Far From Neutral Notions - Philippine politics, culture and stuff

Club Dredd. We finally got to play Club Dredd. Hold on while I try and come to grips with that seemingly insignificant piece of information. FMD, fronting in Jeepney Joyride’s official album launch, played at Club Dredd. I played at Club Dredd.

Sure, not the Dredd of old, but it’s still Club Dredd. Ever since I started learning to play the guitar, I’ve dreamed of playing at three venues: Mayric’s, UP and Club Dredd. Mayric’s was relatively easy, and so was UP. Dredd though, closed down some time ago and it seemed nothing more than a pipe dream. Until it’s re-opening at, of all places, Eastwood.

Fine, it’s in the exact same spot Gweilo’s was, and we’ve played there a few times before. And there isn’t any real significance to landing a gig there. But it’s still Dredd. For me, it’s not a place, it’s a symbol: rock ‘n roll. It may not look it anymore, it may not even feel it, but that’s what Dredd will always mean for me.

I may bleed the blues, but my heart pumps rock n’ roll. And as Malcom Mclaren, manager of the Sex Pistols once said: Rock and roll doesn’t necessarily mean a band. It doesn’t mean a singer, and it doesn’t mean a lyric, really. It’s that question of trying to be immortal.

And in that moment, on that stage, with my band, I was.

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Reports from, well, everywhere, really, would seem to indicate that Malu Fernandez has resigned from both the Manila Standard and People Asia. Everywhere, that is, except from Manila Standard or People Asia. One thing that stood out among the many reasons she supposedly gave is that she’s been the target of death threats.

I don’t particularly care what she does anymore; I’ve let off steam and said my piece. By all means, fade into obscurity. But really, death threats?

There’s a distinct difference between getting a death threat and having people wish you dead. So enough with the drama and back to our regularly scheduled programming. Which reminds me: I rode the elevator with that girl today. Yay!

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Much has been said, and even more mud has been tossed, regarding the acerbic wit of Malu Fernandez and her detractors. I’ve presented my one peso (roughly 2 cents) on the matter. Others, weighing in, have taken the high road, a path that I, not unlike Robert Frost, often wax romantic about but very seldom take. Like a certain captain of a certain 03-K64 Firefly-class mid-bulk transport with a standard radion accelerator core, I’m a fan of all seven sins, but most often, I’m partial to wrath. And in one of my rare moments of introspection, I actually bothered asking myself “why”. Could it be, as some may have suggested, mob mentality? Did I — and many others — lose track of the original issue, merely jumping on the bandwagon?

That observation has merit, of course. I’m not an OFW, and I do not have many close relatives or friends who are. In the past I have been critical of people who leave this, my country, for a hodgepodge of personal reasons, not the least of which is my disdain for the arrogance and near-instantaneous cultural amnesia most Fil-Ams I know possess. But then, I’m lucky enough to have never needed to leave (yet). I’m this way because, so far, I can still afford to be. I don’t know how it is to actually need to work abroad. I may not be directly in the same demographic that Malu Fernandez mocks, but I’m likely in the general area. By all rights, I shouldn’t be this angry, I shouldn’t have taken it personally, and neither should a lot of other people.

So why, then, the outrage?

I am neither joining the bandwagon, nor am I all of a sudden part of a mob and their mentality. I do not speak for the others, nor do they for me. That I have joined the fray does not speak for itself. I have my reasons, that I will try to make clear. I am this angry precisely because it’s a luxury that I can, but still only just barely. It rankles me to no end that people like Malu Fernandez can take that luxury for granted, when so much more can’t afford to care. It pisses me off that they’re in a position to make a difference and make lives better, yet they waste their time nitpicking about designer clothes. I hate the fact that, save for an enlightened few, being aware and concerned about what’s going on in this country is not a matter of course, but a matter of finance. I resent the decadence and haughtiness of the elite because there are many that have to resort to leaving everything they love behind just to put food on the table. I rage because they have the temerity to laugh about it, when we have to bleed for it.

The economic divide in this country is as large as it is oppressive, but that does not make that status quo right, nor correct. And it is the height of arrogance to rub it in. I took it personally because it is personal. I can’t eat my indignation and concern, and as much as I’d want to, I wouldn’t be able to say what I need to say or care about my country the way I do if I didn’t have a job or have food on the table. What luxuries I have came from my parents’ hard work, and to some small extent, mine. They toiled for years to give me what they can, to provide for me and my brother so that we can grow into our own. I developed my sense of nationalism and self-worth, self-actualization, without fear of going hungry thanks to them, and that means the world to me. What Malu Fernandez wrote is a spit in the face of all that. Because she never had that problem. She’s probably set for life.

So I do identify with the OFWs and their families. To take lightly what they go through and to belittle their simple joys is to take me lightly and to belittle my simple joys, and I will have none of that.

Your moment of Zen:

Well I woke up this morning
On the wrong side of the bed
And how I got to thinkin’
About all the things you said
About ordinary people
And how they make you sick
And if callin’ names kicks back on you
Then I hope this does the trick

‘Cause I’m sick of your complainin’
About how many bills
And I’m sick of all your bitchin’
‘Bout your poodles and your pills
And I just can’t see no humor
About your way of life
And I think I can do more for you
With this here fork and knife

(Chorus)
Eat The Rich
There’s only one thing that they are good for
Eat The Rich
Take one bite now - come back for more
Eat The Rich
I gotta get this off my chest
Eat The Rich
Take one bite now - spit out the rest

Believe in all the good things
That money just can’t buy
Then you won’t get no bellyache
From eatin’ humble pie
I believe in rags to riches
Your inheritance won’t last
So take your Gray poupon my friend
And shove it up your ass

Aerosmith, Eat the Rich

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Late to the fray again — playing gigs as much as I can before I bid Manila adieu — but as I’ve always maintained, there can be no statute of limitations on outrage. So after finally catching up on my RSS reader, I came across this little tidbit about an article published in People Asia by a certain Malu Fernandez, who also writes for Manila Standard. The salient points:

However I forgot that the hub was in Dubai and the majority of the OFWs (overseas Filipino workers) were stationed there. The duty-free shop was overrun with Filipino workers selling cell phones and perfume. Meanwhile, I wanted to slash my wrist at the thought of being trapped in a plane with all of them.

While I was on the plane (where the seats were so small I had bruises on my legs), my only consolation was the entertainment on the small flat screen in front of me. But it was busted, so I heaved a sigh, popped my sleeping pills and dozed off to the sounds of gum chewing and endless yelling of “HOY! Kumusta ka na? At taga san ka? Domestic helper ka rin ba?” Translation: “Hey there? Where are you from? Are you a domestic helper as well?” I thought I had died and God had sent me to my very own private hell.

On my way back, I had to bravely take the economy flight once more. This time I had already resigned myself to being trapped like a sardine in a sardine can with all these OFWs smelling of AXE and Charlie cologne while Jo Malone evaporated into thin air.

There’s more to it, amazingly enough. There’s even an “apology” — the term half-assed doesn’t really do it justice — that’s as toxic as the hemlock she should be made to drink. Repeatedly. To wit:

The bottom line was just that I had offended the reader’s socioeconomic background. If any of these people actually read anything thicker then a magazine they would find it very funny. Most people don’t get the fact that they need bitches like me to shake up their world, otherwise their lives would be boring and mediocre.

Although it may sound elitist to you the fact is this country is built on the foundation of haves, have-nots and wannabes. One group will never get the culture of the other. Although I could mention that it is easier to understand someone who has a lower socioeconomic background that would entail a whole other page and frankly I don’t want to be someone to bridge the gap between socioeconomic classes.

Allow me to channel Al Pacino for a moment, and present Miz Fernandez with my acerbic wit. A few disclaimers: I’ll be quoting some words by that stellar actor that you might find offensive. Take solace in the fact that you are not the object of this tirade. Or leave, if it’s not your cup of tea. I’m not an OFW, and don’t have relatives who are, but I’m around the same demographic of the families that they leave behind. In the past, I have even been critical of people migrating to other countries if they don’t need to. My friends know me as being harsh with Fil-Ams, because most that I’ve met have been incredibly overbearing and boorish. I still personally find swearing allegiance to another country unacceptable, but as I’ve come to realize, patriotism is an expensive luxury. That said, anytime you’re ready: Read the rest of this entry »

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There is a sublime pleasure involved in letting acrid smoke pass through my nostrils, down to my lungs, holding it in for a moment, and exhaling, with the lingering hint of menthol around my inner cheeks as I down a glass of ice-cold cola. I’ve abused my share of (legal, wink wink) substances, but nothing comes close to this, the sweet combination of cigarettes and caffeine. It is a rush — albeit psychological — that is unparalleled. It is also bad for the health: mine, and yours, if you’re around me. For that, I apologize.

Friends, officemates and even brief acquaintances know me for one of several things: my music, my art, my concerns, my uncharacteristic interest in sports, or, in rare circumstances, this blog. But for those that have met me personally, there’s one characteristic that is universally known: I smoke. Like a chimney.

It’s like a crutch, really. I can’t do much of anything without a puff or six, but the boost it gives is epiphanic, to say the least. I can waste several nicotine-less hours thinking about something that I can conceptualize after five minutes spent smoking. I’m weak and addicted, but I’m young-ish enough to not care, yet.

Coupled with the boost of caffeine that only Coke can give me, well, let’s just say that some of my most memorable conversations wouldn’t have happened without their help. My friend Allan calls them the 3 C’s: Coke, cigarettes and conversation, with Coke interchangeable with coffee.

That said, I somewhat support the anti-smoking initiatives of the cities of Makati, Pasig and the like, although I believe it’s a fairly futile and inutile solution. But then, their campaign is politically driven, and that’s a fatal flaw to any endeavor, well-meaning or otherwise. Because the trick really isn’t in legislation. I’d still find a way to smoke in Makati, in Pasig. It’s not that hard, even inside buildings.

The trick is in realizing that smokers like myself need help, and a pretty good reason, to quit. The trick is not to treat us as vagabonds and ne’r-do-wells, but as, well, victims. You can’t make me stop by yelling at me, but you can help me help myself.

Case in point, the head of security at the building I work at talked to me one time about my habit of smoking in the indoor parking area, which is a non-smoking zone. I’ve been in that situation before, and I thought I knew what to expect. He surprised me, though, because he talked to me. Not yelled, not admonished, just talked. I listened. It worked, too. I still smoke, but as a result, I haven’t smoked inside the building in months, and every day I’m that much closer to making my mind up and quitting. For good. Honest.

I leave you with this moment of Zen:

And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke.

Rudyard Kipling

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Funny thing happened on my way to work earlier: I was running late, and decided to spring for a cab because, well, traffic’s always heavy when I commute, and I figured I’d take to the side streets and shortcuts to get there faster. But the cabbie says everything’s OK in EDSA; I tried to think about it but I was in a hurry so I said fine. And wouldn’t you know it, he was right: traffic was light all the way. Then I remembered classes were suspended because of typhoon “EGAY”. Neat. It was still cloudy, but I was actually beginning to get my hopes up: maybe it won’t rain on Saturday, and I could go forward with the climb with nary a raincloud to spoil the trip.

So of course, that’s when things started to go downhill. Isko, FMD’s frontman, texted me. Seems Romeo Lee (yes, THE Romeo Lee) scheduled his Lee’s Night for this Saturday (it’s usually held on a Tuesday), and we’re in the lineup again. For the uninitiated, Lee is… well, it’s actually pretty hard to describe Lee. I’ll tell you one thing, sublime he’s not. He’s been around UP for as long as pretty much anyone can remember, and he’s a blast to be with, telling the most ridiculous stories over a bottle of beer. Or twelve. You know how Pepe Smith says far out, man all the time? Well, Lee’s the Far Out Man.

And my dilemma is in the irony: Lee’s Night is my second most favorite gig to play for, after Big Time Tado in Purple Haze. It’s a once-a-month thing, and it’ll be my last chance to play at Lee’s Night, ever, since I’m packing my bags and heading back to the idyllic shores of my home province. Plus, I hear Snakecharmer’s gonna play too. But it’s in direct conflict with my weekend mountaineering trip. My first — and probably last — mountaineering trip. So here’s the ironic part I mentioned at the beginning of this paragraph: last I checked, Lee’s a UP mountaineer, and he’s been egging me to out and appreciate nature’s beauty for as long as I’ve known him.

So um yeah, decisions, decisions.

But in case you’re interested, Lee’s Night starts at 9:30 PM at Mag:Net cafe, AGCOR building, 335 Katipunan Avenue, Quezon City. It’s almost in front of Miriam College, just go slow and you can’t miss it.

I leave you with this moment of Zen:

The mystery of life isn’t a problem to solve, but a reality to experience.

The Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam

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That’s it. The weather’s gone to the dogs. The rain’s been pretty much off and on until today, where it pretty much rained all day. With the way the wind is blowing, it’s even threatening to ruin my challenge of a lifetime on Saturday, as according to the Philippine Weather Bureau (PAGASA) bulletin, issued 5:00 p.m., 15 August 2007:

At 2:00 p.m. today, Typhoon “EGAY” was located based on satellite and surface data at 420 kms east northeast of Virac, Catanduanes (15.7N, 128.1E) with maximum sustained winds of 175 kph near the center and gustiness of up to 210 kph. It is forecast to move west at 9 kph. Moderate to strong southwesterly surface windflow prevailing over Luzon and western sections of Visayas.

The “tell”, though, is in the forecast for the 18th and 19th: mostly cloudy with scattered rainshowers & thunderstorms. Which is PAGASA talk for “we don’t know”. Which sucks because I’m really looking forward to this “expedition” and I don’t want to have to spend any part of it under a tent or wrapped up in a raincoat. So yes, I am downer than a bar of hash.

Which, of course, necessitates some of that Robert Hunter and Jerry Garcia magic to cheer me up, which means I leave you with this moment of zen (yes, Syd, we’re both copping Stephen Colbert):

Sorry that you feel that way
The only thing there is to say
Every silver lining’s got a
Touch of grey

I will get by / I will get by
I will get by / I will survive

Grateful Dead, Touch of Grey

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You know how a song or a movie can sometimes quantify an overly complex series of emotions so accurately and so completely that when you feel it, you can’t help but hear the song or play that scene in your head?

Well, yesterday was my James Blunt moment. Instant freaking LSS on “You’re Beautiful”, because it’s just so freakishly apt:

I saw your face in a crowded place,
And I don’t know what to do,
‘Cause I’ll never be with you.

And yes, I mean the girl on the left /:|

Read the rest of this entry »

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Speaking in front of reporters for what would seemingly have been the thousandth time, George Mallory gives the almost snide, immortal response to the question “why climb Mt. Everest”: because it is there. Now, 84 years later, one man looks back at what Mallory must have faced when attempting to tame the wildest frontier known to man, as he himself prepares to undertake a perilous journey of his own.

I sometimes wonder what Mallory must have been thinking, cold, stranded and slowly losing mobility, struggling to breathe the thin air, prolonging for a few seconds more — a few seconds more! — a life that was better lived than any. Here was a man who dared to do things. A man who, at 38, had a richer storehouse of experience than those twice, thrice his age. A man of action, vigor and strength, helpless to prevent the dying of his once-raging light under the onslaught of the most unforgiving region on the face of the planet.

In his last moments, knowing that the end is near, did he ever regret his impetuousness? His audacity? His brazen defiance of all that stood taller, prouder, mightier than he? Some might call it hubris, that endearing yet ultimately infuriating and damning characteristic of all great Shakespearean and Greek heroes. And there’s one thing all heroes have in common, as well: they die, in the end.

I wonder about that increasingly these days, as I prepare myself for my first climb: Mt. Gulugud-Baboy. Yes, it’s only 300-or-so feet above sea level. And yes, it is, for all intents and purposes, a freaking hill. But I cannot escape the same sense of dread Mallory must have felt, all those years ago, when nature responded to his challenge. Will I fare better, I wonder, when Gaia throws down the gauntlet? Am I on a fool’s errand, wasting my bargain-basement life in attempting to conquer this… err… peak? Will I venture forth into that summit, only to be, like Mallory, never heard from again?

God help me, but I don’t care. I must do this. Because it is there.

</melodrama>

I can’t wait! Whee! Leave no trace, everyone! Whee!

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Slight disclaimer: not debugged in IE. Expect breakage. Or get Firefox It doesn’t validate — yet — but you can bet your baby blues I’m working on it. There’s still some errant javascript. That said, it *should* look right.

I was supposed to be doing something different — another theme for a friend’s site to be exact — when I got tired of all the clean whiteness of it all. I needed a break. I needed some color. I needed to make something that didn’t look, feel and smell Web 2.0. I had to get away from gradients, drop shadows, pink (pink!!!), baby blue (baby blue!!!) and white (white!!!).

Then it hit me: I needed shit brown.

I’ve always loved brown — one of my first sites had a brown theme going for it.

Comments welcome, of course.

Edit: it may not be immediately obvious, but the colors stand for something Brown for Filipino, and blue, white, yellow and red for the colors of the Philippine flag.

Edit: now serving you valid xHTML 1.1. Up next, proper semantics.

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