a problem but my fear prevailed. My conscience was not sick, and I had and still have a clear sense of what is good or bad for me. I chose to be safe. Besides, I fully trusted and made use of my creative imagination with little help from the ever reliable Ms. Palmy.

Guilty? Not a hint. We were being truthful. The recklessness of youth in us resolved to introduce ourselves in advance to the world of sensuality before age or death catches on us, leaving us desiring and despairing to do things we could not possibly do anymore, things that we could not do within the walled confines of The Hill, of things forbidden by Padre Pio because he was the only one licensed to do it with the blessing of his padre de amore. Mama mia!

I wished I could bring the tres marias to meet the tres padres, but I knew they knew better than importing flesh traders to The Hill. Amen.

Memoirs of The Hill Series 1

2008-10-12T22:12:00.000-07:00

So the public may know, a classmate- friend in the Visayas was telling me about SEX. SEX is actually an abbreviation for Society of Ex-Cams. I was floored! What a brilliant idea! Of course, I insisted on being enlisted as a founding member.  

See, sex and seminary and seminarians and their masters are inseparable. They are mutually dependent and therefore, a necessity. Which brought my favorite (e)rector and dean into some kind of oral intimacy, as intimated to us by a fellow who had witnessed that passionate lip-locking moment where else but in the blissful quarters of the frailes at The Hill.  

Sex and the various attempts to do it in whatever form and position or relation is not uncommon in an abnormally cloistered confines like the seminary/semenary. Trust the seminarians' creative imagination. This is about the only thing that requires no Call Slip or Out of Campus Slip that should bear the signature of Padre Pio. Everybody has a license to it and only the felines waive their licenses to do it themselves, but not giving up/given up on someone else doing it on them. Oh, that mystery byte, I remember. Or, that padre plumber digging holes at dawn. Or that confessor (bless his soul) licking the hand of the confessee, name it and you have it. Or, of used rubbers sticking out of the windows in that infamous infirmary whose wards had most of the time firmed themselves with little help from madonna reincarnates. We can go on and on but it's too premature to spill the beans here.  

I shall have more of the above in the succeeding posts.

Reunion (A Reply to a Reply)

2008-10-08T22:34:00.000-07:00

Deja vu. It's like sitting in one of your criticial theory lectures once again. I could smell the familiar barako brew swirling and smoke-laden breadth of some amidst crowd of awe-struck (star-struck?) seminarians who could not seem to get enough of those bestselling lectures of yours. Memories, memories, here we are again.

You're right. I came to the reunion with mixed emotions. I was anxious I would bump into people whom I despised before, but equally glad to see friends whom I have shared bottles of ginebra and gilbeys and marlboro lights, and secrets told and untold about some plumber who does bad plumbing and of 'divinely romantic priestly liaisons' and mystery bites and reconnecting ties with them. But the latter was more compelling, so I drag my feet to The Hill.

True enough, I saw at least three or four despicable faces but I'll leave it to the Who's H/She? corner ala Victor Agustin's Cocktales. But before my blood pressure could raise a bar, good friends came pouring in. One of them, a priest in the Visayas, I had the forture of sharing my thoughts with. I asked him if we share the same idea/meaning of an alumnus. We did. An alumnus, going by the inclusivist deifinition, is one who has studied, or has been a pupil, of an institution, and not pertains exclusively to "graduates" of an institution as some uninformed, ignorant and arrogant holy cow tend to argue.

It sounds trivial, but the exclusivist meaning is what is exactly in the minds of the holy friars at The Hill, at least a good a number of them. But I was and I am comfortable with the thought/fact/reality that I can afford to dissociate myself with the vestiges of that infamous The Hill, including those, in the words of my favorite senator, Miriam Santiago, of lower life forms where else but in The Hill. But dissociation is not totally comforting and therefore unnecessary, the point of which I shall explain later.

In the evening, I had the chance to chat with a group of mostly juniors wherein I shared with them, without them asking, my not-so-humble seminary experience and how it taught me to disbelieve in what the holy friars were preaching but were not doing anyway. All told, they were awe-struck (natch!) by my one-liners and scalpel tongue. Asked how I felt seeing those people/faces again, "I can tolerate their presence but I still hate their faces." I was being honest.

Like an elder, I never skimp on dispensing intriguing but not necessarily controversial, calculated and measured but not cunning, irreverent yet relevant advice on how to get the most of their seminary life. I could read satisfaction and disbelief written all over their innocent faces. I told them not to set their sights totally into really becoming cloaked ministers; there is so much life can offer outside, in the whole wide world of real humans. Trust me and I'll bet, not a half of them would get to wear that prized vestment.

Then I went melodramatic, waxing philosophical and told them that I liken myself to a car. Some of my parts were manufactured in The Hill. But please don't bother to ask if I got the defective or the best parts or if the manufacturing process was perfected or flawed. The answer to this will be contained in the forthcoming bestseller, The Tales of The Hills.

True enough, many came not with their Lexus from the missus but humbler ones that were earned with the proverbial blood and sweat, and mucus and phlegm probably, or so I believe. I hope they were not flaunting it, lest they offer themselves future benefactors of the ignoble creatures on The Hill. Nothing bad about giving back? I'll leave it open.

I love homecomings, who wouldn't? But I love homecomings minus the pretentious and pretensions. So it's time we stage our own reunion to retell tales of horror, of divinely romantic priestly liaisons, of mystery bytes, of everything and anything that made us what we have become--the sum of all parts, some of which were manufactured in The Hill.

Killing Boredom

2008-10-06T02:05:00.000-07:00

It's a quiet, chilly, and lonely Monday afternoon. I now realize how it must be difficult being alone in the office with no one to swap weekend news with. But that didn't mean unproductive, though. Made few phone calls and did some reports.

The rain prevented me from venturing out for that much-needed back massage. Good thing my favorite smoothjazz.com is playing uninterrupted.

Random Thoughts

2008-09-30T00:49:00.000-07:00

(In any) order of the day, or what's on my mind at the moment.

Completion of report. F&%^$#%$, this has been overdue, dude!

Massage.

Get cozy with . . . Never mind.

Green Tea (no melamine yet)

Blogging.

Car Search. (Man, this is serious I consider this an urgent task).

Readmission follow-up. (Damn , should have complete

d this a year ago!)

Catharsis

2008-09-23T23:01:00.000-07:00

I had an improved mood just this morning. On my way to work, I dropped by SM to buy my Aloe Vera juice. But as it is, I ended up buying two shirts that left me poorer by P1,500. But I feel better now. Talk about retail therapy.

I was planning to discuss with A things that kept bothering me the last few weeks. I have been sleepless all this time and I couldn't (or wouldn't) figure out why. Maybe it's . . . I don't know really. Maybe I'm hypertensive, but this couldn't be, and shouldn't be. Whatever it is, I will find out later soon as I get to talk to A.

Things will be clearer soon, or so I hope. By that time, I should be feeling better. Emotional sickness is equally disturbing, if not totally debilitating, as physical and mental sickness. Letting go of whatever emotions we nurse could make us feel better, but it might not be true to someone else, especially if she is the subject (more than an object) of such emotion. But regardless of the effect, letting go of our emotional baggage would yield us more benefits than harm. But this belief must be tested once and for all. So, am I ready to discuss my emotions? I'll let you know.

Reunion

2008-09-23T03:13:00.000-07:00

Whew!

It's been three years since I posted my last entry on another site and it feels good to be blogging all over again like it's my first time. Recent events have forced me to resort to blogging since I had no one to share my angst with, much less to listen and appreciate my raves and rants that some may find it too existential, and therefore too unimportant to care about than say, queuing up for NFA rice at the corner store.

One such event was the 1st alumni homecoming of the seminary where I attended college for three years. It was the first for the college after close to 25 years since it opened its doors to would-be priests.

I had mixed feelings in going to the reunion for at least two reasons: First, I am not a certified graduate of the seminary. I only finished third year because the balding fathers kicked me out before I could move on to my senior year. Nevertheless, I was and am still proud to be a "kickout." They kicked me out for at least three known reasons, at least as far as I can remember and ascertain. First reason is money. We were in financial trouble so I missed a lot of payments. Second reason is "fitness" to the vocation. They (the holy fathers of that seminary) didn't see as a priest material. Third reason is, to quote the priest who gave me the bad news, "I was rocking the boat."

Secondly, I was not sure if we share the meaning of the word alumni, the expanded and inclusive meaning especially. But I was too secure to be affected by these mixed emotions. So off I went to the homecoming.

The homecoming saw seven of us original batch members and one priest who joined us on our sophomore year.

Beer and merienda were served but what I was interested most was reconnecting with old friends whom I share beer and gin and Mompo and some nocturnal secrets with.

You cannot simply forget them, this I realize after years of not seeing nor having news about them. Friends aside, there too were the most despicable faces on Earth. But I could only say this with less contempt now. After all, I have been vindicated by their presbyterial stupidities, to say the least.

One priest is now married to a woman who gave him children "effortlessly." (Dig this). At least he is brave enough to take on family life and "divorced" his erstwhile lover--a co-priest who must have been a very good kisser. Who is "the who", tongues start wagging.

Anyway, the homecoming would have been a success were it not for the high priest who circulated his personal account number before the alumni and asked them to donate whatever amount they can for a still unclear project. What the f>&^^%%$!

I've lost respect for the man whom we fondly called "monsignor" during our time.

I have more horror stories to tell, but I have to restrain my fingers now.