Dragon Boat Beauty Pageant

I went to watch the Mr & Ms Dragon boat pageant last night. I sure am not a big fan of these beauty-and-brains events, as I have seen more than enough Misses Rural Electrification, Science Fairs, Town Fiestas, Santa Cruzan Reina Elenas and all sorts of Festival Queens- from Abaca and Pineapple to Tuna (I think there’s even Tilapia and Bangus or Milkfish, can’t be sure though) and their kiddie versions in my younger days to last a lifetime. (Trivia: did you know that Oprah was once Ms. Fire Prevention in her youth?)

But this one’s different. It was more of a fun event, a chance for all dragon boat teams to socialize, and generate a little publicity for the sport. And besides, I was really there to support my team’s female candidate (and by extension, Spongebob Squarepants) the feisty Lolita who gamely made sure she had as much fun doing it as we had watching them parade on stage.

The audience had a blast.

Since we were used to watching female beauty contests, the women generated the usual reactions from the audience.

“She’s so tall but walks like a horse”, said the chubby girl sitting directly behind me. I thought the contestant she was referring to was gorgeous, although it seemed it was her first time wearing high heels and was poised to trip over sooner or later. She didn’t.

“Gold! Her gown’s made of gold”, shrieked the girl beside her. She’s right. One gown had a metallic sheen that glowed so brightly in the darkened venue, it must have been made from melted gold bars from the nearby Central Bank.

“You’re so damn rich!” somebody in the audience hollered. We were laughing like crazy.

The male contestants were something else. During the swimwear portion, they turned the event into a body building exhibition, flexing their muscles and striking provocative poses, some with- others without- the muscles, to the cheers (or was it jeers) of the audience.

Shouts of “I Love You” and “that’s my boyfriend” punctuated the entire male parade. It was hilarious.

When Spongebob came out on stage, we were ready to wave our banners and shout at the top of our voices, but we were like struck by lightning instead and found ourselves dumbstruck, unable to react at all! As one colleague remarked, “our tongues suddenly retreated to the back of our throats”.

I left in the middle of a rather long reggae intermission number, a pop genre that gives me headaches and headed somewhere else.

You ask, well who won?

Does it really matter? We all had fun. That’s all that matters.

Sweet Alcohol

Ethanol Revolution

As a follow-up to the piece I wrote about inflation driven by high gas prices, the implications of ethanol in the future currently occupy my thoughts.

It is clearly positioned as the fuel of the future.

You see, a few months ago, I caught a feature on CNN, hosted by that loquacious and very funny (without really trying to be) Brit Richard Quest, about Brazil.

I was quite surprised how successful Brazil apparently is in taking full advantage of its rich natural resource, sugar cane, and distilling ethanol to run on cars. As recent as three years ago, Ford and VW introduced flex fuel (short for flexible fuel) engines into Brazil, giving drivers a choice between traditional gasoline and ethanol.

And since ethanol was not even half the price of gasoline, the idea caught like wildfire in the Amazon jungles: from barely 6% market share three years ago, flex fuel cars now command a staggering 73% share in the Brazilian market.

Big name car manufacturers like Nissan, Mercedes, Ford, VW and GM, among others are joining the band wagon and increasingly outfit flex fuel engines into their models.

The benefits are obvious: It’s cheaper because you won’t need any costly exploration and drilling. You just need land to grow your sugar cane.

There are environmental costs, too. There is a real possibility that forests will be cleared to make way for land available for growing these crops, as in the case of Brazil.

The US has already started laying out the ground work for mass ethanol production, with the government providing a US$0.51 per-gallon subsidy to ethanol refiners. Consequently, there are reportedly around 33 plants under various stages of construction in the US.

The biotech industry is likely to benefit immensely from this ethanol revolution. With genetic engineering in very advanced stages, growing crops that contain high starch levels ideal for distilling ethanol, such as corn and cassava (am I right?) can mean higher output, driving down over all production costs.

Which is good news for our ailing sugar haciendas in Negros, Batangas and Tarlac. Even corn and cassava growers will stand to benefit (ethanol is not exclusive to sugar). This will be a good time for Victoria Milling to make a comeback, along with Cory Aquino’s Hacienda Luisita as well as the Spanish-era Central Azucarera (I think).

Not surprisingly, I read an article published in the Philippine Star (or was it Bulletin Today) regarding the skepticism of oil firms about the acceptability of ethanol as a fuel alternative and their opposition to the fuel-flex engine scheme. Their complaints can be summed in one word: Nothing. It’s pretty obvious they simply want the status quo, their hefty profit margins and market shares maintained by downplaying the threat posed by ethanol to gasoline.

Since the Middle East remains a tinderbox, it is imperative that alternatives - hydrogen, electric, fuel cells, ethanol, even coco diesel (don't laugh, who knows!) - be given their due importance. That way, we don’t end up needlessly being hostage to the never-ending bloody tensions in that part of the world.

Preggy Conversations

I spoke with my good friend Marge Simpson over the phone a few days ago. Without skipping a beat, she blurted out, “I am pregnant.”

“What? Are you kidding me? I always thought you were still a virgin.”

“I’m serious. I’m a few weeks pregnant. Positive.” She didn’t sound alarmed. She seemed excited.

“You mean to say, you’re out of the VSB (virgin since birth) club?”

I think she mentally hit me with a sharp object.

Marge is already in her mid-thirties. I think by the time women reach that age, the maternal instinct sets in: they all want to have babies. I noticed this one time when out of the blue, when she was still date-less, Marge mentioned she wanted to have a dog.

She had her share of indecent proposals before, all of which she wisely turned down.

“You had this planned all along, didn’t you?”

I figured they’d use protection if they didn’t want to have a baby yet.

“Well, yeah.”

“You mean to say, back in December, you were still VSB?

We were like Jerry and Elaine in Seinfeld, we talk about anything, from the colors of pistachios to well, sex. For some reason, our conversations, although frank, were never serious.

“Oh no, we were doing it. It’s just the timing probably. You know, the natural method.”

I understood.

“I see, so that really works. So you won’t be joining me in Bohol in June?”

“Traveling might be too stressful for my delicate condition. And besides I’ll be having my own wedding too, you know. So you have to fly back immediately to attend mine’s.

“No kidding. That fast?”

“Your mom and dad know about this?

“Not yet. I will tell them tomorrow.”

I’m really surprised but quite happy for her. She’s settling down for good.

National Anthem with Sub-titles

I do not understand why some Americans would be so upset with their national anthem being sung in a language other than English. A record producer, Adam Kidron will be releasing a Spanish-language version of the anthem, entitled Nuestro Himno (of course!) which will be aired over radio stations in the US. This was conceptualized ostensibly to sympathize with pro-immigration protests, in the wake of racial debates and tensions over immigration issues in the US.

"Would the French accept people singing (the) La Marseillaise in English as a sign of French patriotism? Of course not," said Mark Krikorian, head of the Washington-based Center for Immigration Studies, a conservative think-tank advocating tighter immigration controls.

Well, why not? Does it really matter? So it’s ok to dance and sing to that hideous, corny Ricky Martin ditty, Uno, Dos, Tres in the original Spanish but not Nuestro Himno? It probably matters if the country is homogenous. The US clearly isn’t.

Really, it’s hard for me to sympathize. America was built on the backs of immigrants. It is a melting pot of all races. The fact is, English is not the only medium spoken in the US today. English was, after all, brought all the way from England via its immigrants fleeing religious persecution. Then what’s stopping Spanish from being spoken by people coming from its nearest southern border, Mexico?

People like Krikorian obviously feel threatened with the increasing shift towards a non-WASPish American society that he thinks upsets the current balance of things. What’s wrong with singing the Star Spangled Banner in Español when it is clearly a fact that the country has large sections of the population who speak Español? Will he force these people to speak only in English? In fact, Nuestro Himno is an acknowledgement of the diverse cultures that make up the United States. America never was and is not a homogenous WASP society. It only exists in the minds of people like Krikorian.

In the case of our own national anthem, Lupang Hinirang (as kids, we simply referred to it as the “Bayang Magiliw”), the lyrics were originally set in Español during the revolutionary period, and then translated into English during the American occupation, and finally being adopted and sung everywhere in the country in Tagalog. So there are three existing versions. I think there’s even a Bisaya/Cebuano version. I won’t mind if there’s an Ilocano or a Maranao version. (A Taglish version is taking the issue too far and the lyricist will have to be bludgeoned with a flag pole). Does that make us less Filipino because we sing our national anthem in different languages?

Our patriotism should not be measured on which language to sing the national anthem. It is plain ridiculous. After all, we’re a diverse bunch. It’s in how we serve our country. Remember, Rizal struggled to free this country from tyranny and oppression, but he wrote his most important works in Español!

Golden Thoughts

I do not know yet why gold prices (it reached an all-time high of US$640/oz) soared substantially, just last week. Is there a sudden industry demand (semiconductors and electronics?) in the manufacturing sector for gold? Is the jewelry sector experiencing a boom? Are Central Banks around the world in short supply of gold? I don’t know. I suspect fears of the impasse of over the nuclear standoff in Iran which spilled over to oil prices skyrocketing to unprecedented levels, are driving investors to seek safe investment havens. The band-wagon mentality simply took over. Correct me if I’m wrong, as I do not pay too much attention to mining issues. However, if the surge in prices isn’t supported by fundamentals but by perception, then there might be a correction soon, especially if the Iran nuclear issue gets diffused.

Here in the Philippines, which is a major gold producer, mining stocks rose substantially on the back of sky-high global prices. In fact, the mining and oil index surged a spectacular 45%++ month-to-date, with Philex B (+50%), Manila Mining B (21.4%), and Lepanto B (59.3%) all advancing steadily. But, Philex seems the only one with fundamentals that can justify the rise in its share price. Lepanto and Manila Mining, in particular are saddled with labor strikes and hedging conflicts with its foreign clients. Moving forward, mining and oil-related issues will continue to dominate the market as developments in the global front, as well as the government's determination to resurrect this neglected, although controversial sector (which was given a boost by the recent Supreme Court ruling upholding the Mining Act of 1995, setting on alarm bells for environmentalists but giving the green light signal to mining investors) only means this index will surely be among the most interesting indices in the years to come.

Inflation Worries

The price of oil surged past the US$75/barrel mark just last week, on concerns over the nuclear stand-off in Iran, the world’s second largest oil supplier after Saudi Arabia, on top of the already-tight global supply due to overstretched refining capacities. China’s insatiable need for oil (GDP grew a spectacular 10%++ in 2005) as it increasingly industrializes its economy, is putting a lot of pressure on existing demand world-wide contributing to the supply glut.

Since we import roughly 99% of our oil requirements, we are vulnerable to price volatilities brought about by simmering political tensions in the oil-rich Middle East, just like everybody else. Even OPEC member Indonesia is not spared.

Ordinary people are feeling the pinch with the expected rise in fuel costs implemented by the main oil companies operating here. As a trigger effect, various transport groups are calling for a hike in the minimum passenger jeepney fares to P9 from the existing P7.50.

Obviously, higher fuel costs translate to higher prices in consumer goods as well. Unless global oil prices stabilize to lower levels, we remain hostage to the high price environment and we have to tighten our belts (again) for a rough ride ahead.

Some quarters, especially the ex-communists, are calling for the government to resurrect the Oil Price Stabilization Fund, to provide some cushion to consumers against high oil prices. The problem with this proposal is that in the past, the OPSF never worked. It only created an artificial domestic oil price regime, so that once the fund became depleted, consumers had a hard time adjusting to the drastic changes in prices and resulting surge in inflation.

And besides, funding the fund ultimately means the government will have to shoulder the difference between the market price and its artificially-set price, widening the government deficit further.

Other proposals like temporarily lifting the 12% EVAT on petroleum products may sound like a good idea. The downside is that the foregone revenues means putting a downward pressure on the deficit, resulting in credit ratings downgrades, which means higher interest rates, depressing domestic investments and ultimately constricting consumption already affected by skyrocketing oil prices. One thing leads to another. Eventually, it is a no-win solution. I guess the market will have to adjust to the painful situation and consumers have no choice but to basically grin and bear it.

In reducing reliance on oil, the main solution lies in our own backyard. Brazil has been quite successful in introducing ethanol as an alternative to oil for its transport needs. (Remember that Amazing Race episode where the contenders were made to distill ethanol from raw sugar canes to be used as fuel for their vehicles?) Let us be serious in looking for other fuel alternatives, really. I know zilch about science stuff so I don't know what to make of coco diesel in these parts, whether it is a poor, trying-hard copy of Brazil's ethanol or it has sound scientific and commercial merits. All I know is that we need to have something else, otherwise we'll be having this problem ad infinitum. Besides, with fuel alternatives, we can be sure oil companies will have a lesser hold on our throats, and we can breathe more comfortably too (other alternatives are more likely to be environment-friendly).

Karma

The La Salle fiasco involving its fielding of ineligible players in the UAAP basketball games has finally been dealt with, as the UAAP board has decided with finality to suspend the school in all UAAP events for one year, for negligence. It was a unanimous decision, with two members even arguing for a longer suspension, two years (which I feel is more reasonable).

Predictably, La Salle sympathizers believe the suspension was just too harsh, and the penalty shouldn’t extend to non-basketball sports whose players and officials had no hand in the deceit. In addition, La Salle’s erstwhile rival, the Jesuit-run Ateneo de Manila, was likewise disheartened and would reportedly seek motivation elsewhere (what motivation?). It’s as if these two were the only schools that matter. Excuse me, but I really need to barf!

The main issue stemmed from the fake DECS documents two players of the basketball team presented for eligibility purposes. Meaning these two were not really bona fide La Salle students. They’re probably street bums picked up from some street corner, dressed up in green-and-white jerseys and told to shoot the ball.

What surprised me was that, had the DECS documents been found to be genuine, it still appears like it IS a school policy to admit “certain students” through some back door, in this case, using the DECS-administered exams in lieu of the standard entrance screening tests, to bring in prospective students with special abilities.

Why can’t they just field players from their pool of legitimately-registered students, just like everybody else?

Well, then La Salle wouldn’t have won that many championships if it relied too much on its bar-hopping and trigger-happy students with their yayas and drivers in tow, wouldn’t it?

The cute rivalry between Ateneo and La Salle does bring in the crowds and the sponsors for the UAAP events, to the point that they take themselves too seriously. You know, like that brawl between some students after a tense match at the Araneta a few years back. I mean, for crying out loud, it’s just a game! Do you really need to bash each other’s heads to make known your loyalty to your alma mater? I’m sure Oprah wouldn’t have approved.

And so, the quest for glory pressured La Salle to cheat.

I do not, for a single moment, believe these two erring players concocted this elaborate plan on their own, as some quarters would have the public believe. They couldn’t even possibly pass the entrance exams!

How about school officials feigning ignorance about the whole thing? Oh please. The school registrar endorsed the fake documents, right?

Well, perhaps La Salle hired the registrar straight from his “other” job signing all those fake Diplomas sold along Recto and Quiapo.

SCHUMANN: Piano Concerto in A Minor

Robert Schumann: Piano Concerto in A Minor
Justus Frantz, Piano
Leonard Bernstein (conductor), Vienna Philharmonic


Robert Schumann represents the best of musical romanticism. Along with other important composers such as Chopin and Liszt, he defined the music of the Romantic period. His music is filled with a superabundance of feeling, imbued with a sensibility that is poetic, which has never been encountered previously. Whereas Beethoven before him preoccupied himself with grandiose heroic and profound life-and-death themes, the Romantics substituted that with individualistic and intesely emotional themes. The melodies are clearly defined, treated with extraordinary passion, delicacy and never-heard-of-before virtuosity. Along with Schumann, the compositions of Brahms easily come to mind, exploited to overblown proportions, however, by Rachmaninoff.

Schumann’s personal life was one of tragedy. He sired eight children with Clara Wieck (the pre-eminent pianist of her time), four of whom died; his wife was known to have had an affair with Johannes Brahms, Robert’s friend and mentor in many ways; and that in the end, he lost his mind, became suicidal and eventually spent the last years of his life in an asylum.

If he were Beethoven and Mozart, his music might have reflected the shift in his personal outlook and views. Both composers’ music became increasingly complex and personal towards the end of their lives, became darker and indeed, spiritual (Beethoven’s Misa Solemnis, the late quartets, the Choral Symphony and Mozart’s later concertos and the unfinished Requiem mass are clear examples).

Schumann’s work, however, seems to date back to a happier period, at the height of his powers. His only piano concerto in A Minor is a perfect example, interpreted here by Justus Frantz and the Vienna Philharmonic under Leonard Bernstein.

Schumann appears to be more comfortable with the piano rather than with the orchestra. His orchestration sounds rather dry, sparse and uneven, compared to his piano writing, which is brilliant. His symphonic works are somewhat uniform in style, they all sound similar although his melodic ideas that we have come to love remains solidly intact. His piano works, however, are among the most complex in the repertoire. His mode of expression is so refined, down to the slightest difference in shading in the sound. Not surprisingly, his best orchestral work is his lone Piano Concerto, rather than his Symphonies.

This concerto is probably the best ever composed for the instrument. The wonderful melodic ideas, the rhythmic vitality, the clarity of the layout of the movements, and the marvelous piano writing have made it a standard fare among the world’s best pianists.

The first movement opens with a fiery outburst from the piano, answered and sustained by a delicate theme throughout by the woodwinds. The luxuriant tone and the knightly motif lead to the gracious and gentle intermezzo of the second movement, with the cellos providing the main theme and dreamily ornamented by the piano. Immediately after, the piano breaks into the powerful last movement, with the soloist displaying even more technical virtuosity and brilliance, and leads the work to its electrifying and truly breathtaking close.

I think Frantz missed some bars in the last movement, but most people won’t notice it anyway. Bernstein’s orchestra was surprisingly dynamic, despite its clearly supporting role.

Along with Chopin’s E Minor Concerto, this is my favorite Piano Concerto, ever since I first heard of it over that born-again FM station, 98.7 DZFE, “The Master’s Touch”. I listen to it when unwinding or simply relaxing. Highly recommended.

Paddling One Morning

I went dragon boating this morning, dragging myself out of bed at 4 a.m. to catch the 5 a.m. call time. Having been inactive for almost half a year, I decided it was high time for me to train again and regain my place in the team.

Dragon boating isn’t something that one may instantly like. For one, waking up at the crack of dawn only to find yourself paddling in the murky waters of Manila Bay doesn’t seem like a good idea to start your day. Fact is, you may have to subordinate some of your priorities if you want to focus on the training. You know, like giving up Friday night socials and rescheduling sex.

Oh yes, you give up these things in exchange for blisters on your butt and fingers and muscle pains on your back and shoulders. And then you cram yourself in the lone restroom within a ten-mile radius along with a hundred or so people for a quick wash (there’s no shower, you make do with garden hose).

The benefits are mostly abstract. Like an expanded social life. But you start to have profound and scintillating conversations.

I arrived 5 minutes past the call time and Frodo was already there.

Frodo Baggins: “Oh wow, is this for real? Showing up only because you want to tour China, don’t you?”

Frodo, that’s a rhetorical question.

Me: “Then you’re going to compete in Boracay?

Frodo: “My family will start disowning me if I do that”

While paddling, we idly passed some fisherman catching fish with some spear and what appears to be a net bag.

The discussion continues and becomes more thought-provoking:

Me: “Where’d he put his catch? He doesn’t have a cooler or an ice bucket!”

Frodo: “Let’s ask him”.

Helga: “Prepare for power long, NOWW!”

At this point, I overreached my right arm and hit Frodo’s right shoulder, leaving a red mark.

Frodo: “What the…”

Later, Rambo the pacer gets transferred from the front to my back. And promptly hit my right shoulder with his arms, leaving scratch marks.

Rambo: “Oops, my fault”.

I was about to say something, but realized that Rambo’s large frame and swarthy figure means he must have seen combat in Vietnam in the 70’s.

Me: “Oh, It’s OK”.

In the restroom-cum-shower room, Bart Simpson gets fascinated by my “erect” nipples and keeps on pinching it. I swear to God I’m not aroused. That’s just how it looks, dammit.

Me, flinching: “You’re an asshole!”

Bart merely replied with a hearty laugh, grinning like a tasmanian devil.

Promdi Memories

Reminiscences of a Country Bumpkin

I haven’t had the chance to visit my old hometown for quite a long time now. I grew up in Camp Phillips, a housing camp for Del Monte employees in Bukidnon, site of the largest pineapple plantation in the world. My parents have now retired and resettled back in Bohol. However, I feel a stronger affinity with Bukidnon rather than with Bohol, despite the latter’s many charms, because that was where I spent my childhood.

Camp Phillips is a beautiful place, situated 2,200 ft above sea level in the plateaus of Bukidnon, a landlocked province flanked by gentle rolling hills and the mighty Mt. Kitanglad hovering like a sentinel. Upon entering the place and getting past the Welcome sign, the cool, fresh mountain breeze as well as the wonderful scent of pine never fails to greet you. The entire place gets enveloped by fog during chilly December early mornings and late afternoons. Grrrr. Cold. But it sure felt wonderful, a welcome relief from the heat and filth of Manila. Funny but I seemed to have taken these things for granted. I only realized this when I spent so many years in the city. You see, the urban blight, pollution and ugliness that I see everyday makes for a depressing sight. There’s just no comparison.

Designed like an American suburb, the place features bungalow-type houses evenly spaced and laid out, complete with manicured front lawns decked with bougainvillas and orchids, and back yards, where bamboos and banana trees take their places. Right in the middle is the huge plaza, green-carpeted with grass, so huge it accommodates the full-size football and baseball fields where as kids, we’d play softball with tennis balls and a dos-por-dos for a bat, do cartwheels, run and flail around in the rain after school, as well as the children’s playground, where I usually stopped to swing standing up and climb the chimney bars on my way to pick up the daily fresh milk bottles.

A clump of old santol and breadfruit trees provides a break to the wide open spaces while mahogany, eucalyptus and pine trees surround the verdant plaza. No wonder visitors from the city usually have their picnics here. The two schools and the large parish church, with the tolling bells that reached far and wide, which reminded us to observe the Angelus everyday, complete the idyllic picture of a laid-back, provincial image.

I went to school here, at the Our Lady of Lourdes for grade school, where wearing slippers with socks on when inside the classroom remains a policy, to keep the floor Johnson-wax shiny. I loved that school. We had plenty of English grammar drills (we had two English subjects!) declamation contests and plays. In fact, I can still recite Longfellow’s Sands of Time from memory. The other school, Plantation Elementary, was a public school. The kids always brought bolos and knives for gardening. I thought it was a preparatory school for would-be farmers.

It was a really hilarious time growing up. One kid A.P. came from a barrio in the outskirts. Unfortunately, he was always the subject of rumors of the “other world” kind. One time, nobody wanted to go near him, because his mother was rumored to be a practicing witch, ergo, if he tapped our shoulders, we were supposed to tap him right back, so that we will not become witches ourselves; rubbing ourselves with garlic was out of the question-our teachers would simply drive us out of school (Gasy explained this to us in great detail). Only Ambrose, the most religious (we all thought he’d make a fine priest-he wore the rosary around his neck) was the only one safe enough to approach him, for obvious reasons. I also wore a medallion given to my father by our Italian Jesuit parish priest and blessed by the Pope. My friends were not impressed. I wasn’t religious enough.

I went to high school here as well, Holy Cross High, run by nuns. I remember clearly my freshman Social Studies teacher scaring the hell out of us with personal accounts of ghost stories about White Ladies she saw while opening the jalousie window of her bedroom, and the mythical sigbin (demonic dogs that feed on babies). She’d frighten us further by confirming that at night, cries can be heard coming from the biology laboratory, which has a preserved fetus contained in a large jar. Since the town cemetery was a whisper away from where she lived, we believed her. In fact, years before, the fetus was rumored to have spoken to a few students and expressed her desire to be buried. Imagine that! It didn’t help that my own mom, a former teacher here, had her own stories to tell. Kids avoided passing near the school at night, if not then we’d run as fast as we possibly can.

There was also a small valley that separated our section of the neighborhood with the rest, connected only by a wide bridge. Passing this place at night alone can be traumatic, as it is eerily quiet and sounds of croaking frogs from the brook beneath can only be disconcerting. It didn’t help that upon approaching the top of the road, there was a huge mango tree. It was widely believed a hideous-looking Agta (I imagined him to be a cross between King Kong and Godzilla) would be sitting smoking a cigar in the branches. I used to pedal my bike at top speed when passing this place. One time, however, while going up the road, my cousin Paton was likewise heading down the opposite direction on his bike. We were both in a hurry to get past this place. In trying to avoid each other, we managed to crash into the deep canal nearby.

The camp’s social life revolved around the social hall. We didn’t get to watch movies that were shown in the city. Other than the 1950s or 60s black-and-white cowboy movies shown for free by the American soldiers stationed near Camp Phillips, the movies shown every Sunday afternoon were awful Tagalog and Kung fu rejects from theaters in Cagayan de Oro. And thus, a fund raising event for a beauty pageant candidate (winners were determined by the amount the contestants were able to raise) featuring a Hollywood (yehey, finally!) movie became very well-attended. All the kids were there and were bubbling with excitement. We had no idea what the movie was about before the screening. It didn’t matter. The title? The Exorcist!

We were all shocked and sprinted home after the screening. Linda Blair’s face turning around a full 180 degrees was a nightmare.

We didn’t sleep well that night.

The Write Stuff: Free-lancing Full-time

Fabulous wealth- large investment portfolios, huge bank deposits, nice car, job security- none of these will likely be yours if you want to be a full-time free-lance researcher.

You may, however, find yourself devoting more time to creative pursuits: practice Bach on the piano, join a dragon boat team, flesh out a short story, bake a flour-less chocolate cake, learn a foreign language, or write this blog (?), and you need not starve, beg for alms and be a burden to your parents and society, either. Not to mention the obvious benefits: no traffic, no Monday morning blues, no bosses. It’s not entirely a bad deal, really- just be sure that your love for, say, the arts and sports runs deeper than your pockets.

I never planned to strike out on my own. It fell on my lap. I was not particularly happy with the non-profit group I was working with, engaging ex-communists who remained hard-core adherents to Marx and Mao to debates on economic issues. It became a fruit-less and thankless exercise. An opportunity to work for a bank in the Middle East came and I promptly left (anything is better than dealing with narrow-minded “intellectuals” of a bankrupt ideology), only to find that my undergraduate status then made me ineligible for the overseas position.

After the customary what-am-I-gonna-do introspection and studying my options which included becoming a rice-and-coconut farmer in Bohol, I sent e-mail proposals to a hundred or so companies locally and abroad, to as far away as Spain and Germany. Yeah, I’m guilty of spamming! (Attention: Yahoo!) In fact, only around 10 replied, 2 were really interested and only 1 proceeded to give me a project, which remains a client to this day. My first employer also got on-board, and other jobs like feasibility studies and market searches followed as well.

Free-lancing, as I have come to embrace it, is a dicey business. It can be very frustrating. Many clients make impossible demands. Others expect you to be like a detective or a private investigator. And you never know when you’re going to get paid. In the meantime, you have to come up with something to pay the bills and the rent.

It could get pretty lonely at times, too. When all your friends are busy at work, the TV and the Internet become your best friends. Just be sure you don’t start talking to the wall.

I have learned to adapt to this lifestyle but I also realize I might step out of this “comfort zone” maybe sooner than I originally expected (but that’s another blog). Whatever turns out, free lancing has been good to me: although it won’t ever make me rich, I’m not stressed out, I live like a retiree, I do not sell my soul to the devil and compromise my principles, and I ponder the fate of the universe, like Superman (kidding!). No, seriously.

Sinner or Saint: The Judas Gospel

I watched the replay of the National Geographic feature on the Gospel of Judas Wednesday night since I failed to catch it when it first aired on Palm Sunday. My row mate, Mike essentially summarized the narrative to me after practice, which was about Christ fixing the betrayal scene between Him and Judas, to allow for the Crucifixion, and thus the Salvation of humanity, to be completed.

When I first heard of it, my initial reaction was one of disbelief, “What? Judas has a gospel, I thought he hanged himself from a tree after betraying Christ?” (I paid attention during Religion/Catechism classes). Immediately, my skeptic alter-ego took over and promptly shifted to the sarcastic mode, “Maybe he took out his notebook and wrote down the sequence of events, buried it someplace before tightening the rope around his neck and finally calling it quits”.

It turns out my instincts weren’t far from the truth. The Judas gospel “unearthed” in 1978 in Egypt, turned out to be a 3rd-4th century Coptic translation of the Greek original, which was denounced by the early Church Fathers, particularly Ireneus, bishop of Lyon around 180 A.D. as heretical. (The other so-called Gnostic gospels of Mary Magdalene, Phillip, Thomas and so forth used extensively in Dan Brown’s thrillers and that lamentable movie Stigmata, also came from this period). Coptic was the language in Egypt from A.D. 200 to 1000 and was the language of an emerging sect known as Gnosticism, which has its roots in paganism (Ireneus, c.a. 130-200 A.D., was the first to inform us of the sect who called themselves the Cainites, or followers of Cain, now known as the Gnostics, who claimed to possess the Judas gospel). Essentially, it borrowed elements from the emerging Christian Church and retold the story of the events leading to the Crucifixion basically to fit neatly with its view of the world.

From the NG feature, various experts theorized that Ireneus was pressured to choose from over 30 existing Gospels circulating then because the period saw intense persecution of Christians by the Roman authorities. He saw to it that persecuted believers knew what and why they were being made to suffer for, and thus, selected the accounts that would best represent the teachings of the emerging but marginalized orthodox church. He basically laid down and consolidated what constituted the teachings of Christ from the four accounts of Mark, Matthew, Luke and John.

The feature suggests that Ireneus was under intense pressure, not only because of the persecutions but competition from the Gnostics too, who were incorporating elements of Christian belief into their practices as well. The big question now is, Who was Ireneus? What authority did he have in order to choose which among the existing gospels should and should not be included in what we now know of as the Bible?

If NG only investigated further, perhaps interviewing experts of early Church history from the Vatican, they would find out that Ireneus was a disciple of John the Apostle. Which means he was in the best position, probably among the best qualified, to validate which of the competing accounts of the 30 or so gospels were consistent with Christ’s teachings as the apostles knew them.

The four Gospels were the earliest written accounts and appear chronologically in the New Testament. Mark was written around 60 A.D while the latest, John was believed to have been written in or around 100 A.D. In other words, there still existed first-hand witnesses (the apostles) or credible sources (direct disciples of the apostles) from which to verify and authenticate the various competing accounts. Judas Gospel only came to be noticed in 180 A.D., which means it must have been written much later than the first four.

The contents of Judas ran counter to the spirit of the first four. Christ arranging the betrayal so that it would free his spirit from the body was essentially a Gnostic belief. Gnostics believed that the God of the Spirit World was not the same God who created the Material World, and that it was the aim of everyone to free himself of the body that contains the spirit and join the Spirit God.

In addition, the account painted a sympathetic, even a heroic, picture of Judas, unlike the harsh and dark depictions especially from John. According to the account, Judas was the only one who totally understood Jesus, and that he was personally picked by Jesus to carry out the betrayal because of this. Then why hang yourself if you very well knew beforehand that the crucifixion and death of Jesus was basically fixed? True enough, the account ended abruptly and did not narrate the crucifixion and resurrection scenes. After all, it was not necessary anymore, the death of Christ would have sufficed and released his spirit.

The hype of the NG feature certainly did not live up to expectations. It certainly won’t shake the foundations of Christianity as was widely touted. The gospel of Judas was obviously not a first-person account (he hanged himself, didn’t he?) but a retelling of the events as the Gnostics saw them. (The four gospel authors are believed not really to have personally written the accounts themselves: it was a community effort. The four apostles and their respective disciples undertook the writing of the accounts and ascribed the authorship to the four, ostensibly because they were the direct witnesses to Christ’s teachings). It’s like the latest Ann Rice novel (I forgot the title) which retells the story of Jesus growing up in Nazareth, complete with first person dialogues and narratives, as she imagined it to be.

It would have been more interesting if in fact, there were evidences of Gnostics being followers of Jesus or the apostles, which means first-hand accounts of the events leading to the Crucifixion. This I believe would really shake the foundations of Christianity and subject the existing four accepted gospels to open question.

The woman archaeologist (I think that was what she was) who brought this account to light, at the beginning of the feature waxed emotional, declaring that its as if Judas himself chose her to undertake this monumental task of clearing up his name, which has been cursed down the ages.

Unfortunately, after the two-hour feature, I remain unconvinced.

My Stage Career

My folk dancing career started and ended in grade school in Bukidnon. Actually, I was drafted into it, like most of my classmates, because it was graded! The school principal had this idea of turning the school into a cultural showcase. She hired a gay choreographer from the city to train selected students, yes all kids, every weekend and after school to perform a variety of folk dances. We were then supposed to travel all over the housing camps and even outside, to perform for our families and relatives.

My homeroom teacher included me to be part of Lanceros de Negros. The boys were dressed like the sugar barons of the turn-of-the-century Negros, wearing immaculate off-white barongs with frilly laces typical of a Spanish land lord of the period (I felt so important then), while the girls donned Maria Clara gowns with skirts so wide and big, I thought it could house a poor family underneath. (Actually, we had our costumes tailored from fabrics meant for table cloths and curtains).

The school didn’t employ a make-up artist. The girls had their make-up and hair done at home. They looked decent. The boys, however, were like creatures from another planet. Our teachers simply took us aside, put some blood-red lipstick into their fingers and slapped these into our lips and cheeks, so that we won’t look like cadavers, they explained. I thought we looked like clowns.

The dance steps and movements were rather French. I mean, it’s really a rip-off of the gavotte: lots of stiff formal bows and three-quarter turns. It was like a waltz, only in Spanish-inspired costumes. It was fairly easy.

The others were not so fortunate. The tribal and Muslim dances were especially difficult and frightening. You see, one number featured girls performing a balancing act: half-kneeling on single bamboo supported atop the shoulders of two big boys on opposite ends, which always made the audience gasp and the parents squirm in their seats. The girls did fall to the floor a couple of times.

Others had to balance clay pots or lighted candles on their heads, or worse, dress like chickens. The latter was supposed to imitate a cockfighting match. Unfortunately, they appeared more like mad gorillas goring and knocking out each other.

When I stepped into high school, the head nun at our school entertained illusions of Broadway proportions: she put up a musical- Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. She initially wanted to let me play the piano accompaniment. When she found out I was not up to it, she hired a professional.

Our costumes were again made from curtain material. Our teacher was the choreographer and you could tell it was her first time. The sets were almost non-existent. The jars where the thieves were supposed to hide were clearly made of supermarket cartons, painted brown. The singing was third-rate, the leading lady even had to sing lip sync, while the “better” singer was backstage doing the vocals. I think it was a big flop. It was one of those school presentations where the parents had no choice but to watch them lest their kids resent them.

This nun was really ambitious, she didn’t let the flop discourage her from mounting another musical extravaganza, this time a piano recital. My older brother and I got featured along with others, including a piano teacher. My brother played Ernesto Lecouna’s dazzling Spanish dance, the Malagueña, while I played Muzio Clementi's Sonatina in F provided by my sister in Silliman.

Together with the piano teacher who played the 1st movement to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, we were the only ones who played classical. The others played popular melodies which were currently aired on the radio. One even had to bring her “imported” organ into the stage. I think my brother and I, who played the most difficult pieces, stole the show.

After that, I took up the banduria (lute) and played the national anthem during morning ceremonies, became the official organist during school masses and pianist for choral numbers on special events. I think I did well. The school gave me a special award during graduation rites.

The entire community seemed to think my family was like the von Trapp’s of the Sound of Music fame. You see, except for my mom, we became regular judges in amateur singing and choral contests, believe or not, even when we moved back to Bohol!

New Lease on Life: O'CONNOR The Violent Bear It Away

This novel published in 1960, was written by Flannery O’Connor while she was battling a debilitating disease that has left her crippled. It was probably because of her difficult physical condition that she increasingly turned to her faith for emotional and psychological support. During her lifetime, there was no treatment yet available for lupus, the disease which also claimed her father’s life. She retired to a restricted life, under the care of her mother, in a farm in Milledgeville, Georgia where she produced her brilliant novel and her celebrated short stories.

The Violent Bear It Away, like her other novel, Wise Blood, is a complex and extremely disturbing work. It’s about a 14-year old boy, Tarwater, who is split between his “destined” vocation as a would-be “prophet”, having been trained by his explosive, bible-thumping preacher-great-uncle Mason, and the secular, almost-fanatical rationalist views and lifestyle of his uncle, Rayber who had been estranged from the old man. The action revolves around Tarwater carrying out the assignment given by the now-dead Mason, to baptize Bishop, the idiot son of Rayber.

The problem is that the boy is reluctant and unconvinced of his vocation, and opposes and tries to reject his previous formation and calling with every fibre of his being, while at the same time, accepts none of the rationalization and psychology of his secular uncle. This provides the backdrop of the story, as Tarwater is locked in an inner battle with himself, against belief and acceptance.

The battle for Tarwater’s soul is reflected in the conflict of wills: Mason dies right from the start of the novel, but his presence is strongly felt throughout, he’s like the boy’s conscience. On the other hand, his conflict with his uncle is aided by an unseen, new “friend”, a sinister voice in his mind only made obvious in the last pages, who ultimately directs him to the final fearsome events of the novel: the drowning of his nephew, Bishop and his getting violently raped by a hitchhiker.

Much like in Wise Blood, O’Connor draws again from biblical events for her inspiration. The old man clearly represents the uncompromising John the Baptist, while Tarwater reminds one of the sulky Jonah in the Old Testament, who stubbornly refused his vocation until he is forced to a final choice.

Again, as a recurring theme for most of her works, violence is used here as the “agent of grace”. It is this final violation that made Tarwater realize the futility of his independence of will. God will get his way, and He will force you to accept his will, whether you want it or not.

The intensity of the conflict becomes apparent by the masterful descriptions of the settings. It’s as if nature were a witness to the supernatural combat over Tarwater’s soul as well. It is the classic fight between good and evil.

O’Connor’s religious convictions manifest itself in the novel. The story, according to the author, is about baptism, specifically baptism in Christ. Tarwater got a new lease on life, a new life in Christ. The violence and pain he underwent symbolized an important process of renewing his life, much like giving birth. This is his baptism.

It is like with us. We get a new life through baptism. The main difference is that we need not suffer, experience pain and violence anymore, because Christ has already done it for us on the Cross. In order to be eligible to this saving grace, however, there is only one condition: that we need to be “born again” and wash away our old sins (meaning original sin). We need baptism. That explains why for the author, it IS a matter of life and death.

Unfortunately, the so-called “born again” groups mistakenly think the words being “born again” means attending their bible studies, simply proclaiming “Jesus as our personal Lord and Savior” (does this phrase even exist in the bible?) and consequently joining their ranks in order to be saved “properly”. It is not. It clearly refers to the rite of baptism. Christ underscored the importance of this rite when he allowed himself to be baptized by John.

I remember clearly the pastor of my friend who gave an impromptu lecture, that baptism is unchristian and pagan, and Donita Rose proclaiming on TV that she doesn’t believe in baptism. I always wondered whether they knew what they were talking about.

O’Connor is certainly an apologist. But it is her extraordinary skills in conveying her convictions by dramatizing the individual’s conflict in accepting and opposing these that manages to startle. On the surface, she writes like a witch, the ferocity of the violence is unsettling. She once said that she had to “imbue this action (baptism) with an awe and terror which will suggest its awful mystery. (She had) to distort the look of the thing in order to represent both the mystery and the fact”.

Whether you subscribe to this belief or not, The Violent Bear It Away is a thought-provoking work, very much like Mel Gibson’s Passion of the Christ, that forces us to understand, in no uncertain terms, that Christ died on the cross, saved us from sin and allows us to have a new, eternal life.

Big Berta

Nang Berta was our big neighbor with no front teeth. She, her husband and five kids lived right next door. Growing up in Bukidnon in the 1980s, inside a housing camp for employees provided by my father’s multinational employer, she was among the most fascinating characters in our part of the neighborhood. Her kids, Napie, Bam-bam and Jun-jun were my playmates.

Her style of raising her kids was out-of-the-ordinary, I’m telling you. She made them strip to the barebones and let them roam the streets in their full naked glory every time they offended and crossed her.

Her house was bigger than ours because her husband had a higher position in the company than my father’s. However, I always thought her hubby a doormat. Berta’s voice was like the voice of God. She had her way with everything. I always thought that she’d forced herself on him, and since he was too chicken to say no, they ended up getting married.

For some reason, the family was always short on cash. So she had to resort to creative ways to make ends meet. She’d sell the beef-and-pork provisions for employees at higher prices to expensive restaurants in the city, which were prohibited by the company. She also had this habit of buying expensive appliances on credit, only to be "embargoed", or returned after a few months, due to non-payment.

I was a frequent visitor at her house. She was always out trying to borrow money from some people, so I get to play with the kids. We’d play hide-and-seek in the cabinets and closets, crawl out of windows, and jump up-and-down non-stop in the huge mattress. In fact, that’s the only place where I successfully did a full ‘gymnastic’ tumble.

She had this weird idea of putting the king-sized mattress in the living room, so that the kids would go straight to sleep after watching TV. And for some reason, she converted one bedroom into the dining room.

She was also fond of listening to AM radio. Eddie Ilarde and Helen Vela created a craze in re-enacting letter-writers’ life stories on radio and dispensing advice afterwards. In Cagayan de Oro, Phil Yburan ruled the airwaves. With stirring orchestral music and the radio talent’s knack for using highly-poetic Bisaya, the show was highly-rated and popular, so much that Phil Yburan was considered a local celebrity.

Since Nang Berta felt her life story worthy of a radio re-enactment, she wrote Phil her life story and promptly got a reply, promising to meet her for lunch at her home. Berta prepared a sumptuous lunch. The whole neighborhood was abuzz with the news. Lunchtime came and no Phil. When Phil and his crew arrived, the food was already gone. Filled with shame, she ran out of the house into the backyard, and hid among the banana trees near the cornfield.

Phil returned to Cagayan de Oro, hungry as hell. He didn’t feature her life story.

Shrill Voices in the Wilderness

The Left is at it again. Over the weekend, the militant Kilusang Mayo Uno (May 1 Movement) branded call centers, the number one provider of jobs nowadays, especially to the fresh graduates, as nothing more than “air-conditioned hubs for exploiting workers”. Its spokesperson, Prestoline Suyat, said that business process outsourcing firms and call centers provide poor working conditions to its employees, pay them less-than-adequate compensation and in effect, exploit them for profit.

I do not know what to make of these comments, coming from close-minded quarters who have basically pledged lifelong allegiance to Marx, Engels, Lenin and his Bolsheviks, Mao Tse Tung and other relics of the cold war. Members of these leftist groups, who by the way, have never probably set foot in any capitalist office as a matter of principle, have again demonstrated why people generally shun them, relegate them to the margins, and basically regard them with contempt: they shoot their mouths off while their brains get stuck in their asses. They speak before they think, all in the context of Marx and Lenin, of course. What capitalist venture have they not condemned as exploitative, anyway?

The call center phenomenon is certainly no silver bullet, its presence here will not lead this country to economic progress. But it does provide jobs, lots of them, to our people. To say that call center employees should be paid the same wages as their US counterparts only goes to show how ignorant the KMU is on the economic realities of the present. You know what, if they do that, then there’s simply no point in relocating and transferring BPO operations to countries like the Philippines and India. Yes? The cost structures are different across countries: the standards of living differ, the over-head costs are not the same.

I think, for the moment, the BPO situation in the country is a win-win situation: call centers do earn a tidy profit, considering that all revenues are generated from overseas while the local fixed cost structure is cheap relative to its country of origin; but call center agent salaries are among the highest compared to say, entry-level banking jobs. In fact, call centers resort to creative means to recruit and retain top level agents: sign-in bonuses, free cell phones, gym and spa privileges, bonuses here and there. Most office workers never had and still do not have those perks. You call that exploitative?

Even Latin America, China, Eastern Europe, and now Africa, are clamoring to join in the band wagon and are learning and polishing their English and foreign language skills, fast. Sooner or later, these countries, where wages are even lower than ours, will become more competitive and take away our call center jobs. But for the moment, call center agents here are able to send their kids to school, have money for groceries and save up a little something for the rainy days.

I know wherof I speak. I do free lance jobs for local and overseas companies and as such I work pretty much the same way as a call center agent: I accept outsourced research jobs from overseas. My clients value my work because I give them top quality work for a competitive rate, relative to their usual research agencies, of course, but by local standards, it is rather high. See? It’s a win-win situation.

So how do you deal with leftist groups fronting as cause-oriented civil society NGOs and labor unions foisting their hard-core, recycled, straight-from-the-Marxist-textbook commentaries about present economic realities? IGNORE THEM. Because that’s what they deserve for being what they truly are: shrill voices in the wilderness.

A Vision of Resurrection: MAHLER Symphony No. 2 in C Minor

As a lifelong classical music enthusiast, I have always been fascinated by Mahler, his life and his works. Born to Jewish parents, he converted to Roman Catholicism later in life, but more as a matter of convenience rather than through any force of conviction (this may explain the fact that Wagner’s widow, Cosima remained bigoted towards him all throughout her life, much like Richard Wagner himself). Be that as it may, he managed to compose nine large-scale symphonies, much like Ludwig van Beethoven, a number of which deal with religious subjects.

Mahler’s Symphony No. 2 in C Minor is also popularly known as the Resurrection Symphony. This work mimics Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony (“Ode to Joy”) with the use of a chorus and solo voices in the last movement. Beethoven’s inclusion of a chorus in what was considered purely an instrumental field, the Symphony, prompted Wagner to comment that this innovation was in effect “a declaration of the bankruptcy of instrumental music”.

But in fact, Beethoven, and later on Mahler, realized that integrating human voices to a purely instrumental work could only heighten, or intensify further, rather than distract, the expression of joy and the most elevated affirmation of life in their works. No man-made instrument could ever replicate that sort of experience like the human voice does. The triumphal and jubilant fireworks generated by the chorus in the last movement of Beethoven’s Ninth is really akin to listening to a crowd of angels welcoming the recently departed to the gates of heaven, for an audience with God. The listening experience is that profound. The stunning contrasts from the disquieting struggle in the first two movements among the strings (life and death?), followed by the really serene, very tranquil resignation and acceptance in the third movement, all of which were treated instrumentally, are simply astounding, as the quartet of voices and the chorus enters majestically only in the final fourth singing the unforgettable melody of joy, as if one were coming home to victorious welcome after a long journey and a hard-fought battle.

Obviously, Mahler had Beethoven in mind as his model when he composed his Second. The lay-out is quite similar in structure but employs massive orchestral and choral forces never encountered in the past. (Mahler outdid himself still with his Symphony no. 8, a.k.a. the Symphony of a Thousand, as he took the form and size of the orchestra beyond limits, thus the nickname.)

The first movement marked allegro maestoso, oscillates between pianissimo and fortissimo (very soft and very loud), a dreamy mood tries to assert itself in the course of the movement but is slapped and consequently dominated by wild, hammering rhythms, concluding in an enormous climax. With the turmoil created, the entire movement paints a picture of an impending death.

The subsequent two movements, marked andante moderato and a scherzo, respectively are remarkably different from the first. The second movement breathes a dream-of-life mood, idyllic and carefree, like a stroll in the woods or a walk in the beach, interspersed with a somewhat naïve folk melody or waltz-like theme (dance of the fairies?). The third smells of earth: primitive, coarse, sometimes vulgar and even grotesque, providing a stark contrast to the previous one. My interpretation on these movements is rather simplistic: it’s a heaven-or-hell scenario, period. How else would you explain it?

The enormous final movement breathes grandeur and ecstatic joy. The mezzo-soprano intones a death wish with moving simplicity and delicacy:

Man lies in direst need
Man lies in deepest pain

I would rather be in heaven

I came upon a broad path:
An angel came and sought to turn me back
Ah no. I would not be sent away

I am from God, and to God I will return
He will give me light
That will lead me to eternal, blessed life

Suddenly, the orchestra shudders and a horn call sounds from a distance, along with a delicate melody that emerges from the stillness: this is the song of the dead, at the Day of Judgement. A march develops and moves forward. You can actually visualize the dead marching to the Last Judgement, as the orchestra breaks out with festive trumpet flourishes, clashing with restive, driving elemental rhythms after which it gradually fades into silence.

After the orchestra reprises the theme sang earlier by the mezzo soprano, the chorus enters softly with deep, dark sounds, as the soprano voice joins in and separates and floats above the chorus, intoning:

Rise again, yes, you shall rise again
My dust, after a brief rest

He who called you
Will grant you immortal life

You are sown to bloom again
The Lord of the harvest goes
And reaps us who died
Like sheaves

The orchestra joins in again, as the mezzo combines with the soprano as they sing the following text with rising anticipation:

O believe, my heart, believe
All is not lost with you

You were not born in vain
You have not lived and suffered in vain

The chorus enters, almost whispering and gradually rising:

What was created must perish
What has perished, rise again!

Cease trembling
Prepare yourself to live

The mezzo and soprano voices enter once again, this time changing keys, from one of mystery in a minor key to excitement in a major key

Oh all piercing pain
From you I have been wrested

Oh all conquering death
Now that you have been conquered
With wings
I shall soar above
To the light which no one has pierced

And the chorus picks this up with profound emotion, gradually rising, and getting louder and more insistent, as the orchestra joins in as all vocal and orchestral forces unite and build up to the powerful climax. The full sound bursts out in full fortissimo, bells ring, trumpets flare as the orchestra and chorus shine out in all its glory, proclaiming the beautiful message of the Resurrection:

With wings that I have gained
I shall soar above

I shall die, so as to live

Rise again, yes, you shall rise again
What you have lived and fought for
Shall all lead to God

Triple Bill for Lent

For the Lenten break, I will be posting my impressions on three works covering different art genres: a German symphony, a Spanish film and an American novel. I believe these three have special significance to the season because these works celebrate, in more ways than we’d ever realize, the passion, death and resurrection of Christ. These works of art are Gustav Mahler’s Symphony No. 2 in C Minor (1894); Pedro Almodovar’s Hable con Ella (2002) or Talk to Her, and Flannery O’Connor’s final novel, The Violent Bear It Away (1963).

All three deal with the same theme: the affirmation and renewal of life, which I firmly believe is central in the salvation story of Christ. It’s a fitting theme for Lent. Do not get me wrong here. I’m sorry but this is not some pseudo-born again treatise a la Coney Reyes. I’m no fanatic. Neither am I an apologist. It’s simply that these works fully embody Christ’s life-affirming message through His resurrection.

Wagnerian Thoughts

For the first time in my life, I watched a four-hour opera on DVD non-stop (except for pee breaks in between Acts). I’m talking about Wagner’s Die Meistersingers von Nuremburg, performed by Deustche Oper Berlin (where Filipina soprano Andion Fernandez is based).

Wagner’s operas are so indulgent-it is so slow-moving and languid, a scene involving a duet (such as in Act II of Tristan und Isolde) can, believe it or not, approach an hour. In fact, if not for the marvelous music, a Wagner opera could easily send one into an instant coma. Tristan and Isolde approached four hours, without intermission; Tannhauser also exceeded the three-hour mark; this one, however was the longest opera I have ever seen on DVD-four and a half-hours without break. Can you imagine the actual performances, which, I reckon ran for around five hours!. I can’t help but visualize the members of the audience squirming in their seats, itching to strangle the musical director.

Opera goers remain divided over their assessment of Wagner. Rabid followers claim he is a genius, the greatest of all opera composers. While others insist he is just an egotistic, self-centered, anti-Semitic composer with an equally egotistic musical agenda. You either love him, or hate him, no in-betweens.

It is easy to see why Wagner remains a controversial figure in the musical world, more than 120 years after his death. Wagner broke with established musical tradition, especially with the staging of Tristan und Isolde. He raged against what he believed then, were the musical excesses that made Italian, and in fact, all opera, absurd. He disposed of the aria, the heart of Italian opera, and the staged ensemble numbers (such as duets, quartets and so forth to which everyone was accustomed), simply because the action on stage gets unnecessarily suspended as the singers engage in vocal acrobatics and fireworks that were not really called for by the text (Rossini and Donizetti comes to mind). This, he believed, reduced the musical drama to a mere “concert in costume”.

He replaced the aria with an “endless melody”, employing a complex system of leading motives (or the leitmotif, a technique he practically invented) that tie the entire music together to a leading musical phrase. For example, snatches of a refrain or a familiar melody introduced earlier in the performance get repeated in different forms to suggest a certain motive associated with a certain character. Puccini (and other post-Wagner composers) employed this technique with the crashing chords of Tosca in the opening Act, effectively associating the ominous chords with the evil henchman Scarpia, and which becomes the defining motive for the evil personality of the character.

Wagner also redefined “music drama” through his characteristic instrumentation. Gone were the days of the plunkety-plunk accompaniments that disfigured much of 18th and 19th century opera. His harmonies are so rich, full of color and vitality and extraordinarily refined many people actually go to “hear” Wagner’s operas, as opposed to “watching” it.

What distinguished Wagner from say, Verdi is that whereas the latter places the dominant musical roles to the voices, the former subordinates these to the orchestra, which for him, is the most important. The orchestra has the unquestionable dominant role, commenting on every psychological and dramatic development through his leitmotifs.

Consequently, Wagner’s ideas created a war of the critics that is still raging up to the present. But clearly, he left a lasting legacy. He remained the chief musical influence on subsequent musical developments for quite a long time.

I will be “reviewing” his works in the future. I look forward to watching his ambitious Ring cycle. I haven’t found a copy yet. I am beginning to suspect that Wagner’s ideas were as large as his ego.

Carpe Diem

Finally, the Pinoy Big Brother reality show concluded last Saturday. Keanna Reeves, an aging Cebuana soft-porn starlet, whose claim to fame was that she slept with some Congressmen, won over a hunky poster boy, a girl-next-door newscaster and an annoying, cloyingly pa-cute teen-age actor. I don’t know about you, but I never got the hang of watching this show. I couldn’t bring myself to sit through an entire episode, really. Watching the ‘housemates’ sleep, eat, or wash dishes is sooo tiresome I usually flick the remote to the Animal Planet channel instead.

It’s like being the protagonist in Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Window, wherein an injured photographer, whose broken leg requires him to be bedridden, spends his days recuperating while observing the goings-on (and a murder) in the other apartments from his rear window. The main difference is that here in PBB, (1) people willingly watch the housemates via cameras attached all over the house, even the loo; (2) that the housemates are conscious of the fact that they are being watched and should make an impression; and that (3) they may win a million bucks if they survive right to the end (an incentive to behave well).

I know a few who’d drop everything just to watch this inane show because of the “exciting” tasks and activities. I have a friend who skips his badminton practice just to catch this show. Imagine that! The “tasks” assigned by the “big brother” are supposed to test the housemates’ capacities to deal with different situations, and in the process, the viewers get to know each person better, whatever.

However, I find the tasks extremely pretentious and phony. Aleck Bovick and that radio DJ Rico, willingly had their hair shaven off in exchange for a hundred grand, which is supposed to go to some relative who needs it badly. Franzen, the booger guy in the first edition (he picks his nose—didn’t he realize there were cameras around?) did this as a tribute to the street kids of Tondo. Sort of like a self-sacrifice in order to help somebody. Yeah, right. What is this, the Oprah Winfrey show?

The big brother, by the way, remains faceless- the people inside only get to hear his all-knowing, omniscient voice. He who controls and decides the fate of every single one of them. And yeah, as far as the show is concerned, big brother IS God. The house even has a "confession room" where each can share his or her private thoughts with 'him'.

From the onset, the celebrities who auditioned for the PBB, have one motive in mind: to get noticed. This may accelerate their popularity and revive their sagging careers. Housemates get immediate publicities, because ostensibly, being seen on TV everyday for two months is supposed to boost their image. That’s why you see them jockeying for plum roles or assignments inside the house, mainly to grab attention. Or they resort to gimmicks.

Roxie Barcelo used every opportunity to share her sob stories, and along with it, her tears. The message is that she’ll make a fine dramatic actress because she can cry copiously in a heart beat. However, I think people got tired of her crying fests, it got to the point where the viewers really just couldn’t care anymore.

The most dramatic of all was the highly anticipated coming-out-of-the-closet of Rustom Padilla, who looked so emaciated I thought he might be stricken with some disease. Everybody knew he was gay anyway, I mean for crying out loud, the guy runs a beauty parlor!

And apparently, Keanna endeared most to the viewers because she remained "true to herself", that is, she pee’d in the bushes while Rustom was waxing sentimental and did his oh-so-dramatic coming out declaration. She didn't want to ruin his big "moment".

In other words, they’re simply using the PBB mainly to generate interest in their flagging careers. You really think they auditioned to demonstrate their humanity and their faith in the human spirit in the face of adversity? You’re watching the wrong show.

The concept of the show is one of voyeurism. We love to gossip about other people, be it our neighbors, colleagues, or friends. We love to observe and criticize their every move. It’s in our nature. And reality shows allow us to do that in the comfort of our homes.

I suspect the ratings were lower than what the top honchos expected. The reason’s easy. Despite our voyeuristic tendencies, Pinoy Big Brother is not only pretentious and phony, it is soooo exhausting to watch, I’d rather catch some sleep.