Fuck That Shit

Chatting with a friend in yahoo messenger and discussing about writing “serious” stuff.  His suggestion: “Just pepper it with theoretical shit”.  I just love how he nails the ambiguity of many so-called theories that often pass for intellectual discourses right to its  very digestive track.  I always thought it was all in the language.  Yes, language can beguile you.  It can even trap you and cost you your job, as the cartoon below will illustrate.  Yes a cartoon, because I firmly believe that language is not so much cerebral as it is visual. 

Therapy first note

Last night, I went out with my officemate to look for this bar that is supposed to be gay and internationally patronized.  We threaded the whole road that had little quaint stores.  There were many teenagers with weird 80s hair who had practically colonized every bar and al fresco coffee shops.  Their noise and their motorcycles had invaded the road like ants swarming over an insect.  My friend and I looked like aliens beside them.  Even if we look Thai, being Filipinos and in post-teenage years made us really out of place in this section of Chiang-Mai.  They owned the whole scene, and our only refuge was this bar that caters to foreigners.  But we didn’t find the bar, and it was useless settling for any that has only Thai teenagers as patrons and plays only Thai music.  It’s like going to a private party of an exclusive village in Iran.  We both agreed to go back to our separate apartments. 

When I woke up today it was already ten in the morning.  It was too early for Saturday.  I had wanted to take my time and have a date with my bed the whole day.  But I left the door (describe the door that opens two ways, like a French door or something) of the balcony open last night to let the mountain air enter my room.  When the sun touched my skin and the whole room bright today, I could not go back to sleep.

I haven’t spoken a word since I woke up.  I haven’t gone out of the room.  The only noise I can hear right now are the birds chirping.  I remember this kind of silence.  I remember it three years ago, when I was living alone in Bangkok.  I remember waking up and just listening to the humming sound of the electric fan or my aircon.  I missed it so passionately.  Today, I can’t believe it’s back.  I can’t believe I’m not listening to the dogs barking at seven in the morning, the hammering of our house’s lone construction worker, the sound of my auntie shouting at the maids, or the car sirens outside the street.  

Today I know I’m just happy.  And for many days to come, I know I will forget everything.  Yes, perhaps I had wicked childhood.  Perhaps I had a miserable youth.  But somewhere in my wicked miserable past, I must have done something good… Thanks Julie Andrews!

Life Is A Trap (A set of three one-act plays in Virgin Labfest 5)

Note:  Because this is a very informal review, and a blog entry, I will do away with polite criticisms, big words, and politically correct statements.  This piece spews a lot of unfounded biases, stereotypes, chauvinistic tones, and b.s.

Anybody who lives in Manila knows that traveling to CCP is like traversing an ocean. Unless one’s a lover of theater or a college student being required to watch a play, nobody in his right mind would even think of going there.  Between a P200-ticket play in a far-flung CCP and a P150 movie that’s one MRT ride to the mall, there’s no competition.   I’m saying this because I think the enormous task that goes with driving to Manila just to be theatrically entertained inevitably affects one’s appreciation/critical assessment of a play.  Because if one went out of his way, spent 500 bucks on gas, got stuck in traffic, passed through chaotic and hole-ridden streets, dodged pedestrians that clog every conceivable space in the roads, and paid outrageous parking fees, then the play just had to be fucking good.  Otherwise, even if it was only mildly OK, it would end up being the worst play in the history of theater… in the world.

Last Saturday, and midway through the three plays at Virgin Labfest 5, I was ready to internalize Roger Ebert and declare the set the worst in the festival.  What saved the day was Chris Millado’s Isang Araw sa Karnabal, which came in last.  Yes, you heard Vanessa Williams: save the best for last. 

In terms of cohesion, I didn’t know if there was much between the three plays.  I meant to catch a different set that had titles suggesting they were about gays, sex, or both.  For this set, I kept guessing why the three plays were grouped together.  Presumably they would have some similarities, but they’re as alien to each other as Lea Salonga is to Aegis.  They are miles apart in terms of setting, subject, theme, or treatment.  I can perhaps connect them through school stereotypes:  Paigan will be a La Salle production with its over-the-top and often clichéd and unproblematized (read stupid) understanding of Filipino patriotism, Hate Restaurants‘ an Ateneo play because it’s so disengaged from the “real world” (like most Ateneans), and Isang Araw sa Karnabal a Dulaang UP for its political setting, high dosage of wit and humor, and intelligent script.  Or, maybe it’s about the school system:  Paigan is a high school play, Hate Restaurants can pass for a college production, and Isang Araw theater graduate thesis.  Or perhaps it was meant to showcase the theater groups in Manila:  Paigan is a Peta production, Hate Restaurants is definitely from Repertory Philippines, and Isang Araw a Tanghalang Pilipino production.

Paigan is set somewhere in Batangas (the actors sported Batangueno accent) during the American colonial period.  The title refers to the Filipinos’ supposed way of pronouncing Fagan (David Fagan), a Negro G.I who had deserted the Americans and defected to the insurrection.  It comically tells the story of two friends who are wrestling with each other on whether to free or behead Fagan who has a 600-dollar head bounty.  The dialogues are all about being a Filipino, being oppressed, having foreign allies, and – of course – independence from foreign white rulers.  Few backgrounder monologues punctuate the play to show Uncle Sam’s evil agenda, a love story between rich girl and poor boy, and poverty in the barrio.  The play  actually begins and ends in newscast format, underscoring how noble acts like Fagan’s are today often trivialized and sensationalized.  This is supposed to be deplorable, because this means that we have forgotten – and do not in fact value – our heroes – some of whom are even foreigners – who had risked their lives for our independence.  The play wants us to feel bad because Fagan is supposed to be more Filipino than many of us who are squabbling over our own petty concerns.  The melancholic fade-away music in the end plus the gunshots that kill all of the four characters give a very symbolic meaning and poignant feeling of a forgotten period when Filipinos’ passion for their beloved Philippines ran in their veins like the blood of the youth.  Because that is all gone today, by implication, the play wants to say that this lack of patriotism is the reason we’re such a fucked up country.

I know the play wants to tackle big ideas such as Filipinos’ sense of nationalism, patriotism, or what have you.  I just can’t get the image of the playwright outside US embassy and shouting “Down with U.S. imperialism!” out of my head.  Yes, Fagan will not probably ring a bell to many Filipinos, which is bad, and his story is clearly an inspiring one, but PLEASE! Enough of this exorcising of the past!  In this day and age of globalization where previously colonized countries are registering high GNP, isn’t it about time that we find other people to blame for our miseries other than Spain and US, for really crying out loud?  What about the government?  Or corruption?  Filipinos have a false sense of development related to an oppressed past.  Our very melodramatic view of the past and of the tragic stories of our heroes who died for the Philippines doesn’t really help.  The level of guilt we have for being less Filipino than we should be will not improve the economy.  Patriotism, or the lack of it, has nothing to do with the mess we’re all in.  Have you seen how patriotic North Koreans are? How about USSR people before the union collapsed?  China did not become a very promising super power state because of its citizens’ patriotism but because it opened its markets in the last decade.  Enough of this shit and stupid preachy-kind-of plays!

Hate Restaurants is a play I love and hate at the same time because it unintentionally gives a glimpse of how the Filipino conyotic and burgis (read those nakaka-asar-as-in-grabeh- guys from Ateneo, La Salle, and College of Business Administration in UP) probably think and act, which is stupidly funny and offensive at the same time.  I love it because I’ve many friends whose real life tragedies and dramas revolve around their crazy officemates.  I hate it because, shit, they seem to live in Mars and not in the Philippines where many people’s daily problems are getting hungry, sick, and being oppressed/exploited.  The play is utterly devoid of issues such as poverty or corruption in the country.  It’s about weird middle class people in weird middle class situations with weird cults driving every possible normal person/place under its dominion.  The characters speak in English in the accent of the conyotic yuppies in Makati.  The setting is in a restaurant that could be somewhere in Makati, Ortigas, Manhattan, San Francisco, who cares!  It doesn’t matter, because they’re all urbanites with urban concerns and urban sense of paranoia.  Plot: very sane cute girl works as a chef in a restaurant that is owned by very insane woman who’s madly in love with her insane and supercilious macho but nerdy-looking chef employee who himself hates everyone in his workplace, especially this other insane and sadako-looking manager-employee.  One day, restaurant is invaded by people from friends of science cult who look like haughty Makati office girls and who don’t eat flour, only barley.  Each person from the restaurant is eventually converted to the friends of science, and sane cute girl uses flour with all her might to defend herself  from these mad people.  There is another character in the play, the mouse, who is beheaded and who in the end reappears to kill his butcher.

Okay, so this is probably satire, or making fun of the often weird-acting and weird-looking city people.  I love the way the play concerns itself with the neurosis of the middle class, their issues with co-employees, officemates, boss, and other people who have a world of their own.  For this play to be shown to a middle class audience who probably share the dilemmas of the characters in the play but who live in a third world country is so… perfect!  In one level, I can clearly relate with the problems of the sane cute girl and I can identify people I know who are exactly like the weird neurotic characters in the play.  In another level, because the play does not tell me where it is set or does not even attempt to make a statement about glaring issues about poverty or corruption – clearly the “real” truths about the place where I live – I feel alienated by the play.  It’s as if it doesn’t give a shit about theater’s moral obligation (is there?) to address gripping issues that affect/afflict its audience.  In this sense, it’s very academic.  It doesn’t have a political view or leaning to preach to its audience, it just presents the lives of a composite group – the middle class – and its sensibilities. 

But Filipino middle class are nuanced by the ever present face of poverty.  Who doesn’t have a yaya who’s poor or a driver whose family lives in the squatter’s area?  And from what I’ve studied in college, middle class Filipinos do not necessarily have Western middle class sensibilities or culture capital (yes, after Bourdieu).  In short, a Filipino chef who may live in a condo unit in The Fort and drives a Honda may have different values and concerns compared to his contemporaries in Sydney or London.  She may probably have poor relatives, or parents totally dependent on her, or she may be sending several siblings to school.  The play is therefore actually very alienating even to middle class Filipinos, except maybe to those few who come from Ateneo or La Salle, grew up in gated communities, chauffeured to “safe” places in Metro Manila, and whose idea of poverty is getting a second-hand iPod instead of a brand new. 

Isang Araw sa Karnabal is the play among the three that has the least number of actors (two), the least number of stage props (Bermuda floor and a bench), and the least number of monologues.  But it’s the most funny, compelling, and moving story.  I think it’s also the better directed of the three.  And the script!  It’s one of the wittiest and serious plays I’ve encountered.  Nick Pichay is a master storyteller in this play.  The scene opens with Tony sitting in a bench in Enchanted Paradise (a.k.a. Enchanted Kingdom) which is her and Zaldy’s, her quasi-boyfriend, trysting place.  While waiting for Zaldy she listens and sings with the Carpenters’ The Way We Were in her mp3 player.  Something happens in the middle of the song: the chorus part has gone, replaced by another song.  She is bewildered, almost seized by panic, and rewinds the track.  Then Zaldy appears.  The audience then spends 45 minutes with Zaldy and Tony at the carnival as they try different rides, discuss their future plans, confirm their commitments to a cause and with each other, and make bitter and sad decisions.  The carnival experience reveals that they met in a counseling group; both had a family member who’s a desaparecido (a missing person presumably killed because of his/her political beliefs).  While Zaldy has tried to move on and attempts to create some semblance of life around him, Tony is still resolved in finding her father, even after she has discovered that he has another family.  Tony persuades Zaldy to continue his search for his sister’s killers, or at least help her look for her father.  In truth, Tony is also measuring his commitment to her or to their possible future marital relationship.  When she realizes he’s not up to it, she decides to rid of him, and the child she’s bearing with him.  She gives him one last chance, to eat the shit-toy which she tells Zaldy to be a candy and a sign of one’s unwavering love to a woman.  Zaldy has second thoughts, and Tony walks out of the stage and tells him they’ll see each other one of these days.  “Txt txt”, she says.  In truth, she has already left him.

I know this play is good because I can’t stop from laughing at the often humor-peppered dialogues even when the subject is about people disappearing and presumably getting murdered.  I don’t know how the script does it, but while guffawing I was also feeling so bad witnessing how the characters continue to struggle and seem to be conflicted to eternity by the disappearance of their family members.  Their tormented souls are displayed when almost everything in the carnival, a place that is supposed to be a fantasy playground and an escape from reality, is linked to their current predicaments and/or emotions: the missing chorus lines in Tony’s mp3 player referring to missing people, the carnival game of shooting moving animals is Tony’s rage and resolve to avenge her father, the horror ride becoming an analogy of the frightening scenario and political environment they’re in, and the plunging roller coaster a metaphor for Tony’s decision to drop and abort her child.

The direction is class A.  I can’t for the life of me still believe how, with only the help of the stage lights and the actor’s body movements, I was convinced that I was also on a ride with Zaldy and Tony as they went through the exhilirating highs and lows of the roller coaster.  If the play can give me that kind of effect, then it must really be a good one.

 

Note:

Thanks to Gibbs Cadiz for the tree ticket(s) and the man at the front house who got frightened when I told him I was from the PRESS and needed two more additional tickets for my friends.  My friends became an instant theater convert after seeing the three plays and went on to watch the other sets.

 

SET E: Life is a Trap (Three Plays in Search of Escape)


June 27: 3pm, 8pm
June 30: 8pm
July 1: 3pm



Isang Araw sa Karnabal by Nicolas B. Pichay, directed by Chris Millado


Paigan by Liza Magtoto, directed by Sigrid Bernardo


Hate Restaurants by David Finnigan, directed by J. Victor Villareal


The essence of Starbucks conversations

The funny thing about coffee conversations is that they tend to be about everything, and nothing.  (footnote coffee conversation: people sit down to have coffee and talk about almost anything, except work matters).  When you have to really think about it, they do not amount to something – like close a business deal or a book project – more than a few “I concur” nods.   Even if you win over an argument, you won’t get promoted in your job.  The best that you’ll ever get to having a reward for thinking out loud is that the cute guy on the other table in the coffee house might notice you for five seconds.  Conversations lack the studied focus of writing nor the zealous passion of a debate.  They’re always multi-linear narratives.  They often stretch for hours without really coming to a climax or a conclusion unlike a play or a song.  They’re pretty much like a hamster on a wheel race.  The worse thing is that you spend good enough time nitpicking your brain strategically positioning how you will fire your next rebuttal or maneuver a topic to make the conversation alive and going only to end up having all your pent up energies go to the trash bin once everyone’s finished with his coffee.  Conversations only stop not when a topic has been thoroughly dissected, but when people start to look at their watches and worry about having to catch the last bus.    

And yet we have this unending compulsion to waste time for a coffee and some chit chat.  There are probably million reasons why we do so, and we can’t even begin to list them down.   In Manila, coffee at Starbucks or Seattle’s is usually an occasion for a reunion – among grade school/high school/college classmates or long lost friends, balikbayan friends, or even officemates who do not see/talk with each other at work.  Many gays date at Starbucks for reasons only they know why.  

The conversations over coffee are one of the very few times in our lives when we’re assured of a “real” audience.  They’re one of those few times where our opinions – in a world drowning with opinions from the Internet to a stranger who blogs – get to be valued no matter how stupid they are, because first: our coffee-mates have no choice but to listen, and second: they have no choice but to comment.  It doesn’t matter whether we are politically correct or even knowledgeable about, say, baby diapers when our new-mother friend begins to compare diaper products.  Our useless advice to her will still be acknowledged. 

Of course, there are light coffee conversations and there are heavy intellectual ones.  It doesn’t at all depend on who you’re coffee-ing with as much as on what the topic is all about.  You can have light conversations like Piolo Pascual and his skin or the new guy you’re dating online.  And you can elevate Piolo to a discussion on queer sexuality, Zizek, and even link him with as disjointed a world as Cecil Licad.  You can discuss Piolo’s skin with a big time professor from a big time university in a third-world-country pretending to be first-world (read Philippines).  And attempting to connect Piolo with Marxism is possible and can clearly be understood in an un-intellectual language. 

I’ve met so-called politically-opinionated and highly-intellectual people who feel the obligation to put on their intellectual hat in a coffee talk, but somehow somewhere the ghost of this-is-just-coffee-talk-change-topic possesses them and they end up like, well, ordinary people.  Take for example a dinner over at friends’ place last week.  While sipping coffee there was suddenly a break-in news on TV about Con-Ass.  Everybody and his mom had an opinion, of course. Someone defined the parameters of Con-Ass and distinguished it from Con-Con like a lawyer.  One girl did a monologue about the essence of democracy in Asia, and her boyfriend rejoined her in a soliloquy on sovereignty, patriotism, and indigenous rights.  The host of the coffee session said he wasn’t able to vote during the last presidential elections.  I said “Me too”.  Everyone didn’t vote.  Then Susie mentioned that GMA Channel 7 is putting up a new show that’ll pit against Boy and Kris’s evening entertainment news.  We all tuned in to the TV to check if it was already on-air. 

Some people I know have written books about theories on Philippine society, the arts and the sociology of Philippine films but would love nothing but gossips during coffee talks.  And when they do deal with serious topics, they deal with them in conversation-mode; meaning, they probably won’t even write about the things they say over coffee.  The way they end a subject in a conversation won’t definitely be the same when they’re concluding an essay or a chapter for a book.  One incident shows how this is: I was having coffee with this professor whose stature is of national note about the death of Philippine cinema.  My friend was scrutinizing the state of the business of film making in the country and the cultures that have engendered practices that ultimately led NOT to its dying and debacle state but to its “death”, and his reservations for Indie films in reviving the industry (this conversation was five years ago; we all know Indie films are currently the OFWs of the film industry).  He was indicting key players that were responsible for this so-called death of Philippine cinema, and was short of cursing them to hell.  In the middle of his impassioned lecture, his phone rang.  It was from his boy toy who wanted to meet up right away.  As with his hasty conclusion about the state of Philippine cinema, the ending of our conversation was as abrupt as logging out of Facebook.

Something happens during a conversation that makes one look like he’s just drawing circles.  I’ve seen many “intellectual” performers (those guys who tend to grandstand over a topic that they feel they have authority over or responsibility to dominate unless their intellect be challenged; or those who name drop Benedict Anderson and national artists as friends) during coffee sessions who, in the act of performing, become the opposite of the identity they want to project.   There was this professor who was highly critical of nativistic framing and wanted to impress upon foreign coffee-mates on how well he could defend his stance (or how well he spoke English);  when his ideas were being interrogated, he got confused and started defending nativism.  So much for consistency. 

Last night I had coffee with two friends who met for the first time.  The initial topic was expensive sports such as diving.  Then it shifted to marketing Philippines to Asian middle class tourists, damaged culture, inventing culture, reinventing culture, etc.  Then we jumped to a discussion of local accents.  I asked my girl friend why she doesn’t use Facebook more often, and she said she got tired of posting pictures of places she’s been to because she doesn’t want to brag about them.  I realized I didn’t need to ask such a stupid question, and she probably felt she didn’t need to give an answer.  But we’re having a conversation, for chrissake.

La Pianiste

I held off writing something about La Pianiste (2001) directed by Michael Haneke for a while because I could not immediately understand it.  And yet I knew I loved it right away.  I rarely get to see films that touch on complex and miserable human relationships.  I found it disturbing, something similar to the feeling you’ll probably get if you found out that your girl friend’s child was sired by her own father, or if you discovered that an old couple were actually siblings.  Try to imagine what’s everyday life like for them.  It’s the same feeling I had after reading the novel Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton where three characters live together in an unhealthy setup, and you initially wonder why they have to be together at all.  Then you learn about their lives and you feel bad that you can’t do anything to help.  They’re trapped in their relationships for life and there’s nothing they can do about it, and it’s so depressing.  It’s also the feeling that you’ll probably get if you found out that everybody in the house was intentionally peeping and watching you whenever you masturbated.  And you all live in one roof and have to interact with each other.  It’s  disgustingly uncomfortable, right?

The film also delves in the psychology of the really weird bordering-on-demented people, one of the things that I thought always interested French filmmakers.  I saw another French film before, about this young handsome guy who was hired by a rich old gay man as his bodyguard or assistant, and their relationship became complicated until the young guy couldn’t take it anymore and killed his boss when he’s fired from his job. 

In La Pianiste, the piano teacher is psychologically trapped as a child and can’t seem to become a full adult because of her close relationship with her very domineering and possessive mother (by the way, just some trivia: the director Michael Haneke won best picture at Cannes this year; and the lead actress Isabelle Huppert was the head of the selection jury that gave best director award to Brilliante Mendoza for Kinatay).  They both sleep in the same bed, and the mother treats her 40-year-old daughter like a nine-year old.  The daughter is saddled with the obligation to take care for her mother and can’t really move out and live on her own.  Her adult streaks sort of come out in rather wild ways:  she’s a masochist and fantasizes about S&M; she gets into genital mutilation; she likes watching porn in adult bookstores and smelling the cum-stained toilet papers; she’s a voyeur and likes watching young couples do it in public places. 

Then a young man falls in love with her, and everything turns more chaotic.  When her mother is locked up inside the cabinet and hears her being raped, she becomes both like a child who’s crying out for help from her mother and at the same time an adult fulfilling her fantasies.  You don’t know whether she actually likes the fact that her mother knows and hears what is happening but cannot do anything.  In that instance, she is like a helpless child, and the brutal sex – her adult fantasy – could only happen within this specific space.  

The ending is rather poetic, and I felt it necessary for the character and for the audience too.  It’s cathartic in a way; it symbolizes why pain is for some people the only refuge from a very constricting environment.

Going south

I live in a street that trails down Edsa; wherever I go I simply orient it either to my left of Edsa, which is southbound, or to my right.  My sense of geography – and my life on the whole – is sort of simplified by my relationship to this road: my grade school was on the north of Edsa while my high school was in south; college was north, and my first job south.  Gym south, friends north.  Airport and other countries south.  My last relationship with a guy began in the north and ended in the south.

Last Saturday, I got lost and disoriented.  I took the pink aircon bus going south.  The bus was headed to Makati, but I wasn’t going there.  In fact, I didn’t know where I was going.  I was probably gonna go to Cubao, or Robinsons, or maybe Megamall.  Or I could go to Mall of Asia, which was the end of the bus’ route.  I didn’t have any itinerary.  I just wanted to go somewhere.  I’ve been exiled in my shoe-box room for the last five or six Saturdays, and my life was the computer screen and the people in the house.  I was forcing myself to work.  I thought I could fix my life – and my future – if I locked myself in the house.  I got burned out, and the faces around me became unbearable.

I thought of buying toiletries and then maybe cruising the malls.  It felt kind of sad that this would be the highlight of my Saturday.  Saturdays for gays usually means a night out with friends, being awake at four a.m. the next day, a bottle of beer in one hand, loud music, and flirting in Malate.  My Saturdays for the last eight years of my life meant Anton.  He and I broke up a few months ago.

I looked outside the window of the bus and observed strangers along the sidewalk.  It started to drizzle.  I tried to guess which ones would enter the bus.  Their faces seemed familiar, like long lost acquaintances.  I’ve seen them before: in films, in my dreams, in the pictures of the blogs I read.  They were the same people I saw in my college days when I would get stuck in Edsa traffic for hours, and the muted strangers outside behaving like crazy ants moving in different directions entertained me. 

I wanted to get off the bus in front of Megamall overpass, but it went straight to the stoplight.  I ended up at Starmall.  I went inside and walked straight to the restroom at the top floor, which is the center of the cruising area.  There was somebody in the stall.  I waited and pretended to wash my hands.  When he got out, he was this mestizo who’s in his early 20s: lean, wearing sando and navy blue surfer shorts, and his crotch seemed to protrude from his shorts.  We were the only two inside the restroom.  He glanced at me briefly then proceeded to wash his hands, set on the dryer, and finally exit.  He left his silver umbrella in the stall.  I took a look at it, then I began to think of different ways to sneak it out of the mall without running into him.  Should I run or just walk very briskly?  Then I heard footsteps rushing towards the restroom.   When the mestizo guy opened the door, he caught me holding his umbrella and I immediately handed it to him and said, “Hey man, your umbrella.”  He replied curtly and in a tone that was sexy and sounded like my gay cousin.  “Thank you,” and he left.  I went out of the restroom.  I thought he’s probably straight.  Then I saw him standing by the railing like the guys who cruise there.  Is he waiting for somebody?  I moved about and got to a section in the mall that sold second-hand cellphones.  I showed them my phone and asked how much to get it fixed, but none of them knew how to do it.  I walked around again and saw lonely old gay men cruising.  What if my ex and his new boyfriend caught me here cruising like the other old gays?  The whole scene would be embarrassing.  There’s no any better way to look pathetic.  But I know he doesn’t go to Starmall.  I remembered the times I attempted to sneak behind his back to go malling alone.  My phone would never stop ringing.  He would call and text to check on me and I had to tell him what I was doing or where I was.  My phone hardly ever rings nowadays, and for the first time I kinda felt scared walking alone in an eerie mall.

I got back to where the mestizo guy was standing a while ago and he wasn’t there anymore.  I wandered some more and then crossed to Shangrila mall.  Today there was some amateur modeling at the podium of the ground floor with some bratty teenagers strutting like bitches.  I passed by Quickly and bought taro so I could get rid of my coins.  I only had a thousand box with me and I told myself I would buy whatever I felt like eating.

I checked out every single restroom inside Shangrila ‘til my feet  got so tired.  It felt weird; I thought I was back in college.  My friend Dexter and I used to swim at Ultra then spend the whole afternoon at Shangrila cruising.  We got to know a lot of guys there who were like us, and they became sort of friends too.  Sometimes we’d sing, exchange Broadway musical CDs, and eat together.  Then we’d go to Dexter’s house and watch DVDs. 

I went outside and checked the restroom.  There was this guy who had a distorted face and he was applying eyeliner.  I went back to the basement restroom in the food court.  There was a guy who looked like a mixture of Romnick Sarmenta and my Muslim officemate.  He was wearing a brown sweater and carrying a badminton bag.  I followed him around.  He went to the arcade.  I went inside and he looked at me.  I made some gestures and he motioned me to come closer.  When I did, I asked him “Ano trip mo?”  He couldn’t hear what I was saying since it was too noisy.  He said, “Huh?  Huh?  Gusto mo kumanta?”

He spoke close to my face and I could smell his bad breath, like he just woke up from sleep last night and hadn’t spoken since.  I asked, “May alam kang lugar?”  He didn’t know any.  I said we could check out the restrooms and do it there.  We got out of the arcade and went to different restrooms, but they were always full of old ugly gays.  I asked if he sucked good and he said he’s okay.  I occasionally glanced at his face.  He’s cute but whenever he spoke he looked like he didn’t have front teeth, which was funny.  And his breath was really bad.

We went to the restroom outside.  There were four or five ugly old gays with big bellies.  I saw an acquaintance who’s also cruising.  I met him at a party at a friend’s house last year, and he designs accessories for celebrity stars.  He recognized me and said, “Uy! Kumusta ka na?  You are again….?”

He waited for me to say my name and extended his hand.  I shook his hand and said, “Joel.  Uy, ito nga pala friend ko,” and pointed to Romnick-look-alike.  I didn’t know both their names.  We were by the door and we were all sweating from the heat because it was so crowded inside.  We started talking out loud and I mentioned something about our common friend so that he’d remember where we met and I’d be able to recall his name.  We kind of like destroyed the cruising scene.  The designer asked me and Romnick-look-alike to go to Shangrila lobby to talk.  We walked out of the restroom.  Romnick-look-alike whispered to me, “Ano name mo para kunyari kilala kita”  I said, “Joel.  Ikaw ano nga ulet name mo?”  He said, “Jigs.  Eh yong kasama naten ano name niya?”  I replied, “Hindi ko nga alam eh.”  He asked, “Eh di ba friend mo siya?”  “Nakilala ko lang yan sa party.”     

We entered Shangrila and the designer joked with the security guards to pretend like he’s a regular there.  He said, “Welcome to my house.”  We went to the second floor and sat by the sofa near the Murano glass exhibition. 

I found out that his name was Franco.  Franco looked kinda old with cropped hair.  He was wearing black shirt with handsome jeans and sneakers.  He’s mestizo, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks because his eyes were sullen.  He lost a lot of weight from the last time I saw him. 

He talked nonstop.  He told us the story of his life, how he just got into trouble and his business had collapsed, and how his boyfriend and he are not doing okay right now.  He spoke about all the celebrity stars he partied around with, like this writer from Inquirer and her sissy kid.  Then he said he’s changed and doesn’t drink anymore.  He’s turned his back from his past life, and he’s now surrendered himself to God and goes to Victory church every week.    I really didn’t give a bullshit, he was just cruising at a public restroom for crying out loud.  Jigs was actually sleeping.  Then I told him about our common friend who had syphilis and is probably HIV infected. 

He started to flirt with Jigs.  Jigs suddenly started to put on this character about how he’s not really gay and how he’s never done it with gays before and he’s just like doing this for trip, and that he doesn’t suck and all the bullshit.  It was already five thirty and I wanted to escape from the stupid conversation so I told them I had to meet somebody at Megamall.  We all exchanged numbers and I left them there. 

I went to Megamall, bought my toiletries, and ate everything I felt like tasting: popcorn, ice cream, shake, pizza, burger, KFC, etc.  Then I went to the 4^th floor art gallery section.  There was this gallery which featured big mixed media paintings in different shades of grey and blue.  One painting was like the size of my bedroom wall and it was covered with shoebox cars.  Another canvass was covered with knives.  And there’s another one that had a chair suspended on it.  Then I saw professor Jensen, my Nat Science Two teacher.  He’s a funny guy who’s a doppelganger of Mr. Bean but older and with a Visayan accent.  He was wearing a high-waist pair of shorts and looked like a retard, and he’s carrying a green SM plastic grocery bag.  I followed him.  He went to an Internet shop to check his mail.  I thought to myself:  am I gonna become like him when I grow old?

I checked the cinema at the third floor.  Then I checked all the restrooms from one end of the mall to the other, starting from the top floor to the ground.  Afterwards, I got really hungry.  I transferred to Podium and went to Yaku restaurant.  They had two new waiters who looked like film actors.  The manager came up to me and said “Hi Joel.  Where’s Anton?” I didn’t know how to reply, so I just said, “Oh he’s in London for work; will be back in a month”.  He said, “I just saw him a few weeks ago at Starbucks Megamall ”.

I know Anton doesn’t go to Megamall because he hates big crowds.  But maybe he’s changed now.  Or maybe his new boyfriend works nearby and he’s waiting for him.  He now goes to Malate on weekend; he used to hate that kind of lifestyle. 

I looked at my phone directory and I went through the names in my contact list one by one.  I wanted to text or call a friend who wouldn’t say no to me if i invited him out for the night.  I thought of Dexter, but he’s now based in Australia.  Bhing is working in Boracay.  Jae, who was a fling and likes to party, is busy with his new boyfriend.  Alden’s more like me who doesn’t have a set of friends and just goes from one group to another, but he’s studying in Japan right now.  Ryan’s in a meeting, and he’d probably go out with his other friends that night.  Andy didn’t want to go out because it was raining.  My two girl best friends whom I hadn’t met in two years are now devout Christians, which is why I probably don’t’ want to see them anyway.  And they’d probably just want to have coffee.

I thought about meeting new people.  I thought about capoeira and and hanging out with straight guys and going to straight places.  But it’s really expensive to train.  And I can’t go back to tennis because that’ll mean seeing him again.  I thought about contacting my high school friends, but I only have Clavel’s number, and he’s in San Francisco.  Most of the college friends who I still have contacts are girls, and they’re all married.

In the middle of this, I remembered a scene.  I was in college and I used to go with my dad to pick up my mom in Makati and we’d eat at Mushroom Burger beside Mc Donald’s in Greenbelt One at one a.m.  Whenever we went there, I’d see a group of guys with their cars and girlfriends.  Then the scene got transformed and I saw Anton with his high school friends.

I got my orders.  I was so full already.  I ate everything.  When I got home, I opened the ref.  My aunt had bought an ube cake from Red Ribbon.

Before I went to bed, I checked my phone out of routine.  There was one text message from an unknown number:  2nyt TEST THE BIG BANG w SUPER EXPLOSION! Feat. D KING OF CUM “TILAMSIK” Cum early to Avail 180php ntrance fee at Fahrenheit café Pls pass.

I thought it was best punch line of the day.

Independencia – or how to crave for Sid Lucero in a G-string

I was incited to “review” Independencia (2009) directed by Raya Martin because of the following: everyone I knew who saw it at the French Film Festival gave the film a thumbs down and I wanted to process why this was so; I read my friend’s take on the film and I couldn’t help but also dib at it; I thought the film was a good writing exercise on how to creatively express the word “duhh”; and I’m supposed to be from the media.

The film earned mild applause from the audience, the most polite way of telling the director who’s present how much they dislike it.  My friend told me that it can actually be a good way to get one-hour power nap after commuting in Edsa.  Another said it wasn’t worth all the energies that people expended when they complained after the free tickets to the film had ran out.  My two other friends had to belabor on how well they didn’t like it.  I guess the film was, in some sense, like the critiques around it.  It’s too much ado about nothing, really.

The problem is all about the film’s title.  The word Independencia summons a lot of images and grand themes: revolution/s, the Katipuneros, the making of the Philippine nation and/or Filipino identity, Philippines suffering, and everything else considered to be a milestone in our history books.  The film is none of these; it’s about a family somewhere in the central Philippines (they speak Tagalog) that seeks refuge in the forest while Spanish-American war is taking place.  This makes me wonder: did the director aim to redefine the meaning of Independencia by training the lens to focus not on the so-called big historical events but on the most miniscule unit of society, which is the family and how it imagines itself to be free in the forest?  Did the director want to say that, hey!  Independence is not only about the wars, the Katipunan, or Rizal vs. Bonifacio vs. Aguinaldo vs. Sakay discourse but is as elementary as the orphaned boy resisting civilization from the Americans by jumping to his death.  If this is the case, the director is making a statement about independence being, in its most organic nature, an innate characteristic of an individual to resist authority. 

There is something problematic about this construction of independence.   When used to refer to nation states, “Independencia” is a very loaded term.  It’s associated with colonization or economic and political oppression.  It presupposes an imagined “enlightened” group or community wanting to be liberated from tyranny caused by another group.  It suggests that the people in these islands have begun to construct a Filipino identity/nation, and are struggling to be independent from a foreign non-Filipino one.  It’s more than just not wanting to be ordered around or refusing to be integrated into civilization that’s run by foreigners.  Hence, Independencia has been used quite loosely in the film and is actually a misnomer.  The film’s better off with other titles: Laki sa Layaw, or Kalayaan sa Gubat, or God Knows I Want To Break Free.

To conceptualize independence as an innate human desire to be free from any form of subject or control is, uhm, stupid.  Independence has always been a relative and subjective term.  No one is truly independent.  For example, if you’re born into a tribe, you are already part of a group.  And your group is more likely to be part of a bigger more complex group called nation, state, or – in the case of Spanish and American periods – a colony.  In our modern world, a nation state is even part of bigger groups of nations defined by geography, economic and political powers, and even ideology.  There’s much truth in the cliché “no man’s an island”.  The history of human civilization starting from Sumeria has always been a story of control and subjugation.  Whether you like it or not, you are bound to be governed, or to govern, by one group or the other, the moment you are born into this world.  Independence is always seen in the context of how much “free” people are.

Philippine freedom has always been romanticized quite unproblematically, i.e. the image of a suffering woman dressed in tattered Philippine flag and looks like she’s been raped by many men (read: foreign invaders).  Get the message?  It seems like the Spanish and American colonial pasts have become convenient excuses when trying to explain our current problems and inability to develop.  But how to view our other neighbors like Malaysia, Singapore, and Thailand (although not directly colonized) who also lost their so-called “independence” from their colonizers but are now as rich as them?

Be that as it may, the film did have some saving graces:  smoky black and white effects of the Clark Cable era of filmmaking that makes poor Filipino mountain dwellers haute couture; Sid Lucero in G-string can actually make up for all the film’s thematic problems; Alessandra de Rossi’s Armosolo-like poses; and Tetchie Agbayani’s beautiful eyes.

In the end, however, the real saving grace is the fact that this film, like any long and dragging film, eventually gets to finish.

Ang sulat ni Maria

Forwarded email:

 

Registered nurse si Maria sa States. Kasama nya ang kanyang ina na nagpapagamot din doon pero di nagtagal namatay din ito.  Dahil sa kamahalan ng pasahe pabalik sa Pinas, nagtipid si Maria.  Pina-uwi nya na lang ang kabaong ng kanyang ina nang mag-isa.

 

Pagdating ng kabaong, napansin ng mga kapamilya nya na dikit ang mukha ni nanay sa salamin ng ataul. Nagkomento ang isang anak, “Ay naku! Tingnan mu yan… hindi sila marunong mag-ayos ng bangkay sa Amerika!”

 

Upang ayusin ang bangkay, binuksan ang kabaong.  Aba! May sulat sa dibdib ng ina. Kinuha nila ito at binasa. Ang nilalaman ng liham ay mula kay Maria:

 

 

Mahal kong tatay at mga kapatid,

Pasensya na kayo at hindi ko masamahan si nanay sa pag-uwi dyan sa Pinas dahil napakamahal ng pamasahe. Ang gastos ko pa lang sa kanya ay higit $1,000 na. Ayoko ng isipin ang eksaktong halaga. Anyway, pinadala ko kasama ni nanay ang mga sumusunod…

Nasa likod ni Nanay ang dalawangput-apat na Carne Norte.  Ang Adidas na suot ni nanay ay para kay tatay.  Ang limang pares na degoma ay nasa loob ng dalawang asul na Jansport na bagpack na inuunan ni nanay. Tig-iisa kayo.  Ang iba’t-ibang klase ng tsoklate at candy ay nasa puetan ni nanay.  Para sa mga bata ito. Bahala na kayong magparte-parte. Sana’y di ito natunaw.  Ang Pokemon stuff toy na yapos-yapos ni Nanay ay para sa bunso ni ate. Gift ko sa first birthday ng bata. Ang itim na Esprit bag ay para kay Nene.  Ate, nasa loob ng bag ang pictures ni inay, Japanese version ng Pokemon trading cards and stickers.  Suot ni Nanay ang tatlong Ralph Lauren, apat na Gap at dalawang Old Navy t-shirts. Ang isa ay para kay kuya at tig-isa ang mga pamangkin ko. Maisusuot nyo yan sa fiesta.  Suot din ni inay ang anim na panty hose at tatlong warmer para sa mga dalaga kong pamangkin. Isuot ninyo yan sa mga parties.

May isang dosenang NBA caps sa may paanan ni Inay… para kay itay, kuya, dikong, Tiyo Romy. Bigyan nyo na rin ng tig-iisa yung mga pamangkin ko at iyong isa ay para kay Pareng Tolome.  Ang tig dalawang pares ng Nike wristband at knee caps na suot din ni Inay ay para sa mga anak mo kuya na nagbabasketball.  Tigdalawang ream ng Malboro Green at Winston Lights ang nasa pagitan ng mga hita ni Inay.  

Apat na jar ng Skippy peanut butter, dalawang dish washing liquid, isang Kiwi glass cleaner, at tig-anim na Colgate at Aqua Fresh ang nakasiksik sa kili-kili ni Nanay. Hati-hati na kayo… Huwag mag-aagawan.

Isang dosenang bra na gustong-gusto ni Ka Iska, suot-suot din ni Nanay. Alam kong inaasam! -asam ninyo iyan t’ya.  Ang hikaw, kwintas (na may nakakabit na nail cutters), singsing na gustong gusto mo ate, suot-suot din ni Inay. Kunin mo na rin agad ditche.  Mga Chanel at Champion na medyas ang suot-suot din ni Inay. Tig isa kayo ng  mga pamangkin ko.

Mga pampers, panty liners, cotton buds, cotton balls, table napkins at  mga scotch brite na may foam ay natatakpan ng mga puting bath towels… iyon bale ang pinang-kutson ko sa kabaong ni Nanay.  Marami-rami rin iyan…  Parte-parte na kayo.

Marami pa sana akong ilalagay kaya lang baka mag-excess at si Nanay pa ang maiwan.

Basta parte-parte na kayo Tatay, Kuya, Ate, Nono, Nene… para sa inyong lahat iyan. Bahala na kayo kay Nanay. Ipapa-misa ko na lang siya dito. Balitaan na lang ninyo ako pagkatapos ng libing.

Paki-double check nga rin pala ang lista kung walang nawawala sa mga ipinadala ko.

Nagmamahal,

Maria

P.S. Paki bihisan ninyo agad si Nanay!!!

Utang ina ninyo..

Si Eva, yong auntie ko na galing America nandito ngayon nag aaral ng nursing sa Guadalupe. Kapit bahay namen.  Walang araw na ginawa ng Diyos na may reklamo siya: sa MRT, sa pilahan sa grocery, sa mga taxi, sa kalsada sa labas ng bahay, sa EDSA, sa squatter sa street namen, sa missing na toilet paper sa banyo, sa sistema sa bangko, sa GSIS, sa pension system ng tatay niya, sa Jollibee, sa palengke, pati sa init.

Ngayong araw ang reklamo niya eh tungkol sa mga kamag anak niya sa mother side niya.

Yong nanay niya kasi maraming kapatid na hindi naka tapos.  In short, mga proletariat.  Sila yong mga ang trabaho eh nagtitinda sa palengke, or pedicab driver, waiter, construction worker, sales lady, callboy, at karamihan tambay sa kanto.  May auntie siya na nakatira sa Cogyo – outskirts ng Manila – na may isang dosenang anak na may mga anak na rin na may mga anak pa.  In short, isang community sila don.  Si Eva ang sponsor ng buong community: tuition fee, gamot, pang grocery, gatas kay baby, timba, bayad sa kuryente at tubig, pang load sa cellphone, pati pabango.  Nong namatayan yong taga Cogyo, siya gumastos.  Nong namatay naman yong bantay ng bahay nila, umuwi pa siya para ipa libing. Nong sinalubong daw sila sa airport ng kamag anak, ang unang hirit: “pautang”.

Siya din nag pa aral ng tatlo niyang pinsan sa Lingayen ng nursing. Eh kaso, wala ni isa naka pasa sa board tapos ayaw na mag retake.  Ngayon nag pe pedicab yong panganay at yong pangalawa tambay at basketball. Yong isa naman niyang auntie na may binatang anak na batugan ginawa niyang caretaker ng bahay nila.  Eh since nandito siya ngayon sa Manila pinalayas niya.  Hinimatay tuloy. So dinala niya sa hospital.  Siyempre, siya din nag bayad ng pang ospital

Ilang beses na daw niyang na sigawan tuwing pumupunta sa bahay nila or tumatawag sa US para humingi ng pera.  Pero siyempre, wala naman magagawa sigaw niya. 

She asked my advice.  Sabi ko sa kanya, lasunin na lang niya mga kamag anak niya.  Marami nga lang siyang palilibing.  Gastos din yon.

Ded na si Lolo

Finally caught this movie which all gay men in Metro Manila have been raving about in their blogs but which was so elusive it couldn’t be found in cinemas except in obscure and forgettable eerie places.  So it was that I and a friend had to be in Binondo on an unbearably hot Sunday afternoon to supposedly do a food trip and walking tour, except that I’m such a good researcher I found all the best places to eat in and shop at but missed one little information about the place being dead on Sunday.  So we decided to skip to SM Manila and crossed our fingers hoping the film would be showing there.  I guess it’s how the movie advertises itself to its audience: by premonition.  You see, dead Binondo = Ded na si Lolo.  Yes, it was showing there.

As with all things that are usually associated with the dead in the Philippines, the movie basically serves a full dish of superstitions that we Filipinos continue to practice and at the same time try to do away with.  Plot: typical lower middle class family in a rowdy neighborhood gets thrust into the rituals of the dead after father dies and gets mired in family drama about long held secrets and perceived hurts and offenses.  Family is known in the neighborhood as full of drama, and the death becomes an occasion for the ultimate showcase of dramatic skills, with the characters portrayed as trying to outperform each other on who can best perform grief, sorrow, fainting, as well as pity and pain during sibling confrontations.  Movie basically is a mirror of the culture around the dead, which is mostly funny.  People are supposed to grieve, but they also use the occasion to flirt with their neighbor, make more money, celebrate, and gossip with each other.  Movie also wants to suggest that lower middle class family often imitates TV melodrama, using them as templates or guides on cues on how to shed a tear, faint, or utter the most emotional lines.  In a sense, grief is also as much ritual as is natural.

It was hard concentrating on the movie when the lights were really dark and the sound system third rate.  And whilst the movie was about death, I was more concentrated about something that was so alive.  Yes, with SM Manila, gays could very well cue for other kinds of “rituals”.