Bad Weekend

Manny Villar is a funny guy. No, really, he's so funny you have got to fart so hard just by hearing his story of ascent from rags to riches. It's believable, of course, but not without thinking about exactly how he managed to do so. I can hear the voice of a hardcore businessman wailing from within. It's typical of them to use a marketing propaganda, no matter how mephistophelian, just to clinch a sale. I bet he's willing to say anything just to sell his oil bucket. And why ever not? It's enough for one to do the math of all of his campaign expenses and not wonder why he's more than eager to get his pay back.

And as if the world is not enough, he's got the balls up his, well, that part where the sun never shines, to shed a few hours off of Pacquiao who is as busy as Shaq having no time to sign his balls. Pacquiao's trying to work his ass off, but here comes our messiah from the deepest abyss of Las Piñas climbing all the way up to Baguio to share the good news. They talked politics. Come on, you have got to be so blind to not see that one coming.



A businessmen doing what he does best. Sales talk. I'd like to propose a toast with my middle finger for achieving what others dared not to do, which is to discuss extreme narcissism right smack in the face of Freddie Roach.

As of this writing, there's a storm outside. Santi. Another bad weekend. Freddie might quit over Pacquiao, which isn't good news either. You know who to blame if ever Pacquiao gets a share of losing. Narcissus!

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Some Reasons

They say his only claim to fame is his last name, which Kris herself also has. Others say he hasn't done much during his term as a member of the House of Representatives. Still, some others say the same story during his term in the Senate. Others who are confused as to whether they are pundits or parlor folks question his thinning hair and his sense of style—or the lack thereof—as if life revolves around the fashion runway. I've heard others aver that he and the plight of the Haciena Luisita farmers do not mix, like oil and water. Older dogs in politics bark out loud that, like a fruit hanging on to dear life from a twig, he is not yet ripe for the taking, or that he is yet to prove himself. Those madly campaigning for other presidential candidates stick out the argument that he has no platform for running this country, which is why he has no right to take on the challenge this coming national elections in the first place.

To all of which I say, the accusations prove futile. And on the contrary, the zeal by which they parade their sense of omniscience or for infinitely knowing things which others can barely begin to grasp can only make myself hold on tight to my conviction that this man they call Noynoy is the last straw that will break the camel's back, as in despair and hopelessness. A flicker of light has never been more beautiful than during the darkest and most unholy hours of the night. This man they call Noynoy does not truly fit the mold of traditional politicians which we have grown accustomed to.

His claim to fame is his last name. Very true. So what? Can it not truly be a source of envy for most of us, if not all of us? You have parents who have changed this country, one plucking the nation out of the pit of tyranny and the other restoring democracy when everybody else least expected the deed to be within the limits of the possible, you have all the right in the world to brandish the legacy of your parents and lay your hands on it, if not claim it as if it was yours as well. That is Noynoy's comparative advantage over the pack, one that not even Noynoy himself can escape. He could not have chosen his parents, let alone decide for them what they should have done. It's the least shocking of all things that can leave us dumbfounded. To envy him is to say that you're original sin is to have been born to a different family, in all senses of the word "different". To be born as the only son of Cory and Ninoy is already a blessing in itself. To continue what they have begun is another. Truly, his claim to fame is his last name, which is the same for Kris. So what?

Others say he hasn't done much during his term as a member of the House of Representatives. Still, some others say the same story during his term in the Senate. That is the mindset of those who can only comprehend a bottle that is half-empty when it, too, is half-filled. That is the mindset of those who can only see the infinite emptiness of space when there is a whole universe out there. Closer to home, that is the mindset of those who caterwaul when their whims are not served with pleasure. The fact remains that Noynoy, too, did take part in the legislative process and championed several bills. He, too, did not bend back just to dodge the dregs dragged right down the doorsteps of the Senate when the people called upon him and the upper chamber of Congress to investigate the capricious deeds of the lady lording over this land. That, so that the people may know. It's the most fundamental duty a duly elected public official owes to the people. You only have to have the balls to take on such a delicate responsibility.

Others who are confused as to whether they are pundits or parlor folks question his thinning hair and his sense of style—or the lack thereof—as if life revolves around the fashion runway. It is enough to say that a man's hair and his clothes do not define his being, unless you believe that a mole on your cheek defines your incapacity to resist the dirt and grime of political and moral corruption. Or unless you seriously believe that a dick defines a man.

I've heard others aver that he and the plight of the Haciena Luisita farmers do not mix, like oil and water. I've said it before and I'll say it again. Why be afraid to have Noynoy, a Cojuangco, as the leader of this country? Being a Cojuangco should be reason for us to all the more push for Noynoy. That way, the problems besetting Hacienda Luisita will never go forgotten. For as long as Noynoy is up there, we have someone to constantly remind ourselves of the yoke that burdens us and the obvious response to the clarion call. And we have someone to constantly shake, Noynoy being a fruit of the Cojuangco tree, or something to that effect. Or owing largely to the fact that he knows where he is coming from, or better still, that we know where he is coming from. The long and short of it all is that Noynoy and the plight of the Hacienda Luisita workers, both living and dead, are like lovers—they go hand-in-hand. Or one cannot go without the other.

Older dogs in politics bark out loud that, like a fruit hanging on to dear life from a twig, he is not yet ripe for the taking, or that he is yet to prove himself. But lest they forget, the ground has already shifted beneath their feet. Today is a time when being ripe no longer means having the political machinery but having the civilian machinery. You have the tools to campaign but you lack the rallying force of the people beside, behind, and in front of you, you are as useless as an appendix. You have the engine but lack the fuel, you've got to be sane enough to ask yourself how far you can go, if at all you can move an inch.

Those madly campaigning for other presidential candidates stick out the argument that he has no platform for running this country, which is why he has no right to take on the challenge this coming national elections in the first place. It bears stressing that Noynoy had no intention to run in the first place. Never mind his decision to suspend his judgment while the rest urged him to make his final stand. Just mind the stark reality that some others were already busy flooding televisions and radios with their self-indulgence and extreme narcissism when the law itself provides that the proper campaign season is yet to commence. You have got to wonder why all these despite all the stress and pressure of being the leader of eighty million or so Filipinos. Genuine service? Now that's a behemoth phrase. You have to be too blind not to see it stand against your way. Those who fail to see that immense duty have their eyes more likely fixed on something else. But those who easily recognize its unmistakable gravity on bare face yet carry on with the mission after contemplation are the ones who deserve to take on the challenge.

And win over it.

Just a quarter of the reasons why I am for Noynoy. I can't wait for you to ask where is all the rest of them.

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Tax This

Unless you're a filthy businessman or a hardcore activist, or perhaps some other creature out to defy everything that stands between you and your liberty, there's this one thing in this world, or at least in this side of the world, which you can hardly escape. You are under its mercy from cradle to the grave. Even before you're born, you're already chained to it. Long after you're dead, or your flesh has turned dinner for the maggots, you're still shackled to it. It's tax. You get to see it, feel it, almost everywhere. You smoke and drink those potent vices, they'll squeeze revenues out if it and call it "sin" tax, as if purchasing them is already a sin in itself. You buy something, the price of which is already inclusive of tax, they will still tax it, and call it "value added tax". As if that wasn't enough, they even expanded it, for Christ's sake. If it moves, the government is out to tax it. If it doesn't move, well, you still get the same. In the eyes of the government, everything is fair game. There's not much of a difference. They do not impose tax on it now, they'll impose tax on it a bit later, or sooner than you think. Sort of makes you wonder what else in this universe is left untouched by the government's coffers. The next thing you know, you can't walk your feet unless you've paid the government for using what you have since birth. What else is there?

I can't enumerate the whole gamut, but text message is no exception.

It has been taxed before, but our wise representatives in the plenary halls of the lower house—if not the lowest—are calling for more to satiate whatever kind of thirst is plaguing their guts. They practically want more, or demand for more of the same. We should have seen it coming since the first day mobile phone companies and service providers brought their wares and shares to our shores. And like night following the day or the other way around, it should not come as a surprise that they did so the soonest time they had the opportunity to lay their hands on these, eager as they are to have the touch of Midas, turning everything they lay their hands onto into gold. But to call for heavier tax? Now that's another story.

I do not have the statistics, but it seems to me that there's a very good chance you'll find a stranger in the city or elsewhere making the most of her or his mobile phone. It's as if mobile text messaging has transcended the status of being a mere trend. More to that, it has become an essential public utility, a basic service if you will, or somewhere close to that. My youngest brother, barely at the age of nine, knows very well how to use the cellphone, except that, still, he does not own one. But that does not exempt him either from being one of the countless people who use a taxed service. As for the older generation, well, it doesn't raise the hairs on my skin if I see one from that generation busy hammering the keypad with her or his fingers. There are millions more out there doing the same thing every waking hour or minute of their lives. I can only begin to imagine the sheer volume of text messages sent on a single day. I can only begin to imagine, too, the sheer amount of money being spent on these messages on a single day.

The point is that the government now sees the perfect opportunity to take a larger slice of the cake, at a time when more and more of us are using short messaging service, unlimited or otherwise. I understand the government needs revenues to further its duties to the public. What I do not understand is why the same government is ever willing to give when it is also ever determined to take away? Surely, others will say that the proposal to increase the tax collected from text messages will be shouldered not by the subscribers but by the companies, chipping off fractions from the income of these companies while leaving intact what subscribers have to pay. But surely, still, isn't it the same reason why companies of any kind are driven to either reduce the breadth of their services or increase the fees for the same? It is certainly the height of insanity, or of unreasonable madness, for a business thriving on what it does best to deprive itself of the very reason why it exists. It's there for the bread. It's there for the money. Reducing its blood source on its own is akin to assisting itself not to its own honorable harakiri or seppuku but to plain suicide. Whichever way you look at it, these service providers will still find ways to unburden itself, or to throw the burden completely at our shoulders.

This is far more than just the issue of taxing text messages to absurd lengths. The whole meat of this is the very thought of having representatives wanting to suck the life through our pores but leaving us to wonder where our taxes go. Le Cirque, perhaps? Or maybe a distant house somewhere in America, perhaps in Bay Area? Or closer to home, if not right smack at home, maybe in roads and bridges that have never seen the light of day? Or if they ever did, maybe in roads and bridges that already badly need major repairs long before they could even be completed, if they will ever be? Or maybe in a few tens of rubber boats waiting to serve the entire nation during times of weather calamities? The human beings in congress, or the lack thereof, can tell us exactly where all they want, but I'd gladly return a finger. As to which finger, that's entirely up to your imagination. I'd appreciate it if you prefer the middle.

It's not about getting the funds and where to get them. You won't get them if you're looking in all the wrong places at all the wrong times. It's about proper appropriation, or putting the money where it is truly needed, quite apart from putting our money to where their mouths are, stuffing them full if only to stop them from bickering and wasting themselves. Congress wants more money? Tell your boss to stop hauling her ass and all of yours to foreign countries for impractical reasons, like rubbing shoulders with foreign leaders in the hopes of their luster being passed on to you. That's bull, quite apart from shit. Congress wants more money? Tell yourselves to stop wasting the people's money during campaign season. We don't need your tarpaulins and posters to remind us that today is graduation day, or Christmas, or the fourteenth of February, or the feast day of a patron saint. You only need to tell us just exactly where the people's taxes go.

I remember the story of a former public servant, who also was a former nun, who gave up on paying taxes especially under this administration. Well, she may have also given up on god, but that's beside the point. The point is, she refused to pay her taxes because she wasn't convinced that she was getting what she was supposed to be paying for. To this day, no tax evasion case has yet been filed against her, but she says she is anticipating the day that the BIR will finally take notice that someone somewhere isn't paying something, or that they're missing a spot from the roll. She hopes they'll send her a demand letter soon enough. She also tends to her expansive garden, and she says that the only thing that the government can demand from her are her bitter gourds. And she'll send them flying over the fence the first moment they set foot on her property.

What can I say? You get what you deserve.

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Twenty-Three Summers

Today, twenty-three summers have passed since the first moment I greeted this world—with a middle finger raised high or not, I do not know—and I get a super typhoon for a gift. For the past several years, it's either I get everything a storm can give, thunder and rain and lightning and all the things that make it dreadful, or nothing at all, not even spare change enough to buy a stick of cigarette. I still can recall one occasion. That was about five years ago or so. After waking-up to the sound of tricycles roaring their way past the street outside my apartment and to the heat of the morning light, I got up on my feet, reached for the coins in my pocket, and went straight to the nearest store. I bought the cheapest cigarette stick my money can buy, lit it up good, and told myself:

Happy birthday. The rising smoke looks beautiful.

And I was happy, not because I don't have everything but simply because I have almost close to nothing, to the point of believing that I do not even own myself. Some cosmic force out there has his name written all over my flesh and bones. Or maybe not. I do not know for certain. But at any rate, that came at a time when I was struggling in both financing myself to school and to schooling myself so that I can finance my dire existence someday. It was not one of the easiest things to do in this world and yet I could not help but appreciate the fact that I had so few earthly possessions and feel the satisfaction surging through my veins. For having none of the material wealth that others find as the penultimate source of joy, I was satisfied with my life. Why ever not? You are at the bottom of the abyss, there is no other way to go but up. You are at the tip of the south pole, all roads lead north. Looking back, there simply is no telling that the same circumstance will not repeat itself some time in the future. I am yet to dig my way up, towards wherever my feet take me, contented with the thought that I have armed myself with no less than the will to continue with the unfinished business the sages call life.

And then there was the time when I got totally drunk during my birthday. The night back then was at its darkest, owing largely to how the storm the previous two days left in its wake a town kneeling on its own knees. Electricity, there was none. Money, there was not so much. All I had were two of my closest friends and that potent bottle of brandy, which cost way less than two bottles of beer. Midnight passed swift and I was left to drink with myself, as the two of my friends already called it a night, or early morning, whichever they preferred. I did not mind that the bottle stopper proved much of a challenge to drink the liquor straight up. The following day, I could barely recalled what transpired after dunking a mouthful of the alcohol. My friends say I did the one thing in this world nobody in his perfectly sane brain would dare do. Suffice it to say, though, that I have learned my lesson.

I will never sleep in the middle of the road again, more so while just wearing nothing but, well, I leave whatever room of imagination you may have to belabor that point.

I recall my younger days as well. Back when I was still an elementary student, every second day of October does not pass without my father taking me and my younger brother out for a meal. We would always order burger and fries. It was in a restaurant where the food was just as affordable as most canteens where employees with meager wages eat to their heart's desire. My father saw to it that I'd be happy even if the price he had to literally pay would amount to a few days off of his salary, which was of no gratuitous amount altogether. Being a child then, my spirits were easily lifted to great heights, my eyes beaming with unmistakable glee the moment I set foot on the tiled floor of the diner. While the value of what my father could give might have been just a speck of what wealthy men could bestow to their offspring, to me what little my father could share was in itself a bounty of genuine kindness that only a modest father like him could not have failed to freely give. He did not have much, his children being the only treasures in his life, but still he was more than willing to pay whatever cost it takes to make the second day of October a day to remember.

There were times when I would ask for too much, or for things my father knew he could not possibly provide on a whim, like a toy car off the shelves of a store for my birthday present. But what he lacked by the power of the purse he made up for by the power of the heart. I insisted on the toy car but he thought of something else. He took a block of wood, shaped it to the image of a car for a few hours, attached improvised wheels, and handed it to me. He thereafter looked me in the eyes as if to tell me an unspoken apology for only having something that cost no more than his sweat and perseverance. It was then that I understood the meaning of a father's love for his child.

Today, my life remains as humble as it was before. My aversion to material wealth still is there, constantly reminding me that I need not have a fat bank account to have a life that is any more gratifying than that of the rich boy. A super typhoon, or a part of it, is on its way tonight to where I live. The same thing has happened a number of times, most falling almost exactly on the day that I was born. I do not know if this is nature's way of telling me that wherever I may roam the weather in its meanest shape is sure to follow. Or maybe it's a way for it to remind me that there is always the mighty sun to cast its glow after the tempest, akin to a rainbow beaming across the sky after the rain. Life has been full of organic fertilizer and I certainly won't mind having more of the same. Nietzsche sure had a spark of genius going in his mind when he said that what does not kill you will only make you stronger. Or what does not kill you will make you live to tell the tale. There are whole hybrids of struggles out there far more menacing, each one having its own ways of depriving you in both body and soul.

This day may not be a very happy one. Some people are still reeling from the onslaught of Ondoy. Some others are seeking ways to survive the looming catastrophe waiting to strike within the next few hours courtesy of Pepeng. Those who lived through the wrath of Ondoy now have to wrestle with a stronger successor. They may live through the ordeal and tell the tale, or not. God or Allah or Bathala knows. It has been twenty-three summers down the road, and today is a day when we badly cringe for the sun.

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Almost Perfect

I was barely a teenager back then but typhoons have been as ordinary as air is to lungs. From where I grew up, which is a town adjacent to Naga City, tropical depressions and storms were not uncommon. The rest of the Bicol region has had its own taste of tempests in the past, and to this day the older folks can still invoke lucid memories of those moments. Rosing and Monang were only two of the strongest weather aberrations that befell the region and the rest of the country in previous years. I do not exactly recall when and what time they respectively surged through the region, but I do remember that what they left in their wake was nothing short of catastrophic. I recall that our part of the town, which is one of the lowest portions in the entire province, looked more like a vast lake with trees and rooftops scattered across after the fury of the storms. We literally had to swim our way to safer grounds while the winds were tearing the roofs of our neighboring houses apart. Ours had nipa back then and from where I stood I could easily see how they fluttered aimlessly, giving ample space for the wind and rain to force their way straight inside. That was before the flood. By the time the water was already waist-deep inside and chest-deep outside, my father and I finally left the house and resolved to stay at a friend's abode some quarter of a kilometer away. It was not so much of a bad thing that my mother and my younger brother were not at home during that time. They were in Batangas, returning several days after the waters have subsided.

I do not know now if it was typhoon Rosing or Monang, but either way the onslaught was more of the same.

Then came Milenyo. I was in college and I lived in a dormitory off campus together with a close friend. While the worst of Milenyo was unfolding before Los Baños a minute after the next, we decided to get drunk. It was a way for us to knock our senses silly, to the point that the water dripping from the roof our room and the water flowing on the street just outside the door looked as if they posed no threat to our safety. And so as our boldness took the most part of our sensibilities, we rushed outside and ran to the nearest convenience store. On our way, we could not have mistaken the tree trunks and sheets of metal roofs spinning several meters off the ground. On our way, too, we could not have mistaken the electric posts lodged from one side of the road to the other, making the stretch of the road leading to campus impassable to any vehicle. At any rate, we gleefully returned to our humble spot with bottles of beer on both hands. The following day, tens of people died in Los Baños alone, with most of the toll coming from areas surrounding Mount Makiling. The sun was nowhere the next morning but we were relieved for the simple reason that we lived for another day.

And then there was Ondoy. It was a Saturday morning, about eight, and I just left Los Baños after a night's gig. Even before leaving town, the rain was already gathering strength. Unfortunately, while the bus I was riding was in Alabang, the expressway became flooded. The vehicle had to stop; I was stranded for the next two to three hours just waiting for the water to go down to levels enough for the bus to drive through. By that time, the bus still had to find its way to EDSA. I can only be thankful now that the driver was wise enough to look for passable ways in places within Makati City not frequented by provincial buses. It was exhilarating, knowing for a fact that a slight error of decision could eventually make the bus engine go dead in a matter of seconds, and owing largely to how the depth of the flood became increasingly unpredictable in those areas. But to make the story shorter, the driver was able to reach EDSA near Guadalupe. I alighted and from there I took the MRT going to Cubao. I thought life was going to be a lot easier from there, but I was wrong by a huge margin. Apart from the long line of passengers, the trains were too crowded. I had to force and push my way inside, not minding if somebody else was reaching into my pockets or was reaching for something else. I leave your fertile imagination to belabor the other point.

Upon reaching Cubao, I then hurried to the LRT station while I still lugged my guitar on my right shoulder. It was heavy but I could no longer feel the strain as the impulse to get home overcame any hint of physical wear and tear. I thought the struggle would end upon arriving at Gateway. Again, I was wrong by a wide mile. The line of passengers waiting to purchase a ticket for a ride home stretched far enough to dissolve any lingering hope of going home earlier than expected. The same story happened. Inside the train, the travel time felt like the longest ten minutes of my life. By the time I was home, it was a little over nine in the evening.

I can only begin to imagine the misery felt by those who were at the mercy of Ondoy. Where I live today, there is little showing of the wrath of the typhoon, but farther down Marikina I know the conditions were much worse. The same is true in most other parts of Metro Manila. From watching news reports, I can only think of the scale of anguish of those who lost their relatives, some never to find any of them again. The mud made it all the more difficult to pursue the rescue operations and to commence the efforts of households to clean their homes. The lack of electricity and potable water, notwithstanding the insufficiency of temporary relocation centers from where the evacuees could stay, make life for them doubly troublesome. Which is why civil society has shown more of its civil side, volunteering to provide assistance to those who badly need help in any way possible. Only the subhuman mind with subhuman emotions cannot feel the instinct to lend a helping hand. No, it's not even subhuman as animals themselves have shown the capacity to help without having to first deal with the conflicts of personal interests. It's way below the pyramid of all living organisms.

Others feel powerless to help. Despite the genuine willingness of both body and soul, the huge distance separating them between here and there can only make them afford thoughts of good intentions. What they lack in deed they make up for their thoughts. Some others donate items in cash or in kind in the hope of adding to the volumes of relief goods waiting to be delivered to the victims of the typhoon. What they lack in presence they make up for their magnanimity. Some politicians hand the people with food in Styrofoam containers with their name on it, or their political insignia on it. What they lack in delicadeza or sense of propriety they make up for their opportune attempts at campaigning, even in these dire times. Not that there's something wrong with feeding the hungry, or curing the sick, or giving shelter to the homeless. It's that there's everything patently wrong with shameless and insincere political plugging of names when the people have no other choice but to survive. It is perhaps the perfect storm, which is a perfect time to take advantage of the woes of the people.

Well, almost perfect.

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