Let's start the year right with Nicholas Brodsky's I'll Walk With God, interpreted splendidly by the up-and-coming tenor Stephen Costello (Marc, this is more Broadway and West End, not La Scala, so you will like this).
*watch here*
Friday, December 29, 2006
Melanisms
Let’s end the year with a loud bang, courtesy of Miss International titlist Melanie Marquez.
“My brother is not…a book”….and other equally famous quotes:
“I couldn’t care a damn”—(Oo nga)
“What’s your next class before this”—(wait lang…. ok, I get it…No, I don’t)
Can you repeat that for the second time around once more from the top—(nahilo ako. Ano nga uli?)
Don’t touch me not—(ano ba talaga?)
Hello? For a while, please hang yourself-- (*ties telephone cord around neck*)
You! You’re not a man anymore, you’re a boy anymore-- (ang gulo!)
Come, let’s join us-- (uhm, teka. ok)
Hello? My brother is out-of-town. Would you like to wait?-- (grabeh naman)
And of course, that Mare and Pare episode where she defended Joey Marquez, her brother and former Mayor: "Do not judge my brother for he is not a book!
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Soltero Todavia, Porque?
2007 is fast approaching, and boy oh boy, I sure am not getting any younger. And as sure as the day is long, the big question in everybody’s mind gains even more resonance: “when are you getting married?”, “why aren’t you married yet?” which leads to the inevitable: “what’s wrong with you?”
My family hails from a small village or barrio and as such, the tiniest personal details become fodder for conversation during balmy evenings after farm work.
“In God’s time” is my sure-fire and ready answer. Humor is also an effective way of deflecting the issue away.
My mom smiles somewhat sheepishly but the worried look on her face is unmistakable: it speaks volumes!
I will not be hurried. The right person will come along, sooner or later.
Oh, by the way, at least now with Christmas over (not yet in the Philippines, however), nuisance carolers have stopped serenading my house. Their joyless renditions-- ya know, singing carols rapidly on a single flat note in 15-20 seconds, before the customary “We wish you a merry Christmas” which is just an unmistakable signal for you to hand out the money-- really take away the spirit of the season.
HAPPY NEW YEAR! GONG XI FA CHAI!
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
National Circus
Johnny Bravo told me he’s been watching the movies currently comprising the Metro Manila Film Festival entries. He used to be a bit player on TV appearing as the rich boss, or the officemate, or the neighbor on ABS-CBN and GMA drama programs. He didn’t really make it to the big-time mainstream roles, though. The last time I watched a Tagalog drama series was in 2002 with “Pangako sa Puso” (Promise of the Heart) because I wanted to find out if he were any good, I didn’t give a hoot about the story. Before this, I patronized the tear-jerkers Flordeluna-Analiza (well, everybody did in the eighties).
Anyway, he is spewing toxic fumes after watching Shake, Rattle and Roll part 8. “It’s garbage, really. A complete waste of time and money” he belatedly rues. The mere fact that it’s on its 8th installment should have been a clear warning isn’t it? A piece of crap. It’s like the Police Academy franchise in the 80’s, very much like a curse.
The movie starring Senator Lito Lapid and his family is also a clear waste of money. Even the trailers look awful. I distinctly remember one scene Lito Lapid did I think in the 80s where in he intercepted a speeding bullet (traveling at probably the speed of sound) meant for him and cut it in half with a knife or something! Ack!
Which brings me to the current MMFF entries. In other countries, a “film festival” connotes quality. Here, it reeks of blatant commercialism. The purpose of the film festival, which requires all movie theaters to only show Filipino-made films during the festival run, was really to encourage the development of quality movies by giving such huge incentives (monopoly, tax rebates, etc). Unfortunately, local producers simply took advantage of this and used it as a venue to rake in more money.
You want to support Filipino movies. In the end, you slink away and go back to watching Hollywood.
Anyway, he is spewing toxic fumes after watching Shake, Rattle and Roll part 8. “It’s garbage, really. A complete waste of time and money” he belatedly rues. The mere fact that it’s on its 8th installment should have been a clear warning isn’t it? A piece of crap. It’s like the Police Academy franchise in the 80’s, very much like a curse.
The movie starring Senator Lito Lapid and his family is also a clear waste of money. Even the trailers look awful. I distinctly remember one scene Lito Lapid did I think in the 80s where in he intercepted a speeding bullet (traveling at probably the speed of sound) meant for him and cut it in half with a knife or something! Ack!
Which brings me to the current MMFF entries. In other countries, a “film festival” connotes quality. Here, it reeks of blatant commercialism. The purpose of the film festival, which requires all movie theaters to only show Filipino-made films during the festival run, was really to encourage the development of quality movies by giving such huge incentives (monopoly, tax rebates, etc). Unfortunately, local producers simply took advantage of this and used it as a venue to rake in more money.
You want to support Filipino movies. In the end, you slink away and go back to watching Hollywood.
Territorial Intrusion
I'm sooo like watching a live feature on the Animal Planet unfolding outside my bedroom window overlooking the garage, right now. The White siblings (I call the fatter one Little Polar Bear because he's starting to resemble one) are fending off an intrusion from Orangey (he's the cat equivalent of a carrot top) who's trying to establish himself within the siblings territory. They've been hounding and harassing the poor guy the past hour or so, but apparently the siblings's fierce tactics do not intimidate him at all. The problem with the siblings, especially Little Polar Bear, is that they're too fat to put up a fight.
Hey, as long as they poo somewhere else and drive the mice away, I have no problem with them.
Hey, as long as they poo somewhere else and drive the mice away, I have no problem with them.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Christmas in the Highlands
In grade school, I dreaded Kris Kringle, you know, the gift-exchange portion of any Christmas Party, mainly because half the time, I already knew what I was going to receive: another handkerchief. In fact, I lost count of the number of Christmases I got them. I was sooo tempted back then to suggest to my teacher to impose a “no hanky” policy, which of course I never got to do. To even the score, I lost count of the number of times I gave out handkerchiefs myself.
Some kids resent receiving underwear briefs; they consider it insulting and simply not proper. I actually saw one drop his underwear gift out the window. Personally, I didn’t really mind, as long as it was my size.
It was also de rigueur to attend the annual party in brand new clothes, preferably in the latest fashion. And it was considered cool if it was bought from the city, in Cagayan de Oro, from either Gaisano or Ororama. Bonus points if you had a relative from the States, Manila or Cebu who sent you the shirt or shoes you were wearing.
Wearing something from the local cooperative in Camp Phillips was way un-cool because everybody knew you bought it through credit. And that means the family may have fallen on hard times.
It was also considered a crime to wear something from Memen Lopez’s variety store in the nearby Agusan Canyon, because every Sunday after Mass, every kid making his way to the weekly flea-market never fail to pass by the display windows showcasing the in-house tailor’s latest creations. If you wear those, everybody in school would immediately know where you bought it. And besides, only barrio folks from far-flung areas patronize Memen Lopez’s creations. Yes, we kids were an elitist lot.
When you’re nine or ten years old, blasting firecrackers seemed like a rite of passage. My brother and I, as well as our cousins all resented the fact that we were still made to blow horns made of paper material called torotot during New Year’s celebration rather than the usual “triangle” and “whistle bomb” of the older kids in the neighborhood.
The adults would fashion “cannons” from hollow bamboo poles and that metal thing with feathers that you throw upwards and which gives out a loud explosion when it hits the ground. I found it extremely dangerous, because kids who have no sense of direction and weak throwing power can send the blasted thing right in your direction before you can even run and cover your ears.
Since our parents vehemently refused to allow us to even go near these firecrackers, we had to create our own fire crackers. My brother devised what we called a “duslit bomb” (duslit- a Cebuano term for striking a match). We simply scraped the phosphorus off the matchsticks onto a piece of paper the size of a candy wrapper, wrapped it tightly with scotch tape and attached a small string.
The verdict: Oh, yes it exploded. But honestly, our farts sounded louder.
Christmas officially begins right after All Saints Day, when people deck their homes with lights and decors, hang lanterns and make plans for all sorts of contests: lantern, belen (nativity scenes), amateur singing, tableauxs and the most eagerly awaited, carol singing.
You wouldn’t believe the number of reunions taking place: grade school, high school, civic groups, sports circles.
The excitement of Christmas rises to fever pitch during the midnight masses on the 24th and the 31st. The whole community assembles in the parish church and it transforms into a big social event. Your seatmate in grade one who kept on picking her nose suddenly makes her entrance in high heels and heavy make-up.
The kid you wrestled on the ground one time now wears a neck-tie beneath his sweater, as if he were enrolled in an Ivy League College.
When the clock strikes midnight, the church bells start ringing, my father, from his helm in front of the choir, strikes the opening chords of Lucio San Pedro’s magnificent Simbang Gabi in the organ, amidst the deafening noise of “whistle bombs”, kwitis, pla-pla, sawa, all imaginable firecracker known to mankind, blasting off at the same time, or one after another, as we celebrate Christmas as one community.
¡FELIZ NAVIDAD Á TÒDOS!!
Some kids resent receiving underwear briefs; they consider it insulting and simply not proper. I actually saw one drop his underwear gift out the window. Personally, I didn’t really mind, as long as it was my size.
It was also de rigueur to attend the annual party in brand new clothes, preferably in the latest fashion. And it was considered cool if it was bought from the city, in Cagayan de Oro, from either Gaisano or Ororama. Bonus points if you had a relative from the States, Manila or Cebu who sent you the shirt or shoes you were wearing.
Wearing something from the local cooperative in Camp Phillips was way un-cool because everybody knew you bought it through credit. And that means the family may have fallen on hard times.
It was also considered a crime to wear something from Memen Lopez’s variety store in the nearby Agusan Canyon, because every Sunday after Mass, every kid making his way to the weekly flea-market never fail to pass by the display windows showcasing the in-house tailor’s latest creations. If you wear those, everybody in school would immediately know where you bought it. And besides, only barrio folks from far-flung areas patronize Memen Lopez’s creations. Yes, we kids were an elitist lot.
When you’re nine or ten years old, blasting firecrackers seemed like a rite of passage. My brother and I, as well as our cousins all resented the fact that we were still made to blow horns made of paper material called torotot during New Year’s celebration rather than the usual “triangle” and “whistle bomb” of the older kids in the neighborhood.
The adults would fashion “cannons” from hollow bamboo poles and that metal thing with feathers that you throw upwards and which gives out a loud explosion when it hits the ground. I found it extremely dangerous, because kids who have no sense of direction and weak throwing power can send the blasted thing right in your direction before you can even run and cover your ears.
Since our parents vehemently refused to allow us to even go near these firecrackers, we had to create our own fire crackers. My brother devised what we called a “duslit bomb” (duslit- a Cebuano term for striking a match). We simply scraped the phosphorus off the matchsticks onto a piece of paper the size of a candy wrapper, wrapped it tightly with scotch tape and attached a small string.
The verdict: Oh, yes it exploded. But honestly, our farts sounded louder.
Christmas officially begins right after All Saints Day, when people deck their homes with lights and decors, hang lanterns and make plans for all sorts of contests: lantern, belen (nativity scenes), amateur singing, tableauxs and the most eagerly awaited, carol singing.
You wouldn’t believe the number of reunions taking place: grade school, high school, civic groups, sports circles.
The excitement of Christmas rises to fever pitch during the midnight masses on the 24th and the 31st. The whole community assembles in the parish church and it transforms into a big social event. Your seatmate in grade one who kept on picking her nose suddenly makes her entrance in high heels and heavy make-up.
The kid you wrestled on the ground one time now wears a neck-tie beneath his sweater, as if he were enrolled in an Ivy League College.
When the clock strikes midnight, the church bells start ringing, my father, from his helm in front of the choir, strikes the opening chords of Lucio San Pedro’s magnificent Simbang Gabi in the organ, amidst the deafening noise of “whistle bombs”, kwitis, pla-pla, sawa, all imaginable firecracker known to mankind, blasting off at the same time, or one after another, as we celebrate Christmas as one community.
¡FELIZ NAVIDAD Á TÒDOS!!
Friday, December 22, 2006
BRITTEN: Albert Herring
ALBERT HERRING
Opera in 3 Acts by Benjamin BRITTEN
Text by Eric Crozier after Guy de Maupassant
Glyndebourne Festival Opera (1985)
Soloists of the London Philharmonic Orchestra
Conducted by Bernard Haitink
I finally watched my first British opera on DVD: Benjamin Britten’s Albert Herring. This opera, composed in the 1940’s and premiered at Glyndebourne, is the British’s attempt at carving their position in the world of opera, of which they are conspicuously not prominently represented. After Henry Purcell in the 15th century, no other English composer (other than the very minor reputation of John Gay) of musical renown comes to mind.
Unfortunately, the musical environment Britten found himself already eschews the old, florid styles of singing and orchestration of the Franco-Italo-Germanic vein which the musical world has come to embrace, with the advent of Schoenberg’s 12-tone school and the neo-classical styles of the Russians like Rimsky-Korsakov and Prokofiev in the early part of the 20th century. With contemporary works of Richard Strauss of the Wagnerian school and on the opposite end, Alban Berg of the revolutionary Schoenberg’s, does Britten stand a chance of being recognized at all in this opera?
Oh yes, to some extent, although I venture out to say he’s neither an innovator nor a fantastic musical colorist. The opera Albert Herring is extremely funny, but that is largely due to an excellent libretto by Eric Crozier, adapted from Guy de Maupassant’s Le Rosier de Madame Husson, rather than the music itself. It is a parody of life in a bygone England, and what a ride it is.
It is a tale about Albert Herring- gullible, naïve greengrocer lad who, much to his consternation, is made Village May King when the guardians of morality realized there are no longer girls with the necessary virtuous qualifications. Unfortunately, this came at a time when Albert no longer wished to be treated like a village idiot or some plastic saint because he’s missing all the fun by being a good boy all throughout his life. In other words, a wimp.
The children were particularly funny. I like the scene where the teacher, aptly named Miss Wordsworth, during the Coronation where Albert had to wear virginal white suit to symbolize his purity of heart, but which made him look like a fool, tried to make the children sing a welcome tribute. They kept on forgetting their lines, mispronouncing them (‘ale’ instead of ‘hail’, ‘halbert’ instead of ‘albert’), and reciting verses as if they were reading the ingredients from a cereal box.
The speeches I found extremely funny as well, especially the impassioned appeal for moral regeneration from the town’s rich patroness, Lady Billows. And of course Miss Wordsworth, who gave Albert a two-volume set of Fox’s Book of Martyrs “to be read during rainy afternoons”.
The music is extremely dull and hopelessly unmelodic. But then of course, most operas from this period aren’t any different. The fact that the recitative style decays into speech, it clearly mimics Claude Debussy’s Pelleas et Melisande, but without the ravishing and dream-like orchestration. This is unlike Francis Poulenc’s searingly dramatic Dialogues des Carmelites premiered at La Scala in the late 1950’s, a contemporary work.
Britten knows how to pick his material. But whether or not he is able to bring it to new heights through his music is another matter.
Opera in 3 Acts by Benjamin BRITTEN
Text by Eric Crozier after Guy de Maupassant
Glyndebourne Festival Opera (1985)
Soloists of the London Philharmonic Orchestra
Conducted by Bernard Haitink
I finally watched my first British opera on DVD: Benjamin Britten’s Albert Herring. This opera, composed in the 1940’s and premiered at Glyndebourne, is the British’s attempt at carving their position in the world of opera, of which they are conspicuously not prominently represented. After Henry Purcell in the 15th century, no other English composer (other than the very minor reputation of John Gay) of musical renown comes to mind.
Unfortunately, the musical environment Britten found himself already eschews the old, florid styles of singing and orchestration of the Franco-Italo-Germanic vein which the musical world has come to embrace, with the advent of Schoenberg’s 12-tone school and the neo-classical styles of the Russians like Rimsky-Korsakov and Prokofiev in the early part of the 20th century. With contemporary works of Richard Strauss of the Wagnerian school and on the opposite end, Alban Berg of the revolutionary Schoenberg’s, does Britten stand a chance of being recognized at all in this opera?
Oh yes, to some extent, although I venture out to say he’s neither an innovator nor a fantastic musical colorist. The opera Albert Herring is extremely funny, but that is largely due to an excellent libretto by Eric Crozier, adapted from Guy de Maupassant’s Le Rosier de Madame Husson, rather than the music itself. It is a parody of life in a bygone England, and what a ride it is.
It is a tale about Albert Herring- gullible, naïve greengrocer lad who, much to his consternation, is made Village May King when the guardians of morality realized there are no longer girls with the necessary virtuous qualifications. Unfortunately, this came at a time when Albert no longer wished to be treated like a village idiot or some plastic saint because he’s missing all the fun by being a good boy all throughout his life. In other words, a wimp.
The children were particularly funny. I like the scene where the teacher, aptly named Miss Wordsworth, during the Coronation where Albert had to wear virginal white suit to symbolize his purity of heart, but which made him look like a fool, tried to make the children sing a welcome tribute. They kept on forgetting their lines, mispronouncing them (‘ale’ instead of ‘hail’, ‘halbert’ instead of ‘albert’), and reciting verses as if they were reading the ingredients from a cereal box.
The speeches I found extremely funny as well, especially the impassioned appeal for moral regeneration from the town’s rich patroness, Lady Billows. And of course Miss Wordsworth, who gave Albert a two-volume set of Fox’s Book of Martyrs “to be read during rainy afternoons”.
The music is extremely dull and hopelessly unmelodic. But then of course, most operas from this period aren’t any different. The fact that the recitative style decays into speech, it clearly mimics Claude Debussy’s Pelleas et Melisande, but without the ravishing and dream-like orchestration. This is unlike Francis Poulenc’s searingly dramatic Dialogues des Carmelites premiered at La Scala in the late 1950’s, a contemporary work.
Britten knows how to pick his material. But whether or not he is able to bring it to new heights through his music is another matter.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Currency Controls
The Thai stock market plunged 17%+ today, the worst loss in 30 years, I heard, with the imposition of currency controls. The monetary authorities in Bangkok are putting a tight grip on the inflow and outflow of investment funds into the country. The Thai Central Bank implemented these draconian measures to rein in an appreciating baht and to ward off speculative attacks. To recall, speculation against the currency ushered in the Asian financial crisis way back in 1997 which reverberated across the region, resulting in bankruptcies and consequently, job losses.
This time, however, the scenario is a bit different. No massive devaluation took place (not yet anyway, it moved by only about 2%) which means interest rates remain stable. Only the equities market got burned. In addition, unlike in 1997, no domino effect on other South East Asian markets took place.
But in the medium to long-term, as investment funds from outside slow down (both direct and portfolio-based), there will be pressure for the baht to depreciate (defeating the purpose of stabilizing the currency), which will also be weighed down by rising interest rates, as listed companies will now increasingly turn to borrowings and rely less on equities to finance their working capital requirements and expansion plans.
With the Thai market becoming too unattractive to portfolio fund managers and investors, other stable markets in the region might benefit over the short-term.
The Philippine stock exchange recently averaged PhP2-3 billion in daily volumes, a good sign that foreign investors are upbeat about the general business conditions. The local bourse might benefit from funds exiting Bangkok and investors who got burned might want to recover some of the losses by dipping into the markets of KL, Jakarta, Singapore and Manila.
Expect market activity to perk up after the holidays.
This time, however, the scenario is a bit different. No massive devaluation took place (not yet anyway, it moved by only about 2%) which means interest rates remain stable. Only the equities market got burned. In addition, unlike in 1997, no domino effect on other South East Asian markets took place.
But in the medium to long-term, as investment funds from outside slow down (both direct and portfolio-based), there will be pressure for the baht to depreciate (defeating the purpose of stabilizing the currency), which will also be weighed down by rising interest rates, as listed companies will now increasingly turn to borrowings and rely less on equities to finance their working capital requirements and expansion plans.
With the Thai market becoming too unattractive to portfolio fund managers and investors, other stable markets in the region might benefit over the short-term.
The Philippine stock exchange recently averaged PhP2-3 billion in daily volumes, a good sign that foreign investors are upbeat about the general business conditions. The local bourse might benefit from funds exiting Bangkok and investors who got burned might want to recover some of the losses by dipping into the markets of KL, Jakarta, Singapore and Manila.
Expect market activity to perk up after the holidays.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Schumann Piano Concerto
Martha Argerich in Schumann's Piano Concerto in A, final movement: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-sFYMXy2iFI
Good Tidings
My calendar was filled with lunch and dinner invitations last week (yes Ems, I have an active social life). Titus hopped over briefly from Dubai and had lunch with his former office colleagues (he wasn't an office colleague really, more like an honorary member but he knew everyone in Research because of me). He told us it wasn't easy getting used to working in such a strange land where Filipinos and other third world nationals are treated like fourth-class citizens. He's earning, my gad, probably four times as much as I do. Good for him. He even went on a back-packing tour of Turkey. He's learning to cook too, even bake. Apparently, Emiratis and other Arabs don't go for pastries and cakes because he had to make do with instant mixes.
Had dinner with Jun as well, recently arrived from Paris. He handed me Mozart's piano variations. Very cultured. Spent most of his week-ends hopping from one museum to another (yes, he saw the Mona Lisa at the Louvre) and attending musical soireés.
I expected him to be in crutches or with a cast. He wasn't. He looked normal, didn't notice any limp at all, although he's a size (or two) bigger. He tells me when he removes his shirt, the now pear-shaped contour of his body can be unflatteringly obvious. I can understand his enthusiasm to train for the mid-year full marathon.
Had to cancel one lunch invitation in far-away Parañaque. Have two more.
Had dinner with Jun as well, recently arrived from Paris. He handed me Mozart's piano variations. Very cultured. Spent most of his week-ends hopping from one museum to another (yes, he saw the Mona Lisa at the Louvre) and attending musical soireés.
I expected him to be in crutches or with a cast. He wasn't. He looked normal, didn't notice any limp at all, although he's a size (or two) bigger. He tells me when he removes his shirt, the now pear-shaped contour of his body can be unflatteringly obvious. I can understand his enthusiasm to train for the mid-year full marathon.
Had to cancel one lunch invitation in far-away Parañaque. Have two more.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Pedal Quest
I finally did it. I bought myself not a mountain bike, but a racer bike. Doc, who’s extremely knowledgeable about bicycle parts and the cycling sport in general (he recently competed in his first relay triathlon in Subic last December), assisted me in picking the parts for assembly in Cartimar, as well as in haggling for the lowest possible price.
Since I entertain illusions of competing in duathlons next year (swim-bike or run-bike race courses), I thought a racer bike would best fit my requirements for training. Doc is right, the pedal plates in a mountain bike are just too small compared to the racer type, while the body is considerably lighter as well.
Jun, on the other hand, who’s still recuperating from his biking accident in Fontainbleau, in le Republique Française, and who will be skipping dragon boat training in the meantime, is gunning for the mid-year Milo full marathon. I told him I’m not optimistic about the 42km race because running has always been my weakest event.
I plan to lessen my dragon boat involvement as well but will focus more on swimming (which I have neglected this year) and long-distance biking this coming 2007.
Fitness First representatives have been hounding me with mobile phone calls lately. I still do not have plans of working out in the gym. I’d rather run, row and bike outdoors, you know, toning my body the natural way.
Being physically fit and healthy have always been my top priority rather than looking good for its own sake. I am not narcissistic at all.
Thank God I got a new project from Singapore. Being a free-lancer isn’t always a comfortable position to be in. You’ll never know when your next project is coming along. I hope I get more projects next year.
The peso has gained considerable strength already (appreciating by more than 14%), from PhP56/US$ two years ago to PhP4$US by the end of this year. It does not bode well for me at all, as I am highly dependent on foreign projects. The only way for me to compensate the loss in purchasing power is to raise my volumes. Furthermore, if the peso continues to appreciate, I might be forced to look for a full-time job soon.
Since I entertain illusions of competing in duathlons next year (swim-bike or run-bike race courses), I thought a racer bike would best fit my requirements for training. Doc is right, the pedal plates in a mountain bike are just too small compared to the racer type, while the body is considerably lighter as well.
Jun, on the other hand, who’s still recuperating from his biking accident in Fontainbleau, in le Republique Française, and who will be skipping dragon boat training in the meantime, is gunning for the mid-year Milo full marathon. I told him I’m not optimistic about the 42km race because running has always been my weakest event.
I plan to lessen my dragon boat involvement as well but will focus more on swimming (which I have neglected this year) and long-distance biking this coming 2007.
Fitness First representatives have been hounding me with mobile phone calls lately. I still do not have plans of working out in the gym. I’d rather run, row and bike outdoors, you know, toning my body the natural way.
Being physically fit and healthy have always been my top priority rather than looking good for its own sake. I am not narcissistic at all.
Thank God I got a new project from Singapore. Being a free-lancer isn’t always a comfortable position to be in. You’ll never know when your next project is coming along. I hope I get more projects next year.
The peso has gained considerable strength already (appreciating by more than 14%), from PhP56/US$ two years ago to PhP4$US by the end of this year. It does not bode well for me at all, as I am highly dependent on foreign projects. The only way for me to compensate the loss in purchasing power is to raise my volumes. Furthermore, if the peso continues to appreciate, I might be forced to look for a full-time job soon.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
RASHKOVSKIY: Piano Fantasies
Last night, I heard the Manila debut of a petite, 22-year old Russian pianist Ilya Rashkovskiy at the Philam Life Theatre in UN Avenue. He won the grand prize at the 1st Hong Kong International Piano Competition with Vladimir Ashkenazy and Gary Graffman, among others, as jurors. What prompted me to watch the concert was that I read somewhere the pianist studied under Vladimir Krainev in Germany, a Tchaikovsky grand prize winner (and whose Chopin interpretations I always listen to at the classical archives website) and who’s currently an eminent Russian pedagogue at the Moscow Conservatory.
I was keenly aware of the formidable program as well: all Piano Fantasies, from Mozart to Balakirev, spanning the classical to romantic repertoires.
Rashkovskiy opened with the rather somber Mozart Fantasy in C Minor, KV475. Quite unlike you would expect from Mozart, this piece isn’t filled with bright and gay tunes. In fact, the tempo ranges from adagio, andante and at most, to moderato. There aren’t much rapid passages as well. Mozart wrote this at a later stage in his life maybe when he felt more introspective.
For some reason, the Russian’s rendition failed to engage me. It simply didn’t connect with me at all, maybe because of the usual distraction from audience members who cannot sit still on a classical music performance, who kept on whispering, rummaging through hand bags, opening a candy wrapper, and even sending SMS! Or was it the grand piano, which I felt needed a little tuning up.
His take on Schubert’s Wanderer Fantasy in C Major, however erased all initial doubts about his ability. The formidable piece, always a showpiece of virtuosos, showcased the awesome technical skills demanded from such a difficult but popular piece. The Schubert already provided the fireworks that electrified the audience to its feet.
The first part of the program ended with Alexander Scriabin’s Fantasy in B Minor, the only piece I am not familiar with. As can be expected from Scriabin, the piece is supposed to be full of fire, passion and turmoil, even anger. I would have wanted a more passionate and sensitive reading of the piece. Maybe when Rashkovskiy gets a little older, he’ll be able to interpret this piece with more heart and soul.
After the intermission, Rashkovskiy immediately launched into Liszt’s infernal Dante Sonata. A massively difficult piece, the Russian managed to convey the diabolical and frightening images of hell as depicted in Dante’s literary masterpiece. Bravo!
The Chopin Fantasy in F Minor, although no less difficult than the Liszt, came as a perfect neutralizer because of its natural grace and lyricism, brought to new heights by the Russian’s complex shading and vibrant coloring of this Chopin masterpiece.
And of course, the piece de resistance, Mily Balakirev’s Islamey, probably among the most difficult in the piano repertoire (along with Ravel’s Gaspard de la Nuit) and which intrigued me so much I decided at the last minute to buy the one-grand ticket instead of the seven-hundred bucks. He had difficulty in the final bars and I thought the opening theme was a bit too fast. Islamey is supposed to sound like there are four people pounding the piano, instead of one. And the extreme virtuosity demanded by this piece is so astounding, most pianists avoid this.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t satisfied with his rendition, despite the fact that Balakirev is a Russian and the piece interpreted by a fellow Russian could have lent justice to the hidden nuances in this extremely difficult war-horse. The challenge, much like Scriabin, is to let the melody and the theme emerge from the turmoil created by the fiery outbursts, to make the instrument sing, as if a shaman were dancing dervish, trance-like and barefoot, on top of burning coals. In fact, Islamey’s other name is Oriental Fantasy. Obviously, Balakirev had maybe Turkey or Central Asia in mind when he composed this.
After a rousing ovation, Rashkovskiy obliged with Chopin’s Fantasie-Impromptu. I thought it was a no-brainer, I mean I play this piece.
He obliged the audience with another encore. This time however, I got surprised: Robert Schumann’s Toccata. This is not an easy piece to play. Although he got through the end unscathed, I still prefer other pianists’ rendition, especially our very own Cecile Licad in her all-Schumann recording (unfortunately I lost my copy).
I was keenly aware of the formidable program as well: all Piano Fantasies, from Mozart to Balakirev, spanning the classical to romantic repertoires.
Rashkovskiy opened with the rather somber Mozart Fantasy in C Minor, KV475. Quite unlike you would expect from Mozart, this piece isn’t filled with bright and gay tunes. In fact, the tempo ranges from adagio, andante and at most, to moderato. There aren’t much rapid passages as well. Mozart wrote this at a later stage in his life maybe when he felt more introspective.
For some reason, the Russian’s rendition failed to engage me. It simply didn’t connect with me at all, maybe because of the usual distraction from audience members who cannot sit still on a classical music performance, who kept on whispering, rummaging through hand bags, opening a candy wrapper, and even sending SMS! Or was it the grand piano, which I felt needed a little tuning up.
His take on Schubert’s Wanderer Fantasy in C Major, however erased all initial doubts about his ability. The formidable piece, always a showpiece of virtuosos, showcased the awesome technical skills demanded from such a difficult but popular piece. The Schubert already provided the fireworks that electrified the audience to its feet.
The first part of the program ended with Alexander Scriabin’s Fantasy in B Minor, the only piece I am not familiar with. As can be expected from Scriabin, the piece is supposed to be full of fire, passion and turmoil, even anger. I would have wanted a more passionate and sensitive reading of the piece. Maybe when Rashkovskiy gets a little older, he’ll be able to interpret this piece with more heart and soul.
After the intermission, Rashkovskiy immediately launched into Liszt’s infernal Dante Sonata. A massively difficult piece, the Russian managed to convey the diabolical and frightening images of hell as depicted in Dante’s literary masterpiece. Bravo!
The Chopin Fantasy in F Minor, although no less difficult than the Liszt, came as a perfect neutralizer because of its natural grace and lyricism, brought to new heights by the Russian’s complex shading and vibrant coloring of this Chopin masterpiece.
And of course, the piece de resistance, Mily Balakirev’s Islamey, probably among the most difficult in the piano repertoire (along with Ravel’s Gaspard de la Nuit) and which intrigued me so much I decided at the last minute to buy the one-grand ticket instead of the seven-hundred bucks. He had difficulty in the final bars and I thought the opening theme was a bit too fast. Islamey is supposed to sound like there are four people pounding the piano, instead of one. And the extreme virtuosity demanded by this piece is so astounding, most pianists avoid this.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t satisfied with his rendition, despite the fact that Balakirev is a Russian and the piece interpreted by a fellow Russian could have lent justice to the hidden nuances in this extremely difficult war-horse. The challenge, much like Scriabin, is to let the melody and the theme emerge from the turmoil created by the fiery outbursts, to make the instrument sing, as if a shaman were dancing dervish, trance-like and barefoot, on top of burning coals. In fact, Islamey’s other name is Oriental Fantasy. Obviously, Balakirev had maybe Turkey or Central Asia in mind when he composed this.
After a rousing ovation, Rashkovskiy obliged with Chopin’s Fantasie-Impromptu. I thought it was a no-brainer, I mean I play this piece.
He obliged the audience with another encore. This time however, I got surprised: Robert Schumann’s Toccata. This is not an easy piece to play. Although he got through the end unscathed, I still prefer other pianists’ rendition, especially our very own Cecile Licad in her all-Schumann recording (unfortunately I lost my copy).
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Gathering Storm
Politics has been rearing its ugly head again these past few days. De Venecia and his allies in Congress, ostensibly with Gloria's blessings, are itching to change the Constitution and shift the current system of government from Presidential to Parliamentary, by crook or by hook, so that they can perpetuate themselves in power. This, despite the Supreme Court's ruling on the unconstitutionality of the so-called People's Initiative earlier, the administration's initial hare-brained attempt at pushing its own selfish agenda. By insisting and bullying the Senate to convene a Constitutional Assembly, De Venecia and his pork-hungry minions in Congress only showed their true colors. The nerve!
They haven't even passed the 2007 budget yet. And get this, they had to postpone the ASEAN Summit in Cebu even if PAGASA issued the go-signal for the Summit to proceed. Obviously, the typhoon was only used as a lame excuse because of the heightened security risks posed by the gathering political storm. They're the ones creating this mess, to begin with.
It's as clear as day. De Venecia, who will never be the President under the present system, knows this fully well, and he can no longer wait. He firmly believes he is destined to lead this country sooner or later. DUH!
I can't stand him.
They haven't even passed the 2007 budget yet. And get this, they had to postpone the ASEAN Summit in Cebu even if PAGASA issued the go-signal for the Summit to proceed. Obviously, the typhoon was only used as a lame excuse because of the heightened security risks posed by the gathering political storm. They're the ones creating this mess, to begin with.
It's as clear as day. De Venecia, who will never be the President under the present system, knows this fully well, and he can no longer wait. He firmly believes he is destined to lead this country sooner or later. DUH!
I can't stand him.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Paddle Hard, Party Harder
Again, the men’s team failed to make the cut during the semi-finals in yesterday’s quarterly regatta. Two teams came from typhoon-devastated Bicol and clobbered all Manila-based teams. The military fielded two (Philippine National Police and Navy). That meant club teams were relegated to the sidelines, playing second fiddle to these power horses. So what else is new?
The women’s team continued their winning streak, however, placing third.
Last night, we partied at the Valle Verde residence of our teammates, the Cruz sisters, in formal wear. It was a blast from the start.
The men had to wear barong, a very safe choice. Unfortunately, for the women their wardrobe choices could easily spell disaster. The problem with formal events for people not used to wearing formal attire is that the clothes and accessories easily become the object of conversation, turning everyone into instant fashion critics.
Johanna a.k.a Brutus, who claims to be a lesbian, who regales us with stories about her crushes (all women!) but paints her toe nails, shrieks when she sees a gorgeous guy and wraps his arms around male colleagues, made her entrance in a what appeared to be a “duster”, or house-dress. Worse, the dress seemed a size too big for her, in sky blue and as Frodo has commented, made her look like the Virgin Mary.
Patrona (she’s my counterpart: kill-joy, anti-social/anti-cute, but with one difference, she’s mataray, I’m extremely friendly) came in an almost all-black ensemble with a small violet blazer. We all thought she came in a broom stick.
Aretha, who’s heavily endowed (it’s easy to see she has difficulty finding bra sizes…as in is there a size E?) came in a dress that has lots of brown frilly laces (where did she rent this, I wonder) which made her look like a lavandera preparing to wash a pile of clothes in the river.
Lest you accuse me of being a fashion snub, people, I only took note of Yojin’s, Pam’s and especially Frodo’s comments. We were all seated at a dinner table directly facing the doorway.
As for me, I was enjoying myself sipping my glass of rosé, slightly sweet but very fruity, and dipping fruit pieces and marshmallow into the chocolate fondue, while observing the goings-on in the group.
The women’s team continued their winning streak, however, placing third.
Last night, we partied at the Valle Verde residence of our teammates, the Cruz sisters, in formal wear. It was a blast from the start.
The men had to wear barong, a very safe choice. Unfortunately, for the women their wardrobe choices could easily spell disaster. The problem with formal events for people not used to wearing formal attire is that the clothes and accessories easily become the object of conversation, turning everyone into instant fashion critics.
Johanna a.k.a Brutus, who claims to be a lesbian, who regales us with stories about her crushes (all women!) but paints her toe nails, shrieks when she sees a gorgeous guy and wraps his arms around male colleagues, made her entrance in a what appeared to be a “duster”, or house-dress. Worse, the dress seemed a size too big for her, in sky blue and as Frodo has commented, made her look like the Virgin Mary.
Patrona (she’s my counterpart: kill-joy, anti-social/anti-cute, but with one difference, she’s mataray, I’m extremely friendly) came in an almost all-black ensemble with a small violet blazer. We all thought she came in a broom stick.
Aretha, who’s heavily endowed (it’s easy to see she has difficulty finding bra sizes…as in is there a size E?) came in a dress that has lots of brown frilly laces (where did she rent this, I wonder) which made her look like a lavandera preparing to wash a pile of clothes in the river.
Lest you accuse me of being a fashion snub, people, I only took note of Yojin’s, Pam’s and especially Frodo’s comments. We were all seated at a dinner table directly facing the doorway.
As for me, I was enjoying myself sipping my glass of rosé, slightly sweet but very fruity, and dipping fruit pieces and marshmallow into the chocolate fondue, while observing the goings-on in the group.
Merlion Trip Pix
With Ay-ris and Yojin at Sentosa
With Yojin and the amiable and lovely Jaymi, our host, at the Merlion
With Raul and Ay-ris in Chinatowm
Friday, December 8, 2006
Holy Reminder
An hour or so after I started practicing my scales on the piano and mid-way through Liszt’s Liebestraum no. 3, the phone rang.
“Ronald, Can I ask a favour? Can you please play the Ave Maria”.
“Huh? Who is this, please”.
“It’s Ate Che, next door.”
I didn’t recognize Ate Che’s voice immediately, despite having lived right next door to her for about five years now. It was like it came from the “beyond”.
And then it hit me. I almost forgot, today is the Feast of the Immaculate Conception.
So I played the solemn and beautiful Ave Maria by Franz Schubert.
“Ronald, Can I ask a favour? Can you please play the Ave Maria”.
“Huh? Who is this, please”.
“It’s Ate Che, next door.”
I didn’t recognize Ate Che’s voice immediately, despite having lived right next door to her for about five years now. It was like it came from the “beyond”.
And then it hit me. I almost forgot, today is the Feast of the Immaculate Conception.
So I played the solemn and beautiful Ave Maria by Franz Schubert.
Thursday, December 7, 2006
French Connection
Salut! Bon jour, mes amis, if you plan to give me Mozart’s 12 Variations on “Ah! Vous dirai-je maman!”, my good friend Jun O., the country’s foremost expert on bacteria, viruses and rabies, beat you to it! He found the piano score at the rue de Rome in Paris. That’s one off the wish list. Now if only someone can take a hard look at no. 1…
Under my expert prodding and encouragement, he’s been attending classical music concerts in Paris, yes the music of Mozart and Puccini. He’s been telling me he noticed the audience doesn’t clap in between movements, and since he can’t distinguish one movement from the other, he waits for the others to clap first before he does.
He’s so lucky he gets to watch Mozart’s Requiem this week-end, a piece the composer wrote for his impending death and which shattered his soul so much he never completed it.
Oh by the way, Jun fell off his bike while pedaling his way through the French countryside, broke his arms, and spent ten days in a first world hospital. Jun, c’est la vie! He’s returning to Manila next week, with a French twang. He's now in an excellent position to ace his French exams at the Alliance.
Under my expert prodding and encouragement, he’s been attending classical music concerts in Paris, yes the music of Mozart and Puccini. He’s been telling me he noticed the audience doesn’t clap in between movements, and since he can’t distinguish one movement from the other, he waits for the others to clap first before he does.
He’s so lucky he gets to watch Mozart’s Requiem this week-end, a piece the composer wrote for his impending death and which shattered his soul so much he never completed it.
Oh by the way, Jun fell off his bike while pedaling his way through the French countryside, broke his arms, and spent ten days in a first world hospital. Jun, c’est la vie! He’s returning to Manila next week, with a French twang. He's now in an excellent position to ace his French exams at the Alliance.
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
Climate Changes
Unusually warm this December. I think the devastation brought by typhoon Durian (Reming) last week (and the one that caused a mudslide and wiped out an entire village in Leyte a year before) as well as the late onset of winter in some European countries is somehow related: climate changes on account of global warming.
Are we going to see a repeat of these tragedies every year?
Are we going to see a repeat of these tragedies every year?
Garage Tenants
I lease my car-less garage to three tenants, free of charge. I think they’re siblings. Covered mostly in white fur with patches of black all over their bodies, they lounge and luxuriate in my garage twice a day: early morning before it gets too hot, and late afternoon.
In exchange, I always remind them to watch over the apartment and keep the pesky mice coming from the nearby warehouse, at bay.
I’m talking about my feline friends. Manang Mimi, my landlady’s toothless housekeeper next door, feeds them. Consequently, they’re also getting fatter each day and thus spend the entire day sleeping.
From my window, I once saw one cat perform the Heimlich maneuver on another, feline version of course, as the latter tried to cough up fur balls created from all that licking.
I don’t give them food, because I want them to rely on their hunting instincts to survive. This would help eradicate the annoying mice infestation in our neighborhood originating from a warehouse owned by our chubby Chinese neighbor.
They have marked my garage area as their territory. It’s obvious from the acrid smell of urine. I always tell them to stop making the area where I grow my plants as their litter box, or they’ll lose their privileges. All I get are blank stares.
It’s been working quite nicely the past few months. I haven’t caught a single mouse in my flytraps ever since I forged a deal with my furry tenants. But since Manang is spoiling them and they’re starting to get negligent with their duties, I might sue them for breach of contract one of these days.
In exchange, I always remind them to watch over the apartment and keep the pesky mice coming from the nearby warehouse, at bay.
I’m talking about my feline friends. Manang Mimi, my landlady’s toothless housekeeper next door, feeds them. Consequently, they’re also getting fatter each day and thus spend the entire day sleeping.
From my window, I once saw one cat perform the Heimlich maneuver on another, feline version of course, as the latter tried to cough up fur balls created from all that licking.
I don’t give them food, because I want them to rely on their hunting instincts to survive. This would help eradicate the annoying mice infestation in our neighborhood originating from a warehouse owned by our chubby Chinese neighbor.
They have marked my garage area as their territory. It’s obvious from the acrid smell of urine. I always tell them to stop making the area where I grow my plants as their litter box, or they’ll lose their privileges. All I get are blank stares.
It’s been working quite nicely the past few months. I haven’t caught a single mouse in my flytraps ever since I forged a deal with my furry tenants. But since Manang is spoiling them and they’re starting to get negligent with their duties, I might sue them for breach of contract one of these days.
Sunday, December 3, 2006
Subic Rape Case
I really wonder what will be the outcome of the Subic rape case, whether the American servicemen charged with rape will go scot-free. The Visiting Forces Agreement signed between the Philippines and the US provides, among other concessions, protection to US servicemen from criminal prosecution for crimes committed within Philippine soil. The Philippines had to sign this one-sided contract in exchange for military and technical assistance from the Americans.
The VFA aside, I do have my misgivings as well. I cannot understand why the prosecution included in their charge sheet, the “star witness”. They could have used this witness to build an air-tight case against the servicemen, instead of relying on circumstantial evidence.
I also wonder why Katrina Legarda decided to drop this case.
The VFA aside, I do have my misgivings as well. I cannot understand why the prosecution included in their charge sheet, the “star witness”. They could have used this witness to build an air-tight case against the servicemen, instead of relying on circumstantial evidence.
I also wonder why Katrina Legarda decided to drop this case.
Thoughts on Blogging
I used to dislike blogging. I thought it was simply a venue either for endless whining or shameless self-promotion. Some provide blow-by-blow accounts of their private lives, interesting or not (I’m guilty of this myself); other focus on their interests such as music and food; not surprisingly, there are blogs designed to creatively divest you of your hard-earned money.
I came across a Fil-American who decided to make it on his own and undertake a “homecoming” journey touring the Philippine islands. In exchange for writing about his experience, he has a bank account number in his blog where sympathetic readers can “donate” any amount to support his adventure trips around the country. Duh. For all we care, he’s only blowing his readers’ money on booze and having the time of his life.
There’s also this college guy who writes about his quest to find the right girl. The guy looks like he could easily find one, given his matinee idol looks. But no, he wanted the readers to believe he is having a hard time finding dates. And so, he blogs about his search and what happens during his dates. Readers, in fact join in the fun and send their pictures and profiles for him to consider. On his website, however, appears the logo of a popular toothpaste brand and a link to the corporate website. Uhm, yes, that is the catch.
But I support blogs that have worthy causes. Carlos Celdran’s manner of presenting history and culture is almost like a performance art: he combines theatre, music and visuals to make it come alive. He is extremely knowledgeable about history and you know that he is sincerely passionate about preserving what remains of our cultural heritage. His walk tours are highly popular, and rightly so. I always see him in Quiapo conducting his tours and discussing history to foreigners and students and I can hear his lilting English from afar. If ever you have foreign visitors coming in for the week-end, I recommend a half-day walk tour of Intramuros with this guy for a fresh take of Philippine history and culture.
I read Jessica Zafra mostly for her cats. She obviously adores and spoils them, a far cry from her anti-social persona. She makes it sound like her life with her pets is action-packed with excitement, even if all they do is sleep the entire day. I remember she devoted an entire column about her battle with a single cockroach in her apartment. She made it sound like it were an epic event and –gasp!—I read the entire thing.
I came across a Fil-American who decided to make it on his own and undertake a “homecoming” journey touring the Philippine islands. In exchange for writing about his experience, he has a bank account number in his blog where sympathetic readers can “donate” any amount to support his adventure trips around the country. Duh. For all we care, he’s only blowing his readers’ money on booze and having the time of his life.
There’s also this college guy who writes about his quest to find the right girl. The guy looks like he could easily find one, given his matinee idol looks. But no, he wanted the readers to believe he is having a hard time finding dates. And so, he blogs about his search and what happens during his dates. Readers, in fact join in the fun and send their pictures and profiles for him to consider. On his website, however, appears the logo of a popular toothpaste brand and a link to the corporate website. Uhm, yes, that is the catch.
But I support blogs that have worthy causes. Carlos Celdran’s manner of presenting history and culture is almost like a performance art: he combines theatre, music and visuals to make it come alive. He is extremely knowledgeable about history and you know that he is sincerely passionate about preserving what remains of our cultural heritage. His walk tours are highly popular, and rightly so. I always see him in Quiapo conducting his tours and discussing history to foreigners and students and I can hear his lilting English from afar. If ever you have foreign visitors coming in for the week-end, I recommend a half-day walk tour of Intramuros with this guy for a fresh take of Philippine history and culture.
I read Jessica Zafra mostly for her cats. She obviously adores and spoils them, a far cry from her anti-social persona. She makes it sound like her life with her pets is action-packed with excitement, even if all they do is sleep the entire day. I remember she devoted an entire column about her battle with a single cockroach in her apartment. She made it sound like it were an epic event and –gasp!—I read the entire thing.
Saturday, December 2, 2006
Misunderstood
Pope Benedict XVI’s visit to Turkey, a largely Islamic country aims to eradicate the negative image he created by the remarks he made linking Islam to violence. The Pope is clearly playing the role of a diplomat role now, a far cry from when he was still the Vatican’s orthodox defender of the faith. But he’s also not back tracking from his stinging criticism of Islam.
In fact, his speech at a university in Germany earlier this year which sparked anger across the Muslim world, remains a pointed challenge to the Muslim faithful to categorically renounce violence as a form of justification of their faith.
By quoting a Byzantine emperor to drive home his point, Benedict underscored the historical fact that for centuries, violence in Islam has been used repeatedly to justify the Islamic faith.
Islam isn’t necessarily violent per se, but jihad, in special circumstances, does allow the use of violence to justify the faith. This is where Benedict raises the red flag. For him, under no circumstance whatsoever should violence be used in the name of God.
Unfortunately, the media and the Muslim faithful failed to fully understand the gravity of Benedict’s message. They thought he was only bullying Muslims, intent on offending them.
Without pointing it out specifically, Benedict trained his guns at the concept of jihad, which is being used by terrorists around the world to justify and advance their own brand of Islam.
Although the Roman Catholic Church has a violent history itself, the use of violence to justify faith is not an accepted doctrine. There is no jihad equivalent in Christianity.
Jihad—the use of violence in the service of Allah-- is an Islamic martyrdom concept which is so wide open to interpretation such that it is being used by Islamic extremists and terrorists to justify their suicidal actions in hotbeds like Jammu and Kashmir, Palestine, Iraq and Afghanistan, among others. Let us also not forget the events of 9/11—the terrorists, all jihadists, blew themselves up, killing innocent lives in the process and changing the course of history, supposedly in the service of Allah.
This is the message the Pope is trying to drill especially to Muslim religious leaders and intellectuals around the world. He was not trying to deliberately offend Muslims. He tried to rouse them to reexamine the problematic concept of jihad and its place in Islamic doctrine because of the current deadly consequences if taken to extremes.
Benedict correctly recognized that jihad is at the heart and soul of every Islamic extremist ready to blow himself up. Osama and Al-Qaeda’s terror motives clearly spring from this.
The fanaticism which manifests itself in violence and terrorism cannot be addressed fully if Muslim religious leaders around the world as well moderate Muslims continue to lend a blind eye and a deaf ear on this fundamental religious issue of jihad.
Pope Benedict did everybody a service by pointing this out.
In fact, his speech at a university in Germany earlier this year which sparked anger across the Muslim world, remains a pointed challenge to the Muslim faithful to categorically renounce violence as a form of justification of their faith.
By quoting a Byzantine emperor to drive home his point, Benedict underscored the historical fact that for centuries, violence in Islam has been used repeatedly to justify the Islamic faith.
Islam isn’t necessarily violent per se, but jihad, in special circumstances, does allow the use of violence to justify the faith. This is where Benedict raises the red flag. For him, under no circumstance whatsoever should violence be used in the name of God.
Unfortunately, the media and the Muslim faithful failed to fully understand the gravity of Benedict’s message. They thought he was only bullying Muslims, intent on offending them.
Without pointing it out specifically, Benedict trained his guns at the concept of jihad, which is being used by terrorists around the world to justify and advance their own brand of Islam.
Although the Roman Catholic Church has a violent history itself, the use of violence to justify faith is not an accepted doctrine. There is no jihad equivalent in Christianity.
Jihad—the use of violence in the service of Allah-- is an Islamic martyrdom concept which is so wide open to interpretation such that it is being used by Islamic extremists and terrorists to justify their suicidal actions in hotbeds like Jammu and Kashmir, Palestine, Iraq and Afghanistan, among others. Let us also not forget the events of 9/11—the terrorists, all jihadists, blew themselves up, killing innocent lives in the process and changing the course of history, supposedly in the service of Allah.
This is the message the Pope is trying to drill especially to Muslim religious leaders and intellectuals around the world. He was not trying to deliberately offend Muslims. He tried to rouse them to reexamine the problematic concept of jihad and its place in Islamic doctrine because of the current deadly consequences if taken to extremes.
Benedict correctly recognized that jihad is at the heart and soul of every Islamic extremist ready to blow himself up. Osama and Al-Qaeda’s terror motives clearly spring from this.
The fanaticism which manifests itself in violence and terrorism cannot be addressed fully if Muslim religious leaders around the world as well moderate Muslims continue to lend a blind eye and a deaf ear on this fundamental religious issue of jihad.
Pope Benedict did everybody a service by pointing this out.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Christmas Wish List
Christmas is around the corner, so everybody says. Hence, here’s my wish list, although I might end up buying all these stuff myself anyway. For my friends who know me and read this blog, wherever you are (let me enumerate: US, UK, UAE, France, Germany, Qatar, Singapore and Australia as well as here locally, in Cebu, Cagayan de Oro and Manila), gift-giving to the less fortunate (read: ME) knows no boundaries *wink, wink*.
1. Mountain bike- need to take up other sports activity other than rowing, swimming and jogging. I’m serious. Ambrose and I used to pedal our way in high school from Camp 14 to as far as Manolo Fortich in Bukidnon, passing by steep gravel roads that cut through deep canyons. I plan to bike-tour Rizal next year with Doc and Frodo.
2. I-pod 4GB, or Creatives mp3/4 player. Saw these in Bugis, Singapore at a price lower than here in PH. Will make a good companion while navigating an uphill route going to Antipolo.
3. Cork opener. Those first-rate hand-made devices made in France and Germany are a sight to behold: beautiful finish, excellent craftsmanship. I can spend the whole day just looking at it. Plus, I drink red wine (good for the heart). The made-in-China ones available in supermarkets locally leave much to be desired.
4. Tea leaves strainer cup. I bought a pack of tea in China, but since it does not come in a tea-bag English-style format, I need a cup that has a compact leaf strainer inside so that I don’t end up with tea leaves stuck in-between my teeth. No, I don’t need a tea set, saucers and all.
5. Cargo shorts, preferably Ambercrombie & Fitch, vintage. I know, I have several pairs already, but I want the fatigue one. Size 28 (I’m size 30, but A&F usually allots a size bigger than your actual waistline). It’s not available here.
6. Diesel tees. Not the flashy ones, though. Size medium. Too expensive here.
7. Adidas or Nike running shoes. Size 9 ½.
8. Bulgari perfume. No Jovan Musk please. Not much of a perfume user, though (my “natural” scent is wonderful enough) but I like the scent.
9. Dark green or almost maroon Speedo swimming trunks (plus goggles and ear plugs). Will take up swimming again maybe March when the water gets warm again. Colors not available here.
10. A piano score of W.A. Mozart’s “12 Variations on ‘Ah! Vous-dirai je maman!’” or a DVD copy of Gioacchino Rossini’s Guillaume Tell and Richard Wagner’s “Ring” Trilogy. Failed to find these in Quiapo.
1. Mountain bike- need to take up other sports activity other than rowing, swimming and jogging. I’m serious. Ambrose and I used to pedal our way in high school from Camp 14 to as far as Manolo Fortich in Bukidnon, passing by steep gravel roads that cut through deep canyons. I plan to bike-tour Rizal next year with Doc and Frodo.
2. I-pod 4GB, or Creatives mp3/4 player. Saw these in Bugis, Singapore at a price lower than here in PH. Will make a good companion while navigating an uphill route going to Antipolo.
3. Cork opener. Those first-rate hand-made devices made in France and Germany are a sight to behold: beautiful finish, excellent craftsmanship. I can spend the whole day just looking at it. Plus, I drink red wine (good for the heart). The made-in-China ones available in supermarkets locally leave much to be desired.
4. Tea leaves strainer cup. I bought a pack of tea in China, but since it does not come in a tea-bag English-style format, I need a cup that has a compact leaf strainer inside so that I don’t end up with tea leaves stuck in-between my teeth. No, I don’t need a tea set, saucers and all.
5. Cargo shorts, preferably Ambercrombie & Fitch, vintage. I know, I have several pairs already, but I want the fatigue one. Size 28 (I’m size 30, but A&F usually allots a size bigger than your actual waistline). It’s not available here.
6. Diesel tees. Not the flashy ones, though. Size medium. Too expensive here.
7. Adidas or Nike running shoes. Size 9 ½.
8. Bulgari perfume. No Jovan Musk please. Not much of a perfume user, though (my “natural” scent is wonderful enough) but I like the scent.
9. Dark green or almost maroon Speedo swimming trunks (plus goggles and ear plugs). Will take up swimming again maybe March when the water gets warm again. Colors not available here.
10. A piano score of W.A. Mozart’s “12 Variations on ‘Ah! Vous-dirai je maman!’” or a DVD copy of Gioacchino Rossini’s Guillaume Tell and Richard Wagner’s “Ring” Trilogy. Failed to find these in Quiapo.
Preparing for Another Storm
I stacked up on candles, batteries, canned goods, water, bread and the main food groups soda and chips in preparation for the onslaught of another super typhoon, Reming.
In the aftermath of typhoon Milenyo which hit the metropolis last September, I found myself like a nuclear disaster survivor scouring the streets of Cubao looking for food and candles.
I think everybody learned from that experience. My neighborhood supermarket is full of shoppers stacking up exactly the same things on my list. We’re all preparing for Reming’s week-end assault.
In the aftermath of typhoon Milenyo which hit the metropolis last September, I found myself like a nuclear disaster survivor scouring the streets of Cubao looking for food and candles.
I think everybody learned from that experience. My neighborhood supermarket is full of shoppers stacking up exactly the same things on my list. We’re all preparing for Reming’s week-end assault.
Hell's Music
Running low on funds, I took the jeepney on my way home from my mid-week jog last night in Marikina to my place in Cubao.
Unfortunately, the sound system blared a 70’s Sampaguita classic, disco version. I wanted to puke. It was preceded by a really ugly rendition by some unidentified local rock band which kept on caterwauling Quezon City’s various housing projects, as in “project 2, 3, 4 and so on…” in its lyrics. Ugh…as in ughly!
Handed over my fare but I didn’t even bother asking for the change, I alighted and changed jeeps during a traffic jam as the audio assault became too much for me to bear. I pity the kid sitting right across me. He covered his ears with his hands.
It was too awful to describe. It must be the same music being played in hell to torment doomed souls. I should remember to be good.
Unfortunately, the sound system blared a 70’s Sampaguita classic, disco version. I wanted to puke. It was preceded by a really ugly rendition by some unidentified local rock band which kept on caterwauling Quezon City’s various housing projects, as in “project 2, 3, 4 and so on…” in its lyrics. Ugh…as in ughly!
Handed over my fare but I didn’t even bother asking for the change, I alighted and changed jeeps during a traffic jam as the audio assault became too much for me to bear. I pity the kid sitting right across me. He covered his ears with his hands.
It was too awful to describe. It must be the same music being played in hell to torment doomed souls. I should remember to be good.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Crooked Arm
I have a crooked left arm. When I extend both my arms forward and twist them outwards, the left doesn’t move as much as the right.
When I was a kid in the Bukidnon highlands, we had to cross a small valley via a short cut route: a staircase made of concrete that extends down to the wooden small bridge over a small brook and ascends to the other side. The hand railing, made of wood was made smooth by kids who’d use this as a “slide”.
On top of the stairs, we’d position and sit our asses by using a supermarket carton as the sled. We’d slide down the entire stretch, slowly of course, until reaching the foot of the stairs by the bridge.
Encouraged by Harrison Ford’s daredevil moves as Indiana Jones and Roger Moore’s James Bond (people, this was the golden age of the Betamax), I sled down the railing as fast as I could. Only to lose my balance at the bottom; I had to use my left arm to support my fall, screaming my lungs out in the process because of the pain.
I'm always reminded of that fateful day everytime I look at my crooked arm.
When I was a kid in the Bukidnon highlands, we had to cross a small valley via a short cut route: a staircase made of concrete that extends down to the wooden small bridge over a small brook and ascends to the other side. The hand railing, made of wood was made smooth by kids who’d use this as a “slide”.
On top of the stairs, we’d position and sit our asses by using a supermarket carton as the sled. We’d slide down the entire stretch, slowly of course, until reaching the foot of the stairs by the bridge.
Encouraged by Harrison Ford’s daredevil moves as Indiana Jones and Roger Moore’s James Bond (people, this was the golden age of the Betamax), I sled down the railing as fast as I could. Only to lose my balance at the bottom; I had to use my left arm to support my fall, screaming my lungs out in the process because of the pain.
I'm always reminded of that fateful day everytime I look at my crooked arm.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Eased Out
I had dinner with Raul last night, a rowing colleague and former team manager. He happened to be in the vicinity so we met up in Marvin Agustin’s restaurant at the Gateway Mall—I forgot the name (I initially didn’t want to go there, given its association with the local celebrity).
He told me his business partner fired him (or “eased him out”) for suspending a staffer who’s been sleeping on the job. I feel bad for him, of course. He never expected the situation to back fire on him; he's the one holding the empty bag. Left without a choice, he plans to strike out on his own.
I’ve been free-lancing for quite sometime myself. It’s never easy. It takes a lot of grit, determination and patience to close a single account when you’re up against bigger and more established competitors.
I wish him luck.
He told me his business partner fired him (or “eased him out”) for suspending a staffer who’s been sleeping on the job. I feel bad for him, of course. He never expected the situation to back fire on him; he's the one holding the empty bag. Left without a choice, he plans to strike out on his own.
I’ve been free-lancing for quite sometime myself. It’s never easy. It takes a lot of grit, determination and patience to close a single account when you’re up against bigger and more established competitors.
I wish him luck.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Castrato She Isn't
I really wonder if there’s anybody out there who can outmatch Cecilia Bartoli in vocal acrobatics. She makes the voice sound like it were a flute, a violin or a pianoforte. Only the castrati of the 17th and 18th centuries could sing like this.
She doesn't have a powerful voice and it leaves a different after-taste sometimes. But there's no doubt she is a vocal virtousi well-suited to the Baroque--used to be dominated by the castrati, or castrated males who specialized in female roles and now totally extinct-- and florid Bel Canto repertoires.
Here's a video clip of Antonio Vivaldi's Agitata da due venti...
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Critic-At-Large
One grade-schooler reporter for a national daily joined us one morning two weeks ago for dragon boat practice. Her feature came out in the kiddie section in today’s issue. I craned my neck trying to look at our pictures splattered across the pages as we huddled to read the short article about our training routine.
“What does she say about us?” I asked nobody in particular, expecting to elicit a response from anybody who heard me.
“Huh?” Obviously no one bothered to read it, they just want to look at the pictures.
I took the newspaper and immediately after reading the first line, I blurted out, “You don’t write like this. You don’t say, “I was assigned to do a report on dragon boating” because it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”
Almost in unison, some of the girls chorused, “Ron, hello? She’s still in sixth grade!”
I didn’t mind being taken to task for criticizing the work of a child, because as any doctor would agree, if there’s cancer, it is best to treat it as early as possible.
Right?
Ooohh, I’m sooo bad. Put a sock in it, will ya? I’m kidding, of course.
“What does she say about us?” I asked nobody in particular, expecting to elicit a response from anybody who heard me.
“Huh?” Obviously no one bothered to read it, they just want to look at the pictures.
I took the newspaper and immediately after reading the first line, I blurted out, “You don’t write like this. You don’t say, “I was assigned to do a report on dragon boating” because it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”
Almost in unison, some of the girls chorused, “Ron, hello? She’s still in sixth grade!”
I didn’t mind being taken to task for criticizing the work of a child, because as any doctor would agree, if there’s cancer, it is best to treat it as early as possible.
Right?
Ooohh, I’m sooo bad. Put a sock in it, will ya? I’m kidding, of course.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Porn in the Office
I used to work in an office where my female colleagues were either approaching spinsterhood or destined for one. Naturally, since most of them had no boyfriends since birth, they constantly bombarded me with questions about, uhm, human sexuality.
One time, out of curiousness, curiousity, whatever, they designated me to buy Larry Flint’s porn magazine, Hustler, knowing fully well that I knew where to buy these things. They shared the cost of the magazine and I got to keep it, of course. All they wanted was to find out for them selves—just for a few minutes, really, they wouldn’t dream of bringing it home--why guys fall over themselves over the prurient material.
April only took a few glimpses. She said she couldn’t possibly take her lunch after seeing the pictures. The rest of them, including Che, were giggling as they browsed through the pages. Del even took her sweet time looking at the pages.
Since Hustler features explicit naked pictures of women, I really wonder if, had it been a magazine devoted to explicit naked men, what their reactions would be like. Instead of giggling, they’d probably be sweating and crossing their legs. :)
One time, out of curiousness, curiousity, whatever, they designated me to buy Larry Flint’s porn magazine, Hustler, knowing fully well that I knew where to buy these things. They shared the cost of the magazine and I got to keep it, of course. All they wanted was to find out for them selves—just for a few minutes, really, they wouldn’t dream of bringing it home--why guys fall over themselves over the prurient material.
April only took a few glimpses. She said she couldn’t possibly take her lunch after seeing the pictures. The rest of them, including Che, were giggling as they browsed through the pages. Del even took her sweet time looking at the pages.
Since Hustler features explicit naked pictures of women, I really wonder if, had it been a magazine devoted to explicit naked men, what their reactions would be like. Instead of giggling, they’d probably be sweating and crossing their legs. :)
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Changing of the Guards
Move over Pavarotti, Domingo and Carreras. Make way for Juan Diego Florez and Rolando Villazon, the current tenor superstars!
Compare their respective performances of the aria "Una furtiva lagrima..." from Gaetano Donizetti's most popular opera, L'Elisir d'Amore (Elixir of Love).
Florez
Villazon
Who's better?
Compare their respective performances of the aria "Una furtiva lagrima..." from Gaetano Donizetti's most popular opera, L'Elisir d'Amore (Elixir of Love).
Florez
Villazon
Who's better?
Monday, November 20, 2006
Investing in the Stock Market
Having had a short stint as a financial analyst for a stock broker, some people still seek my advice about investment options, free of charge. It’s amazing how Filipinos know so little about the equities market. I get the same queries each time so here are some basic tips I believe would be helpful for any greenhorn stock market investor:
DO’s
1. Visit the Philippine Stock Exchange website (www.pse.org.ph). Read the primer and the rules about investing. Better yet, register and choose the stocks you initially want to keep track of. Eventually, you’ll be checking this site from time to time to update yourself of your stocks’ performance.
2. Choose a broker. No, I can’t choose for you. The website contains a list of accredited brokers and their contact information. Don’t ask me to invest for you, hello, I’m not a broker. Give them a call, or better yet, acquaint yourself with your broker’s requirements by visiting their website, before opening an account with them. They usually require a minimum amount to be invested. This is similar to opening a savings account in any bank.
3. Be sure to check that your broker has a competent research staff. Research Analysts (I used to be one) get paid by tracking down information and analyzing these for you to make sound investment decisions. Ask for research materials, always. Take advantage of this service.
4. Start reading economic and business news items. These factors determine the direction and movement of stock prices. I know, I know. How can inflation and the country’s Gross National Product (GNP) be possibly more interesting than Pinoy Dream Academy, you ask? It isn’t. But will you earn any money from parking your ass in front of the TV set watching Rosita strut her stuff nation-wide?
DON’T’s
1. Do not expect to get rich in a week. People, this is not a casino. There is an ocean of difference between investing and speculating. An investor puts his money wisely in stocks with values that are expected to rise over time. A speculator gambles his money on stocks which has little or no value, very much like a spin-a-win.
2. Do not be greedy. If your stock starts to climb, at some point it will have to go down. This is because investors always cash in, or take profits on the gains made by the share price movement. Thus if share prices rose 10%, 15% or even 25%, that’s a good time to take profits and treat yourself to some Burger Machine.
So you ask, so what’s the whole idea behind investing in the stock market?
Source of Funding
You see, companies get their funds from two sources: equity (meaning owners’ money) and debt. Large companies, in particular, which have ambitious expansion plans, cannot finance their expansion projects without funding, yes? So if internally generated funds are not enough to finance the project, companies resort to fund-raising activities.
Debt and Equity
So they borrow money from banks or issue notes/ bonds to big-time creditors. But another popular option is for companies (only those listed in the stock exchange, however) to expand their equity base by allowing the public to invest into their company. Essentially, when you put your money in some company’s stock, you become a part-owner, and you become entitled to dividends, or share of the profits.
Trading Game
This is where the stock market plays an integral part: you buy into the company (i.e. acquire shares) via the trading system enforced at the stock market. The good thing is, you do not have to get stuck should you feel that at some point, you want to take out your investment somewhere. In the stock market, you can easily sell it to someone else, especially if you can sell it higher than the price you bought it. It’s what we call “capital gains” and is the main driving force why stock markets exist at all.
So which stocks should we be interested?
Invest on Value
Remember, VALUE is everything. Look, just like any commodity, say a piece of furniture, a stock has its value. The piece of chair can be valued highly, i.e. expensive, because of the quality of the wood, its workmanship and finish. Same is true for stocks. High-quality stocks are those with strong potential for earnings to rise. Thus, these are valued highly, more actively traded and the potential for capital gains is assured.
In other words, earnings/income/profits are always the basis for valuing the stock.
Putting My Foot Where My Mouth Is
Enough with the lecture, here’s an example. I bought SM Investments about a year ago (hi Che!) because of the solid portfolio, which included heavy weights like San Miguel, Banco de Oro, SM Malls, among others which were all expanding aggressively. In other words, the potential for earnings to rise over time was clear as day, and the IPO price still left room for an upside.
I bought it at an IPO (initial public offering) price of PhP250/share. Sold it at PhP312.50 for a 25% gain. It took me quite some time to recover it because of the uneasy political situation driving away investors in the market, but 25% is still better than had I parked my money in say, a savings account at any bank that pays you a really unbelievable usurious rate of 1% (not including taxes!) per year! You see, with inflation hovering between 4-6% per year, your money actually lost 3-5% in real terms, while saving it in the bank.
C’mmon now, people. If you’re tired of stalking and begging prospective clients for “networking” or multi-level marketing schemes that dazzle and excite you with promises of instant riches, the stock market is a good alternative.
Good Time to Invest
With a value turnover of about PhP2bn-PhP3bn daily, foreigners are definitely back (they’re the ones that move the market), a sure sign that the market is filled with investors, rather than unscrupulous local punters and speculators. This is mainly due to improving economic fundamentals: strong foreign exchange thanks to hefty remittance inflows from OFWs eases pressure on interest rates, driving costs of borrowing down and providing boost to business. And with political tensions simmering down, for the moment, everybody can concentrate on making some money.
And should the index hit the 3,000 mark, I think we will be back in the booming days of the mid-90’s, at the height of the stock market. In other words, you won’t have to wait that long for you to recover and make some gains on your investment.
Happy Investing!
DO’s
1. Visit the Philippine Stock Exchange website (www.pse.org.ph). Read the primer and the rules about investing. Better yet, register and choose the stocks you initially want to keep track of. Eventually, you’ll be checking this site from time to time to update yourself of your stocks’ performance.
2. Choose a broker. No, I can’t choose for you. The website contains a list of accredited brokers and their contact information. Don’t ask me to invest for you, hello, I’m not a broker. Give them a call, or better yet, acquaint yourself with your broker’s requirements by visiting their website, before opening an account with them. They usually require a minimum amount to be invested. This is similar to opening a savings account in any bank.
3. Be sure to check that your broker has a competent research staff. Research Analysts (I used to be one) get paid by tracking down information and analyzing these for you to make sound investment decisions. Ask for research materials, always. Take advantage of this service.
4. Start reading economic and business news items. These factors determine the direction and movement of stock prices. I know, I know. How can inflation and the country’s Gross National Product (GNP) be possibly more interesting than Pinoy Dream Academy, you ask? It isn’t. But will you earn any money from parking your ass in front of the TV set watching Rosita strut her stuff nation-wide?
DON’T’s
1. Do not expect to get rich in a week. People, this is not a casino. There is an ocean of difference between investing and speculating. An investor puts his money wisely in stocks with values that are expected to rise over time. A speculator gambles his money on stocks which has little or no value, very much like a spin-a-win.
2. Do not be greedy. If your stock starts to climb, at some point it will have to go down. This is because investors always cash in, or take profits on the gains made by the share price movement. Thus if share prices rose 10%, 15% or even 25%, that’s a good time to take profits and treat yourself to some Burger Machine.
So you ask, so what’s the whole idea behind investing in the stock market?
Source of Funding
You see, companies get their funds from two sources: equity (meaning owners’ money) and debt. Large companies, in particular, which have ambitious expansion plans, cannot finance their expansion projects without funding, yes? So if internally generated funds are not enough to finance the project, companies resort to fund-raising activities.
Debt and Equity
So they borrow money from banks or issue notes/ bonds to big-time creditors. But another popular option is for companies (only those listed in the stock exchange, however) to expand their equity base by allowing the public to invest into their company. Essentially, when you put your money in some company’s stock, you become a part-owner, and you become entitled to dividends, or share of the profits.
Trading Game
This is where the stock market plays an integral part: you buy into the company (i.e. acquire shares) via the trading system enforced at the stock market. The good thing is, you do not have to get stuck should you feel that at some point, you want to take out your investment somewhere. In the stock market, you can easily sell it to someone else, especially if you can sell it higher than the price you bought it. It’s what we call “capital gains” and is the main driving force why stock markets exist at all.
So which stocks should we be interested?
Invest on Value
Remember, VALUE is everything. Look, just like any commodity, say a piece of furniture, a stock has its value. The piece of chair can be valued highly, i.e. expensive, because of the quality of the wood, its workmanship and finish. Same is true for stocks. High-quality stocks are those with strong potential for earnings to rise. Thus, these are valued highly, more actively traded and the potential for capital gains is assured.
In other words, earnings/income/profits are always the basis for valuing the stock.
Putting My Foot Where My Mouth Is
Enough with the lecture, here’s an example. I bought SM Investments about a year ago (hi Che!) because of the solid portfolio, which included heavy weights like San Miguel, Banco de Oro, SM Malls, among others which were all expanding aggressively. In other words, the potential for earnings to rise over time was clear as day, and the IPO price still left room for an upside.
I bought it at an IPO (initial public offering) price of PhP250/share. Sold it at PhP312.50 for a 25% gain. It took me quite some time to recover it because of the uneasy political situation driving away investors in the market, but 25% is still better than had I parked my money in say, a savings account at any bank that pays you a really unbelievable usurious rate of 1% (not including taxes!) per year! You see, with inflation hovering between 4-6% per year, your money actually lost 3-5% in real terms, while saving it in the bank.
C’mmon now, people. If you’re tired of stalking and begging prospective clients for “networking” or multi-level marketing schemes that dazzle and excite you with promises of instant riches, the stock market is a good alternative.
Good Time to Invest
With a value turnover of about PhP2bn-PhP3bn daily, foreigners are definitely back (they’re the ones that move the market), a sure sign that the market is filled with investors, rather than unscrupulous local punters and speculators. This is mainly due to improving economic fundamentals: strong foreign exchange thanks to hefty remittance inflows from OFWs eases pressure on interest rates, driving costs of borrowing down and providing boost to business. And with political tensions simmering down, for the moment, everybody can concentrate on making some money.
And should the index hit the 3,000 mark, I think we will be back in the booming days of the mid-90’s, at the height of the stock market. In other words, you won’t have to wait that long for you to recover and make some gains on your investment.
Happy Investing!
Sunday, November 19, 2006
The Day the Country Stood Still
It happened again. And no, there wasn’t a coup d’etat nor was there an impending storm forecast to hit the city. Streets all over the country emptied and the country ground to a complete standstill when Manny Pacquiao took centre stage again in Las Vegas Sunday morning (Saturday night Pacific time). He clobbered and knocked-out Eric Morales in the third round. He delivered a spectacular performance. I heard the shouts of joy from my neighbors across the street.
It’s a good thing they chose Sarah Geronimo to sing the national anthem. Last time Manny fought, Senator Revilla’s relative, an unknown singer, made us all cringe as she screeched our national anthem. She sounded like she was undergoing root canal operation without anesthetic.
Congratulations Manny, but your Extreme Sing commercial on TV still makes me dive for the remote and change channels.
It’s a good thing they chose Sarah Geronimo to sing the national anthem. Last time Manny fought, Senator Revilla’s relative, an unknown singer, made us all cringe as she screeched our national anthem. She sounded like she was undergoing root canal operation without anesthetic.
Congratulations Manny, but your Extreme Sing commercial on TV still makes me dive for the remote and change channels.
Hairy Conversations
I had dinner with Che last week. We haven’t seen each other for quite some time and in the meantime, her belly’s gained prominence: she’s seven months into her pregnancy. (To think that I used to kid her about being a long-time member of the VSB or virgin-since-birth club).
You see, I ask her assistance for just about everything, even long after our stock market days, especially with data gathering as well as bits and pieces of economic and corporate information. I have no patience with lay-outing my reports for my clients and she does that for me as well. She’s good at techie stuff and I’m not. In exchange, I treat her out to dinner. I always suggest Burger Machine (I know, I’m a cheapskate…Oh, SNAP! I can live with it). Since we couldn’t find one in Glorietta, we always end up at Italianni’s.
Our conversation this time however, shifted away from her belly towards the status of my hair.
Pointing to my receding hairline, she said nonchalantly, “I think your hair is thinning. The scalp is showing”. Thank you for pointing that out, Miss Friendship. I know I’m losing pogi points because of it. If not for my face value, (friends, will you please stop hiding your faces under the covers!) I’ll be spending pathetic week-end nights watching the Animal Channel on cable.
“Have you tried using that shampoo for horses?” she asked me with a genuine concern most doctors reserve for hopeless cases.
“Naaah. I heard it isn’t effective,” I told her. It’s true, I have a cousin who is bald and he and his wife lamented the product’s ineffectiveness to me. How reassuring. Maybe they thought I am about to “join the club” so they felt they had to share this glorious piece of information.
She put forward an ingenious solution. “The only way for you now is to cut your hair really short, you know, almost a bald, skin-head type look”, she says, matter-of-factly.
Gee, I haven’t really tried it. I’m wary of experimenting with my hair, you see. One time, I dyed my hair jet black with henna only to get horrified at the result. Since I am a chinito, I appeared like—gasp!—a Yakuza gangster or worse, a Shaolin warrior in Once Upon a Time in China. I had to wear a baseball cap at all times because I felt uneasy from the stares of strangers you meet on the street. It was awful!
When I told her over the phone about my disastrous attempt at coloring my hair, Che sounded like her guts were about to burst open—yes, she sounded like the daughter of Satan-- it was the first time I heard laugh like a hyena.
“Oh, I use aloe vera extracts”. I explained to her, the moment she settled down from laughing hysterically. “My father used them, and his hair to this day remains thick” I continued. In fact, I have a potted aloe vera plant in my laundry area, and I apply the freshly squeezed extracts directly onto the affected areas.
Honestly, I’m not seeing any results, maybe because I always forget to apply it, but who knows. My good friend Johnny Bravo has a far worse predicament: his hair started decimating at the center, not at the forehead. I always remind him to thank God he’s a six-footer. Most people do not notice the creeping baldness because they’re too short to take a look. He’s been applying all sorts of topical solutions and tries to convince me, unsuccessfully I must say, of the effectiveness, judging from the area of the “fall-out”. Clearly, he’s still in a denial mode.
“Yeah, my hubby applies aloe vera too”, Che reassuringly says of aloe vera’s potential effectiveness.
Oh my gad, this is sooo middle-age stuff.
You see, I ask her assistance for just about everything, even long after our stock market days, especially with data gathering as well as bits and pieces of economic and corporate information. I have no patience with lay-outing my reports for my clients and she does that for me as well. She’s good at techie stuff and I’m not. In exchange, I treat her out to dinner. I always suggest Burger Machine (I know, I’m a cheapskate…Oh, SNAP! I can live with it). Since we couldn’t find one in Glorietta, we always end up at Italianni’s.
Our conversation this time however, shifted away from her belly towards the status of my hair.
Pointing to my receding hairline, she said nonchalantly, “I think your hair is thinning. The scalp is showing”. Thank you for pointing that out, Miss Friendship. I know I’m losing pogi points because of it. If not for my face value, (friends, will you please stop hiding your faces under the covers!) I’ll be spending pathetic week-end nights watching the Animal Channel on cable.
“Have you tried using that shampoo for horses?” she asked me with a genuine concern most doctors reserve for hopeless cases.
“Naaah. I heard it isn’t effective,” I told her. It’s true, I have a cousin who is bald and he and his wife lamented the product’s ineffectiveness to me. How reassuring. Maybe they thought I am about to “join the club” so they felt they had to share this glorious piece of information.
She put forward an ingenious solution. “The only way for you now is to cut your hair really short, you know, almost a bald, skin-head type look”, she says, matter-of-factly.
Gee, I haven’t really tried it. I’m wary of experimenting with my hair, you see. One time, I dyed my hair jet black with henna only to get horrified at the result. Since I am a chinito, I appeared like—gasp!—a Yakuza gangster or worse, a Shaolin warrior in Once Upon a Time in China. I had to wear a baseball cap at all times because I felt uneasy from the stares of strangers you meet on the street. It was awful!
When I told her over the phone about my disastrous attempt at coloring my hair, Che sounded like her guts were about to burst open—yes, she sounded like the daughter of Satan-- it was the first time I heard laugh like a hyena.
“Oh, I use aloe vera extracts”. I explained to her, the moment she settled down from laughing hysterically. “My father used them, and his hair to this day remains thick” I continued. In fact, I have a potted aloe vera plant in my laundry area, and I apply the freshly squeezed extracts directly onto the affected areas.
Honestly, I’m not seeing any results, maybe because I always forget to apply it, but who knows. My good friend Johnny Bravo has a far worse predicament: his hair started decimating at the center, not at the forehead. I always remind him to thank God he’s a six-footer. Most people do not notice the creeping baldness because they’re too short to take a look. He’s been applying all sorts of topical solutions and tries to convince me, unsuccessfully I must say, of the effectiveness, judging from the area of the “fall-out”. Clearly, he’s still in a denial mode.
“Yeah, my hubby applies aloe vera too”, Che reassuringly says of aloe vera’s potential effectiveness.
Oh my gad, this is sooo middle-age stuff.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Overdue
This is a long overdue post, taken last year in Tai-peh, Taiwan. (Photos courtesy of Jun O., Doc Don and Ay-ris).
This was what we were there for..
Relaxing in between heats...
Muscle recovery after a gruelling day...
We clobbered the Americans and ended 6th overall, out of a field of 25 teams coming from the US, Japan, Singapore, the Philippines and Taiwan.
This was what we were there for..
Relaxing in between heats...
Muscle recovery after a gruelling day...
We clobbered the Americans and ended 6th overall, out of a field of 25 teams coming from the US, Japan, Singapore, the Philippines and Taiwan.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Jog Talk
Frodo joined me in my mid-week 4km jog at the Marikina Sports Oval last night. He’s been asking me to jog with him since Monday to shake off those unwanted pounds. I told him, “you’re freaking crazy, it’s a Monday! I’ll see you Wednesday instead”.
We did 4.8 kms in 20 minutes, which is not bad since our aim is to participate in the upcoming 10km events this November and December. We were only warming up. We plan to gradually increase the speed and the distance. Oh yes, before I forget, we still have to wake up at the crack of dawn four times a week for dragon boat training!
Ours doesn’t even begin to compare with Eugene’s, another rowing teammate, who’s making his debut participation in an arduous triathlon in Subic this December. Get this, he’s preparing for the 3 km swim and the 20k run!
Doc will do the 80 km bike. The swim part I think I can do, but the 20km run is already a half-marathon. Also, the bike distance is equivalent to going to Malaybalay in Bukidnon from Cagayan de Oro City, which is like two hours by bus! I’m not psyched up to participate in those events, yet; maybe in a few years. Will have to plan ahead and come up with a mini-program to follow.
Doc has been eating like a hog in preparation for the event. And it shows, his cheeks bloats and I didn’t spare him any mercy. “Wow, only a few weeks, yeah?” I was deliberately vague while looking intently at his face. “What are you talking about?” He didn’t get my point, of course. I touched both sides of my cheeks and pointed to his, and we laughed our brains off. Apparently, he is no less vain than I am. He took my jibe seriously and he told me he’s been skipping breakfast and limiting his rice intake to a half-cup.
Anyway, during dinner at a Thai restaurant after the jog, (yes we promptly put back the pounds and the calories we just burned) Frodo recounted how he once participated in a male beauty pageant back in his college days in Quezon. He didn’t really want to, but seeing no one among his peers was good looking enough to represent their batch, he realized he didn’t really have any choice: good looks bear great responsibilities, 'ika nga.
And so he posed and sashayed around the stage, to the right, to the left, half-quarter turn and one step backward please, wore an Igorot native costume, donned skimpy trunks, swallowed fire, acted out a male version of Sisa (he won the talent award) and got himself a year’s supply of deodorant for getting the sponsor to like him. He faltered in the interview portion and ended up third over-all. I asked him, remembering my high school days, “nobody sliced the head off some poor broiler chicken with his teeth?”
You ask, so what is the whole point of all these? Nothing, I’m just rambling. You’re sooo serious.
We did 4.8 kms in 20 minutes, which is not bad since our aim is to participate in the upcoming 10km events this November and December. We were only warming up. We plan to gradually increase the speed and the distance. Oh yes, before I forget, we still have to wake up at the crack of dawn four times a week for dragon boat training!
Ours doesn’t even begin to compare with Eugene’s, another rowing teammate, who’s making his debut participation in an arduous triathlon in Subic this December. Get this, he’s preparing for the 3 km swim and the 20k run!
Doc will do the 80 km bike. The swim part I think I can do, but the 20km run is already a half-marathon. Also, the bike distance is equivalent to going to Malaybalay in Bukidnon from Cagayan de Oro City, which is like two hours by bus! I’m not psyched up to participate in those events, yet; maybe in a few years. Will have to plan ahead and come up with a mini-program to follow.
Doc has been eating like a hog in preparation for the event. And it shows, his cheeks bloats and I didn’t spare him any mercy. “Wow, only a few weeks, yeah?” I was deliberately vague while looking intently at his face. “What are you talking about?” He didn’t get my point, of course. I touched both sides of my cheeks and pointed to his, and we laughed our brains off. Apparently, he is no less vain than I am. He took my jibe seriously and he told me he’s been skipping breakfast and limiting his rice intake to a half-cup.
Anyway, during dinner at a Thai restaurant after the jog, (yes we promptly put back the pounds and the calories we just burned) Frodo recounted how he once participated in a male beauty pageant back in his college days in Quezon. He didn’t really want to, but seeing no one among his peers was good looking enough to represent their batch, he realized he didn’t really have any choice: good looks bear great responsibilities, 'ika nga.
And so he posed and sashayed around the stage, to the right, to the left, half-quarter turn and one step backward please, wore an Igorot native costume, donned skimpy trunks, swallowed fire, acted out a male version of Sisa (he won the talent award) and got himself a year’s supply of deodorant for getting the sponsor to like him. He faltered in the interview portion and ended up third over-all. I asked him, remembering my high school days, “nobody sliced the head off some poor broiler chicken with his teeth?”
You ask, so what is the whole point of all these? Nothing, I’m just rambling. You’re sooo serious.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Viva Verdi!
When I wrote my notes on Giuseppi Verdi’s opera Aïda, the glitchy server prevented me from posting the DVD covers.
Here's the La Scala production
And New York's Metropolitan
Here's the La Scala production
And New York's Metropolitan
BELLINI: I Puritani
I PuritaniOpera in 3 Acts by Vincenzo Bellini
Orquestra Simfònica i Cor del Gran Teatre del Liceu
Barcelona, España
Friedrich Haider, conductor
I caught the first act of Bellini’s I Puritani only, because my DVD copy bought in Zuhai doesn’t play the other CD containing the rest of the opera.
This Liceu Barcelona production under Friedrich Haider about the most vocally difficult opera in existence features a stellar international cast of vocal virtuosi: Edita Gruberova, José Bros and Konstantin Gorny, among others.
Gruberova, despite her age, remains a lyric coloratura force to be reckoned with. She is among the very few sopranos brave enough to tackle extremely difficult roles that require mastery of the complicated style of bel canto singing.
In the first Act, the audience gave her a long applause and ovation after the well-anticipated mad scene where she displayed her bravura fireworks and amazing tonal control. She modulates from a whisper-like pianissimo, tosses off trills effortlessly and navigates all the other “unsingables” like mordents, roulades and scales in between long-drawn out notes before sending her final notes to the stratosphere. You know she’s essaying a mad role because she’s suddenly doing all these vocal acrobatics, mirroring her character’s state of mind.
Bellini has this habit of sending his singers to the upper range of the vocal range, and leaves them there, hanging and twisting in the wind (think of the Casta Diva aria in Norma). No wonder, Pavarotti has once said singing I Puritani is like tight-rope walking.
Bellini, along with Rossini and Donizetti, were the main exponents of bel canto. If it’s a Bellini, you can be sure there is a lot of beautiful and highly melodic singing going on.
Bellini was not a poet, and thus, had to rely on other people to write the libretto before setting the story into music. The libretto by Count Pepoli is amazingly flawed and highly unbelievable. In fact, it is pockmarked with blatant inaccuracies. You see, the story is supposedly set in Puritan Scotland, in Plymouth. A quick check on the map of the UK shows Plymouth firmly located in the south of England, and that history tells us the Puritans were from England, and not from Scotland.
Despite this, Bellini managed to write not only some of the most beautiful music in all opera, but the most difficult to perform as well. This opera requires full-volume singing in the upper part of the voice register all throughout. No wonder then, this opera is less frequently performed despite the marvelous music.
The tenor, Jose Bros, has the most demanding role of any tenor anywhere: he has to hit one F above high C (imagine that!) and two high Ds. No opera, Italian or otherwise, makes seemingly impossible demands than I Puritani. Hitting those unnatural high Cs is already scary enough for any tenor, pushing it way above the normal vocal range can seriously damage the vocal chords as well as jeopardize a fledging career, and so it is important to train assiduously for this single role alone. I have a CD of Pavarotti singing the tenor’s opening aria which contained the high F, and his voice cracked! Bros, however, nailed it in this production without sounding like a castrated calf.
I will not discuss the story line, yet. But what I’ve managed to see and listen so far is quite impressive. How I might be able to watch the remaining Acts, I do not know.
Impressive and highly recommended.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Strange Encounter
Slept late afternoon yesterday, so I had trouble sleeping last night. Christine’s incessant barking made it worse, I had to get up from bed at 2:30 a.m. and decided to have a light snack at Chowking's, a few blocks away from where I live.
While seated near the see-through glass panel windows waiting for my order, a figure dressed neatly and impeccably in black-and-white striped polo shirt, sporting a shortly-cropped hair, in his early twenties, passed through my viewing point outside and glanced back towards my direction, as if waiting for a cue.
Didn’t really think much of it, though, until I realized this guy was waiting for me all along, outside. Seated on the pavement, he followed me upon stepping out of the door. I thought, well he couldn’t possibly be a hold-upper, the security guards at the fast-food joint and the nearby bank were a few feet away, and he didn’t appear like he could carry out a stick up; and then it hit me: what if he were trying to pick me up, after all this wasn’t the first time complete strangers came up to me, men and women alike (Ems, I’m not making this up so remove that smirk off your face) ostensibly hoping for more than just a handshake.
I stopped walking and he quickened his steps as he approached me, surprisingly as if I were a long-lost friend.
“Hi. Have trouble sleeping?”
Maybe it was obvious.
“Yeah, and I got hungry so I decided to come here” I said politely. I’m friendly even with strangers, as long as there isn’t any gun or knife tucked away somewhere.
“Just came from work in Makati, haven’t had any sleep for a couple of days as well, because of the erratic schedule”. He spoke in a mix of English and the vernacular typical of people who went to expensive Catholic schools. Perhaps we can form an insomniac’s club, I wanted to say.
And so it became clear to me, my life wasn’t in any danger. It seemed like he was just looking for someone to talk to and wasn’t hitting on me. And besides, he’s just too young to do that. I wanted to shout, “why me? We barely know each other, I don’t even know your name!” but I realized he simply wanted me to do a Big Brother thing. My gad, do I look like the brother he never had? So I decided to just sit it out in the pavement and listen to him do all the talking. I thought I’d spare just five minutes of my time before walking on home.
Why he decided I’d make a good sounding board a la Dr. Phil is beyond me. Maybe he was drawn inexorably to my presence which radiates a positive aura or energy so infectious he just can’t help but succumb to it (Ok Che, you may strangle me now).
He talked about his work at a call centre in between cigarette puffs, his misgivings about his job, the pressure and the physical toll on his body, you know, like not getting enough sleep. Dude, I wanted to tell him desperately, if you want me to listen to you yak all night long about how miserable your life is, buy me some beer, preferably Cerveza Negra, so that at least at some point I’d probably pass out to even care. But since I’m a nice guy, too nice in fact, I smiled and simply grinned all throughout the ordeal. Why I even bothered to accommodate him I don’t really know.
After my self-imposed five-minutes elapsed, I got up to leave and we finally shook hands. He held on to it a wee bit longer but I didn’t think he meant anything by that. As for me, my eyelids started to fail me, I had to head home and hit the sack.
While seated near the see-through glass panel windows waiting for my order, a figure dressed neatly and impeccably in black-and-white striped polo shirt, sporting a shortly-cropped hair, in his early twenties, passed through my viewing point outside and glanced back towards my direction, as if waiting for a cue.
Didn’t really think much of it, though, until I realized this guy was waiting for me all along, outside. Seated on the pavement, he followed me upon stepping out of the door. I thought, well he couldn’t possibly be a hold-upper, the security guards at the fast-food joint and the nearby bank were a few feet away, and he didn’t appear like he could carry out a stick up; and then it hit me: what if he were trying to pick me up, after all this wasn’t the first time complete strangers came up to me, men and women alike (Ems, I’m not making this up so remove that smirk off your face) ostensibly hoping for more than just a handshake.
I stopped walking and he quickened his steps as he approached me, surprisingly as if I were a long-lost friend.
“Hi. Have trouble sleeping?”
Maybe it was obvious.
“Yeah, and I got hungry so I decided to come here” I said politely. I’m friendly even with strangers, as long as there isn’t any gun or knife tucked away somewhere.
“Just came from work in Makati, haven’t had any sleep for a couple of days as well, because of the erratic schedule”. He spoke in a mix of English and the vernacular typical of people who went to expensive Catholic schools. Perhaps we can form an insomniac’s club, I wanted to say.
And so it became clear to me, my life wasn’t in any danger. It seemed like he was just looking for someone to talk to and wasn’t hitting on me. And besides, he’s just too young to do that. I wanted to shout, “why me? We barely know each other, I don’t even know your name!” but I realized he simply wanted me to do a Big Brother thing. My gad, do I look like the brother he never had? So I decided to just sit it out in the pavement and listen to him do all the talking. I thought I’d spare just five minutes of my time before walking on home.
Why he decided I’d make a good sounding board a la Dr. Phil is beyond me. Maybe he was drawn inexorably to my presence which radiates a positive aura or energy so infectious he just can’t help but succumb to it (Ok Che, you may strangle me now).
He talked about his work at a call centre in between cigarette puffs, his misgivings about his job, the pressure and the physical toll on his body, you know, like not getting enough sleep. Dude, I wanted to tell him desperately, if you want me to listen to you yak all night long about how miserable your life is, buy me some beer, preferably Cerveza Negra, so that at least at some point I’d probably pass out to even care. But since I’m a nice guy, too nice in fact, I smiled and simply grinned all throughout the ordeal. Why I even bothered to accommodate him I don’t really know.
After my self-imposed five-minutes elapsed, I got up to leave and we finally shook hands. He held on to it a wee bit longer but I didn’t think he meant anything by that. As for me, my eyelids started to fail me, I had to head home and hit the sack.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Satanic Verses
I failed to watch the remake of the Omen, but last time I saw it I think I was about to enter high school, when Betamax still raged across the nation like wildfire and VHS was only starting to creep in like a thief in the night. Prior to that, my family patronized practically all the Amtyville Horror series. We usually invited our cousins along and scared ourselves silly. You know, blood dripping from the walls and the ceiling, demonic possessions, doppelgangers and poltergeists, we rented them all.
You see, when all your movie viewing habits were restricted to RPN 9’s Sunday’s Big Event or the weekend screening of awful Tony Ferrer-Vic Vargas starrers, as well as charity screenings of black-and-white cowboy movies provided by US soldiers at the community social hall, you’d understand our hankering for big-time Hollywood flicks.
Anyway, only my brother and I watched the Omen at home, at night as my parents and sister went to bed early. Considering that The Exorcist remained fresh in our minds, this one made me quite uneasy as well. The possibility of the Son of Satan walking the earth sent jitters down my spine and made the hair on my skin stand on its end. Worse part is, the tape had a double feature, a documentary about Satanic worship in the US. We couldn’t put it away, out of curiousity, and watched the grim feature about devil worshippers inside a dimly-lit make-shift church chanting Satanic verses and hugging cadavers. Awful, I couldn’t sleep at all.
Anyway all this talk about the devil apparently influenced the morality police to ensure kids’ or teen-agers’ musical choices were devil-free. Back masking, or playing records or cassette tapes on the other direction supposedly reveals the devil’s subliminal message on the listener, and thus, the pernicious influence could perhaps provide some light on the listener’s bad behavior and sinful lifestyle.
We were forced to listen to awful, grating sounds, very much like how a monster like Godzilla sounds in the movies, supposedly mouthing words with obvious references to the devil like Beelzebub, Satanic Prince, etc., in between gibberish and non-sense. In fact, Hotel California was a favorite target. The logic was that if you listened to it, then the devil’s message must have entered your sub-conscious.
I found it extremely stupid.
But since this period also saw the rise in popularity of the Spirit of the Glass (in the absence of an ouija board, you use an upturned empty glass over the cut-out alphabets spread on the table to communicate with spirits, and maybe even with demonic beings), and with Froilan providing the details about the mechanics, claiming he once participated in one session and thus personally attesting to its authenticity, my impressionable young mind simply believed just about anything.
In high school, we all thought a group of really brash and abrasive punks who listened to rock music like Hotel California, wore hi-cut boots, applied a little dark make-up for a gothic look and sported frizzy and spiky hair, were Satanists. They certainly fit the bill because they listened to devil-inspired music, had a fashion sense nobody appreciated except Satan himself and they belonged in the general section, meaning they weren’t particularly doing well in school. They must have neglected their homework in the service of Satan.
In addition, we assumed they must be congregating somewhere on a regular basis to worship Satan. Our imagination, especially Froilan’s, went wild. We thought that aside from doing drugs and booze and listening to rock music, they probably engaged in wild orgies at the cemetery, sort of like a tribute to Satan. Why the cemetery, well I don’t really know--the ditches in the pineapple fields were clearly out of the question-- but I guess they couldn’t possibly do it at home with their parents around.
You see, when all your movie viewing habits were restricted to RPN 9’s Sunday’s Big Event or the weekend screening of awful Tony Ferrer-Vic Vargas starrers, as well as charity screenings of black-and-white cowboy movies provided by US soldiers at the community social hall, you’d understand our hankering for big-time Hollywood flicks.
Anyway, only my brother and I watched the Omen at home, at night as my parents and sister went to bed early. Considering that The Exorcist remained fresh in our minds, this one made me quite uneasy as well. The possibility of the Son of Satan walking the earth sent jitters down my spine and made the hair on my skin stand on its end. Worse part is, the tape had a double feature, a documentary about Satanic worship in the US. We couldn’t put it away, out of curiousity, and watched the grim feature about devil worshippers inside a dimly-lit make-shift church chanting Satanic verses and hugging cadavers. Awful, I couldn’t sleep at all.
Anyway all this talk about the devil apparently influenced the morality police to ensure kids’ or teen-agers’ musical choices were devil-free. Back masking, or playing records or cassette tapes on the other direction supposedly reveals the devil’s subliminal message on the listener, and thus, the pernicious influence could perhaps provide some light on the listener’s bad behavior and sinful lifestyle.
We were forced to listen to awful, grating sounds, very much like how a monster like Godzilla sounds in the movies, supposedly mouthing words with obvious references to the devil like Beelzebub, Satanic Prince, etc., in between gibberish and non-sense. In fact, Hotel California was a favorite target. The logic was that if you listened to it, then the devil’s message must have entered your sub-conscious.
I found it extremely stupid.
But since this period also saw the rise in popularity of the Spirit of the Glass (in the absence of an ouija board, you use an upturned empty glass over the cut-out alphabets spread on the table to communicate with spirits, and maybe even with demonic beings), and with Froilan providing the details about the mechanics, claiming he once participated in one session and thus personally attesting to its authenticity, my impressionable young mind simply believed just about anything.
In high school, we all thought a group of really brash and abrasive punks who listened to rock music like Hotel California, wore hi-cut boots, applied a little dark make-up for a gothic look and sported frizzy and spiky hair, were Satanists. They certainly fit the bill because they listened to devil-inspired music, had a fashion sense nobody appreciated except Satan himself and they belonged in the general section, meaning they weren’t particularly doing well in school. They must have neglected their homework in the service of Satan.
In addition, we assumed they must be congregating somewhere on a regular basis to worship Satan. Our imagination, especially Froilan’s, went wild. We thought that aside from doing drugs and booze and listening to rock music, they probably engaged in wild orgies at the cemetery, sort of like a tribute to Satan. Why the cemetery, well I don’t really know--the ditches in the pineapple fields were clearly out of the question-- but I guess they couldn’t possibly do it at home with their parents around.
Thursday, November 9, 2006
Sharp Rebuke
The results of the US mid-term elections is Bush's own undoing. Since Americans realized that's it is now too late to kick him out of office, they're venting their anger towards his party, the Republicans, and with good reason.
The War in Iraq is a complete disaster. It's a no man's land with heavy casualties, both civilian and foreign (mostly US troops), day in and day out. What sort of success is that? And besides, Bush even up to this day, will not own up to his mistake of invading Iraq under a wrong premise. There has not been a single weapon of mass destruction found in Iraq. He seems to say the Iraq invasion is the best thing that the Iraqis could ever hope for because it removed Saddam, the long-time scourge of the Bush father and son. Unfortunately, that didn't result in an improvement in the lives of the Iraqis at all. In fact, the current situation is a dangerous one, and the US seems unable to control it.
Sure there are other domestice issues like corruption and the economy but it seems the electorate is far angrier at Bush's belligerence because of the rising body count in Iraq.
Most pathetic are UK and Australia, lameduck governments who serve at the pleasure of the Americans. When America speaks, you can bet your bottom dollar these two will be at their beck and call. The latter especially, has delusions of being a superpower. And so as Bush's credibility goes down the drain, Blair's and Howard's should follow suit as well, because that is where they rightfully belong.
The War in Iraq is a complete disaster. It's a no man's land with heavy casualties, both civilian and foreign (mostly US troops), day in and day out. What sort of success is that? And besides, Bush even up to this day, will not own up to his mistake of invading Iraq under a wrong premise. There has not been a single weapon of mass destruction found in Iraq. He seems to say the Iraq invasion is the best thing that the Iraqis could ever hope for because it removed Saddam, the long-time scourge of the Bush father and son. Unfortunately, that didn't result in an improvement in the lives of the Iraqis at all. In fact, the current situation is a dangerous one, and the US seems unable to control it.
Sure there are other domestice issues like corruption and the economy but it seems the electorate is far angrier at Bush's belligerence because of the rising body count in Iraq.
Most pathetic are UK and Australia, lameduck governments who serve at the pleasure of the Americans. When America speaks, you can bet your bottom dollar these two will be at their beck and call. The latter especially, has delusions of being a superpower. And so as Bush's credibility goes down the drain, Blair's and Howard's should follow suit as well, because that is where they rightfully belong.
Wednesday, November 8, 2006
Musical list no. 1
Currently listening to Schumann's Rhenish Symphony. Beautiful music. Conventional lay-out in the classical mold. Nothing innovative, even the orchestration is a bit dry in some parts, but the musical details and the melodic breadth are overwhelming.
Which leads me to come up with a list of my favorite Symphonies and Piano Concertos:
1. Mahler no. 2
2. Brahms No. 2
3. Beethoven no. 7
4. Dvorak no. 9
5. Schumann "Rhenish"
6. Franck
7. Mahler no. 1
8. Brahms no. 4
9. Schumann "Scottish"
10. Beethoven no. 9
Piano Concertos
1. Tchaikovsky no. 1
2. Chopin no.1
3. Chopin no. 2
4. Rachmaninoff no. 1
5. Ravel Concerto for the left hand
6. Brahms no. 1
7. Dvorak
8. Scharwenka
9. Prokofiev no. 5
10. Saint-Saens
Which leads me to come up with a list of my favorite Symphonies and Piano Concertos:
1. Mahler no. 2
2. Brahms No. 2
3. Beethoven no. 7
4. Dvorak no. 9
5. Schumann "Rhenish"
6. Franck
7. Mahler no. 1
8. Brahms no. 4
9. Schumann "Scottish"
10. Beethoven no. 9
Piano Concertos
1. Tchaikovsky no. 1
2. Chopin no.1
3. Chopin no. 2
4. Rachmaninoff no. 1
5. Ravel Concerto for the left hand
6. Brahms no. 1
7. Dvorak
8. Scharwenka
9. Prokofiev no. 5
10. Saint-Saens
Sunday, November 5, 2006
Romanza Nada
Recently, I received the following SMS messages:
“Hi how r u? havnt hrd frm u since last wk? wazzup?”
“Y not reply to my txts? Watsamatter?”
“I thot u agrid to c me aftr dat night”?
“Ur jst lyk d odrs, jst ful of crap. U m8k me sik!”
I know. I’m one of those creeps who take advantage of some people’s vulnerability, promising the moon and all, simply to satiate my burning thirst for lust.
But hey, I do not go overboard. I don’t say things I’d only regret later on. You see, just because I had a date, had too much to drink and ended up at some mid-priced hotel doesn’t mean I want to go to the next level and get introduced to the parents.
Why can’t it be just that, a night of fun and excitement, in and out of bed, a one-night stand? I thought in this day and age of hedonism, we’re pretty much liberal about these things?
Why get worked-up and emotional, start harassing me and laying on the guilt trip for the insensitive manner in which I supposedly dumped the other party? Sure I was deliberately vague, I couldn’t say up front what I really felt then: I didn’t feel emotionally connected, that’s all. The sex was great. But there were no sparks; the earth didn’t shake; I couldn’t hear the fiddling notes in the air. Romanza nada.
It would have been far worse if I were the Great Pretender and carried on the affair. Leading on the other person to believe something that is just isn’t there to begin with would only be a recipe for disaster. It just wasn’t meant to be. And breaking off remains a practical way of keeping your sanity and allow both of you to move on to better things and better-minded people.
I don’t enjoy ignoring other people, much less hurt them. But what can I do? Mend my ways? What are you, some frigging fire-and-brimstone born-again preacher?
Some think I’m a candidate for karmic revenge. In fact, friends of the aggrieved are already on the prowl, ready to pounce on me and perhaps beat me to a pulp with their claws.
I guess being inconspicuous and lying-low for a while would do the trick. Don’t get me wrong and don’t judge me. I’m not on a conquest. Like most people, I’m searching for the right one as well. Maybe the person just wasn't the right one.
“Hi how r u? havnt hrd frm u since last wk? wazzup?”
“Y not reply to my txts? Watsamatter?”
“I thot u agrid to c me aftr dat night”?
“Ur jst lyk d odrs, jst ful of crap. U m8k me sik!”
I know. I’m one of those creeps who take advantage of some people’s vulnerability, promising the moon and all, simply to satiate my burning thirst for lust.
But hey, I do not go overboard. I don’t say things I’d only regret later on. You see, just because I had a date, had too much to drink and ended up at some mid-priced hotel doesn’t mean I want to go to the next level and get introduced to the parents.
Why can’t it be just that, a night of fun and excitement, in and out of bed, a one-night stand? I thought in this day and age of hedonism, we’re pretty much liberal about these things?
Why get worked-up and emotional, start harassing me and laying on the guilt trip for the insensitive manner in which I supposedly dumped the other party? Sure I was deliberately vague, I couldn’t say up front what I really felt then: I didn’t feel emotionally connected, that’s all. The sex was great. But there were no sparks; the earth didn’t shake; I couldn’t hear the fiddling notes in the air. Romanza nada.
It would have been far worse if I were the Great Pretender and carried on the affair. Leading on the other person to believe something that is just isn’t there to begin with would only be a recipe for disaster. It just wasn’t meant to be. And breaking off remains a practical way of keeping your sanity and allow both of you to move on to better things and better-minded people.
I don’t enjoy ignoring other people, much less hurt them. But what can I do? Mend my ways? What are you, some frigging fire-and-brimstone born-again preacher?
Some think I’m a candidate for karmic revenge. In fact, friends of the aggrieved are already on the prowl, ready to pounce on me and perhaps beat me to a pulp with their claws.
I guess being inconspicuous and lying-low for a while would do the trick. Don’t get me wrong and don’t judge me. I’m not on a conquest. Like most people, I’m searching for the right one as well. Maybe the person just wasn't the right one.
Thursday, November 2, 2006
It's All About the Back!
MTV (or was it MYX) played Justin Timberlake's "Sexy Back" yet again, which got me thinking: "hey, I have a sexy back!"
You see, Pam took the picture above while I took a shower after training, with my joyous consent! There is a precedent: when Norma Baites' mom, Aretha Franklin and Pam barged into my room in Canton and dragged me from bed and forced me to party, I was lying face down with only my fake Calvin Klein red boxer briefs on. This was what they saw :)
All this narcissistic talk about my back is killing me bwahaha! I know what you're thinking: "The nerve of this guy. How kapal of him. Fishing for compliments, he probably has an awful front. My gulay!".
Whatever. hehehe
You see, Pam took the picture above while I took a shower after training, with my joyous consent! There is a precedent: when Norma Baites' mom, Aretha Franklin and Pam barged into my room in Canton and dragged me from bed and forced me to party, I was lying face down with only my fake Calvin Klein red boxer briefs on. This was what they saw :)
All this narcissistic talk about my back is killing me bwahaha! I know what you're thinking: "The nerve of this guy. How kapal of him. Fishing for compliments, he probably has an awful front. My gulay!".
Whatever. hehehe
Monday, October 30, 2006
Ghosts
It's that time of the year again when if you tune in to your TV set what you get are endless features on ghosts, ghosts, and more ghosts. Talk shows are crammed with celebrities who claim to have a "third" eye and a "sixth" sense, which allows them to see and experience para-normal events, whether or not these celebrities actually are for real or just acting out (think Mystica).
I got hospitalized once, and Barry Manilaw visited me and decided to spend the night in the hospital room. Upon my discharge, Barry promptly told me that he saw a chubby male nurse going straight into the rest room without ever returning.
It's a good thing I don't see these things or else I'll freak out. I can just imagine. One time, I walked the entire stretch from the main highway going towards our barrio via a long and winding gravel-and-dirt road, at around seven at night. When you reach the point where the houses seemed to disappear from behind you and the image of your brightly-lit house is just imaginary, you start praying.
You are alone. The lights from houses behind you disappear as you descend the road towards the valley, and darkness envelopes like a cold wind. The bushes seem to whisper; tree branches sound like they're stifling screams and the sound of your footsteps seem to magnify and create an eerie, dragging sound on the ground, as if someone has been chained. The darkness in front is unimaginable, drawing you inexorably to an unexplored abyss, especially if the moon isn't shining brightly at all.
What I really hate is that lone, abandoned hut by the side of the road as you reach a curve and a small bridge. Just a flicker of light, like a stroke of a match from inside the hut, is enough to drive you crazy. Worse, I found out later the occupant of that hut abandoned it after his son committed suicide. When everything is dark and all that separates you from that hut is a few meters of dirt, then you'll know what it feels like to be in hell.
It's still a few meters before you see the lights coming from the houses of the few people who inhabit the area. And you start running. Running for dear life, although no one was really after you. The barking of the dogs is a welcome relief, of course. Then you reach the gate, open it and go inside.
Then mom comes in and asks if anything's the matter.
I got hospitalized once, and Barry Manilaw visited me and decided to spend the night in the hospital room. Upon my discharge, Barry promptly told me that he saw a chubby male nurse going straight into the rest room without ever returning.
It's a good thing I don't see these things or else I'll freak out. I can just imagine. One time, I walked the entire stretch from the main highway going towards our barrio via a long and winding gravel-and-dirt road, at around seven at night. When you reach the point where the houses seemed to disappear from behind you and the image of your brightly-lit house is just imaginary, you start praying.
You are alone. The lights from houses behind you disappear as you descend the road towards the valley, and darkness envelopes like a cold wind. The bushes seem to whisper; tree branches sound like they're stifling screams and the sound of your footsteps seem to magnify and create an eerie, dragging sound on the ground, as if someone has been chained. The darkness in front is unimaginable, drawing you inexorably to an unexplored abyss, especially if the moon isn't shining brightly at all.
What I really hate is that lone, abandoned hut by the side of the road as you reach a curve and a small bridge. Just a flicker of light, like a stroke of a match from inside the hut, is enough to drive you crazy. Worse, I found out later the occupant of that hut abandoned it after his son committed suicide. When everything is dark and all that separates you from that hut is a few meters of dirt, then you'll know what it feels like to be in hell.
It's still a few meters before you see the lights coming from the houses of the few people who inhabit the area. And you start running. Running for dear life, although no one was really after you. The barking of the dogs is a welcome relief, of course. Then you reach the gate, open it and go inside.
Then mom comes in and asks if anything's the matter.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Bishonen
Walking along rows and rows of DVD racks in Quiapo, I picked up an 8-movie DVD made ostensibly in China. I sometimes have an anti-Hollywood attitude towards movies, such that I deliberately look for Spanish, French, South American and Chinese titles.
This 8-movie set included Peony Express and Bishonen, by a film director named Yonfan. Peony is extremely weird: it's a regional Chinese opera equivalent of a Hollywood musical a la Gigi. I couldn't finish it. The singing, with all those piercing high notes, gave me headaches. The other titles, like Hongkong Playboys, Twinkle something (I forgot the others) are extremely crappy, I couldn't get past 5 minutes before pushing the stop button.
Bishonen, however is different. It's a gay movie, and I didn't expect it to be such because it featured a beautiful Hong Kong actress (I forgot her name) who I found out later, only did a cameo appearance.
I wasn't really shocked. It wasn't the first time I saw movies that had a gay theme. First movie I saw that literally shocked and had me wanting to strangle the filmmaker was a Neil Jordan movie, The Crying Game. Something to do with IRAs. I never suspected the girl to be well, a boy, not until she was shown to have a penis! Ugh!
Next was a Daniel-Day Lewis indie starrer, My Beautiful Laundrette, shown at the UP Film Centre. I couldn't remember what the movie was all about, but he kissed some Pakistani guy (ngek, eh di ang baho nun!)
And then my Sociology teacher required us to write a review on Ang Lee's Wedding Banquet. This one was very funny, you know, the foibles of people leading double lives (straight outside, gay inside). Ang Lee wasn't yet the big time Hollywood director that he is today.
And then of course, Brokeback Mountain by the same director. Unfortunately, I slept through most of it, so I don't even know much about the movie enough to say whether I liked it or not.
Bishonen is like a feel-good romance movie for gays. It's a fantasy romance very much like most Meg Ryan flicks. It's obviously not meant for a larger audience. You see, the director Yonfan assembled Hong Kong's most attractive men and crafted a gay movie on them. And to make it dramatic, he had to kill one of the main characters at the end simply to milk the tearducts of his vulnerable target gay audience, prompting (I'm sure) some of the moviegoers, with matching sobs, to lament, "Why, why should gay movies always end up in tragedy? Can't they ride into the sunset and live happily ever after?".
It's interesting but I couldn't emphatize with the characters at all.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Cien blog
Eight months after I started blogging, I've now exceeded the 100th-entry mark. Initially, I wanted the blog to look like a collection of well-thought out and carefully crafted essays. Which, of course, is not really the case: what you get here are mostly rants, venomous vituperation and sorry attempts at musical exposition of operas, symphonies and sonatas, not to mention trips down memory lane, anything I see on TV that piques my curiousity (or catches my ire), even stream-of-consciousness material. The direction of this blog is determined by my mood swings. Hey, I do not write for the sake of writing.
I am not really into deep spiritual stuff, nor do I dabble in introspection, I am not really in touch with my emotional self, whatever that means (ask Oprah). From the very beginning, I strove not to sound mushy and sentimental, more than half the blogs in the planet already are, so why add to the festering gloom?
My blog is to some extent, a journal. Random thoughts do figure ocassionally, although I am far from being philosophical: in fact I think I'm shallow hehehe.
As for the visitors to this blog, I get occasional comments. Very few even from people I know, fewer still from complete strangers :) But I do know at least three people who read my blog regularly :)
But I will continue writing about stuff I really know, like classical music and opera, as well as my opinion about everything and anything. Whether or not these appeal to the 6 billion people on the planet doesn't really matter. Yes?
I am not really into deep spiritual stuff, nor do I dabble in introspection, I am not really in touch with my emotional self, whatever that means (ask Oprah). From the very beginning, I strove not to sound mushy and sentimental, more than half the blogs in the planet already are, so why add to the festering gloom?
My blog is to some extent, a journal. Random thoughts do figure ocassionally, although I am far from being philosophical: in fact I think I'm shallow hehehe.
As for the visitors to this blog, I get occasional comments. Very few even from people I know, fewer still from complete strangers :) But I do know at least three people who read my blog regularly :)
But I will continue writing about stuff I really know, like classical music and opera, as well as my opinion about everything and anything. Whether or not these appeal to the 6 billion people on the planet doesn't really matter. Yes?
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Choices
I was intent to buy a brand new mountain bike and have been saving up to get myself one. In fact, I convinced Doc to accompany me to Cartimar and check out the available parts for assembly, and come up with an estimate.
Unfortunately, my brother-in-law got ill and had to be hospitalized, which means I have to help out in defraying the medical costs.
Oh well.
Unfortunately, my brother-in-law got ill and had to be hospitalized, which means I have to help out in defraying the medical costs.
Oh well.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Political Harassment
The suspension of Makati City Mayor Jejomar Binay is clearly an example of Malacañang's way of harassing political opponents. It's pretty obvious. Why should the Palace carry out the suspension directly knowing that it is the Office of the Ombudsman which carries out these functions? Why the sudden interest in Binay and why single him out? And on the basis of raked-up charges from way back? C'mmon. And under whose complaint? Brillantes? who is known to be corrupt himself? Politics is so ugly in this part of the world, sometimes I just want to throw up.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Law of Diminishing Returns
I read somewhere that the IMF projects remittances from OFW's to hit more than US$14 billion for 2006.
This makes the Philippines a major exporter of labor force as has been widely noted. The contributions of OFWs to the over-all economy are well-known and has been discussed ad infinitum. What I want to point out is the obvious diminishing returns per capita it generates over the long-term.
You see, the longer the OFW stays abroad, the less frequent he/she is likely to remit back to the Philippines. Consider: most stay abroad after completing the necessary requirements to qualify for residency. For some, getting citizenship means petitioning their relatives back home to join them overseas. And as such, they send back money less often when their immediate family has joined them abroad.
Thus, the cycle never ends. So that the much-needed foreign currencies continue to flow in, new batches of workers that fly out of the country in search of better opportunities are actually needed to sustain the level of foreign reserves we have.
This makes the Philippines a major exporter of labor force as has been widely noted. The contributions of OFWs to the over-all economy are well-known and has been discussed ad infinitum. What I want to point out is the obvious diminishing returns per capita it generates over the long-term.
You see, the longer the OFW stays abroad, the less frequent he/she is likely to remit back to the Philippines. Consider: most stay abroad after completing the necessary requirements to qualify for residency. For some, getting citizenship means petitioning their relatives back home to join them overseas. And as such, they send back money less often when their immediate family has joined them abroad.
Thus, the cycle never ends. So that the much-needed foreign currencies continue to flow in, new batches of workers that fly out of the country in search of better opportunities are actually needed to sustain the level of foreign reserves we have.
Musical Choices
Currently listening to the violin sonatas by Grieg (in G) and the ravishing but technically difficult Brahms (D minor), as well as the hypnotic Dvorak Romance over BBC radio.
Several nights ago, I requested Mahler's Resurrection Symphony over DZFE. The record played was obviously an old one: scratchy and I didn't like the interpretation at all. Barry Manilaw listened to it as well, and as expected, he didn't like it (he caught the slow movements--he probably went into an instant coma). The following day, he watched a pang-diva concert by Regine Velasquez at the Araneta. He proudly told me it only proves he's not obsessed with Sarah Geronimo. My gulay!
Several nights ago, I requested Mahler's Resurrection Symphony over DZFE. The record played was obviously an old one: scratchy and I didn't like the interpretation at all. Barry Manilaw listened to it as well, and as expected, he didn't like it (he caught the slow movements--he probably went into an instant coma). The following day, he watched a pang-diva concert by Regine Velasquez at the Araneta. He proudly told me it only proves he's not obsessed with Sarah Geronimo. My gulay!
Monday, October 16, 2006
Ambi
The Camarines Sur team decimated the competition yesterday during the dragon boat regatta, beating the highly-fancied Philippine National Police team. My team didn't even reach the finals. (I think the yin and yang forces were at work here. You know, there's lots of cheerfulness and camarederie in my team, so much we-are-the-world spirit, so much positive energy that a dash of negativity was probably needed to restore the balance and order in the scheme of things, thus the disappointing results yesterday). Of course I'm ranting.
Last night, the Bicolanos got featured on TV. They even claimed they haven't had the chance to train ever since they won their events in Singapore a month ago. (They were a sensation in Singapore, leaving behind the rest by a two-boat distance).
It was my first time to race on the left side. Which is a small achievement for me because in traditional rowing terms, I'm now "ambi", as in ambidextrous (or ambitious, whichever way you look at it).
Last night, the Bicolanos got featured on TV. They even claimed they haven't had the chance to train ever since they won their events in Singapore a month ago. (They were a sensation in Singapore, leaving behind the rest by a two-boat distance).
It was my first time to race on the left side. Which is a small achievement for me because in traditional rowing terms, I'm now "ambi", as in ambidextrous (or ambitious, whichever way you look at it).
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Microfinance Guru
Muhammad Yanus, founder of Grameen Bank, won this year’s Nobel Peace Prize. This is a fitting recognition for someone who thought outside the box and revolutionized micro-financing. As someone who had a short stint with a development NGO, I know that the Grameen-style micro-financing scheme remains the gold standard.
Recognizing that traditional lending institutions ignore the poorer sectors which are considered too risky because of inadequate collateral and know-how in managing finances, Grameen turned this perception upside down by lending to marginalized sectors in small amounts and instituting a system that ensures payment in place of collateral. Yanus found a way to facilitate access to credit for those belonging in the lower economic rungs of society.
In addition, the fact that women comprise the main market of Grameen means the bank’s lofty ideals represent a step in the right direction as it empowers women in impoverished areas.
The well-deserved recognition raises not only Grameen’s profile but the importance of micro-financing in developing nations in general.
Here’s hoping other worthy organizations like Caritas and Medicins sans Frontieres get recognized for their quiet but trailblazing development work as well.
Recognizing that traditional lending institutions ignore the poorer sectors which are considered too risky because of inadequate collateral and know-how in managing finances, Grameen turned this perception upside down by lending to marginalized sectors in small amounts and instituting a system that ensures payment in place of collateral. Yanus found a way to facilitate access to credit for those belonging in the lower economic rungs of society.
In addition, the fact that women comprise the main market of Grameen means the bank’s lofty ideals represent a step in the right direction as it empowers women in impoverished areas.
The well-deserved recognition raises not only Grameen’s profile but the importance of micro-financing in developing nations in general.
Here’s hoping other worthy organizations like Caritas and Medicins sans Frontieres get recognized for their quiet but trailblazing development work as well.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Gospel of Thomas
I picked up an old copy of Harper’s Magazine from Book Sale in Ali Mall because of the front cover and main article: Jesus Without the Miracles. The article by a lapsed Baptist and son of a minister, Erik Reese, discusses the parallelisms between Thomas Jefferson’s Bible and the so-called Gospel of Thomas.
This revolutionary President of the US, Thomas Jefferson had at one time excised and redacted the Bible to suit his own tastes, cutting out the most important events, namely the virgin birth, the miracles and finally the resurrection. This president firmly believed that the authentic teachings of Christ were hi-jacked by orthodox Christianity, and that by stripping out the canonical gospels’ claim that Jesus was the divine Son of God (and the subsequent miracles that followed were simply invented to prove it), Jefferson thought what remained show the true value of Jesus’ teachings: as “the most sublime and benevolent code of morals ever offered to man”.
Of course, this raises a lot of eyebrows. This cut-and-paste episode is highly lamentable and questionable. If he believed the miracles and other important events were invented, what is stopping him from believing the rest of the Scripture were just a figment of some writer’s imagination as well?
The life of Jesus was certainly not important to him which he believed were fantastic, unbelievable stories spun by the Gospel authors (he conveniently forgot that Matthew, Luke, Mark and John were Christ’s apostles). For Jefferson only the teachings mattered. In fact, he reduced the New Testament to a 17th century version of the Chicken Soup for the Soul or any of Deepak Chopra’s self-actualization books.
He railed against the obvious consequence of putting too much stress on the miracles as narrated in Matthew or Luke: people are more concerned with the promise of eternal salvation from this world than with any desire to practice the teachings of Jesus. Jefferson is ostensibly driving a wedge between two non-issues. Why should the two points be mutually exclusive? Isn’t it that believers practice the teachings of Jesus because of the promise of eternal salvation?
Sin, sacrifice and salvation—the main pillars of Christian belief—became abstract concepts. For Jefferson, his version of the Bible only serves as a morality guidebook, nothing more. The other events were simply too strange to make sense. It is easy to see that had he lived during Ireneus time he would have been branded as a heretic!
The so-called Gospel of Thomas unearthed in Egypt sometime in 1945 mirrors the points raised in the Jefferson version of the Bible—no miracles, no divinity claims, only the teachings remains—coincidentally attributed to the same name, Thomas which in Aramaic means “twin”.
This gospel however, has never been established to have been written about the same time as the four canonical gospels, but clearly existed in the 3rd century because Hippolytus denounced such a text in his Refutation of All Heresies. This one, much like the other Gnostic texts like the Judas Gospel ran afoul of the early Church bishops, especially Ireneus, bishop of Lyon.
The teachings in Thomas (not established whether this Thomas is the doubting apostle narrated in John) clearly negate the canonical four in that the Jesus portrayed here is no Saviour, not a Messiah sent to save mankind. In fact the Jesus depicted here preaches a different kind of salvation: “You can save yourself”, he seems to be saying. There was absolutely no need for him to offer himself as sacrifice to save humanity.
It is so radical it has Jesus ridiculing divine intervention and the promise of heavenly compensation for worldly injustice. Which is a complete disagreement with John’s Jesus who forgives sin and promises eternal life.
And so it is easy to believe why Ireneus and the other early Christian Fathers denounced this “heretical” texts. Jesus not a Saviour? Blasphemous!
Again the question most enthusiastic “biblical” scholars of Gnostic gospels and other ancient texts ignore: What authority does Ireneus have in determining which among the various “Gospels” competing for attention during the “formative” years of Christianity should form the canon of Christian belief?
The well-hyped Gospel of Judas feature on National Geographic failed to shed light on this important issue. It simply hypothesized that Ireneus felt compelled to compile and choose those that would make sense of the sacrifice and persecution the early Christians suffered under the Romans. It was a lamentable oversimplification. That feature conveniently ignored the important fact that Ireneus was a disciple of John the Apostle. And as such, he was among the best to confirm and authenticate which among the competing accounts circulating then held true to the teachings of Jesus.
If the Thomas Gospel was only written in the 3rd century, then much like the Judas Gospel, it’s just an imagined account of the events that happened by those who might have their own agenda to pursue and were really not there to witness it, unlike the four canonical gospel authors.
If, as Elaine Pagel argues in her book Beyond Belief, the account really belongs to the same doubting Thomas, then we now have a case of Thomas refuting Mark, Luke, Matthew and John, a discord within the apostleship.
But we have to remember that neither the authorship of the Thomas gospel has been established nor has the time of writing. So that in essence, it remains a curious footnote. Very much like the Judas gospel, the Thomas gospel is yet unable to shake the status quo or the foundations of orthodox Christianity as we know it today.
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