leave of absence.

I wasn’t able to finish my Mindoro/Puerto Galera entry on time. I’d like to believe that I was suffering from an ultimate writer’s block. To create a delusion that it wasn’t really my fault, I’ll say that I was just straining experience by creating distance through time and absence. But I’ll also admit that that is just a huge chos on my part.

I’m off to Dagupan today. And I think I’ll be back on Sunday or Monday.

To Epistaxis, I’ll try to bring home pasalubong. I’ll look for tupig, kahit ‘tig iisa lang kayo. Cost-cutting. Bleh. If I can’t, tanggapin n’yo nalang ang aking nag-uumapaw na pagmamahal at pag-unawa. Mga bagay na mas makabubusog at magtatagal kumpara sa kahit anong tupig o pasalubong na materyal. Chos.

As of typing time, I’m being barraged by reminders to pack my things now and leave the computer at once. I’ll stop here.

Much love and I shall all see you soon.

Cheers!

things to share about the womanizer.

We know Britney is officially back. Thanks to Womanizer and thanks to her doctor for helping her fix the body. To not make Chris Crocker cry, let’s leave a tiny space for doubt that she actually worked for that figure. In any case, those things took her out of the gossip pages and placed her back in the music scene.

Womanizer is catchy, let’s be honest. It’s like singing the ABC or Old McDonald Had a Farm … e i e i o. You don’t need to be a hard-core musician to memorize its tune. It’s like the Italian accent. It’s sing-song-y.

Catching up with the song is also quite easy. Just remember these words: womanizer, you’re/you, a, oh, baby, and are. With that, you can already sing a part of it.

Womanizer, woman-womanizer, you're a womanizer, oh womanizer, oh you're a womanizer, baby. You you you are, you you you are womanizer, womanizer, womanizer (womanizer).

I found a cool cover done by David Choi. It was done with a guitar and if you visit his community, you can download its mp3. He appears to have worked with HappySlip (Christine Gambito). Check out their video here. And I also realized that David Choi kinda looks like Ali Alejandro of Mojofly.

Check him out and his Womanizer cover.

And to top this Britney-slash-Womanizer entry, let’s talk about Brandon Stoughton a.k.a. Womanizer guy. He is rumored to be gay. And one of reasons to suspect his sexuality is this photo.

That’s Lance Bass on the right. We know he’s gay. And the guy in green is your Womanizer guy – one gay guy on his right and another below his face. You can agree or disagree if he’s gay or not. I could not care less.

P.S.: A womanizer is a man who likes many women and has short sexual relationships with them. In short, babaero but with sex involved.

P.P.S: Special shoutout to (kuya) Mon Pancho for the gossip.

i am sembreak.

DECL closes at 5 p.m. I was still “inventing” my conclusion at 3:45. It takes at least an hour to travel from home to UP. The final period for that particular paper landed at 4:15. Printer ran out of paper. From 4:20-4:30, I was already getting calls and texts from Epistaxis. I was replying with rants. At around 4:35, I was on the road. And let there be traffic. More calls, more texts. I was in FC at around 5:30. The paper, my paper? It got in. It. Got. In. How does ‘sneaky’ sound? Start evil laughing. Husshhh.

I’m still waiting for the grades, but officially, my first sem, 08-09 ends there.

And to celebrate this waited event, we went to Star City! With the special participation of our beloved Korean friend, Dana. Hooray, hooray! I think it’s just proper to say that I was “sponsored” by a good friend – Issa Sayno.

As usual I was late and fortunately Ericka had to attend rehearsals at Claret, so we were together going to CCP. It was quite an adventure, I must say. I almost got caught between the train’s doors. Masakit s’ya, to be fair.

But it was easy to forget everything that happened during the trip. All you need are warm hugs from loving friends and smiles to lift the heart. When we got inside, I was happy. I was so happy that my brain got twisted with a snap. I told the lady who puts the ride-all-you-can sticker around your wrist that her hands were dirty. She was defensive. I told her I was joking.

Star City is better now. I liked most of the rides and attractions.

Snow World let’s you experience winter that tropical countries never had. 15 degrees centigrade. It’s really cold inside (duh!). I sort of enjoyed the ice slides. But I can’t appreciate it much because the slides have the tendency to be harsh – sometimes you’ll slide too fast and end up having your arms and arse bruised and sometimes you won’t slide to the end so you’ll end up looking stupid. Never mind that it’s the longest ice slide in Asia (about 68m).

Star Flyer is the first inverted roller coaster in the country. The thought of twisting and turning without the conventional cart’s floor will excite you. I think it’s better to ride it during day time, so you’ll feel like superman while flying. Plus, I would love it more if they’ll run the ride longer. Boo for the sudden drop of momentum. I also wish that crews would be gentler when securing passengers, so that genitals won’t be crushed that often. It’s a weak, sensitive point, you know.

Zyklon/Cyclone Loop, as ever, was a rough ride. My lower legs got bruised from the sudden drops, twists, and turns. The safety lock was a bit loose, so I was a bit skeptical if it can really prevent me from falling.

Viking was a bit boring. Fun comes from exaggerated reactions whenever the ship would swing alternately. Issa and I was talking about the girl who was screaming more than she should. Apparently, she’s bungal. We also talked about the older lady who was just in front of her. We thought she was also bungal, but her teeth were just small.

The Surf Dance is a family gondola ride that is about the height of a five-storey building. The 44-seat ride swings upwards, downwards, and sideways. It is the first and only of its kind in the Philippines. I wasn’t able to ride this one because it closed before I can even fall in line. Too bad.

The dining area is also better. We bought food from Outbox, a San Miguel owned, shop. I ordered Kare-kare. They gave me boiled pork, eggplant and banana bud slices, shrimp paste, mixed with über-synthetic orange peanut sauce. Yes, that was kare-kare.

The joke for the night was from this Pinay who has an American boyfriend. Her boyfriend was seated behind us. She was from a ride and was approaching. When she was near enough her boyfriend, she said, “We /beender/.” I know it’s not really funny at this point. You should have /beender/ too.

The issue for the night: Kuya Ateneo (whose eyes I deeply envy and adore) and his substandard-looking girlfriend bitching at Kuya. To quote Joy, “[ay ‘te] kung ayaw mo sa kanya, akin nalang.” Very well said.

My dad texted me asking where I am at. I was forced to be creative.

We practically closed Star City. We were back in Philcoa by 1 a.m.. I texted my dad, “Pa galing akong despedida ng friend kong koreano. Pauwi na ako.” Half-true. Ericka dropped me off at Sandigan Bayan and I waited for a ride for what seems an hour and a half. While waiting, a lady approached from the back and asked, “may dumadaan pa bang Montalban jeep dito?” I told her that I’m not sure. She ended up telling me, “sabay na tayo.” I thought, sabay saan? Sa taxi? Sa tricycle? Sa jeep? Pauwi, I figured. We stood side by side. When it started to drizzle, I gestured to share my umbrella. Apparently, she also has one. She tends to look behind a lot, until she walked away. When I looked back, she was talking to somebody. It’s not out of fear, but of being sneaky that I felt compelled to leave her. I asked an ambulant vendor if I can get a tricycle to drop me off somewhere I know rides are abundant. She gave me directions. When I saw the tricycle, I was puzzled why we weren’t leaving. I found out that I was to wait for three more passengers. In 2:30ish in the morning, is that possible? To my surprise, it was.

I chose to explore the feeling of waking under the cold breeze of the morning. The streets of the subdivision were a bit dark. It was quiet even. Except for that dog who barked nonstop until I passed by him. Halfway through, I got afraid of potential criminals that would pop out of the bushes, so I was practically walking in the middle of the street.

Good thing Chilo was too groggy to bark. I sneaked in. I checked the time only to see it was already 3:30. Then it hit me. I am sembreak.

the triumph of the yell.

I put the question to a journalist who had written a vitriolic attack on a leading feminist researcher: "Why do you need to make others wrong for you to be right?" Her response: "It's an argument!"

That's the problem. More and more these days, journalists, politicians and academics treat public discourse as an argument -- not in the sense of making an argument, but in the sense of having one, of having a fight.

When people have arguments in private life, they're not trying to understand what the other person is saying. They're listening for weaknesses in logic to leap on, points they can distort to make the other look bad. We all do this when we're angry, but is it the best model for public intellectual interchange? This breakdown of the boundary between public and private is contributing to what I have come to think of as a culture of critique.

Fights have winners and losers. If you're fighting to win, the temptation is great to deny facts that support your opponent's views and present only those facts that support your own.

At worst, there's a temptation to lie. We accept this style of arguing because we believe we can tell when someone is lying. But we can't. Paul Ekman, a psychologist at the University of California at San Francisco, has found that even when people are very sure they can tell whether or not someone is dissembling, their judgments are as likely as not to be wrong.

If public discourse is a fight, every issue must have two sides -- no more, no less. And it's crucial to show "the other side," even if one has to scour the margins of science or the fringes of lunacy to find it.

The culture of critique is based on the belief that opposition leads to truth: when both sides argue, the truth will emerge. And because people are presumed to enjoy watching a fight, the most extreme views are presented, since they make the best show. But it is a myth that opposition leads to truth when truth does not reside on one side or the other but is rather a crystal of many sides. Truth is more likely to be found in the complex middle than in the simplified extremes, but the spectacles that result when extremes clash are thought to get higher ratings or larger readership.

Because the culture of critique encourages people to attack and often misrepresent others, those others must waste their creativity and time correcting the misrepresentations and defending themselves. Serious scholars have had to spend years of their lives writing books proving that the Holocaust happened, because a few fanatics who claim it didn't have been given a public forum. Those who provide the platform know that what these people say is, simply put, not true, but rationalize the dissemination of lies as showing "the other side." The determination to find another side can spread disinformation rather than lead to truth.

The culture of critique has given rise to the journalistic practice of confronting prominent people with criticism couched as others' views. Meanwhile, the interviewer has planted an accusation in readers' or viewers' minds. The theory seems to be that when provoked, people are spurred to eloquence and self-revelation. Perhaps some are. But others are unable to say what they know because they are hurt, and begin to sputter when their sense of fairness is outraged. In those cases, opposition is not the path to truth.

When people in power know that what they say will be scrutinized for weaknesses and probably distorted, they become more guarded. As an acquaintance recently explained about himself, public figures who once gave long, free-wheeling press conferences now limit themselves to reading brief statements. When less information gets communicated, opposition does not lead to truth.

Opposition also limits information when only those who are adept at verbal sparring take part in public discourse, and those who cannot handle it, or do not like it, decline to participate. This winnowing process is evident in graduate schools, where many talented students drop out because what they expected to be a community of intellectual inquiry turned out to be a ritual game of attack and counterattack.

One such casualty graduated from a small liberal arts college, where she "luxuriated in the endless discussions." At the urging of her professors, she decided to make academia her profession. But she changed her mind after a year in an art history program at a major university. She felt she had fallen into a "den of wolves." "I wasn't cut out for academia," she concluded. But does academia have to be so combative that it cuts people like her out?

In many university classrooms, "critical thinking" means reading someone's life work, then ripping it to shreds. Though critique is surely one form of critical thinking, so are integrating ideas from disparate fields and examining the context out of which they grew. Opposition does not lead to truth when we ask only "What's wrong with this argument?" and never "What can we use from this in building a new theory, and a new understanding?"

Several years ago I was on a television talk show with a representative of the men's movement. I didn't foresee any problem, since there is nothing in my work that is anti-male. But in the room where guests gather before the show I found a man wearing a shirt and tie and a floor-length skirt, with waist-length red hair. He politely introduced himself and told me he liked my book. Then he added: "When I get out there, I'm going to attack you. But don't take it personally. That's why they invite me on, so that's what I'm going to do."

When the show began, I spoke only a sentence or two before this man nearly jumped out of his chair, threw his arms before him in gestures of anger and began shrieking -- first attacking me, but soon moving on to rail against women. The most disturbing thing about his hysterical ranting was what it sparked in the studio audience: they too became vicious, attacking not me (I hadn't had a chance to say anything) and not him (who wants to tangle with someone who will scream at you?) but the other guests: unsuspecting women who had agreed to come on the show to talk about their problems communicating with their spouses.

This is the most dangerous aspect of modeling intellectual interchange as a fight: it contributes to an atmosphere of animosity that spreads like a fever. In a society where people express their anger by shooting, the result of demonizing those with whom we disagree can be truly demonic.

I am not suggesting that journalists stop asking tough questions necessary to get at the facts, even if those questions may appear challenging. And of course it is the responsibility of the media to represent serious opposition when it exists, and of intellectuals everywhere to explore potential weaknesses in others' arguments. But when opposition becomes the overwhelming avenue of inquiry, when the lust for opposition exalts extreme views and obscures complexity, when our eagerness to find weaknesses blinds us to strengths, when the atmosphere of animosity precludes respect and poisons our relations with one another, then the culture of critique is stifling us. If we could move beyond it, we would move closer to the truth.

***

NOT my work. Actually, it’s Deborah Tannen’s, from The New York Times, 14 January 1994.

sex is good for the film industry.

It is way easier to produce films if the “raw” materials are not that price-y, I think. Imagine. If a movie maker can produce a high-quality movie using a digital camera with about a whopping eytigig memory (he can just shoot and transfer files), complimented with a good computer ready with sophisticated softwares that can do all the special effects and editing, then maybe we can have about 50 movies in a week! And that would be like [momentary mental lag] 200 in a month! Having less, or even no space for foreign movies. That’s also assuming those movies are not trashy and interesting in their own ways.

We can have more movies about Encantos (speaking of which, click ♥ to view an issue about Lav Diaz’s film), more movies about indigenous weird stuff with one-word titles (like Kutob, Sigaw, Kulam, Sukob, etc), we can have more films like Jologs (is the title is an overkill?), Labs Kita, Okey Ka Lang?, Dito Sa Puso Ko, Hey Babe, and so on.

But no.

Thanks to the progressive weakening of the US economy, bundled with the Philippines being dependent to Uncle Sam, and our status as a “Third-world”, what we have are movies coming from foreign lands – more like US monopoly. We’ve seen movies of talking dogs, parrots, fishes, and the Animal Kingdom in general; movies about traveling pants, magical basketball shoes, and dresses; add those flicks that fall under the what’s-the-point category: *cough*Horton*cough*, *cough*Ninja Turtles*cough*, *cough*Da Vinci Code*cough*. Enough coughing.

But don’t despair. Good thing Pinoys are naturally resourceful and eager. Given the funds, and surprisingly even given not, they still manage to produce brilliant films once in a while. Pinoy movie makers refuse to die! As consolation, they get awards and citations here and more abroad – being in film festivals in Cannes, Venice, Udine, Metro Manila, and insert city name here. Drop Metro Manila. I just realized that’s Mother Lily’s festival.

The point is: we still manage to produce movies that we can call our own. It only proves our resourcefulness and eagerness, with the added proof of our creativity. Sometimes we just need a kinky place, warm bodies for actors, moans for sound effects, and a decent camera to capture the moment, and poof! we’ll have a movie – a bold one, that is – and sex scandals to a lesser degree.

That’s the second point: cheaper “raw” materials, more bold movies. Brilliant, don’t you think?

the new kid on the block: aki sato.

For all of those who are keeping up with the trends, you’ll already know that Penshoppe just launched their new fashion underwear line called Undercover. I think it’s a move to keep up with the demand for trendier under garments. People, apparently, are now inclined in showing what they’re wearing inside than flaunting what’s on the outside.

Aside from this new line of flashy underwear comes a new face in the Philippine modeling world. Let’s call him Akihiro Sato. He's the guy posing in black. Front and center. I think it’ll be redundant to type his background here since he’s one Google away.

Fortunately for UP students, this Akihiro guy is just an Acad Oval away. I heard he’s studying Filipino in UP and he’s too easy to spot (well, at least for me and for those who belong to Arts and Letters). I am writing about him at this point because I just realized how stupid I was for thinking that he is Ma’am Erica Valerio’s boyfriend. It’s not that Ma’am Valerio can’t have an equally hot partner, but I heard Akihiro is currently in a relationship – married, as reported by gossip peeps. I’m not sure.

Honestly, I didn’t know him until last week. So those times that I walked pass by him in his athletic outfit, those times I passed by him in the campus, and those times I hated him for blocking the way, were times wasted. I could have used those opportunities to scrutinize the guy more and report to you how he looks like in “real life”.

In any case, it doesn’t really matter. What matters most is my English 102 exam later. So I’ll stop here and catch up with you some other time.

Ciao!

tequila 101.

Tequila shots are complicated so I tend to follow conventions. I drink in shot glasses, with slices of citrus prepared and salt ready. I learned not to put ice, so I don’t. The instruction is simple: lick-sip-suck. Lick the salt, sip the tequila, and suck the citrus (may it be a slice of lemon or calamansi for cheap drinkers). It is believed that the salt lessens the "burn" of the tequila and the sour fruit balances and enhances the flavor. So I lick-sip-suck whenever tequila is served.

He, on the other hand, belongs to the unorthodox school of drinking. He defies conventions whenever he can. He puts on ice. He drinks in regular glasses. He drinks it straight – the Mexican treatment of tequila – without the salt and the fruit. As far as I know he’s of the same nationality – Filipino – so he should follow how Filipinos drink this alcohol. Bothered, I tried to share the dogma of the convention. Lick-sip-suck, I told him.

Lick. Step point five to one was a success. He dabbed salt on the back of his hand. But instead of licking, he picked the salt off the back of his hand and wiped the salt to his tongue, and then he drank. He didn’t get it. Failed, we tried to repeat it again. But I guess he was really turned off by the idea of the gesture. The second time he picked off the salt again. I knew it was a failure.

Sip. It came easy. It seemed that he liked the drink although he complained every time. Lick-sip-suck, I told him again. But it’s either he sipped first before the salt or picked the salt then drank. It was a failure.

Suck. At least he got this one right. He knew that in the sequence of the conventional ritual, suck comes last. And so with every failure with the first two steps he served himself the citrus. Until he got tired. He squeezed the fruit right to the tequila. My insides were screaming what the fuck. I asked him what he was doing. I was answered with an assurance. He reminded me that he knew how to sip.

He was having a hard time learning the dogma. I should know. Aside from scrambling with the sequence, he resorted to some experimental way of doing things. He filled the shot glass that I forced him to use, sprinkled a pinch of salt to the fluid, and squeezed the fruit right into it. He gave the new concoction the final touch of his brilliance – he stirred it – and then took it down straight. Once again I was reminded he knew how to sip, he knew how to drink.

I told him out loud that tequila shots are complicated and he should follow the lick-sip-suck dogma. I told him he was doing it wrong. He told me he is my father.