Intelligent Voter - A Fictional Species?

Come to think of it, it's not very difficult to define an intelligent voter, right? If you're thinking about the voter who's aware of all the issues involved in the election and is also well informed of the qualifications of the competing candidates then you're on target.

But how does one get to know the candidates and the issues? If you're the average Joe (or, Jose) you rely mostly on the news: traditional radio/TV and newspapers or Internet news (also from the same radio/TV/newspaper networks). In short, you only get to know what media feeds you. I'm embarrassed to admit I also defend on media for my information. Is that good?

It all depends on who's lobbying who and what, of course. And you and I won't even recognize a lobbyist if we met one. The lobbyist is this paid hack who bribes lawmakers into making decisions that will favor their paymasters. But of course! They also manipulate the news by pouring advertising money into media networks. Thus we'll notice one network heavily favors one particular party (e.g. Fox loves the GOP and CNN drools over anything the White House dishes out) while other  news networks look at things from a "different perspective." Then there's also the professional "opinion" talk shows (Limbaugh, Hannity, Huckaboom) who heap halos on the GOP and thorns on the Donkey Party.

With all these vested interests vying for our attention, how the heck do we form an intelligent opinion? Hell, we can't! We just guess. We muddle around the issues and try our best to see the nuggets in the pile of crap they dish out. In the end, things boil down to a kind of popularity contest. The more we hear the name, the more it sticks to our consciousness. So when the day comes for us to vote, whether we like Quinn or not (candidate for NYC mayor) we'll feel inclined to favor her over Bilblas and Thompson since we haven't heard much about the last two. Heaven have mercy on you if you still find a pervert (Weiner) a viable candidate! Personally, I believe he ought to be registered as a sex offender!

It's worse in the Philippines - a professional boxer named Paquiao is considering running for president. Why not, if the voters elected an imbecile like Erap to be president or a crook like Gloria Dorobo, Fuckyao... Oops! Paquiao! might make it. If he does, it won't be the first time a certified moron occupies Malacanan Palace. Who knows, he might repeal the law of gravity! If people like Nora Aunor, Vilma Santos, Yoyoy Villame, etc. can be elected to public office, why not Fuckyao... Oops!

What's the solution to this misdirection of information designed to sway the voters into voting for the scoundrels? Revise the election rules, that's what. There ought to be educational requirements, non-biased biographies to be written by election officials and a probationary period when the candidate wins. Six (6) months in office and he/she proves to be a lemon, we kick him/her out after a written test and public evaluation. Then, to make the public office not so attractive, reduce the perks that go with it - no more Cadillac benefits. If the elected official gets sick, he/she gets services based on Medicare rates!

But who's going to come up with the changes? Not the imbeciles who got elected to office. They will want to perpetuate their kind. And that means a stand off. We'll continue doing things the old stupid way. There's no room in life for intelligence. We're nothing but worms - food for the birds and fish!

Blogging is Fun, Easy & Profitable

Here's hoping my FB friends will take this post about blogging seriously.

What is blogging? Simply put, it's very similar to what we do with our diaries and that's where the comparison ends.  Diaries are supposed to be private and read by the writer only until death overtakes all events in which case your heirs have the privilege of reading the diary and discovering embarrassing entries you made concerning  your or, their private affairs. So much for that, you won't hear their curses anyway.

Secondly, diaries are very personal. Blogs are not. Writing in a diary doesn't demand an almost perfect command of grammar, spelling and literary style. And once you've entered your innermost secrets in the diary there's no way you can rewrite your entries (either to correct or disguise them) unless you start from page 1 again. With blogs, you can go back anytime anywhere and edit what you wrote... Oops! I shouldn't given my cousin that funny name (e.g. "Abundio") which reminds me of a brand manager at Unilever with such a first name. So embarrassed was he with the label his mother bestowed on him he changed it to "Ding" for the rest of his life until he needed to get a birth certificate for this passport application.

Now, in a blog, you have to find a niche. Meaning, a subject you're good at and then concentrate on that area for as long as possible. Why? There must be a billion bloggers out there who publish their garbage, near garbage and classical efforts on the Internet! Your blog will get lost if you don't have a niche. For the moment, the most searched topics are recipes, bible quotes, gardening, literary passages and historical events. Go to Google and enter "Tinola" recipe and you'll get taken to  probably a hundred sites. Many of them are graphic masterpieces - with colored pictures and other cross-links to boot! If you spelled your entry "Tenola," Google won't find you unless someone types "Tenola!" This illustrates how important spelling is in the game.

For the moment, I wouldn't encourage you to write topics on Bible subjects. There are lots of them out there and many Bible blogs are very scholarly written. A few are crafted by bigots you won't even go beyond the first paragraph. If all you know about the Bible is what you heard in Sunday school, go jump in front of a speeding bus, man! And don't even think to write about the lives of Bin Laden and Saddam Hussein if you want the NSA to stay away from you!

Assuming you found your niche and you believe you can write intelligently and interestingly about it, the next step is to get a cyber ad company to tag ads to your blogs. Now, every time somebody opens your blog (say it's about potty training Siberian monkeys) and the blogger sees the ad next to your blog, that's called a hit. Whether interest was generated or not is unimportant. It's a hit! and the advertising company charges the advertiser for the hit. And you get a percentage of the income generated.

How do you start? First, create a Googgle account (did I spell that right? Never mind, I'll edit later) and experiment. Click on "More." Somewhere on the page you'll spot "New Blog." Click on that and start doing your stuff. Don't worry about the end product. Keep going back to your stuff and the site and experiment with templates. Later, when you've really mastered the techniques, explore other sites that offer free blogging and once you've found what you like it will be downhill all the way. In short, you can blog in many sites! Hey, that's like advertising also! You expose your talent (or lack of any) to a wide market. If your expertise is poetry, zero in on analyses instead of writing poetry. The latter will have a limited audience unless you later become a Nobel literature winner.

Remember, for a start, it doesn't matter what topics you start with. It's pre-K! Share your toddler steps with your FB friends and don't be embarrassed to publish it on the Internet - no pain, no gain, remember? By the time you're running 3 miles per hour it's already safe to assume you can start hobnobbing with the best of them.

So, what subjects shall we write about? Forget current events - these easily get dated. If you have a medical degree, try cloning. Even with just a general knowledge of law, cloning is a gold mine you can dig up without running out of complicated topical extensions: supposed I clone myself, does my clone get my Social Security benefits when I die? Ha! From the moment he's born he'll be collecting a pension already. Now, what happens if he clones himself again? Oh, heck, Social Security will have gone bankrupt already by that time. My first clone will be my son's "Dad" genetically-speaking, right? Oh, boy, I can imagine the confusion arising from the situation!

The possibilities are endless. All you have to do is start with something. Another topic just as popular as recipes is sex! If you have some special knowledge to share go for it but if you want a bright future avoid sexting, particularly, if you're as ugly and as dumb as Weiner!

Postscript

I went to another blog that lists 10 reasons for blogging. I'm copying them here verbatim.

1. Express your thoughts and opinions. There is a pitfall here, though. Your thoughts and opinions could be influenced by your own prejudices but if you present them in a well thought out manner you don't run the risk of alienating most of your followers. In short, qualify your thoughts and opinions the best way possible.
2. To help people. This is where topics such as cooking, gardening, rearing children, etc. come in. Not just children - say, autistic or disabled children. The latter cries for lots of sacrifice and dedication. Your experience can be a big help to people with similar situations.
3. To market or promote something. If I were in the Philippines, I'd go to the Bureau of Tourism and  strike a deal with them. I'll write about the fun places in the Philippines and blog them complete with photos and testimonials.
4. Establish yourself as an expert. All or almost all my friends are experts in marketing, advertising and promotion. These fields are potential gold mines!
5. Connect with people like you.
6. Make a difference. Support causes and issues that affect the elderly, the young, women with special needs, the third sex, etc.
7. Stay active or knowledgeable. My favorite! This I call mental calisthenics.
8. Stay connected with friends and family. This is where I'll  have to read "Blogging for Dummies" so I'll know how to do pictorial blogs.
9. Make money! Who doesn't like the smell of folding money, huh? It starts with coins going "caching-caching" before they get folded!
10. Have fun and be creative. This is related to # 7.

Tales from My Childhood - Episode 5 (In Tagalog)

Sa mga unang araw ng occupation, hindi kami gaanong salat sa pagkain pero paglampas ng 2 taon, nag-umpisa na ang kalbaryo, ika nga. Meron pa ring machacao na yari sa magandang arina kung may ibibili ka at koneksyon sa panaderya. Nang mga huling buwan ng digmaan nagmemeryenda na kami ng “kastanyog” (inihaw na niyog), pan de sal na gawa sa pinaghalong sisid rice at corn flour (mabantot pa rin!) at kilawing ubod ng saging o water lily. Namatay si Inay noong November, 1944. Ang naghatid sa kanya sa La Loma ay ang tiyo Nanding ko, ang kaibigan niyang si Conrado at ako. Dala namin ang kaisa-isang pumpon ng mga zinnia na abuloy ng flower vendor sa Funeraria Paz. Ang mga nakiramay naman ay naiwan na lang sa Funeraria Paz kasi mahal ang upa sa karetela (wala kaming pambayad). Nang matabunan na ang kabaon ni Inay, nag-uwi ako ng isang zinnia bilang ala-ala sa yumao kong ina.

Mabilis lumipas ang panahon. Tapos na ang liberation. Tag-araw ng 1945. Naisipan kong itanim ang tuyong buto ng zinnia. Nang ang mga tanim ko’y namulaklak, mga kapit-bahay namin ay humanga sa makukulay na zinnia sa bakuran namin kasi hindi pa uso noon ang mga bulaklaking pananim dahil katatapos pa lang ng guerra. Isang araw, natanaw ko ang isang matandang babaeng namimitas ng bulaklak ng zinnia ko sa tabi ng bakuran. Sisigawan ko sana pero pinigil ako ng ale ko. Ipinaala-ala niya na ako man din ay nanalbos sa kamotehan ng kapit-bahay namin (nuong panahon ng hapon) nang hindi nagpapa-alam. Kilala ko at alam kong sa squatter area nakatira ang matandang babae. Naisip kong baka humahanga lang sa ganda ng zinnia ang matanda kaya pinalampas ko na ang insidenteng iyon. Naulit ang pamimitas niya ng zinnia. Hindi na ‘ko kumibo. Isang araw, naparaan ako sa harap ng dampa ng matanda. Nakabukas ang bintana at natatanaw ang munting altar sa loob. Merong kandilang walang sindi sa altar at sa tabi nito ay isang maliit na retrato at garapong puno ng zinnia.

Naitanong ko – sino kaya ang nawala sa buhay niya?

(To be translated and edited)

Tales from My Childhood - Episode 4

Training of a Wimpy, Bullied Runt

By age 10 my height was no more than 4 feet! Following all the laws of geometry, social sciences and psychiatry (pronounced “pisikayatree” by Jaques Clouseau) I should have been over 5 feet already! The growth hormones, alas, were active only with the limbs to the detriment of my torso. Consequently, I was forced to be the wimpiest kid in the block – ever evading possible confrontations with the bullies and, predictably, running away from fights.

By age 12, I discovered all was not lost as long as I had extra change in my pocket to buy protection! I befriended the biggest, tallest non-bullies by feeding them roasted peanuts, “chicharon” and “ampao” to be washed down with Dalmar Cola and Cosmos. The arrangement worked fine. The bullies kept their distance as long as my mercenaries were around. The downside: my bodyguards were not available 24/7 and many were the times I was flat broke which forced me to avoid not just the bullies but also my bodyguards!

“I can’t keep an eye on you all the time,” said Monching, nephew of my lesbian aunt’s lover, the bottom non-achiever in our class, recipient of my endless help with all his homework and the biggest item in my National Defense Budget. “I have to train you how to work things out by yourself.”

I agreed, although reluctantly. The commonwealth days must end. I must have my July 4^th epiphany! I was hoping it would solve my problem with Ben “Pingas” – a 5 foot kid with muscles as big as cantaloupes and arms that reached below his kneecaps! Many were the occasion when he asked me to fill him up with “ampao” and “chicharon” which requests I couldn’t ignore unless I was ready to forfeit life on earth. And so for many nights Monching taught me the rudiments of boxing. “When I hit with my right, raise your left to parry my fist! When I give you a swift swing with my left, followed by a  right, step back, duck and dance away! There! Like that!”

Then one day Ben “Pingas” was walking by our house. Very quickly, Monching blocks his way and challenges him: “Hey, Pingas! Wanna fight my boy?” Oh, shit! It was too late for me to back out. Monching had already issued a challenge.

“Sure!” was the eager reply from the biggest gorilla in Barrio Tugatog. He was confident he could beat me to a pulp and I was confident I’d look good as a beaten pulp! Monching stepped back and hastily pushed me at Ben “Pingas.” Despite his long arms, not once did he land a fist on me! Elated, I closed in, parried a left and then threw in an uppercut with my right, followed by a left hook! Ben “Pingas” suddenly became Ben “Basahan” as he bit the dust. I killed him! Monching was on top of Ben “Patay” and counting “…four, five, six…” Ben “Lampa” opened his eyes and whimpered “No more… I wanna go home…”

Later, that night, I looked at myself in the mirror and noticed for the first time: my arms reached down below my knees! July 4^th came at last.

Oh, before I forget – from then on, Ben “Lampa” was treating me to “chicharon” and “ampao”!

A Respite from Worldly Concerns

While exploring the mysterious world of blogs, I stumbled on an interesting one by "Apryl" of Canada. I just bookmarked it. Compared to what I titled mine, Apryl sounds so innocent and pure while Bene Pendentes seems pompous. I guess that's my other self - the pompous me - which I try to subdue to my detriment. I feel I can accomplish more (for the good or for the bad) if I just sound off and not worry whether I nudge people the wrong way. Of course, when I open my big mouth I really go all the way. Political correctness will kill me.

I have relatives and friends who deserve to be shocked senseless by my diatribes. I'd rather do that than let them continue walking around with  suffocating holy facades which I can't tolerate. Can't be helped. That's how I was pried from the mold. I'm too advanced in my years to be retrained. Lately, I have noticed my son seems to be a budding clone of my unrestrained self. That (I'm sure) will help him recognize the disguised lies that decorate life at every turn.

Tales from My Childhood - Episode 3

 What I Saw at the Neighbors’ Across the Alley

If you ever piously claim that you were never curious about the goings on at your neighbors’ I’ll bet you’ve got a terribly long and ugly nose! This deserves a brief background though (for my part of the tale, that is). By age 12 I already lost count how many times I ran away from home!

Yup, running away was my ultimate solution to problems I wasn’t willing to solve or situations I

was incapable of changing. Orphaned at 9, my second mother was my Aunt Pilar (now resting in

peace in Poughkeepsie, New York). She was a lesbian (I didnt mind that, of course, since we

were both of the same flesh and blood) but her partner, in today’s parlance, was a piece of broken works (now that’s murdering the idiom, isn’t it?). The latter was one big mama who brooked no disobedience or nonobservance of her rules.

Well, suffice it to say that since Mother died, I learned (prematurely, I suppose) the benefits of

independence by living mostly out in the streets and just coming home to freshen up with a quick

shower and a change of clothes. But when Aunt Pilar took me with her to live in Malabon (town 10 miles north of Manila) little did I know my stay with her and her lover would be a test of my “mettle” when the latter appointed me the official houseboy in her household. Anyway, after one of the many confrontations with my aunt’s lover (i.e. while I retreated she confronted me) I decided to pack up and fly away. My objective was the home of Aunt Pacing (Mother’s cousin) in Sampaloc. I should point out that at this part of my narrative, Aunt Pacing became my second surrogate mother (next to Aunt Pilar).

Life with her was almost like life with Mother for Aunt Pacing spoiled me no end. The only rule

she imposed was that I take a bath before going to bed. Fair enough, considering I had spent the

entire afternoon playing with the kids in the neighborhood. This was just after WW II ended and

neither Nintendo nor XBox existed yet. My games were pure physical fun: running, skipping

rope, catching tadpoles and raiding guava orchards.

Then the boom came down. Mother’s halfbrother, Fernando, discovered my whereabouts and

took me to live with him in his apartment. He was still a bachelor and you can imagine the

hygienic condition of his 2-bedroom pad located in an alley on Rizal Avenue. I didn’t mind

tidying up the place since it was so compact I hardly spent more than 15 minutes sweeping the

floors and dusting off the furniture. After that mini chore it was play all day. That is, until I got

intrigued by the number of GI’s visiting the apartment across my uncle’s apartment. A more

detailed observation revealed the presence of many women in the apartment who, by some

cosmetic aberration, seemed to look alike in many respects: thick facial make up, thick red lips,

thick pencilled eyebrows, thick black hair and very dark skin.

So there you have a graphic description of a racial cocktail composed of Caucasians with red,

brown, blonde and black hair mingling with the olives I just described above. And where was

Uncle Fernando during my scholarly activities? He was away the whole day working as a

salesman for Singer.

Ever the inquisitive type (this must be genetic) I continued observing my environment and taking

down notes. As the day went by the volume of the cocktail downstairs (in the apartment across, that is) decreased until just a pair of olives was left to wait for more GI’s. One day, I decided to go upstairs and observe the world from a higher vantage point my uncle’s window which had a full view of the second level of the apartment across. As luck would have it their windows were wide open!

Surprise! The Caucasian birds were lolling around and having fun with the brown olives! What I

saw solidly confirmed what I’d suspected all along: that birds and bees absolutely have nothing

to do with Adam and Eve’s assignment to populate Earth! I was bound to earn a PhD in many

disciplines for free! But all good things come to an end... or, to put it another way, no good deed

goes unrewarded. Aunt Pilar tracked me and she suddenly aborted my doctorate pursuit and

heaped the Spanish equivalent of English 4-letter words on her brother! The curses and epithets

Uncle Fernando got were well delivered when Aunt Pilar found out I waited for GI’s at the corner

and pointed them to the olives in the alley for which effort I was rewarded with chewing gum and

cigarettes!

To cut the story short, I was back in Malabon again. Once more I was the houseboy for my

aunt’s lover! There must be an Irish blessing I can throw at her while she burns in hell! If not, I'll settle for a fatwah/

Tales from My Childhood - Episode 2

Oscar's Yellow Hen

Not every incident has to do with the Japanese rampaging in the city or provinces killing people at random. This episode, though, is still connected to their presence. It is about Oscar's yellow hen.

If you’re from the Philippines, your childhood will be incomplete without an episode, no matter how inconsequential, involving chicken. It could be that unlucky rooster Tatay (Father) brought home from the tupada (place where cockfights are held) with the appropriate downcast look as he mutters “stupid rooster didn’t see that slash coming…” or, it could be the pet you kept in a big bamboo cage tucked away beneath the bamboo stairs… until it disappeared under mysterious circumstances during observance of Todos los Santos (All Saints Day).

This is a different chicken story. Pull up your chair and pay attention as the narrative unfolds. The man character is Hector, Mother’s youngest brother. When the war started, he ran away from home and lived with his cousins (the Magsalin family). I won’t test your patience with a long background why he left home. Meanwhile, by the end of two years our extended family had dwindled to just Fernando, my uncle, Mother and me. Mother was very ill and although no one spoke about it, we knew her days on earth wouldn’t be many. Because Fernando’s work involved traveling to far places buying scrap metal, he was seldom home and, as a consequence, the pantry was frequently empty save for a big chunk of panocha (raw sugar) that gave rice gruel some flavor (a hard to describe kind of sweetness) and a bit of color. Thinking of the fare we had on the table before WWII  made me yearn for the creamed spinach, broiled milkfish, estofados, etc. we normally feasted on. But alas, the neighbors’ gardens were planted only to sweet potatoes, taro and papayas. A steady diet of these veggies became torture rather than a source of sustenance. Don’t ask me how I came to know. Just listen.And, additionally, the neighbors started to notice their plants seemed to have stopped growing! I echoed their incredulity at the sight of papayas that disappeared as soon as they became larger than my fist and of the sweet potato plants mysteriously shriveling in a leafless stage. It was a challenge indeed even for Sherlock Holmes.

Mother never complained, though. She always exuded confidence our privation wouldn’t last long as she whispered “I heard from your father that the Americans are already on the way back… they’re in Guadalcanal now… he was here?... he visited yesterday while you were out… he left some money, here.”

Then, one day, Hector returned. His bones were almost falling out of his pale skin as he leaned on the door frame. I looked at him, feeling no elation. He was only 15 when he left two years ago. Briefly, I remembered the times he played with me… I was only 6 then. I found myself wishing he hadn’t returned. With Hector rejoining the family, the frequently empty pantry will have to serve the needs of 4 people (if Fernando happened to be present). But I said nothing as I surrendered the divan where I used to sleep six feet away from Mother. I moved my beddings upstairs and resigned myself to my new duties: caring for 2 very sick people.

But ever the resourceful one, I made sure Hector and Mother would have something warm (if just barely nourishing) in their bellies at least two times a day. For bread, I’d walk all the way to Azcarraga Street from our apartment in Pepin Street to the bakery where Segundo (a family friend) worked for a handout of stale bread or whatever was availble.  On the way home I clutched a big bag of machacao (toasted recycled bread) my two patients would dip in warm sugared water (coffee was only for the rich collaborators) for breakfast! That, plus the mysteries happening in the neighbors’ gardens that also occurred in the veggie gardens at Alejandro Albert Elementary School in Dapitan guaranteed not one of my patients would sleep very hungry. As for me, I was assured free soup and one meal at the Chinese restaurant on Trabajo Street as payment for my services (e.g. taking out the trash, cleaning the toilet and making sure the tableware didn’t vanish with the departing customers).

An event almost biblical in nature (I mean, something like what happened to the people of Moses) occurred one day. I was nibbling on my share of machacao when a fat yellow hen appeared by the gate – attracted by the crumbs around my feet! I didn’t know anything about high IQ’s but that day is proof I have no less than a 150 IQ for I slowly stood up and crumbled what was left of my precious machacao to make a tempting trail leading to our living room as I slowly concealed myself behind the front door!

The only sound I made was quickly slamming the door shut! Then in one split second my hands were around the yellow hen’s neck. Hector, too, must have had a high IQ plus the sight of the limp hen in my hand pumped loads of adrenaline into my skeletal uncle as he headed for the kitchen to start boiling water!

Dressed, quartered and gutted, the yellow hen’s soul was reposing in paradise as the broth came to a boil. Hector dropped ginger into the soup, adding the little bite of spiciness a tinola (chicken/vegetable soup dish) requires! Hector added the sliced green papaya and kamote leaves when we were sure the meat was tender enough. I swear we’ve never had a dinner more memorable than what we feasted on that evening. My patients shared the liver, gizzard and immature eggs. Me? I gave myself a bonus – one whole drumstick! That night, I left the apartment with a mysterious package containing feathers, talons and intestines and threw the bag on the railroad tracks in Dapitan. Ha! The next train will take care of the evidence!

The following morning, there was a knock on the door. It was Oscar, a neighbor 5 doors away. He was looking for his hen. “Have you-you-you s-s-s-een my he-hen?” he stuttered. Of course, my face reflected the best angelic look I could muster as I denied seeing his hen. That night, I served my patients the remaining tinola which I kept heating every 3-4 hours so it won’t spoil. This time, I abstained as I watched Hector mash the papaya slices into his brown rice. Mother asked me to crack open the leg bones so she could get to the morrow. The night passed quietly. Almost, that is, for Mother snored now and then. For his part, Hector was peacefully asleep. For the first time he didn’t wake up to cough and spit blood into his tin can.

When morning came, I went down to check on my patients. Mother was already sitting up but Hector was still asleep, his right knee leaning against the wall. I approached the divan and touched his knee. He didn’t move. I knew he had gone to join the soul of Oscar’s hen in heaven.

Without looking at Mother, I said “Hector’s dead, Inay.”

(Chris and Rommel, my 4-year old twin grandsons, missed the tragedy and concentrated their attention to the lines of Oscar. At this point, their mother, Lucy, gave them a verbal lecture on political correctness. The twins are 20 years old now and well-mannered  young men.  When I reminded them of this tale, I barely elicited a smile.)

How My Friends and I Started WW II

Tales from My Childhood - Episode 1

The Dead Angel in the Garden

(Or, How My Friends and I Started WW II)

November 3, 1941. Two days ago All Saints Day was solemnly marked in the Islands. Being only 6, I was not taken along to any cemetery. I really wanted to go with Aunt Pilar and Apo Idad to visit Peter’s grave but all I got were denials. “No, we’re not going there,” she said. “We’re going to visit Peter in the hospital.”

“Why can’t I visit him at the hospital?” I then insisted, practically begging.

“Young children are not allowed in San lazaro Hospital,” Aunt Pilar lied. Yes, she lied. They all lied about Peter but I know he’s dead. Someday I’ll visit his grave, I promised myself.

But I’m getting ahead of the story. I have to introduce the characters first in this tale. Of course, I’m in it as participant and narrator. Now, Peter is my friend and playmate. He’s 11 years old and he lives in the house across from ours in Miguelin Street in Manila. Also residing in Apo Idad’s house was Mrs. Reyes and her 9-year old daughter - Letty. The two old women (anyone over 25 was “old” to me) and Aunt Pilar were friends and when I’m around, they all suddenly switch to Spanish so I won’t understand what they’re talking about. I guess my reputation as a cub reporter was well known!

Now, let me proceed with the story. I recall one particular incident around the middle of the year when the three of us came home late after some shopping in Gandara (a street in Quiapo where bargains are available 24/7). Apo Idad, Mrs. Reyes and Aunt Pilar were with us too. That was a Sunday and when we arrived home we all had a late breakfast of “bibingka”  (native cake) at Apo Idad’s house. Peter and Letty were permitted to have tea while I was legislated to have just milk. After breakfast we went down to the garden to light some candles at the grotto of the Virgin Mary. Before we got to the grotto, I discovered a dead sparrow by the ferns; its wings spread open like an angel’s. Black ants were crawling all over the dead bird, some going in and out of the empty eye sockets. Peter was particularly annoyed at the sight of the ants feasting on the sparrow and started sweeping them away with a branch he broke off the hibiscus bush. Letty stomped on the ants scurrying in her direction, calling them “cannibals.” When all the ants were gone, Letty suggested we bury the sparrow behind the grotto to which Peter agreed. Quickly, Letty ran to the house and came back with an empty shoe box which Peter lined with hibiscus petals before depositing the dead bird in the box.

“Let’s pray for the bird before we bury it behind the grotto,” he said.

“It’s not a bird,” I objected. “It’s an angel…”

“Yes, it’s an angel we’re burying,” Letty concurred, definitely humoring me.

Meeting no objection from Peter, he gave me the shoebox and placed me between him and Letty. “You’ll be the sacristan,” he said and he led the hymn as we slowly shuffled off in the grotto’s direction. “Dios te salve, Maria, Llena eres de gracia. El señor es contigo, bandita tu eres…” suddenly Mrs. Reyes, holding a butterfly net, was blocking our path. Her eyes were glaring at us with pure shock! “What are you three doing? She said, trying not to raise her voice in anger.

“Prayers are not for games! You’re all committing a sin! What's in the box? Let me see!" Shocked, she wagged her finger at her daughter's face. "Shame on you, playing with a dead bird!"

“It’s an angel!” Letty protested.

“Not another word from you, hija! Go to the house right now. We need to talk. You, too, Peter! Your Mom will hear of this! You’ll bring bad luck to us all with your unholy game! God will punish you!”

Mrs. Reyes walked away, shaking her head at our sinful game.

There was nothing we could do but abort the funeral procession. Peter dug a shallow hole with the trowel and buried the dead angel behind the grotto. That night I got a lecture from Mother and Aunt Pilar about the proper use of prayers. Two or three months went by before God’s punishment came. Peter had an accident and was hospitalized at St. Luke’s where I visited him twice in the company of Aunt Pilar. All of a sudden, I wasn’t allowed to visit anymore. “They’re taking Peter to a better hospital and it’s so far away,” Aunt Pilar said. A few days later I concluded everyone was really lying. Peter’s bedroom, visible from my bedroom across the street, was now shuttered and dark. His mother hardly left the house except to get her mail.

The day before Todos Los Santos,  the windows in Peter’s room were open. Apo Idad and her housemaid were cleaning the room. That night, I saw a lighted taper on the front window sill. All these confirmed what I had been sensing all along. With all the sweetness I could muster, I approached Aunt Pilar and asked to go with her to the cemetery. With a surprised look, she denied she was going to the cemetery.

I didn’t pursue the issue anymore. Then the atmosphere in our house slowly changed in anticipation of Christmas.

Suddenly Jap planes flew over Manila, bombing ships in the harbor! It was December 8, 1941. That, I concluded with certainty, was the punishment from heaven Mrs. Reyes was referring to – not Peter’s death!

Our game caused World War II!

Getting Out of NSA's Radar

Ever since Snowden spilled his crushed beans, certain sectors of the populace have been, in varying degrees, reacting to the "invasion" of their privacy. There are many creative (but not so original I must admit) ways of thwarting the snooping computers located (per Snowden) in Utah. Personally, I think all those computers are hidden in some remote place in the Ozarks, proving the NSA is smarter than Snowden!

First in my list of safeguards to my privacy is to have my own private island. It will have the following basic features: no electricity in any form (solar, battery, etc.) so that means it's going to be a dead zone even for CB radios; that means no refs and freezers, too; no doctors, medicine (not even Tylenol) nurses or suntan lotion; no money, credit cards, banks or access to any financial institution; no typewriters (ribbons can be stolen and read); no newspapers and no mail service; no houses (that means I can avoid buying stuff from Walmart, Men's Wearhouse and Home Depot); and no clothes, shoes, hats!

In short, I'll be the new Neanderthal! If I get sick, that'll be the end. Even a rotten tooth can mean Boot Hill. If the ticker starts doing a square dance or a slow ballet, there won't be a cell phone to connect to anyone... not even 911. I won't even have a Progresso phone to the kitchen.

Alas, since Mother Earth does not have 8 billion islands, that route is closed. I can, however, start deleting paper trails leading to my location by working for cash only, paying for my purchases in cash or service. To go to work, I'll walk and that means no car, no traffic tickets, no need for a radar detector and no bills for oil change, inspection, gas and repairs. Oh, my - I'll be rich. Since I won't hide my money in the bank (to evade electronic trails) I'll be an easy target for muggers. And since I can't buy a gun in New York for self protection (I don't want to fill up a ton of papers just to get a gun) I'll arm myself with a baseball bat or a commando knife. Better yet so I won't stick out like a sore thumb I'll go to Karate school.

Since all I earn and spend is real money, nothing is recorded and the IRS can't touch me. True, they have my Social Security number but the IRS can't connect any money earned or spent to my number! If enough people do it my way, the IRS will simply cease to have any reason to exist! Oh, yes - remember I have this phobia of spreading information about me - I won't be a registered voter!  Won't even use social meida! The politicians can suck it up 'cause I don't exist! Since I won't use the post office I won't any mail leading to my whereabouts which, by the way will be in the woods or under a seldom used bridge (until a crowd of like-minded denizens start filling up my turf).

And since I don't have a passport, all the tourist spots abroad will rot. The Eiffel Tower will rust away and the Leaning Tower of Pisa will finally fall down!

For those of you utterly ill with nomophobia (fear of being disconnected) and can't wean yourself from your Iphones, computers and Facebook, fear not for I have a solution that will absolutely fill up all those empty spaces in the NSA computers in Utah, Ozarks and Groom Lake: learn to write in several foreign languages and dialects. For example, puede mo bang ma-understand que yo quiero to say kung ako'y akig sa imo pero hindi ko ni-say ang Ingglis 4-letter word at ang ginamit ko apat-na-letrang salita na equivalent nito sa Cebu: yawa! Uki-ni-nana dagiti Talibani! Mabulok kamo con sus virgenes na fangit. Mangia merde! See what I mean?

The final nail in the NSA's coffin? We all use sign language! Can you imagine the billions of cameras the government has to buy to keep an eye on us? One camera every 10 feet!

So, what to do? Let it go! If the Feds buy billions of cameras to track our movements and gazzillions of storage drives, the US will go bankrupt!

Ugh, Kemo Sabe!

Bene Pendentes!: Fighting the Groundhog WarsPeople have many reas...

Bene Pendentes!: Fighting the Groundhog Wars

People have many reas...: Fighting the Groundhog Wars People have many reasons for planting vegetables. Mine? I just love to see plants growing and then bearing fru...

Heatwaves Are Survivable

A 57-year old man in New York City just succumbed to the heat wave. It feels 105 degrees Fahrenheit out there. I watered the plants early this morning and by the time I was putting the hose away I glanced at my handiwork and noticed the ground was almost dry. No, I'm not going to waste more water. If the plants survive, well and good. If not, I'll shopping for my veggies. I took advantage of the morning's low temp and harvested the squash flowers which the Wifey turned into a mouth-watering platter of squash flower cum potatoes omelet.

Every major city in the US has this heatwave problem every summer. Warnings and tips fill up the air. Sometimes the fire departments send out a patrol car in the neighborhood to check on elderly citizens who have no access to air conditioning. And there's always a place near City Hall where the sick and elderly can cool off. Well and good until the city budgets get hit by the "Sequester" stick!

The basic tricks to surviving the heat wave are: whatever you need to do, do it early in the day and after sundown; forego your outdoor exercise routine or, go to the nearest cooling facility such as a shopping mall or a movie house. Or, just go to Home Depot and browse everything. On a lucky day, you'll even get free pop corn!

In the Philippines, very few die from the extreme dehydration following encounters with Old Man Sol. The natives have perfected the art of doing nothing while the sun is up. Out in the provinces, farmers do their plowing just as the sun dips behind the horizon and it's going to be a happy event if the moon is out, too. The guitars come out and ... Oops! that was long ago. Now the Ipods and smartphones come out! The farmer, as he plows, can be hit by a falling airplane landing gear without hearing the roar of the falling object because his ears are plugged with ear buds!

But not every one is a farmer so for those with no soil to break, the seashore (we've got a coastline longer than that of the US) is the first choice. Need hydration? Fresh coconut water is nearby! In the city, the shopping malls and movie houses are the second choices. For the penniless who happens to be far from the sea, the fire hydrant or any pubic fountain, will do (such as that found at the Cultural Center!).

In many extreme cases, the shadow under the tree or bridge will do. Then there's the Pinoy's (that's what the natives are called) final resort: go half-naked and just relax under a tree, under a bridge, or under a parked bus. Just be sure to wake up when the bus starts to move!

Then a diet of cool "halu-halo" (a native concoction of sweets, milk and shaved ice) can't be beat!

I'm taking a vacation from the Trayvon Martin Vs. George Zimmerman bout. The entire country is up in arms. I'll let things cool down before I reopen the wounds.

Fighting the Groundhog Wars

People have many reasons for planting vegetables. Mine? I just love to see plants growing and then bearing fruits and or bulking up with thick leaves like the cabbages and lettuces. Plus, I get some workout and sweat off my extra blubber in the process. Do I do it for organic reasons? Of course but that's only in the beginning. When I see how scrawny the plants are I run to Home Depot for a package of Miracle Grow!

Gardening involves not only a lot of work (e.g. breaking the ground; removing pebbles, rocks and weeds; building plots; sowing seeds; transplanting seedlings, watering and lots of weeding while waiting for your first harvest. Then there's the myriad decisions to make: what to plant and what to do about garden pests and more. In my yard, the only pests are squirrels, groundhogs, deer and wild turkeys. The only enemy I have to prepare for is the groundhog. That pesky animal has the habit of eating the young leaves of my plants just as the first flowers start coming out! Oh, I forgot to mention - I fenced off a small portion of the yard and that keeps out the deer. Then I put netting around the fenced off area to keep out the squirrels, turkeys and groundhogs. The latter is not deterred by all these countermeasures though. It just digs under the fence and netting. Okay, I put big rocks on the perimeter. Still doesn't work. The critter just pushes away the big rocks so I installed a sonic device that emits ultrasonic sound waves that's supposed to give them painful eardrums.

The groundhog avoids the pain by quickly dashing in, chomping a big mouthful of my beautiful string beans and chayotes and then dashes out through the hole it dug under the heavy rocks. My next step: lay out humane traps. Doesn't work. The groundhog thinks I'm a sucker for being too humane!

Since the groundhog is not on the endangered species list you're allowed to inflict bodily harm on it! He-he-he... I laugh... I'm going to catch you with my fishing rod and then I'll take you to the railroad tracks and.... naaahhh... my grandsons will disown me for that sadistic act! I don't tell them what I do to the groundhogs but they always have a way of finding out. Psychic, maybe? The groundhogs reach out to my grandsons from the compost pile?

My last cue I get from Elmer Fudd! Armed with my .22 pop gun I lay out a trail of food scraps on the grass leading to the compost pile. Then patiently wait in ambush as I watch "Who Wants to be a Millionaire." Just as the prize money goes over $200,000 the terror of my garden peeps from under the tool shed!. I flip the safety off my Elmer Fudd AK and carefully aim. Estimating the distance and the parallax mentally, I raise the cross hairs about an inch and fire.

The critter twitches. One leg straightens out, pushing against a rock. I reload and fire the coup d'grace!

The ground hog turns, falls on its back and twitches some more.

Finally, it goes up to gopher paradise.

The curtain goes down and 2 months later I'm harvesting zucchinis, gourd squash, bitter melons and string beans. Damn, I planted too much. Now I have to give them away.

If only that pesky ground hog had waited for harvest time!

Continuing the Trayvon Martin/George Zimmerman "Tragedy"... Or, Part 2!

I'm tempted to redefine the "tragic" nature of this issue: what caused the existence of two - almost equally - strong camps one for Martin and one for Zimmerman? Is it perception? Prejudice? Ignorance - as in lack of knowledge of American law? I tend to believe it's a combination of all three and more.

In the South, Blacks are perceived differently compared to how we look at them here in the Northeast, particularly in New York. I'm not saying New Yorkers have a better handle on the situation but, rather, generally speaking, New Yorkers tend to be more tolerant, understanding and ever ready to revise or change their preconceived views. Not so in the South where mental images of pre-Civil War grandeur still persist. If we look at historical events, we'll see plenty of anecdotes detailing how New Yorkers were able to cast away slavery to embrace a new view of American life as defined by Lincoln. Not so in the South where, to  this day, they still fly the Confederate flag for no reason at all other than they like to do it. In short, the Civil War continues. Physical segregation may have ended but the devil's horns still exist, they're just retracted like feline talons. In Texas, particularly, Blacks are still shot just for being black. Sometimes their lifeless bodies are dragged behind a pick up truck. In the Northeast, Blacks are also shot just for being black. Remember Amadou Diallo (I must spell check his name)? All his five assailants were white policemen and the legal system absolved them of any wrong doing. Does it mean New Yorkers have changed for the worse? Definitely not. Southerners have migrated to all parts of the Union, including New York, to spread some of their inborn hatred of anything that doesn't look white.

Even the bureaucratic system betrays this "white standard." Just glance on any government form that requires you to fill in your race. There's one for "Hispanic." Aren't people from Spain or those with Spanish blood "white"? They can't be Black. Neither are they Asian or Pacific Islander. One is forced to wonder why there is none for "Slavic" or even "Eskimo." In sum, our society loves to put certain groups of people in easily defined boxes. Thus, anyone with African features (e.g. very dark brown skin, kinky/curly hair, big lips and broad noses) are Black. The Australian Bushmen almost fall into the mold but they have the option to check "Other."

Going back to the main road... in the South, anyone who is not of Western European lineage is automatically not "White" and therefore inferior. Woe to the Americans who are descendants of slaves! They fall into another box that's not in the form. It's just a single letter invisible label: "B". Thus we have labels like "DWB" for Driving While Black; "WWB" for Walking While Black; "ALB" for Acting Like Black, etc. It doesn't matter that they're not really black but actually a dark shade of brown. And compound the above with labels such as "Black as sin" and Black as hell, etc. and we have a recipe for trouble.

Thus in a neighborhood peopled mostly by whites, the presence of a single black person (or Hispanic, Asian, etc.) rings alarm bells. On the other end of the pendulum, are people with white skin and western European features (as well as names) "good"? That's inviting a long debate! Suffice it to say that in any homogeneous and socially settled society the sudden or unexpected appearance of an entity that looks different, acts different, talks different and thinks different is instantly perceived as a threat to the stability of the many. This is Sociology 101! Solution: if you can't drive them out of town without creating a bigger problem, you sort of force them to stay in neighborhoods far, far from you. This is done by denying them housing in your neighborhood by raising the prices to rent or buy a house. Out of sight means lesser danger to the neighborhood.

Every race or ethnic group has gone through this phenomenon. In the old days one would see  by the door of commercial establishments signs such as: "Dogs and Italians Not Allowed;" "Dogs and Germans Not Allowed;" etc. And in the South we still remember "Whites Only" and "For Coloreds" signs. And like the vermin they were perceived, Blacks sat at the rear of the bus and were even obligated to give up their seat to any "white" person. Of course, the ex-slaves (first mentally) always referred to the Whites as "white trash" and some other obnoxious epithet.

As recently as 20 years ago, residents of a village near Bedford Village in Westchester, New York blocked the sale of the abandoned buildings of King's College to an Irish club because they perceived the Irish as a bunch of noisy drunkards!

I have no desire to create the impression that one particular geographical area is more despicable than another. In truth, all areas are peopled with inhabitants whose attitudes run the gamut from the sublime to the criminal. It just so happens that certain groups are more prone to be uncivil. No matter how much water flows under the bridge, conflict will always be the spice of life. The danger is to let prejudice reign supreme over intelligence. Someday I hope to discuss these topics with Bert Tajonera, a good friend from my JWT days in Manila.



(To be continued)

I thought I lost this blogging site already!

Anyway, now that I have found my lost trails it seems appropriate that the "unification" happened just when George Zimmerman walked out a free man (can one call this individual a "man"? - I will rant on that later). One can bet he left through a secret backdoor to avoid the disappointed crowd outside. That's how it works in America for the pseudo-celebrity.

We (that means people of all shades all over the world) had our own views about this sordid affair: "the boy was killed while walking black" is one. That reminds me of a not-so-comical episode in "Prince of Bel Aire." Will Smith was driving his uncle's Mercedes and he gets pulled over by a cop. That was a case of driving while black. Now, it seems there are many things one can do but mustn't if one's skin tone went darker than golden olive! Buying Skittles and walking in the dark is another one. If you had some sordid past, too, don't ever dream of becoming president of America - Herman Caine learned that to his dismay. His "999" mantra assumed an asinine shade when his dalliance with his female staff became pubic domain!

The dust hasn't settled yet on Zimmerman. It's still there waiting to drop on him in solid form once the coming civil case against him takes shape. Assuming he loses (which is a strong possibility since the individual who will pass judgment on his case presumably studied and learned law from some respectable institution) all his future income will be forfeited. That's worse than rotting inside a Florida jail. In conrast, the jurors who ruled against Martin probably had most of their law education watching television shows such as "Monk"!

I won't argue against Zimmerman's adorers. They're in a different world.

(to be continued)