The Prayer of Rilke

My prayer life has always been characterized by departures and returns. Each abandonment different from the others, each homecoming sweeter than the last. This constant battle of staying and leaving eventually strengthens the bond with my personal Jesus. Finding ways to make Him smile, I stumbled into this Rainer Maria Rilke poem which is my current favorite prayer:

Oh, tell us, poet, what you do? I praise.

But those dark, deadly, devastating ways, how do you bear them, suffer them? I praise.

And then the Nameless, beyond guess or gaze, how can you call it, conjure it? I praise.

And whence your right, in every kind of maze, in every mask, to remain true? I praise.

And that the mildest and the wildest ways know you like star and storm? Because I praise.

Choosing Life

"Let life happen to you. Believe me: life is in the right, always". Rainer Maria Rilke

The human body is a cash cow. All professions, whether in sports or in the flesh trade, capitalize on a healthy body which an ugly and treacherous enemy called cancer trashes and assaults.

After 6 years in remission, I was officially told a year ago today that my cancer returned. Lovers, when they desert you, it’s almost always for good. Not cancer. After its hostile take-over, it can’t seem to find its way to the door no matter how much it’s unwelcomed and condemned. Like some insanely romantic people, it has no pride. You can’t help but detest it for being clingy and needy.

Maybe it’s denial or a key to my defense mechanism that I hardly read medical journals/articles regarding cancer. It’s so anti-Maoist, Mao’s cardinal principle being “know your enemy.” Theoretically, I embrace it not only because knowledge is empowering but it’s damn logical.

But with cancer, I can’t seem to dig its literature and I don’t have the urbane manners to extend my acquaintance. I can’t be charitable to the anarchy it has waged on my body. I mean, I didn’t invite this interloper, why would I even bother to be on speaking terms?

Oh, it’s just me and my irrational mindgames. In these mindgames, cancer is an imperialist shit, the Goliath to my David and if I were to explain it in political jargon, I would begin by saying that cancer cells are comparable to Mao’s Red Army. They attack under the radar in a protracted war whose terms they dictate. Forget about Israel’s elite army. On the ground, guerillas are still the most ingenious and scrappiest fighters in the world.

Cancer cells behave like guerillas. They invade terrains undetected. Exercising patience, they gather strength in numbers and this could take years to manifest. Before you know it, they’ve reached Stage 4, a stalemate, and you’re forced to acknowledge their upperhand and negotiate a peace settlement.

The government’s army, at one point, mimicked guerilla tactics in its counter-insurgency plan but like most copycats, they’ve been shoved into oblivion. Engaging in guerilla tactics will not necessarily transform government soldiers into guerillas because a guerilla’s biggest weapon is not his rifle. It’s his clear political vision and appetite to not just “interpret the world but to transform it.” (KM)

So if there are cancer cells raiding your body for nourishment, it doesn’t do any harm to learn a lesson or two from Mao, one of the best strategists who walked this earth. Fighting cancer is like fighting a revolution.

It all starts with the humility that the enemy is a tough one and you need all the support you can assemble at all fronts.

You organize your armies and categorize your first-line-of-defense, your second unit, and so forth. You strengthen your armies by eating right and maintaining a positive disposition.

You create situations but never force them. If an ambush or a siege is not possible, save it for another day. With cancer, there are days that you feel weak and weaker still. You sit it out – sleep, extend your resting periods, read leisurely, savor the solitude.

As a war of attrition, what is important is rebuilding your strength, reclaiming what was lost, and moving forward. Mao’s revolution is about winning the hearts and the minds of the masses, not their bodies. To a certain extent, cancer may conquer the body but not the mind and the heart. It weakens the body, not the spirit.

Shit, I need another cup of coffee.

Pilosopong Tasyo

"The absurd enlightens me on this point: there is no future"
Camus, "The Myth of Sisyphus"

It is a gross mistake to assume that the working man is no philosopher. In my books, the working man makes an excellent philosopher.

Philosophies are not confined in books. Philosophy is out there – growing on trees, sprouting in rice paddies, germinating in sardines-factories.

It is to be mourned that in the directory of philosophers, not a single Filipino is registered. This is an anomaly in a country where everybody seems to have an opinion. We are not in the map – 70 million opinion-makers, zero philosopher, and too many lawyers. How did this happen?

As a Filipino, I feel handicapped not being able to quote or paraphrase a Filipino thinker/philosopher. Try quoting Jose Rizal in a PolSci class, chances are, you’ll get a smirk or a sneer from your professor. Quote an obscure Continental thinker, your professor stares at you with glazed eyes.

It was quite frustrating to major in a philosophy-heavy course like PolSci, borrowing ideas from everyone except from your own kind. There’s the competing Frankfurt and Chicago schools of thought. The French have post-structuralism, post-modernism, anything with the post-prefix. The Italians have Machiavelli and Gramsci who are not necessarily sweet bedfellows despite their shared nationality. The Latin Americans have liberation theology and their dependency theories. Africa has its post-colonial studies.

Where’s the Philippines? Some stalwarts of the Philippine Left are internationally –known but their works are not taught in schools. The so-called “Asian Way,” essentially Confucian, is alien to us.

It’s not really a pressing problem needing solution - the fact that there is no universally recognized Filipino thinker. So what? It does not mean we don’t have the intellectual capacity for scholarship and intelligent theorizing. We just have to nurture our scholars a few hugs and kisses more.

But what kind of environment is provided for serious scholarship? Assess our universities, learning institutions where we are supposed to lead the “life of the mind”. Start from the kind of shepherding we get from our teachers. Excuse me, there is hardly any for a number of reasons.

One, the teacher lacks commitment or is simply lazy. Second, in order to hold on to his/her job, the teacher needs to do some research work, therefore, dividing his attention between instruction and research. On one hand, you’re still learning the ropes of teaching and groping for your teaching style. On the other, you have to dabble in theory-testing and theory-refutations, the bedrock of research. You end up, what?

The bigger question is: Does the nature of academic research in the country even push the frontiers of theory-building?

I don’t move around academic circles basically because I am a bum, so I don’t know. As a student, I have been to only 2 professorial lectures because as I said, I am a bum. So I don’t know.

But I have heard stories of dishonest research practices, of researches bereft of integrity. A professor-friend chides about research papers “discovering the obvious,” declaring what the frogs in our backyard already know from their previous incarnations.

There goes the future of philosophy in this country – down in the well with the frogs.

Croak, croak, croak.

Pwet-ry

“Poetry is what you find
in the dirt, in the corner
overheard on the bus, God
in the details, the only way
to get from here to there”
Elizabeth Alexander

In Grade II, a teacher made an error in choosing me to represent the class in an oral declamation contest. The piece was entitled “The Owl and the Pussycat”. I was such a pussy, I lost. But that defeat didn’t scar me to be scared of poetry.

I can’t exactly remember when I made a sanctuary out of poetry. My imaginary shrink didn’t recommend it, it just found me somehow.

In college, the activist circle would organize the traditional “Bladed Verses,” a poetry-reading interspersed with musical production every September to commemorate Martial Law. My dear friend Joma took the helm of poem-selection, script-writing, directing, name it. I was just there because I could not be anywhere else.

Years later, Mana Vangie who hoists the banner of decency and moral principle in UPTC and I were tasked to organize a poetry-reading we called “Revolt against (Hy)Men.” We still banked on J's support.

Most of the time, I cannot fully understand poetry. Maybe that’s part and parcel the charm it holds for me. I keep on returning to it in the hope of nourishing a hunger. Momentarily nourished, I saunter off with a spring in my steps to perform tasks ensuring my survival. Then after a while, I don’t know if it’s me feeling homesick for its comfort or it’s poetry beckoning me to reconcile with myself but I just end up savoring something that leaves me hungrier everytime.

When the mood strikes, I sometimes dabble into it for what I pass off as poetry. I am not any good at writing poems so I find contentment just reading them. People like Sir Dave, my Lit-professor who can recite poems from the top of their heads and insert them in casual conversations – they rock this world.

I have no particular favorite poet. I have a few sentimental favorites. I am a fan of my friends’ and friends of friends’ poetry. I’m like a kid on Christmas when somebody shares a poem.

Once I had a PolSci student who gifted me her set of poetry, complete with a heartfelt dedication. Tears welled in my eyes. I felt so cherished and humbled. Shout-out to Uwan!

What does it take for us proletariat to have our imagined charmed life pulse into reality amidst abject poverty, the allure of self-pity, and the sweet promise of suicide?

Poetry, brother. It is the oxygen by which we breath and the glimmering ray of hope for a better world that never comes.

Barcelona, Raising the Bar Higher

When I’m toothless and in gradual state of decomposition, I shall recollect over a cup of ginger ale when jurisprudence elected to follow the footprints of the mighty dinosaurs into antiquity rather than walk in the shadow of light.

The law, in the case of gay marriage, is not an ally but savagely romantic that I am, I will say this like an automated robot: love is still the highest law. In the last second, love shall be triumphant.

Whew! And on the 10th and 70th minute, victory was in the lap of Barcelona, Ole! If it wasn’t Arsenal, the trophy should go to Barcelona, I wrote in the old blog. I will claim this triumph in behalf of what humanity lost in the suicide attacks, in the California ruling, and in the picketlines of farmers demanding genuine agrarian reform violently dispersed by water cannons.

Football is a commanding metaphor for life. You can’t bank on your 4-4-2 formation as if it were a choreographed dance that never shifts tempo. One day, your gameplan is a goldmine; the next, a dismal flop.

My friend T who plays FB (fullback, not fuck-buddy, wanker) ironically swears that football is won in midfield. Hmm, would Arsenal have enjoyed a dissimilar fate against ManU if say, Henry still wore the Emirates jersey? The talented Frenchman was hardly a factor in Rome.

It’s easy to say that the contest begins and ends in midfield. After all, you don’t win if you can’t score. Defense specialists like Cannavaro rock my world but in football, strikers are much heralded than defenders. So with life – the aggression of strikers, those who are on the prowl have the world for a price. The conquistadores claim and name territories, these architects of history. They write their own legends and we, the conquered, are just born to exalt them. As the cliché goes – no guts, you know the rest.

Obviously, I am not a player so to get my friend’s goat, I contradict by saying football is won by coaches, not players. Ravers think DJs are gods, excuse me. Lippi and Capello and Mourinho and Wenger, they are demi-gods.

Football’s major charm to me is that it’s a game of precision that demands flexibility. The strategizing, the proper adjustments, the timely reactions emanate from coaching. The players can provide the heart but the head, it’s got to be the coaching unit. Of course, when your players don’t suit up or play unmotivated, a coach can only do so much. Even God doesn’t have that much success in motivation – there are more sinners than saints, after all.

In life, we are the players. Who are our coaches? I pay homage to my own but it’s quite a kilometric list and unless somebody challenges me to come up with my Top5, why would I give myself a headache?

Play That Ugly Drug Music

"Play that ugly drug music" Elvis Costello, "13 Steps Lead Down"

"What came first, the music or the misery? People worry about kids playing with guns, or watching violent videos, that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands, literally thousands of songs about heartbreak, rejection, pain, misery and loss. Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?" (Nick Hornby, “High Fidelity”)


John Cusack, one of my favorite actors for sentimental reasons, admits to being a “music snob” and considers himself cliquey when it comes to music, reminiscent of Rob Gordon, the character he portrayed with such aplomb in one of my favorite movies, High Fidelity.

I was quite amused by his unabashed confession because I have encountered his kind in this lifetime – people who judge people by the music they prefer or listen to. I also fall into this tendency sometimes but not to judge people but to determine if a guy is a skirt-chaser or a crotch-grabber.

I am not insular when it comes to music. I am the exact opposite. I pimp my favorites, as a matter of fact. I used to burn CDs for people with unaccustomed diligence just so I could impinge on them my revered musicians. I am rather unsuccessful on this account.

I wish people listened to the late Jeff Buckley more than they listen to American Idol alumni. I wish REM and Blur were more appreciated. I wish people stumble into Simon and Garfunkel or Jim Croce before they graduate from college. I wish that instead of numerous cloning of Elvis Presley, people are introduced to Elvis Costello.

Yet at the end of the day, it is our own musical journey anyway. You get to pick your drinking buddies. One important rule everyone must follow, I must insist: Pump up the volume!!

Doobie Brothers

I don't normally retreat from a challenge so to R who's curious as to what my top 3 songs on ganja:

1. Panalo (Color it Red) - "Sindihan na yan! At uuubo." Forces you to remember your first puff-the-magic-dragon.

2. Burn One Down (Ben Harper) - "herb the gift from the earth, and what's from the earth is of the greatest worth". Go organic. And as Raul Julia's druglord character in "Tequila Sunrise" bravely predicted, "grass is the future."

3. Legalize It (Peter Tosh) - "good for tuberculosis....goats love to play with it." No argument, no argument.

We Want to Multiply

"We want to multiply, are you gonna do it?" (Powerstation)

(Warning: If you’re a Management major, don’t read this. Do something worthwhile with your life. Go on a hunger strike for the release of political prisoners. Make posters to legalize ganja).

After a semester in the kibbutz of Political Science, a former student decided to defect to the Management camp. By this time, I already earned a reputation of labeling these handful of defectors as traitors.

Before her departure, this student needed my signature. She got more. Hmm…what is dandy about young people is that they can’t detect pontifications when they see one. Or they just have the manners not to put a kibosh on the pontifications of older people (that's me).

Amazingly, this student fairly remembers my monologue on that slow, sultry afternoon. I said something like “This is an act of betrayal. On the day of reckoning, you know how traitors are dealt with.” And I go Argh! Sounded like Gen. Palparan, my favorite butcher. Maybe, I should apply as his speechwriter now that he' s in Congress. A dandy idea, hmm.

Allow me to explain why I was reduced to pontificating even if I wasn’t the Pontiff.

If that student shifted from PolSci to Physics (which I would have done if I were intelligent enough), Ole! But to choose Management over PolSci, you got to be kidding.

I asked a whole block of Management students why they were drawn to it. My questions were out of plain ignorance, be warned. From the arrogant: What is there to study in Management? Who are your philosophers? To the literally absurd: What is to be managed? Can anything be managed? Are your lives so mismanaged, you actually need to spend 4 years to study Management? Do you think your lives will be more well-managed than the rest of us? Somebody shoot me, please.

So when this traitor who has become a close friend confides about her love-bug, I gloat in morbid glee. Payback time, isn’t revenge sweet? License to go pontifical and when I am in that gay mood, hell could just freeze.

This is the diagnosis, I offered: Your problem started when you took flight from Political Science. Honestly, there is no correlation but as I said, I was in the mood to gloat. Look how Management ruined you, I continued: You have become anal, a control freak, “sigurista nga diri asya,” not besotted with philosophy, lacking appreciation of the intangibles and immeasurables, thinks “food for the soul” is something prepared in the kitchen.

Whew, that’s cold. That’s just Antarctica-cold.

Her fundamentalist religious views quarrel with her forbidden love. A woman is not supposed to love another woman. That’s tough. Even Political Science has no solution to that.

But at least, PolSci as a discipline, encourages you to free your mind and to make a stand. Conformism is denounced as individuality is celebrated. It’s intellectually promiscuous and morally ambiguous so there are no absolutely wrong answers as there are no right ones. This is where the discipline’s strength and weakness rest.

It’s not easy (however possible) for me to imagine my Management students transforming into Rimbauds and Sapphos. There is a certain rigidity and deficiency in philosophy in that course, I surmise. After all, it’s modern compared to the old tradition of Aristotle and Plato and all our forebears, a discipline fuelled by the requirements and needs of capitalism. Oh, boy.

What we become, how our worldviews are shaped, how we attack the challenges hurled by life owe so much to the course we chose. If I majored in Management, I would surely view the world from a different lens, be a different character.

As I snapped out of it, I realized that I did not abate a bit the emotional turmoil that student was going through. No one is listening. How many times have I said don’t come to me for love advice? Chances are, I would say the most inappropriate things, tell incongruent anecdotes, and disconnect the dots. How in the frak did I correlate her problem to her shifting majors?

Me and my titi-eories. Wait till you hear my dick-tionary. Sexual repression, go burn.

This Charming Man

3 days ago, the Moz celebrated his birthday. When I declare that Manchester is home of the world's finest musicians, he isn't far from my mind. I don't blame him for my mopiness but how punch-happy and upbeat would I have become if The Smiths didn't bust my eardrums some summers ago.

He's no longer my drinking buddy but I relish the memory of his brave advice "Shoplifters of the World, Unite." Naughty capitalist, this big mouth is. But a capitalist you just can't hate.

Wise Up

"You're sure there's a cure
And you have finally found it
You think, one drink will sink you till you're underground
But it's not going to stop, it's not going to stop, it's not going to stop
Till you wise up" (Aimee Mann, "Wise Up")

Facebook (FB) is banned in Iran. More than an issue of censorship, how damning is this serpentine mandatory move in the curtailment of civil and political rights?

Using the forces of production rationale – who are into FB (not fuck buddy, dummy)? Are they using it as a political tool/vehicle? How engaged are they in the transformative power of technology? Do they even believe in its transformative potential?

Once these questions are dealt with squarely, our realization might be that this is a fight we can forego or shelve for another day or if you have ample energy, go ahead but don’t stake your neck for it. This is the Iranian government, take note.

This is a lesson I paid dearly for – choosing my battles and choosing them well. In my youth, I was a bit uncompromising – every indignation had to be indemnified, big or small. It was not about winning but making a point, registering your voice, standing up because you could not live with yourself if you didn’t.

Come to think of it, did I ever score a win in my political battles? I suffered losses more than my frail ego could take. That’s the whole beauty of the struggle – steadfastly believing in romance and having faith, even as you are licking your wounds.

Faith is an orientation of the spirit much different from simple, doe-eyed optimism. It is a conviction that something makes perfect sense regardless if your action succeeds.

The principle also applies to love. To me, it isn’t about the object of affection or how that object responds to it. I will not even negotiate because love is a human function no different from bathing or brushing my crooked teeth. There’s no need to overthink or hammer your brain for excuses, just love for the heck of it. Regardless of how it turns out.

Same with technology. I have no delusions in its transformative appeal. It all boils down to power relations – who owns it? Yes, there are millions signed up in FB, in FS (I am there), in Twitter or whatever is the current rage but there are more who don’t have access – no education, no electricity, wars, poverty, name it.

In the real sense, who is the disconnected?

In the early days of blogging, some were agog about this cheap technology crystallizing the world into one global village. All bets are off. It isn’t as neat as it sounds – technology is ruled by the same power relations we contend with everyday. More glaringly, the multitudes, the masses are still out there, not in cyberspace. So for whom are we blogging?

Blogging is for megalomaniacs, some argue. It is unabashed exhibitionism without a sense of purpose. Amen, I have no counter-arguments. In fact, let me add one thing: blogging is the new narcissism, bebe.

I blog because this is an arena open to me. I will take every crumb of chance to reach out, to connect. I try not to shout my political persuasions but even as I am skeptical that cyberspace is not the turf of the powerless, I will not concede this battlefield by default. I don’t expect to cash in political gains because my aim ain’t high but it’s true. Yes Mr. Costello, my aim is true.

Blogging as I often say, is an expression of worship and with a few friends partaking, there is some kind of fellowship going on. That puts a smile to this ugly face.

I am the last person to take myself seriously or to expect to be taken seriously. People who do should produce scholarly journals or teach or do some research or go into serious organizing. These people are to be lauded.

As to Iran’s president, is he to be lauded? He’s not my drinking buddy but for the sake of lame argument, let’s just pretend he’s like a parent regulating what his children should be watching on TV and the internet. What a crock.

Anyway, I am not in FB so this isn’t my fight, haha.

B-List

Hollywood released its annual list of Beautiful People last month. Deppster topped the list, no violent objection there. However, many of my beautiful ones were ignored. Hollywood is not looking hard enough.

01. Benicio del Toro – If that scandalous elevator incident years back involving Scarlett is to be believed. Muy delicioso. His remarkable performance in "Traffic" surely caused traffic in my aorta and arteries and valve and veins.

02. Daniel Craig – He is beautiful in the tradition of Viggo Mortensen and Val Kilmer, only if Viggo was not too chiseled and Kilmer didn’t pout as much. Craigster assembles his wares way too perfectly. I thought Lawrence Fishburn had the sexiest walk until Craigster in "LayerCake" – just a hint of swagger but a normal gait by all accounts. In "Enduring Love", he was the target of stalking by a man gradually descending towards madness. I mean, if middle-aged males snap out of their sanity over him, how much more the other demographics?

03. Jared Leto – You could drown in those devouring eyes. He wears horrible eye make-up for his band 30 seconds to Mars and still manages to be Edward Scissorhands-beautiful.

04. Justin Theroux – David Lynch saw something in him before everybody did. I am just glad I caught on.

05. James Franco – Playing James Dean, he offered a complex and emphatic performance. He can be dark and broody but when he turns on that goofy smile, he can light up the whole of Africa – a solution to our energy problem.

06. Mads Mikkelsen – Watch “After the Wedding” and “Prague” and you’ll know what I mean. The baby factories don’t produce beautiful men like Mads these days.

Mulled over including John Cusack but he is more cool than beautiful, like Tim Robbins. You imagine hanging out with them, raiding their ref for beer, and puking on their bathroom and they won’t call the sheriff.

Adel, A Good Deal

The bright spot in the sex video scandal involving local celebrities is, eng-eng!!, not some senator’s impassioned speech and name-calling.

It’s the sobering demeanor of Adel Tamano, spokesperson of the “Genuine Opposition” and counsel of one of the beleaguered victims. He transports you back to highschool when people exercised leniency when you screamed your lungs out everytime the acolyte in your parish church crossed your path.

His calmness and intelligence lend class to this otherwise sordid affair. Give me sordid any day of the week if it means him blazing the TV screen.

Drinking Through our Sorrow

(This re-post is for Regiedor who pimped to his imaginary friends that it's all authentic, organic, and sexy without being scandalous here. Most of all, for being savagely loyal).

“Drinking in order to feel
Thinking, reinventing the wheel”
-Elbow, “Picky Bugger”

As much as I heed on endorsements of strangers to listen to or watch this crap, I did not keel over Dave Matthews’ stupendous rant over George Bataille’s “Story of the Eye” several years ago. Describing his near-dementia while reading the book: “You have to stop every once in a while and have a cold shower, drink a couple shots of whiskey or masturbate,” I avoided Bataille at all cost. Until now, he remains a blind date that I never got to meet.

The cold shower, I have no problem with. The masturbation, in deference to my mother who’s gone to the Other Side, I will be non-committal about. But the drinking part – what perverse power does this writer wield to drive his reader to uncork a bottle? Not that I need and excuse to drink but I am a cheap drunk – a few swig and I will admit to anything.

Ideas and words have tremendous, immeasurable impact. My insensitivity at times, my penchant for flippant statements offend some people which is never really my intention. On my part, I need to learn circumspection and believe me, you can’t fault me for trying. I wish I were friends with Bataille, got a question for him. Does he even care how people take his words and ideas? He seems to be a kick-ass fellow, someone you want to be on your team.

I am not quite sure if it was he who said: “Your unhappy philosopher needs a drink like your working man needs soap”. I find this oddly funny on several counts. First, is the generalization that philosophers are a miserable lot. Second, the hope they harbor that philosophy would bring sobriety and contentment into their lives. Third, the sharp observation that the working man gets dirty, he needs to wash up. And lastly, the accepted truth that it’s the philosopher that needs a drink more than the working man.

The philosopher in his isolated lighthouse cooks up prescription after prescription how the working man ought to think and live his life. The philosopher is intoxicated on his own abstractions, his rootlessness, his state of exile.

To the philosopher, the revolution can be reduced to words and ideas. To the pragmatic working man, the revolution is a way of life. “To live is to struggle and to struggle is to be among men.”

The working man does not need the philosopher as much as the philosopher needs him as a subject, as an inspiration for his ideas. No matter how the philosopher exhorts that the revolution is now, “the only revolutions that are worth anything are the ones that we discover ourselves, within ourselves, and for ourselves.” (V. Havel)

So the philosopher can forget about his prescriptions. The working man will find his own.

In the meantime, I shall find me a working man who is a closet philosopher. When he comes to my senses, I shall invite him in the manner that Dave Matthews seduces - “Crash into me.”

Oh, boy.

Death March

“I want to vanish,
This is my fondest wish” (Elvis Costello, “I want to vanish”)

There’s a funeral wake next door. My childhood friend’s mother, all of 81, performs yet another biological imperative. Frequenting the hospital in the last 2 months, her organs shut down one by one, signing off cell after cell.

There is nothing certain in this life except death, probably the only lesson in Biology that endures. Everything that breathes, hops, and gallops runs into fatigue and ultimately stops, terminates, ends. This is the tyranny of nature without the tiniest, slimmest window of escape for its stewards.

I feast on gangster movies where the sanctity of life is an outrage. To paraphrase the infamous Oliver North of the equally infamous Contra-scandal, I would stand on my head or get a lobotomy just to be part of Tony Soprano’s crew, my favorite fictional Mafioso. I can’t keep tabs on the casualties in Scorsese’s or Tarantino’s violence-fest.

Death has somehow become a gargantuan fiction that when it does happen, specially to someone close or someone you know, this most ancient and natural biological destiny still manages to astound, affect, numb.

I lost my own mother 7 months ago so the faint scent of death still teases. Of course, you try to be philosophical and courageous about it but as my friend Ali perceptively says, “no one is too old to lose a parent.”

Sad but true.

The Gospel according to Rushdie

“To die for boys –
O, what a beauty”
-Gay National Liberation Front

Last Wednesday, my dear friends R and T dropped by for dinner and coffee. Terribly missing them after almost 2 months of absence, I was supernaturally consumed in ecstasy (I am practicing to be a porno writer, hence, the term).

Thoughtless that I am, I accosted R before he could spoon up food if he’s reunited with his ex. A brief mental sparring followed and it went like this:

R: What makes you think that?
Me: Just a hunch.
R: A hunch? What gave you the idea?
Me: I don’t know. So are you? (R gives me the funny look) Are you back together? (I persist)
R: Well, not really. Sort of.

I did not pursue thinking that R did not welcome my interrogation so talk shifted to other matters, T’s children and their antics, among others. Later, much later, R opened up.

I was happy that R finally became comfortable sharing his present situation with us. I felt bad about the break-up months ago and I was really worried about him because he is the type to keep his grief private.

The way I see the situation is a bit hazy but one thing is quite clear: there are no demands and expectations. Well, this is the dimension of a relationship deprived of me, so bear with me if I could not fully understand the concept of a no-demand/no-expectation thingy.

So what constitutes a relationship then? At the very least, I want to be treated with respect. Isn’t that a kind of expectation already? But hey, I am not defending any position here. What do I know about romantic love?

If R says that such a relationship is possible, then I believe him. “Kung saan ka maligaya, hindi ako malulungkot,” I reassured.

Why do we continue loving a supposed ex, inspite and despite of? Is this what people call unconditional love, a love without borders and frontiers? J says it might be a case of having diffulties getting over people who treat us badly. Then that would make us masochists.

I feel I need to apologize to R for burdening him with questions like – Don’t you ever ask your ex what you are doing or what it is you’re having or where is this, whatever it is, is headed to? He guarantees that at least, he is totally aware of what he’s getting into. I take comfort in that. More importantly, he’s obviously happy. I take more comfort in that.

So for you, my friend, I chose this Salman Rushdie quote because it has trappings of Maoist thought, a fitting tribute to our shared history:

“In love, one advances by retreating. The first approach, the deflection of anxieties, the arousal of interest, the feint of departure, the slow inexorable return – the leisurely inward spiral of desire”.

Certainly you cannot rob Rushdie of his breathtaking eloquence. In another’s incapable hands, this love-mantra would read and sound like Sun Tzu’s “Art Of War,” a book I have read quite a few times I have forgotten what it says.

But as your friend of long standing, I do declare without modesty that I summed it up better than the Rushdies of this world.

So let me say this again (hope you read this): You are in deep, baho shit.
A variation: You are in deep, baho, igit.
Another variation: You are in deep, baho, bugrit.

If this isn't affection, I don't know what is.

Crossing the Line

Is he or isn’t he going to file for divorce? This isn’t the first time my phantom drinking buddy, Sean Penn, has vacillated over his decision to finally crumple his marriage contract to the equally bold and luminous actress, Robin Wright-Penn and throw it to the bin.

As to those drooling over him, prematurely rejoicing that finally he can make honest women out of you – there will be no Thanksgiving or Christmas together and the honeymoon in Maldives or is it Galapagos that you booked in advance? Call your travel agent and replace them with tickets for the World Cup in South Africa.

I wonder what my favorite comedians over at Fox News are ranting this time. Are they going to fete him for upholding rock-solid family values by not pushing through a messy divorce?

When news of this present divorce broke out, those funny guys had a heyday speculating on the reason(s) – “Oh, he’s a worthless piece of (bleep) for not acknowledging his wife in his acceptance speech at the Oscars”

Granting that his acceptance speech was unorthodox, the man, well, is. I think it was a smart move to grab that chance, when million of viewers, in rapt attention were listening, to articulate his advocacy against hatred of marginalized people. The right-wingers only heard “gay rights,” something they are virulently against with but if they listened closely, Sean Penn’s speech was about tada-ding! LOVE. “Gugma, kun ha Binisaya”

Love for the heck of it, as I always say.

And it was a sprightly speech – “You commie, homo-loving sons of guns.” That brought a hearty chuckle.

For those who expected him to enumerate a litany of thanksgiving, just check Milk’s credits. One thing I know, it was the powerful vision of Gus Van Sant that galvanized the movie. And my sagging butt, he can thank his wife properly in private, in a manner that he has mastered.

What do we care about the intimate lives of celebrities anyway? At least with Sean Penn, he was persecuted for not thanking his wife in public, with the cameras on, when it was a call of propriety to do so, or at least feeding people’s conventional expectations.

The current local headline is about celebrities exhibiting in public what is supposed to be a private matter, which isn’t a call of propriety but at least, feed people’s prurient expectations.

Sex, lies, and videotape.

Dr. Love

Somebody asked me for love-advice. Why a few people think I have 2-cents in my pocket bewilders.

The specific question: How does one hold on to his/her Significant Other?

My non-specific answer: Go back to Aesop’s Fables.

In Aesop’s Fables, the Wind and the Sun made a wager as to who between them can force a man to take off his coat. The Wind blew hard and the man clung to his coat. The Sun shone and the man took off his coat to enjoy the freedom of the elements.

I think the person who asked for my advice expected a 5-step strategy or a 10-guideline sort of thing. And all I could come up with was an old college lesson.

So I tried to elaborate – it is our prerogative to behave like the Wind or the Sun, whatever floats our boat. And all I got was seconds of dead air.

Now you know I am the last person one should ask for love-advice.

Notes From Above-ground

"Push your old numbers, and let your house ring
Until I wake your ghost" Kristin Hersh, "Your Ghost"

In this exquisite suburbia called V&G Subdivision where I spent part of my joyous childhood and all of my reckless youth, one constant fixture in the neighborhood was Mano Steve, the friendly mailman.

In bustling Santan Street, across rows of familiar houses, heaps of dog-shit, rowdy cats engaging in carnal pleasure, and neighbors in serious discussion of masiao results, Mano Steve would linger at our gate for small talk and a glass of water. Even if there was no letter to deliver, he would drop by.

His famous greeting was “Nobody cares.” That was his punchline each time there was no letter to hand over. Hell, he said it all the time to me, almost crushing my romanticism. He’s long retired and I don’t know the current mailman. The ones delivering various bills have various faces and they’re always on a rush.

Well, Mano Steve, somebody bothers to care. Got this email from my loyal roommate at Ipil. Before those spies browse through my mails, let me just make their lives sweeter by spilling the beans, “ighuwad it monggo,” so to speak:

Got back from a four-day hike in Elgon, one of the highest mountains in East Africa last Sunday. It was tedious, adventurous (especially with the rainy season!!) and brilliant! My goodness! to describe beauty is ineffable! Was lost for words. There were a lot of times I was awed and mesmerized on what was surrounding me, moments I wish I could be immortal to experience these little wonders.

Unlike my Brit friends who had the Union Jack with them, didn't have anything with me (pen or paper) to prove I was conquering the top for you. You were in my heart as I was ascending. I was climbing Elgon for my friend who is a true heroine.

love you lots,
me xx

Thanks for the heartfelt tribute, Turabsoy. It’s all engraved here in my promiscuous heart. Next time, you don’t need to punish yourself that hard. Just send me a postcard from Costa Rica.

Palparan & Football

Just done re-reading Dave Eggers’ “A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius” because I vaguely remember that the primary characters, Dave and Toph, were fully orphaned. Now that I am on the same boat, I wanted to check if I could form a kinship.

Picking AHWOSG again reminded me of Eggers’ account of his gym teacher launching into a tirade against communism and rationalizing why soccer never became popular in the US. According to this jock, soccer is a game that communists favor and not an American invention like basketball and baseball. Furthermore, he says that Americans should suspect a game introduced by Germans and Italians and does not employ hands. I find the account hilariously pathetic. Look Ma, no hands.

Yup, it is widely perceived that the US government played a crucial role in killing the sport in America. And if you survey past World Cup winners – Uruguay, Galeano’s home-country and the first to win it, has 2; Italy and Brazil have 4 a piece; Germany has 3. The World Cup is dominated by countries where the Communist Party enjoys recognition and support.

Come to think of it, soccer is intensely played in the townships of Africa, in the shanty-towns of Brazil, and even in refugee camps in the Middle East. It is played by the poorest of the poor and in some cultures, children play to momentarily escape the misery of poverty. In my hometown of Tacloban, streetchildren do rugby. Not the sport, dummy. That sticky solvent that momentarily solves problems. Kuno.

When I was working with a human rights organization (Task Force Detainees of the Philippines), I had the privilege of going around Samar, helping out in para-legal training and in some remote villages, the locals played football. At that time, I didn’t wonder how the locals learned about soccer (no TV and no soccer on TV then), much more play it with joyous abandon.

With Eggers’ account, I connected the dots. Maybe, those frigging soccer-loving Communists that Gen. Palparan loves to hate introduced soccer aside from Marxist-Lenin Maoist Thought to these farm communities. It is not hard to imagine a cadre squeezing in soccer games as breaks from discussions of feudalism and bureaucratic-capitalism which are oftentimes monotonous. Take my word for it.

This elementary logic is quite comical (for more comic relief, go to Fox News): Communists love football and if you love football, you must be a Communist.

Would I die of shock if I learned that Palparan actually plays football?

Emyat and Football

“I am an Arsenal fan first. Football, second.”
Nick Hornby, “Fever Pitch”

As a nominal fan of football, it’s inscrutable, the amount of football I am absorbing at the moment. The devil of it, I don’t even like the Premiership. This simply means one thing: TV is so intolerably ghastly, the sports channel has become enticingly appealing or that I have so much time in my hands, 90 minutes swift by, unfelt.

Normally, I don’t watch football on TV except when I have trouble getting sleep or I am reading deep into the dark hours and I can’t play loud music (as music should be played) in noble consideration of souls at rest. The din of football as a background enables me to concentrate on readings that would normally shove me into stupor.

When my mother was alive, she would often sneak up on me, “Why are you still not in bed?” Then a follow-up question: “What are you watching?” probably suspecting porno.

“Football,” I would indulgently answer. Knowing her, I anticipate her next question: “What do you get from it?” With my mother, it’s all about the bottomline and cost-benefit. So I would turn to cliché – “It’s food for the soul.”

It always worked – “food for the soul” is something my mother considered legit probably because it’s unquantifiable, therefore, not within her realm.

Maybe I am consuming football more than what is healthy in the hope of my mother’s apparition. This time, I would change the scenario – I would put down the book I am reading and invite her to sit with me for a while as I convince her how football’s metaphors have instructed me about life in general and how this game has made me understand the horrors of capitalism and the awful truth of globalization.

Knowing my mother, she would be more amused than dazzled. Tell me, how many children can amuse their mothers with pompous talks on globalization? I truly miss her. For all our friendly disagreements, I have no doubt that she understood me, truly understood me in a way mothers rarely do. Tell me, am I lucky or am I lucky?

Yes, we are talking about football.

Soccer as we called it then was very popular in highschool. My dear friend Tox would talk about 4-1 formation and I would space out. At that time, Diego Maradona was the only player I heard about. I was not interested in soccer per se as much as watching my male friends, my homeboys play and cheering them on.

In college, I continued watching my batchmates from the field. Football on TV was unheard of and now that it has invaded all our waking hours, I can still say that I prefer watching my highschool or college batchmates play in the school grounds. Well, except for Italy or Real Madrid, as long as Cannavaro is asserting his claim to the kingdom.

Cannavaro, hay! If I had the savvy, I would create a website for him. A sports-commentator summed it up: “If ManU pays Rio Ferdinand 120,000 pounds a week, Cannavaro is worth at least a million a day.”

Football became a curiosity when a player that committed a costly error during a World Cup game was fatally shot when he got home (Colombia, I think). What is this game that fuels fanaticism and snatches out the monsters in humans?

Then a coach in one of the South American teams tried to explain: “Some people think football is a matter of life and death. It is more than that.”

Goosebumps! Shivers down my spine! It took me a while to “grasp” that cryptic remark

A sportswriter warns: “Intellectuals should embrace football for its art, not for its soul.” Not in agreement here. More than rudiments and techniques and strategies and skills, football is a mirror and a celebration of life. Besides, if one were to embrace football, one has to embrace its metaphors and mysteries, its beauty and squalor.

I don’t play football (which makes me a fake by some standards) unless you count kicking ball with Georgelablab, the uber-askal (who says uber in this day and age except the Germans?) but I have had conversations with young men whom you could categorize as football players when I was a paid employee at UPTC and we were not exactly on the same paragraph.

To them, football was about great athleticism and mental agility, in short, the art of it. On the other hand, I talked of magical moments, of gods descending to play with mortals, of my own spiritual dilemmas pacified by football. Those kids must have thought: “Our teacher is nuts.” In complete agreement here.

That sportswriter could be right. Intellectuals should stick with the art of football, not its soul. But I am no intellectual.

I am a partisan at heart. So when I rant about globalization using football references and parallelism, you know where I am coming from.

P.S. Nick Hornby has a new book out (Slam) and the right-wing claims it is pro-abortion. Hay, these right-wingers - They don’t fail to humor me on a humid day.

Miracle Drug

“Of science and the human heart, there is no limit….
I’ve had enough of romantic love
I’d give it up, yeah, I’d give it up
For a miracle, miracle drug” (U2, Miracle Drug)

Mong-bebe, my former live-in partner, nah, dormate at Ipil - technically, we lived under one roof and I just get a kick introducing male dormates as “live-in” partners. Beat me.

He YMed several links yesterday regarding swine flu after reading the entry here. The links, when I opened them, were sites of pharmaceuticals. Baxter sparked my attention because this is the maker of a very expensive vial injected to me during my long confinement in June last year. The vial was supposed to remedy my albumin deficiency.

Is Baxter evil? The very sound of it smells evil. Well, we just have to be in consensus that pharmaceuticals, by their very nature, don’t earn cookie points in heaven.

That is really an ungracious thing to say for someone whose life was made less stricken because of drugs – nausea suppressants and anti-depressants. Going through 8-cycles of chemo last year, Plasil, a very tiny pill, didn’t make me puke. On my early days of confinement, a capsule called Zoloft which serves as a depression-buster put me to sleep. Zoloft is also a painkiller, I believe, like morphine.

I have an ugly relationship with painkillers not because I am a masochist. In my experience, painkillers are nightmare-inducing and they make me upbeat. Upbeat, that’s not me.

My oncologist in collusion with the psychiatrist stonewalled that popping shiny happy pills before depression gobbled me up was an awesome idea. Depression, my clit.

Depression among cancer patients is such a cliché. Certainly I am not jumping around in euphoria to have what a religious leader says as “God’s blessing in disguise” and in a moment of rarity, I am in complete agreement. A fair warning though: never tell a person newly diagnosed with cancer that having it is God’s blessing in disguise. That person might just become an atheist.

Here’s my take. The good Lord orchestrates our lives around mysteriously logical patterns and we should not even contemplate dismantling or thwarting those patterns but instead learn what the playwright Ariel Dorfman described as “a trembling state of humanity called recognition.” This divine grace Dorfman prefers to call recognition keeps depression at bay, not Zoloft or Prozac.

My sister reproached me for being rude to the psychiatrist. Until now, she picks on my impoliteness and I wrack my head which part was I reprehensible. Sketchy but I recall taunting the psychiatrist not to catalogue people into easy, neat categories. Is that being mean?

In fairness to me (hmp!), I gagged myself in recognition of her discipline. Psychiatry is about diagnosing what’s wrong in people and to be able to do that, you need to lump them into types. In fairness to the psychiatrist, we saw each other on Christmas and she showed no signs of harboring a grudge. Bless her.

So what do I do with my mean streak today? Mong planted the idea – attack the giant pharmaceuticals!!! With great pleasure.

It can be argued that by their very nature, the last thing pharmaceuticals pray for is a healthy population. Granted that we are all healthy, they still make money persuading us to buy their products to remain healthy. Always a win-win situation. Now, imagine the profits they are bound to gain in the event of a pandemic? Don’t, it’s just bowel-staggering.

The current media reportage of this flu the WHO insists is of pandemic magnitude is a bit sensationalized which will only advance corporate interests and militaristic political agenda as I have mentioned in an earlier blog.

The majority of deaths related to swine flu are actually due to lack of proper medical attention, poor nutrition, poor sanitary conditions. Long and short of it: poverty. It’s not the flu, per se.

I am in no position to contest the WHO’s assertions. A flu is a flu. The breakthroughs in medicine and technology have been spectacular enough to suspect this atmosphere of panic created by WHO’s pronouncements over a disease that’s not quite life-threatening. This is not the 18th century. Medical science has reached a point where it can play god and perform mind-boggling acts. Why do they want us to be afraid? Why do they want us to be alarmed?

Unless there’s something they are not telling us.

Tatay kong di kalbo

Every summer until college, my cousins and I were shipped off to our grandparents in Bohol. There were no telephones at that time but we would receive my mother’s typewritten letters signed “Mama Memie” every 2 weeks or so. Whose mother sends her children typewritten letters anyway?

That summer of 1981, no typewritten letter arrived but a telegram came saying “Papa is critical. Love, Mama.”

I asked an older relative what “critical” meant. She told me she did not even finish highschool, she had no idea. So I asked for a dictionary, there was none in my Lola Dading’s house.

As I waited for explanation, that confusing telegram was being passed from one relative to another, eliciting solemn and sullen expressions. When I pressed for answers, they would rearrange their faces and studiously swerved from my curiosity.

Two lessons learned: (1) Adults could not be trusted (2) “Critical” is a bad word.

Four days later, I saw my father inside a dark brown casket. My grandparents were so devastated while my mother put up a brave front. But not brave enough to deliver the eulogy. So I did, coached by one of my father’s closest friends.

From then on, I would compose eulogies for my father in my mind. Some wrote themselves in my journal.

Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to travel this earth ably accompanied by a father. It’s been 28 years this month since we lost him. I will always carry the weight of nothingness, I guess and as Marius mourned for his comrades in “Les Miserables”: There’s a grief that can’t be spoken and the pain goes on an on. Empty chairs and empty tables…”

Oi, kitchen-sink drama.

The feeling of emptiness does me a lot of good, actually. It forces me to set my sight on what I actually have which isn’t much but I am grateful. Plus, I try to live by Goethe’s code and I think everybody should:

“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture everyday of his life in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful implanted in the human soul.”

Passage to India

Speaking of rites of passage, I am ashamed to admit that I have this ritual with new people I meet. I have sworn that I don’t choose friends (because they choose me, harhar) which is not exactly a lie but I had a moment of reflection last night as I decided to miss “Totoy Bato” (the best in local TVlandia right now, ehem) and I realized that I discriminate more than I care to admit. Boo to me!

I had this nasty habit before. When someone asked something, a favor or a question, I would say, “What’s the password?” It did not mean anything because I always relented anyway but now that I psychoanalyze, that nasty habit acquires a sub-text.

Maybe there’s a secret handshake with me, after all but because I am a lowlife, I tend to develop instant affinity, balancing this urge to discriminate. For instance when I meet someone whose major is Political Science, the solidarity is automatic. It’s the notion of shared experience - of the same dead philosophers haunting us, of common confusion and delight over Marx, of the same questions grappled at one time or another.

You want discrimination? Well, hear this: This very witty friend in college would not make friends with a popular batchmate simply because that batchmate wore acid-washed denim. I understood the sentiment but I did not necessarily share it. I was actually friends with that batchmate who had a preference for acid-washed denim. My discrimination happens not to border on fashion.

Music is usually my yardstick, perhaps because it is my drug of choice. I mean, you don’t do my drug and I don’t dig yours, what’s the point in us being friends? Well, that’s not exactly true. I have friends who do not conceal their derision over my musical taste or lack of it, my late mother being on top of that list.

Some people may find it childish – judging people by their musical preferences. Well, they don’t get it. It’s not really about music. To me, it’s more of worldview and don’t let me expound on that. I have been out of school too long, the discourse has abandoned me.

If it’s not music or films or fashion-sense, I don’t exactly know the rite of passage or more aptly, the right of passage I subject people to. I just know that there is. When I am asked about a certain person, I tend to simplify things or maybe I am just too lazy to illuminate, so I just say he’s one of ours or she’s one of us. That’s how vampires do it, I suppose.

I remember asking my class how people strike them or what they admire in people and the usual answers I got were beauty, intelligence, power, authority, and expertise on a particular field. Then somebody turned the table on me, “Ikaw, what do you admire in a person?” My answer: compassion and humor.

So maybe that’s my password, passport, right of passage, whatever. I would like to believe the people I consider friends have plenty of both.

Days of Lost Innocence

Several summers ago, my brother underwent circumcision, the so-called rite of passage for boys like him. It was not an experience of pleasure as I remember him having a shark of a tantrum, probably from both agony and shame. And the constant cruel teasing he got from us, insensitive brats.

For women, what is our rite of passage? Is it as Joy (or how does she spell her Jhoi?) Barrio’s poem suggests – first blood at menstruation, first blood of hymens breaking, first blood at childbirth?

All this bloodbath freaks me out.

I would like to enjoy my sovereignty and define milestones in my prosaic life as rites of passage. To some, it is the sad realization that they had been had, by their very own parents at that, and choicelessly accepting that Santa Claus is a wanker. Evil, evil parents.

To me, it was the sad realization that for all my mastery at evasions, I cannot escape adulthood. And largely, it meant stripping off my Pollyana tendencies and seeing the world as it is – incomprehensible, inconsistent, and complex at times but once you go on all your fours, it is not as execrable as you first thought.

Once our innocence is shattered (not in the tradition of vestal virgins but of the Santa-Claus-is-dead variety, dummy) as Eve experienced in Eden, many pathways present themselves, promising of a fruitful journey. In my case, losing my innocence meant learning judgment which is both a bad and a good thing. I am tempted to say circumspection but that would be untruthful. Circumspection is still a personal aspiration for me. Judgment is to some extent, a way of life.

Before I learned how to judge, there were no stomach-clenching lousy movies or bad books or uninspired music. Everything was good and palatable. How I wish I could go back to those times – less complicated. Happier, I think.

Now I feel an odd sense of sadness when I hear what to my taste, is bad music. When great musicians dish out not-so-great work, the sadness is more palpable. I guess the feeling can be compared when you are at a crossroad and you realize that you have outgrown your lover and there’s nothing more rational to do but to desert him.

But with music, I am less critical. Maybe because it is my drug of choice, I am not in any analytical mood when I am listening.

When critics dissed Chris Cornell’s latest electronica outing, I felt a bit hurt for the guy. These critics barely out of their diapers, have they listened to Soundgarden? Or Audioslave (I have not)? It was not easy to fill in Zach de la Rocha’s shoes with his Marxist soundbites but Cornell valiantly took up the cudgel.

Books are a different case altogether. They take so much from the environment – water, trees and they contribute to pollution. So I feel that my indignation over a book that is such a waste is justified.

Flip and I had this conversation a long time ago I wonder if he remembers. I told him of my mild dismay that when somebody asked me of what I considered life-altering books, the ones I cited were books I read when I was way much younger, leading to an impression that I have stopped reading at a certain age, not that I have a problem with that.

The way I see it I told Flip - I was very impressionable when I started reading fiction. I was immersed in the theme and the plot and the subtext. Everything I consumed was mind-blowing.

As I put on age, I was no longer as fascinated with the story itself but as to how it is told and re-told. In the course of this new demand, less and lesser books became stellar. No, I did not become more demanding or skeptical as Flip suggested. In fact, my needs have become more simple. Regardless of plot and how ridiculous it may be, it is the elegance of the language, the aptness and precision of the descriptions that keep me engaged. I do not care about the writer’s clarity of vision or the symmetry of events or let me just say, they are secondary considerations.

Good fiction rarely comes my way like orgasm for some women (well, not this woman) so when they come, I cry and scream in utter pleasure. In the argot of football as I am still very much into that stream of consciousness, it’s comparable to a lone goal after a series of nil-nil draws.

As for movies, I have become more genre-oriented and director-conscious so the process of elimination is easier. It’s not healthy. In music and in films, I really strive to be genre-agnostic, swear to God. God has not granted me that grace yet.

So there. As for rites of passage go, I can still think of a few but losing my innocence is enough banality for now.

Pass the Dutchie

(I am not a DJ but this piece is dedicated to http://www.mariaganja.blogspot.com/ - for belaboring to read and comment on the entries and for being a non-biological mother of all mothers)

“I love my drug buddy, my drug, my drug buddy”
Lemonhead, “Drug Buddy”

Pablo Escobar and his Medellin cartel engineered Colombia’s underground economy before the druglord calendared a violent rendezvous with St. Peter. At one point, he seduced his government to grant him freedom in exchange that his country’s foreign debt be put on his tab. It’s mortifying, how loaded was this guy to even have the capacity to pay a fraction of Colombia’s foreign debt, much more foot the entire bill?

The war on drugs is a layered campaign and we can attempt to understand its failure by hemming it into straightforward socio-economics.

At the core of the drug business are political institutions – law enforcers, members of the judicial and executive branches who are in the payroll to bungle on their profession.

Then the trajectory moves to the market. For 4 decades now, the Dutch government made a distinction between the hard drug and soft drug markets. Consequently, prohibition on cannabis was relaxed and hash was on the menu of every coffee shop in Holland. A former Dutch czar bragged a strong argument - that by making it an accessible and ordinary commodity, “we have succeeded in making pot boring.”

Is ganja even a soft drug? Shooting from the hip, I can contest that it’s an herb/hemp, organic and healthy, no different from pito-pito except in the preparation. You roll one, you boil the other. What’s the difference between a spliff and a cigarette or tobacco, for that matter? Tada-ding!!

If marijuana is decriminalized, profit suffers. If it becomes legal, I can plant it in my own backyard. This is pure and simple the dictate of capital.

In one of GMA-7’s news programs, it ran a story of how, due to the economic crunch, marijuana is substituted by dried eggplant leaves. Interviewees claimed that the latter had the same calming effect as the former. If this goes on, would eggplant leaves be illegalized? It’s absurd.

Are potheads threat to society? Here’s the kick: Do they imperil the governments’ war on terrorism? Are they exploiting our mineral resources? Are they selling the nation’s patrimony? Should they bear the brunt of persecution?

There are casual users and there are junkies. Is jail time the only option? There’s rehab for the junkies and for the casual users, just give them space. Leave them to their peace. If medical studies are correct that indeed, prolonged marijuana use can hurt, these casual users are not injuring anyone but themselves.

Lighting up is what body massage or a glass of beer or whiskey to others. When the prolific American filmaker Robert Altman was interviewed one time how he relaxes, he made no qualms in saying that at the end of the day, as the sun descends from its pedestal, he sits on his porch, smokes pot as he reflects the events of the day. And he has an impressive body of work to show for it.

Why congest our rotten prison cells with people locked up for possessing a joint or two? In the US, about 2/3 of inmates are slapped with drug charges, mostly small fish. More significantly, they are serving time for “victim-less” crimes. Can you imagine how spacious the prisons will become if there’s a shift in the government’s pot policy?

Hard drugs are a different story altogether but just the same, I would still go for rehab instead of the arrest-imprisonment approach favored by the government. Put a chain on them for theft and other crimes but don’t jail them primarily because they are junkies.

God knows I have been chastised for taking this position by hardcore anti-drug sentiments of a few I have encountered. I try to understand where they are coming from and I can’t even begin to plead for a more humanistic view of junkies. It’s frustrating. These people talk about redemption and they can’t even, on the cloak of pretense, muster some compassion.

I am not saying that junkies should not be criticized but there’s a thing called human frailty. We can’t even begin to understand the demons they are slaying. Do we honestly think that our loved ones who unfortunately are engulfed in an abyss of their own creation (or so we convince ourselves) just elected one day to do shitty stuff to hurt us?

No, our harsh judgments would not help. Our support and understanding might, I say might, turn their lives around.

As for the war on drugs, Europe, particularly Portugal, Holland, and Germany has shown some innovative approaches that actually work – in terms of crime reduction, health benefits, and believe it or not, decline in consumption.

A synthetic drug called Methadone (it’s to heroin what a nicotine patch is to cigarettes) is available everywhere, even in mobile clinics. Clean needles junkies need to shoot up can be bought in vending machines or if they have no money, they can swap their old needles for new ones at police precincts. If you’ve got shaky hands and your drug buddy is indisposed, you can actually request a doctor to insert the syringe on you.

Let’s not wait for the spread of AIDS or an HIV epidemic to be more rational about needle use. I mean, we just have to be realistic that a “drug-free” society is like asking Satan to govern in Heaven. I hope I am wrong but it’s just not going to happen.

The least we can do is reduce health risks. Avoid ODs which normally happen with unregulated drugs and when junkies hide in dark-lit alleys to shoot up and can’t find their veins.

In the early 90s, the Swiss government set up a heroin-prescription program and the results are quite positive. Putting junkies on prescribed dosage apparently “sobers” them up. More importantly, the element of rebellion is gone. Partially, drugs’ attraction stems from the delectable idea that it’s forbidden. Once you relax the restriction, you take away the adrenaline rush. Then doing drugs becomes boringly conservative and ordinary.

Junkies, I bet they don’t smell nice. But there’s a band called Cowboy Junkies which does.

The Talented Mr. Ripley

In his artless, guileless way, Dantoy disarmed me with this question – “Te, unsa man imong talent?”

This question did not come without a segue. Dantoy used to paint and sketch when he was younger. His teacher was Mr. Rivas, a kind man who treated him as if he were the next Van Gogh. I remember our few encounters because I would sometimes fetch Dantoy from his class and Mr. Rivas would sometimes drop by our place to check on my brother’s progress.

Then he just disappeared. I remember his wife being ill, that probably explains his disappearance. In his Maestro’s absence, Dantoy abandoned his watercolor and brushes. No matter how we badgered him to paint, he was deaf to our pleas. (No pun intended. My brother happens to be hearing-impaired)

I was only able to coerce him to paint with a dose of melodrama when I relocated to Manila. I requested him to paint me anything, anything that I could touch and stare at longingly everytime homesickness kicked in hard. A day before departure, he handed me a painting of an unmanned banca adrift at sea, the paddle almost slipping.

That painting isn’t with me. It’s prominently displayed in my former office and in the chaotic circumstance by which I resigned (my cancer recurred, frak!), some of my personal effects were also forsaken.

The casual conversation started with me convincing him to paint again and not to disregard his talent. It cannonballed into something frighteningly “profound” from his question why I was no longer watching “Totoy Bato” lately. He’s a bit miffed with me, I think. My excuse – the current focus is on the love story, something I can do away with. He felt obliged to tell me what I have been missing – Totoy is starting his boxing career. Hence this exchange:

D: Te, talent ba ang boxing? (Is boxing a talent?)
Me: Skill and talent.
D: Hatag sa Ginoo? (Is it God-given?)
Me: Oo. (Yes)
D: Ginoo sad mubawi? (Will God take it away?)
Me: Mahi-ubos Ginoo kung dili nimo gamiton sa maayo pero ambot lang kung bawi-on. Regalo man, dili gad siguro. (God may be displeased if we misuse it but I don’t know if He will take it back since it’s His gift)
D: Unsa man talent Baan? (What’s Baan’s talent?)
Me: Singing. Baking. Cooking.
D: Ikaw, unsa man imong talent? (How about you, what’s your talent?)
Me: Gutom na ka? Naa pay spaghetti sa ref. (Are you starved? There’s still spaghetti in the ref)

End of discussion.

Dodging sticky questions – can it be considered a talent?

We Need Another Hero

(“Ang magsasaka ay rebelde. Ang mga pulis at military ay anak din ng mga magsasaka.” - a dialogue delivered by a police character in “Totoy Bato”. Yes, I like Robin Padilla. So arrest me).

Totoy Bato is a reluctant revolutionary. His brain is not filled with revolutionary ideas. He has not read Derrida or Lacan or Foucault. He couldn’t care less about the revolution.

Yet, he showed no mercy to the abusive feudal lord who forcibly grabbed his land and killed his wife. With great misgivings, he agrees to lead the labor union out to stand its ground against a fascist boss played by Rommel Padilla whose attack to his anti-hero streams of Gary Oldman in ‘Leon.” Don’t ask me who’s the better actor.

Totoy Bato mirrors the story of the peasants’ struggle in the country and in other agrarian societies. Peasants do not live for violence but are drawn to it by the injustices of the system. It is not ideas, per se, that convince them to become guerilla fighters, their situation does. Revolutionary propaganda will not make any headway if their situation contradicted.

These peasants may not have heard of the Communist Manifesto like most of us have but they are fighting the revolution for us because lazy people like myself would rather talk or blog about it. What a shame!

I recall a conversation in the distant past with my friend S – how the Philippine Left is bereft of a charismatic leader in the mold of a Che Guevarra or that Zapatista-guy, someone to capture our wild imagination.

Joma Sison, may I not be struck by lightning, is a dead fish. I was too young to experience the Edjop or Lean Alejandro era. I have a crush on Vic Ladlad but nothing is much known of this recluse.

Maybe the closest to an iconic symbol was the late Eman Lacaba, a bohemian-poet who authored “Salvaged Poems.” He is famous for his Zen-incantation of “we are tribeless and all tribes are ours” and his description of the people’s warrior as an acrobat who must climb mountains because “the masses are there.” I have a shirt of his image and if I were present during his eulogy, I would have dedicated Pablo Neruda’s “Brown and Agile Child”:

“My somber heart seeks you always
I love your happy body, your rich, soft voice
Dusky butterfly, sweet and sure
Like the wheatfield, the sun, the poppy, and the water”

Well, maybe not – feeling wifey.

It is clear that the Philippine Left is not personality-oriented but issue-driven which I respect. Totally. But wouldn’t it be more exciting if there is someone who combines an abundance of revolutionary curiosity, a familiarity with the canon and pop culture, and who will animatedly speak of the revolution in a much more vibrant language?

Until that happens, Arturo Magtanggol aka Totoy Bato will just have to fit the bill.

Nothing to lose but blood

“Sumulong ka, anak-pawis
Huwag alintanain batuta ng pulis”
(a marching song for the working class)

Dantoy and I struck a covenant in February to follow Totoy Bato’s roller coaster of ups and downs. Congratulate me. So far, I have only missed 12 episodes of that show. We have added “True Blood” into our pact, a show so true to its title. Totoy Bato sheds blood for justice while the vampires in True Blood simply live for it.

Dantoy has a bizarre sense of humor. Once, we were playing with Georgelablab and when that muff is so full of himself, all too content of the attention lavished on him, he can’t keep his mouth completely closed. Maybe, that’s his version of a smile. Naturally, his fangs are exposed. This did not escape Dantoy’s observation which prompted him to say, “Te, vampire man ni si George.” Both of us cracked up which baffled the hell out of George. Poor baby, he could not understand why we were acting crazy around him. A vampire of a dog? Hmm…

I relish my bonding time with Dantoy. How I wish there were no constraints to his mental development so we could talk about the charm of philosophy or the death of ideology, just anything to stretch the discussion to absurdity.

For instance, we could theorize that “True Blood” could have been inspired by Das Kapital or Alan Ball, the show’s creator, could be KM’s devout disciple.

Listen to KM: “Capital, vampire-like, lives only by sucking living labor and lives the more, the more labor it sucks.”

How is that for vitality of expression? KM is a poet even on a bad day. I remember my PolEcon professor who is openly Marxist, lamenting that Marxists may not be good at predicting revolutions and their outcome but they make good poets. Well, he has not read Joma Sison’s old poems – consistently lifeless, if it’s not blasphemous to say so.

KM’s apocalyptic tone in “There is a spectre haunting Europe…” evokes subtlety but “capital, vampire-like sucks labor” is a winner. How I wish I could write like that. Hell, yeah, he is not consistently boring as some of his disciples are.

Maybe I should send a memo to myself – read KM again this summer and perhaps, a dose of Kafka. I have not read KM in years. Well, I have not read at all for almost a year, fiction or otherwise, because of my illness. I am just too happy I could read again without tiring too soon.

3 Men and a Baby

There was no money to buy novels when I was growing up. I relied on my school’s library for the Hardy Boys’ series; my classmates for the Sweet Dreams series; my classmates’ parents for the erotica staples; and the neighbor to our right for romance novels.

In highschool, I only knew of three categories of men: cowboys, gypsies, and pirates.

Cowboys were tearfully boring. They lacked refinement and cerebral enthusiasm, they held no interest for me. Gypsies were esoterically mysterious. With music and fortune-telling as their enduring legacy, I associated them with the circus and the carnival. Pirates were like rainbows in a cloudless sky.

Before Johnny Depp breathed life to Jack Sparrow in cinema, I already decided to surrender my chastity to a pirate.

But my pirate had no face. Hence, when news of Somali pirates hit the headlines recently, I hungered to catch a glimpse. How remotely did they resemble the marauders of my highschool daydreams?

I shouldn’t romanticize them though. Their acts are fuelled by the crude demands of socio-economics. Word on the street: Somalia is a failed state.

What’s left of those who ferociously desire to survive? There’s almost nothing to loot on the plains. So they revolt against the shipping boundaries and pillage what is out there in the ocean.

Pirates terrorize and mesmerize just as the ocean does. Astronauts may have conquered outerspace but the sea and those who try to have dominion over it holds a mystery. At least, for me.

Gary Granada who’s known as a protest-singer, appreciating its dialectic, penned a love song using the metaphoric echoes of the ocean:

“Dagat na pagitan ng ating pag-ibig
Sinlawak, singlayo, singlalim
Ngunit sa isang panig, dagat ang nagsasanib
Ng dalampasigan mo sa akin”

The sea yields a great many narratives. Separating continents as it connects, the sea offers life in its bounty as much as it deprives without remorse. We send off our beloved to far-away lands and anticipate his homecoming from the same shore.

This probably explains my fascination of pirates. The ocean is their domain, their playground and I want to play with them. Or I want them to play with me? Ahoy!!!

All work and no play, lalalala.

Mother Courage (apologies to Bertolt Brecht)

The priest’s homily last Sunday was about being a good shepherd, mostly addressing the parent-parishioners. The spinster-parishioner, that’s me, felt a bit left-out because the monsignor offered no fat to chew on for my tribe.

It’s a grisly challenge for these so-called men of God, I surmise. In the pulpit, in front of a motley crowd, who do they speak to? Who do they choose as an audience?

But I am unfazed. If some priests inadvertently exclude my kind and refuse to communicate to me, there is ga-glug!! – self-reflection.

It’s quite a labor, really. But when life tosses a chance to replace slacker ennui with scary silent moments for big-time introspection, you just have to take them. Gives you more reason not to kill yourself.

So I talk to my alter-ego – how’s your good shepherding?

Well, mostly I am in the company of wolves so I don’t do much shepherding. My younger brother grew up with our grandparents. My youngest sister raised herself on her own devices. In short, they have become decent human beings because I was not their shepherd.

The closest I got to shepherding was when I tried my hands at teaching. I am far from a roaring success. In fact, I need to apologize to my students whose lives I wasn’t able to change for the better. I will always be proud of their achievements but the credit is entirely theirs.

I only learned about J.M Coetzee’s existence after I left teaching. His remarkable lesson “those who come to teach learn nothing” gains more meaning as I seek reaffirmation through my reflection.

I insisted not to be called “Ma’am” and I addressed my students as “classmates” because in essence, I, too, was a student like them, who had plenty of room to learn as I kept cheering that learning is not supposed to be an ordeal but fun.

Making efforts to repudiate the “banking concept of education,” the dichotomy of teacher-student became blurred. With the teacher’s table demystified, I only wish true learning was ushered in. It’s not for me to say how much or little my classmates learned from me but I definitely learned a lot from them.

If they hated being in my class, it does not diminish my victory because I learned something. I learned something because I made a decision to learn something, no matter what. What I store in my “baul” of learning cannot be taken away from me.

Just as the good Lord gave us the greatest gift of “free will,” I tried to be a good shepherd by giving my classmates freedom to think and learn. Of course, they were very much aware of my politics. I owed them that honesty, where I was coming from but I say this without blushing, no one can accuse me of tyrannically imposing my will on them. Besides, if I had to impose my will on anyone, it would have to be on Marcelo Rios or Jose Maurinho or those beautiful men in the “Tudors” or those vampires in “True Blood’.

My victory as a good shepherd wasn’t to create robots or mini-me’s. Whether those kids decided on becoming sheep or lambs or wolves, that’s out of my hands. What is important is they make informed choices. They may think of the world antithetically from mine or have a strong opposing opinion, it's less important. What matters is they have an opinion.

Apathy is the worst outcome of any form of shepherding. Love and moral courage and integrity, they are its best.

Belated Happy Mother’s Day to the best shepherd in the whole wide world – mothers!! Our own, our friends’, our phantom mothers, and the mothers in our fantasies.

Children's Crusade (apologies to Sting)

The political ads are getting pointed criticisms from political pundits – early electioneering and fund-sources are some of the concerns being raised.

I’m not joining the fray. I’ve gotten to this age when I have a clear-eyed understanding of traditional politicians and decorum is not something I expect from them, not by a far shot.

As far as advertisements go, nothing could be as crass as Mike Defensor’s presscon several days ago. Surrounded by his very young children, he went on the offensive about Jun Lozada having kids with different women.

How dirty and cheap could Defensor go to gain the upperhand in this game of political chess? Who advised him that children were good props for this game? Worse, exploiting your own? That’s a big-time low.

Some celebrity-parents spend millions on security just to protect their children. They move heaven and earth to shield their children from the gawkish scrutiny of media.

And here’s this guy who thinks he is smart by pulling his own political stunt. Did we hear media questioning or criticizing what his children were doing at his presscon? And the things he was saying, it was not for children, his or others’, to be exposed to.

“Not in front of the children,” responsible parents caution themselves.

I remember an argument between my parents that I witnessed. The two were talking and my father mentioned “kabit.” To my mother’s consternation, I picked it up and asked what “kabit” meant.

“Mao na ni Dadoy kay dili ka careful,” I remember my mother admonishing my father. “Fix this up,” she couldn’t hide her censure.

My father being one heck of a frat-boy told me that a “kabit” is a “kiringking,” another new word for me but I liked the ring to it. “What’s a kiringking,” I asked. My father explained that a “kiringking” is a girl who likes boys.

“Oh,” I said, “I like boys. I am a kiringking.” Boy, the consternation on my mother’s face again. By then, my father was laughing hard and as my eyes volleyed from my father to my mother, I was befuddled what the hell did I say which my father found funny that my mother found a bit foul.

Parents, they can be a pain in the you-know-where.

Pride in the Name of Love

“I believe that truth has only one face: that of a violent contradiction” (George Bataille)

Forget about the swine flu, people can’t seem to shake off the Pacman-flu. Not only is he being hailed unanimously as the best fighter boxing has ever produced, some analysts are evaluating his worth beyond his boxing turf.

Muhammad Ali’s legend was not merely carved by his valor as a boxer. He became larger than life when he raised his fist against racial discrimination, championing the cause of the colored people. He lent his voice of sobriety and reason against the Vietnam War.

Manny Pacquiao’s value to his generation is tied up to the sense of national pride he inspires. Filipinos around the globe are inveigled to hold their heads up high. This is months after some of our countrymen took offense over a satirical comment typecasting us a “nation of servants”. If we cannot take a statistical fact with a pound of dignity, there is no way we can sustain a sense of national pride.

I give credit to the Pacman for waving the flag but there is danger in anchoring our sense of identity to one person making big bucks knocking the daylight out of his opponents. We need to caution ourselves that our sense of identity is not embodied in a person – it should evolve through our history of struggle against colonialism; our cultural revival on the road to independence; and our collective mission to build a nation. In the process of nation-building, it is hoped that we will also be able to define our identity as a people.

But we are a new nation. We have to be lenient with ourselves if we are still dazed and confused about who we are and what we want to become. It comes as no surprise – the misplaced anger at being labeled as “a nation of servants.” Why does the comment sting? It’s because we cannot look at ourselves in the mirror without disliking what we see.

Personally, I don’t mind being called a servant. I will wear it as a badge of honor. Besides, as Christians, are we not cajoled to lead a life of service? Do we want to be cast as bullies rather than underdogs? That’s the simplest I could put it.

Would we rather, like the US, want to be immortalized as mass murderers, greedy imperialists, evil exploiters of other people’s resources, and at the end of the day, ask farcically why we are so much hated? The hubris and the attendant guilt of being a universally recognized oppressor is a heavier burden, believe me.

Apparently, there’s so much pain to go through before developing national pride. It will take some time before we acquire a kick-ass attitude as a people. I mean, if we had the right sense of national pride, we would have not dignified that article written by that Hongkong columnist -so what is it to you? Bugger off! Being onion-skinned and worse, demanding an apology with the stubbornness of a mule made a pathetic caricature of us. You do not beg for respect, you claim it.

It is our tragedy to be a colony of the US at the turn of the 20th century. Before the Stockholm syndrome was discovered, we were already afflicted by it. We became smitten with our colonial masters, not wanting to break off ties, desiring to be adopted by them. We were rape victims too willing to spread our legs for our rapists.

There are Filipinos who think the world of America, who think America is the world. There are Filipinos who want to surrender our much-fought independence to become “little brown brothers” to Uncle Sam. I don’t exactly blame them. I blame our lack of national identity and pride.

Other colonized people recognize the truth of their colonial past better than us. They do not kowtow to their colonial masters or bow their heads in thanksgiving as we Filipinos love to do. The writer Jamaica Kincaid encapsulates it all for me: “Even if I really came from people who were living like monkeys in trees, it was better to be that than what happened to me, what I became after I met you”.

That is national pride, bebe.

10-2

SMB, my favorite PBA team is currently in the lead in team standing with a 10-2 card but I am getting ahead of the story. Two weeks ago, they came to town to suffer its first loss in the conference

It was my first time inside the Tacloban Convention Center, more popularly known as the Astrodome. I must say it is architecturally egalitarian. The view from the ringside is almost the same from the box. A proletariat spectator like me can very well see who’s committing a 3-second violation or who’s taking two steps too many as the basketball aficionado in the ringside, all gung-ho to pay more than 250 bucks. Suya lang.

Dantoy and I went early because I am never late when it comes to these things. I can be late at my own wedding but not for a concert or a game. Minutes later, in his exceptionally unassuming way, Freddie Abuda who’s now an integral key to SMB’s coaching staff walked by. Ushers and kibitzers were clogging the aisle but he didn’t seem to mind being delayed. My well-placed veneration of this man made me want to scream without demur a few expletives to make way. Show some respect.

It evoked of a court scene in “To Kill a Mockingbird” when Atticus Finch was marching out from the courthouse and everyone was prompted to stand up. Abuda is no Atticus. The PBA is not exactly an arena where social cleavage is deliberated, precisely because there is no one doing an Atticus Finch.

On a different note, I would like to think that SMB is in the process of rebuilding. In the “new” squad, one player I find likeable is Dondon Hontiveros. Well, he’s not really one of the new guys. You could say he came at the time of the transition.

Dondon, by what I witnessed, is a player who embraces his gift with a lot of gratitude. He’s one of the first to get to the court from the dugout; practices his shots seriously; does the team’s drills with gusto. His eyes reflect the desire to win and he’s competitive without necessarily being individualistic. He hugs his teammates who argue with referees and gives pep-talks. This is hardly captured on TV so I am grateful for the chance of seeing that side of him. He will make a good team captain but he needs to improve on his turnovers.

The one I liked from the old squad is Danny Ildefonso but today, he didn’t make a good impression. Getting his first basket, he was motioning to the referee that he was fouled. This delayed him from going back to the other court, leaving one opponent unguarded. Then when he was slapped with his 2nd foul, he was complaining again about that uncalled foul. Show some dignity and learn to let go.

I am envious of people who are good at complaining because I am a push-over. More than envy, my issue with players who love to complain is their seeming lack of understanding of the bigger picture.

You cannot win with a referee unless you’re courting a technical foul or an ejection. The referee is the last person one wages a psy-war with. Right or wrong, he’ not going to reverse his call. You can’t bully him to blow his whistle to your favor. If you truly think that a particular game is poorly officiated, file a protest later, demand for a review. But during a game, complaining about bad calls will just destroy your concentration and hurt your team’s chances.

The biggest mistake a player could make is giving power to the referee. These referees will take the slightest excuse to power-trip and once it’s obvious that they’ve gotten under your skin, you’re dead meat. Besides, you’d still see so much of them, what’s the point in inviting their derision?

If I were a professional player, I would make these referees my drinking buddies, my partners at card games. I will memorize their shoe sizes as well as their birthdays and their spouses’ birthdays. I will send them Christmas presents. What is there to lose?

At the end of the day, the players get the astronomical contract while the referees receive workman’s wages. Not really, but the disparity. A player like Ildefonso must know that he is way above and this should manifest in his behavior on court. Am I asking too much when I want the players on my team to have the killer-instinct of a predator and the sensitivity of a philosopher?

As a fan, I also strive to rise above with dignity. Demonstrating sportsmanship, I congratulated the 2 kids to my right for an exciting game. I chatted with the people sitting behind me with their poorly hidden delight over my defeat. I am quite sure they were disdainfully laughing at my punk-ska dance everytime I had a cause for jubilation. Who wouldn’t? Everytime Dantoy and I stood up to loudly cheer, they got a good view of my sagging butt.