Crying game

So one of my multiply contacts posted a threatening blog about not messing with him, and the violent consequences anyone who dares to will potentially face. I will not claim to know much about what's going on in his life but I think I know what triggered his most recent outburst which, in everyone else's opinion, is kind of petty, leading him to admit that he can blow his fuse over the smallest of things. I got his side and I understand that people value things differently, so I'll sympathize. Patience is not one of his virtues he says, and never will be. I just hope he also knows that many people, especially those around him, feel the same because you see, he can really try yours big time. But I love him, so I'll try to understand (haha) ;-)

It got me thinking about my own threshold and it made me realize how unbelievably patient I am that even I surprise myself. For someone who wears a constant scowl and takes things more seriously than he should, I have an incredible tolerance of people and their behavior. Of course, the easy explanation to this (and how may times have people told me this) is that I am "plastic", that I am good at hiding what I really feel about people. I take no offense with this label, for to some extent I myself admit that indeed I am and that so far, if I am being one, all that being "plastic" ever did to me is make my relationship with people a lot smoother than if I, say, let my usual suplado and antipatiko self all out. I don't know if that passes for tolerance, but if we are talking about the ability to smile and have a meaningful chat with people that others would rather butcher with a rusty, tetano-carrying bolo, then I'm probably a good campaign mascot for the civil rights agenda. I can't keep grudges (even if I want to) so I easily forgive and forget, which makes my limit pretty hard to reach. But I also admit that there's a huge difference between what I really feel and what I say. I may not like someone as much as I claim to do, and I can say with matching snooty eyeroll that I hate someone even if that person is the only reason I wake up every morning and go to work.

I haven't figured in a real fight as well. I have experienced something resembling it, but it has something to do with my being the top officer in my high school CAT and that poor cadet wasn't even fighting back. I was "punishing" him for commiting a grave misdemeanor against a fellow student, so it was more like a parent teaching his son that he did something very bad. And I always feared seeing my parents in school as if the only reason my teachers would want to see them is if I did something bad. So I admit I did everything I could to be (and I was) a very, very nice kid. It was also a blessing that no one dared offend me when I was still in school (none that I can remember, at least) so the possibility of getting into fights was remote. Heck, I was so nice that I think I must have inspired peace wherever I went, that other kids would stop fighting and feel ashamed of themselves as I pass them by. I was Mother Theresa, high school reincarnate. If me now would see me then, I'd probably bully him. I walked around with an unmistakable "Bully me, please" demeanor but somehow I got along well with everyone and now that I think about it, I don't know where all that goodness went.
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Some grade school stories.

First to fourth grade. I was so afraid of disobeying my teachers that when they instructed us to fall in line at the school yard while waiting for the janitors to finish cleaning up the rooms, I followed as if St. Peter is waiting at the other end. While my classmates acted like normal kids that they are, I proudly acted like a sturdy lamp post, even as the hot sun shone and scorched me to exhaustion. I was so afraid of leaving "the line" and be accused of being makulit, so I refused to be the taya and run around playing langit-lupa just so I can stay even if that line that we have formed has become nothing more than a queue of bags, not kids. Oh I was such a loser. A lamp post for four years.

Fourth grade. The first time I cried in school. She was my first puppy love but everyone in class is pairing her to other boys except me. I became so afraid of losing her to the brainless, class heartthob so I told her I liked her as we walked back to our second floor classroom from the school canteen. Instead of a gentle hug, what I got instead was the most painful slap in the face I ever felt up to this day. It would have been okay with me but she slapped me so hard that I fell a few steps down the stairs. As if the pain of rejection was not enough, I just had to fall down the stairs as she broke it to me with such violence. I cracked my shin. So I cried.

Sixth grade. The second and the last time I cried in school. One of my classmates loved pinching my cheeks, my arms, my tummy, practically every part of me she can get her hands on and she just can't enough of it. Another one knew where my funny bones are, so she tickled me in the most appropriate of places. Then one day, they came at me together. I didn't know what to do and I had no idea what was happening so I thought they were bullying me, they were molesting me. I asked for help but the whole class just laughed at the spectacle of me rolling on the floor, trying my very best to keep two pairs of hands off me. They were both girls so I didn't dare hit them to make them stop. I felt helpless and alone. So I cried.

The following day, the other girls from their clique approached me to say sorry. They did not expect me to cry, they explained, what they wanted was to make me laugh. They thought I was too stiff and too serious for my own good, so it became a competition between the two as to who can make me laugh the hardest. Despite their good intentions, I told them to just stay away from me.

Celebrate culture with ICUP @ 51

Come and celebrate culture with the International Club of UP from January 22 until January 25. They're screening Ping Pong, a delightfully enjoyable movie about friendship and the unlikely places where we find them. This one's hard to catch, so better take this opportunity to see it - and for free! And ping pong has never looked this, uh, extreme.

Capping off the week-long celebration of the club's 51st anniversary is Kalye Kultura, a walk-through, interactive cultural fair. And where else but the most serene of places at the UP campus: the romantic and tranquil Lagoon.

When He Was Bad

I thought I'd share this really lengthy address by Jurgen Habermas for the Richard Rorty Memorial Lecture at Stanford University last November. I haven't read it yet, but I am sharing just the same for sentimental reasons. Nope, we weren't old lovers or long lost pals, but Habermas became more than those two while I was writing my thesis about the evolution of civil society and its growing relevance for Third World democracies. His book "The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere" became my bible, supplemented only by another philosopher Alain Touraine. I must admit that mine was not "compliant" with standard thesis expectations; I utilized nothing more than an armchair and three library cards. My adviser initially dissuaded me from pushing through with it and argued that my (ambitiously) theoretical work is more suitable for graduate class and not for undergraduate students (ahem!). But with a little help and a good recommendation from another professor (I am forever grateful to you Ms. Jo), I was allowed to pursue my topic even if it did not use either of the qualitative or quantitative research methods. My blockmates never found out how I cheated my way to graduation as they toiled in the field and spent thousand of pesos printing out questionnaires and surveys. And for that my adviser explained to me that she can't give me the elusive uno, how it is unfair to my classmates and how she would have wanted me to show her what I learned from four years of social research classes.

Back to Habermas. He wrote "Public Sphere" as his own thesis for a university degree so I guess it was nothing short of an inspiration that I thought I could do what he did. Unfortunately, the only thing that Habermas inspired in my work is its length; all 278 pages of almost incomprehensible jargons and terms excluding the bibliography (which was probably another 15 or so pages). I and my adviser submitted a copy to the Main Library with the hope of being awarded the rare opportunity to be catalogued (only outstanding graduate and post-graduate dissertations and on rare ocassions, exceptional undergraduate thesis, are archived at the Main Library). I only proved that that opportunity was even rarer because until now, my name does not appear when I type it in the OPAC.

There goes my Habermas encounter. And here are the links to his address: part 1, part 2, part 3.
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Shame on me, I can't remember the title (if it did have a title at all) of the first story in Milan Kundera's "Laughable Loves", which to me is one of the best short story collections. It told of a young couple who, while playing roles to "spice up" their love life, got lost in their own little games and ended up hating each other. I want to read the book again as I remember enjoying it immensely when I first did in my freshman year at college, but the Rizal Library does not have a copy. I wish I included this book in my Christmas wishlist.

My other favorite short story is "The Necklace" by Guy de Maupassant.
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I think Neil Gaiman's best work excluding his graphic novels is "Neverwhere".
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I'm trying to come up with a shortlist of the saddest, most depressing books of all time. Three titles that easily come to mind are Angela's Ashes, The Time-Traveller's Wife (even if it's sappy), and of course, Jude the Obscure. I'm hoping people can recommend some more titles that they think I should read if I feel like breaking my own heart.

Chalk talk

Haha. Sorry I pushed you away. Now look what I'm singing.

Saturday morning chismis

As Melanie Marquez put it, "well, well, well...look do we have here?". It seems Russell T. Davies does not only inject homoerotic "overtones" in his shows, but infects his staff and crew as well. We know what he did with QAF and what he is doing with the naughtier-than-nice Doctor Who spin-off show Torchwood but if we believe David Tennant, then it appears he is the only straight guy in a show run entirely by homos.

NOT!

Because if we believe UK's tabloids this time, EVERYONE in Doctor Who is! And komodojo of peyups.com, have this to prove it.





















I can't wait to see Spike snog Capt. Jack Harkness.

Dilimania (with apologies to Butch Dalisay)

Tomorrow, my alma mater will officially kick off its year long celebration of its centenary. But I don't know if that many is excited about it at all aside from its current students and the fresh grads. With very little publicity for upcoming events and its weak, if not non-existent, alumni relations, it will be hard to pump things up among graduates who could've celebrated this milestone more meaningfully than most (yes, I'm talking about the big shots). More money could've poured in to help develop the university. But then, good publicity has never been UP's strength. The face of UP in the media is usually that of an angry one, dripping in sweat from attending a rally to uphold a cause that UP has been fighting for for so many years now, or another angry face but this time, one at the halls of power, dripping in mud from swinging barrels of them at someone else. It's not the school's fault it can't play good basketball. I bet no self-preserving parent who invested good money in pricey basketball clinics would allow their tall and handsome sons attend a public school and mingle with poor nerds.

But there're many things that students and alumni alike would like to see UP have. Things like newer facilities, teachers who get paid well so they can stop throwing their frustrations at the hapless students, well-maintained classrooms, better cared for books and archives at the library. A better sense of pomp and pageantry would also be welcome (come on, a motorcade in the middle of the day? Hindi niyo naman gustong mangamoy pawis ang mga kagalang-galang niyong alumni niyan?). For a university that offers doctorate degrees in art studies and appreciation as well as a whole college dedicated solely to the fine arts, I could only guess how the centennial committee managed to choose the current centennial logo.

A friend once remarked that UP doesn't have a sense of community the way other schools have. I think she's gravely wrong. Debates and arguments, bickerings and fights that transcend the professional among its people have always been the hallmark of UP. And internal scuffles don't necessarily mean there is no community among them. It just goes to show how dynamic its population is, how deeply committed the people are in their beliefs and steadfast in their principles. It doesn't derive its pride and identity from awards and recognitions; the school knows there are better things to do than gloat with the medals or trophies it received. The people in it know what things really matter, and the things that do matter are those that go unnoticed because they have been embedded in the people's everyday lives, in it's culture, in it's way of life. It cannot be summed up in just one single event or competition. Without the debates and disagreements, the government might as well shut the school down. There's a big difference between having a community and a herd for a school.

But the thing about UP is despite all these, it has never wavered in its mission to uphold excellence. While rankings and recognitions are beyond UPs concerns, it still manages to get high marks way above other schools, despite the lack of funds, the migration of its best teachers, and amid all the issues. I could only wonder what it would achieve if it was as rich as its private counterparts.

Tomorrow, everyone who wants to will celebrate exactly that. It is not after all, a school exclusively for its students; it is the university of the people in the truest sense of the word. The university's gain is the gain of the country, and its faults, the country's pains. And just this once, all those who have had the privilege to bear a student number will bask in its crimson glory.

UP, ang galing mo.

Of kings and men (and women)

My mom once told me that it is sinful to think about someone else's mortality. But really, if Erap runs again in 2010, I would rather be excommunicated. To paraphrase another president, I'd rather have hell than a heaven ruled by an immoral cretin.
***
I'm staying up late to watch CNN's live coverage of the Iowa caucuses. If not for their high-tech touch-screen monitors, for that hot papa Anderson Cooper. No but really, this could be historical; the results can start the trend; which in turn could give the world's remaining superpower its first female or black president.

His coverage at the new year celebrations at the Times Square was a blast. That took balls to co-host with the hilarious Kathy Lee Griffin. Loved it when she puts him on the spot.
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Oh, some of the late night talk shows are back. I pity the writers who joined the strike. I heard Letterman's fired all of his. Tsk, tsk.
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It's getting cold up here in our place. We don't have air-conditioned rooms, but the open windows are blowing us arctic winds in here. Right now, the temp is at 20 degrees C. Earlier at dawn, it reached as low as 18 degrees.

Something new, old things

I've always enjoyed new year celebrations more than any other holidays. You feel a certain bond with the rest of the world, something I imagine is the closest we can get to universal harmony. The collective anticipation and excitement, the kisses and the shared wine and champagne with both loved ones and strangers, the bright lights and the loud, lively music touches everything human in us.

But there's always that silence that follows; deafening in its suddenness, and me in a daze and great awe upon realizing that I survived the chaos and the hell that broke loose the night before. Nothing evokes an overwhelming sense of nostalgia in me other than the Christmas holidays and re-runs of old TV shows. I wake up the afternoon of January 1st and it feels like the world has suddenly screeched into a grinding halt, like a speeding car crashing into a wall. I get up dizzy from the spirits I consumed the night before, because mine is not enough to keep it going. You wonder where the people have gone, where the noise and energy of the hustle and bustle the weeks before went. It's both refreshing and sad at the same time, knowing that you lived for another year and you will have to get through another one.
***
And yes the world is a changed world when midnight struck. Jack TV was pulled off cable TV, and so is etc and 2nd avenue. This means no more Conan O' Brien, no more Beauty and the Geeks, no more Beat the Geek, and no more E!. There is some consolation, as the replacement Maxxx airs shows from G4TV (formerly TechTV) which happens to be as geeky as one can imagine (catch Attack of the Show) while AXN Beyond will drive Buffy fans crazy through the nightly re-runs (beginning Season 1!).

But it's a different matter altogether when Sky also pulled out DW-TV and TV Monde Asie. In a cable service where almost half of airtime are dedicated to mindless wrestlers and blonde bimbos and their "duh"-hunks, those two channels are geniuses. Sky really made it personal with that move.
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The first thing about holidays, most especially I guess among Filipinos, is the food. My family for instance, are not concerned as much with house decoration or the gifts as with our menu for the noche buena and the buena noche. Unlike other households where the entrance of the -ber months mean dusting off the christmas tree and putting up the lights, September for my family means scrambling for ingredients of our holiday menu. Gifts are bought a week before Christmas and the decorations are put up a day or so prior. We didn't put up any this year, but we did fine. As long as we get to eat what we wanted come Christmas Eve and New Year.
My diet is a shame, considering how gifted my family is in cooking. Pao can cook almost anything, a talent which he got from my mother. My dad is good with dishes that doesn't require the stove (salads, grilled/roasted what-have-yous, kilawin). But despite my issues with vegetables and meat, I think I do fairly well in the kitchen. While my white sauce pasta went unnoticed in the family dining table (they aren't big on pasta), it was a hit among our neighbors.
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During holidays, the most important book in our house is the cookbook. We have several, but who we (more specifically my mother) consider the goddess of the chopping board is not Nora Daza but Aling Charing. She lived in the 50's I guess, if she ever did exist. My mom's copy is so old it should disintegrate on our next caldereta, but she holds on to it like an imported corned beef. Our copy is as old as my parent's marriage, and can qualify an important historical document of the better days that have come to pass. It's evidence of a time in the distant past when the centavo was actually worth something,































a reminder of an era where the word "minindal" was still in use,
















and a time when your orange Quezon can buy a book, and you'll still have change.
















Another thing, the telephone numbers of the publisher and distributor only have six digits.

The map of a national treasure could be hidden in its pages somewhere.