First, there was FM. Then came FVR and GMA, and now we have the likes of BF, SB and a host of others who have the PR machines milling slogans, projects and what have yous tailored to their vaunted initials.
The initial mania may have taken its sweet time traveling this far down south, but uh-oh, it is here. And when the city marked the second Sosogon Festival these past two weeks, it was an all-out LD affair.
Some of the "initialed" affairs were quite appropriate:
Lingap Dalita
Larong Dekalidad
Liwanag sa Daan
Some hovered between the possible and the passable:
Lakad Daan
Lyre & Drum Exhibition
Family Love Day
Let's Dance
Linggo ng Diwang Kabataan
And some were just a tad too much:
Love Dog Services
PiLi Day
BaratiLyo GranDe
Gawd! I don't know, but since this is a national thing, I can imagine propagandists rocking in their executive chairs all day, mumbling initials like a mantra until they reach that light-bulb-eureka moment.
Whether the light bulb works or it fizzles and pops, well, that's a different story.
Showing posts with label Signs of the Times. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Signs of the Times. Show all posts
December 21, 2008
November 5, 2008
In the Dark
At around 11 am, Weird Sister --she who, in her younger days, professed a loathing for law students, married a lawyer, and eventually went to law school--called to give a semi blow-by-blow account of the Presidential Elections.
While I have no interest in politics or foreign affairs, I wouldn't have missed the speeches. I don't know, but since Peggy Noonan did her bit with "a kinder, gentler nation" for Bush Sr. I have always found an element of redemption in White House-bound (and unbound) speeches, rhetorical though they may be.
The thing is, the electric company chose this very day to do its "periodic" eight-hour "maintenance check" (read: blackout), rendering us CNN-less and Yahoo-less.
And so it came to pass that for the better part of the day, I was as in the dark about the elections as the guy who was interviewed on TV a week ago. When asked who he thinks would have a better chance, he gave the TV camera a quizzical look and acknowledged that he didn't know Obama or McCain.
All he knew, he said, was the "father and son": "ang alam kong tumatakbo yung mag-ama. Yung sina Butch."
While I have no interest in politics or foreign affairs, I wouldn't have missed the speeches. I don't know, but since Peggy Noonan did her bit with "a kinder, gentler nation" for Bush Sr. I have always found an element of redemption in White House-bound (and unbound) speeches, rhetorical though they may be.
The thing is, the electric company chose this very day to do its "periodic" eight-hour "maintenance check" (read: blackout), rendering us CNN-less and Yahoo-less.
And so it came to pass that for the better part of the day, I was as in the dark about the elections as the guy who was interviewed on TV a week ago. When asked who he thinks would have a better chance, he gave the TV camera a quizzical look and acknowledged that he didn't know Obama or McCain.
All he knew, he said, was the "father and son": "ang alam kong tumatakbo yung mag-ama. Yung sina Butch."
June 1, 2007
Chismis
"What's the latest?" officemate A asks officemate B as she settles into what looks like another uneventful workday.
"Yilmaz was a no-show in LA, Miss USA fell on her butt, Dennis and Marjorie called it quits," comes the disinterested reply. B is not really that chatty in the first place.
A leaves in a huff, telling every body within her line of vision that B is in a bad mood. "But B is always in a bad mood," C chimes in, and for the better part of the day, A and C--along with D, E & F--spend their energy talking about B, her moods and more.
Such is the way with gossip. You ask, you get a reply. But you don't really listen. You digest only what you want to hear, draw your own conclusions, inject your own opinions and pass on the story as "straight from the horse's mouth."
Or you see something (even if you don't have 20/20 vision), you imagine hearing something (but you don't have ultrasensitive ears) then go blabbing about "what happened" from the first-person point of view.
Or someone floats the idea of something, your mind goes "aha, so that's why..." and the story goes on and on and on, losing all semblance of the truth as it goes on its merry way.
For sure, chismis is the byproduct of idle minds. In the office, for example, it almost always starts with departments that have seasonal peaks, or those that are so over-manned that killing time is the primary function. Or during over-extended coffee and cigarette breaks. In neighborhoods, gossip travels over gumamela bushes and through gaps in fences, from sari-sari stores and barber shops. In the palengke it starts as cheery banter between the vendor and the vendee and is dissected (and deboned) during the off hours, when there is just way too much time.
Showbiz chismis is, of course, an entirely different thing. Names and industries are made because of rumors-- the nastier, the better. And this is why you get the likes of Ruffa and Kris, washing their dirty linen in public and begging for privacy in the same breath.
It drives me crazy every time some star tearfully pleads to be given breathing space while the talk show host nods along condescendingly. But showbiz chismis does perk up Sunday afternoons. And makes for good enough conversation at the office on lazy Monday mornings. Unless something crops up at the office that has definitely much more meat and juice than Annabel and Ruffa and Kris combined...
"Yilmaz was a no-show in LA, Miss USA fell on her butt, Dennis and Marjorie called it quits," comes the disinterested reply. B is not really that chatty in the first place.
A leaves in a huff, telling every body within her line of vision that B is in a bad mood. "But B is always in a bad mood," C chimes in, and for the better part of the day, A and C--along with D, E & F--spend their energy talking about B, her moods and more.
Such is the way with gossip. You ask, you get a reply. But you don't really listen. You digest only what you want to hear, draw your own conclusions, inject your own opinions and pass on the story as "straight from the horse's mouth."
Or you see something (even if you don't have 20/20 vision), you imagine hearing something (but you don't have ultrasensitive ears) then go blabbing about "what happened" from the first-person point of view.
Or someone floats the idea of something, your mind goes "aha, so that's why..." and the story goes on and on and on, losing all semblance of the truth as it goes on its merry way.
For sure, chismis is the byproduct of idle minds. In the office, for example, it almost always starts with departments that have seasonal peaks, or those that are so over-manned that killing time is the primary function. Or during over-extended coffee and cigarette breaks. In neighborhoods, gossip travels over gumamela bushes and through gaps in fences, from sari-sari stores and barber shops. In the palengke it starts as cheery banter between the vendor and the vendee and is dissected (and deboned) during the off hours, when there is just way too much time.
Showbiz chismis is, of course, an entirely different thing. Names and industries are made because of rumors-- the nastier, the better. And this is why you get the likes of Ruffa and Kris, washing their dirty linen in public and begging for privacy in the same breath.
It drives me crazy every time some star tearfully pleads to be given breathing space while the talk show host nods along condescendingly. But showbiz chismis does perk up Sunday afternoons. And makes for good enough conversation at the office on lazy Monday mornings. Unless something crops up at the office that has definitely much more meat and juice than Annabel and Ruffa and Kris combined...
May 26, 2007
Out-of-fashion Phone
“This is your cellphone?” J asked incredulously. “But Ate, it’s so out of fashion.” The way he said it, I could just as well have committed the gravest fashion faux pas. Like wearing plaid with paisley. Or checks with stripes.
Better an old, trusty cellphone than a trendy gadget that almost always has no load, I thought to myself as J sauntered off to yet one of his of-the-moment pursuits,fingers happily keying in on his latest Motorola. And this is the same person who asked for a five-peso load just minutes ago!
You have to truly give it to J and his kind for thinking that the world judges them by their cellphones. They mark the passage of the seasons with uploads and trade-ins, with textmates and multiple SIM cards. In the in-between times when they are short of cash, their phones get temporary repose in Lhuillier or Tambunting or Ana Aspe.
I have my reasons for holding on to my old Nokia. For one, it has Kurt Perez on the display. (This is a marker of sorts of the heady, breezy days when I was pregnant with Gianna and I was just so gaga over Kurt and Starstruck Kids.) Besides I don’t like models that practically scream to be stolen.
In the not-too-distant past when the 3310 was the biggest thing, Swiper the Fox made off with mine. I never thought that a single gadget would change my life, but the blasted phone did. Initially, anyway. For a moment, I thought I had lost all traces of “me”. As if a giant hand pushed the erase button and left me friendless and totally empty. Precious, irreplaceable numbers were in there, my best friend’s especially, who had just moved to the States. It took a while for me to re-establish ties: I had just moved back home then, and most of the numbers on my book were those of friends from Manila and beyond.
And this is why I don’t get crazy shopping for the latest, the sleekest and the most compact. It’s like a take on the old friends, old shoes analogy: In this case, old phones, like old shoes and old friends, are the most comfortable. And harder to swipe.
So yes J, this is my cellphone, and unless it dies out on me, or it conveniently disappears, I am sticking to it. In fashion or out.
Better an old, trusty cellphone than a trendy gadget that almost always has no load, I thought to myself as J sauntered off to yet one of his of-the-moment pursuits,fingers happily keying in on his latest Motorola. And this is the same person who asked for a five-peso load just minutes ago!
You have to truly give it to J and his kind for thinking that the world judges them by their cellphones. They mark the passage of the seasons with uploads and trade-ins, with textmates and multiple SIM cards. In the in-between times when they are short of cash, their phones get temporary repose in Lhuillier or Tambunting or Ana Aspe.
I have my reasons for holding on to my old Nokia. For one, it has Kurt Perez on the display. (This is a marker of sorts of the heady, breezy days when I was pregnant with Gianna and I was just so gaga over Kurt and Starstruck Kids.) Besides I don’t like models that practically scream to be stolen.
In the not-too-distant past when the 3310 was the biggest thing, Swiper the Fox made off with mine. I never thought that a single gadget would change my life, but the blasted phone did. Initially, anyway. For a moment, I thought I had lost all traces of “me”. As if a giant hand pushed the erase button and left me friendless and totally empty. Precious, irreplaceable numbers were in there, my best friend’s especially, who had just moved to the States. It took a while for me to re-establish ties: I had just moved back home then, and most of the numbers on my book were those of friends from Manila and beyond.
And this is why I don’t get crazy shopping for the latest, the sleekest and the most compact. It’s like a take on the old friends, old shoes analogy: In this case, old phones, like old shoes and old friends, are the most comfortable. And harder to swipe.
So yes J, this is my cellphone, and unless it dies out on me, or it conveniently disappears, I am sticking to it. In fashion or out.
May 15, 2007
Post-election Blues
I don't understand politics. The seamier side of it anyway. I grew up with a grandfather who toed the line, and a father who--for most of his working life--was a public official. Both were into politics when it was honorable to be so, when political affiliations meant a great deal. Political campaigns then were anchored on platforms, and rallies didn't hide behind the cloak of show business.
Nowadays you could hardly tell real politics from show business. Or from a tacky talk show. Instead of "what I will do to serve my constituents if and when elected" candidates focus on "what I would give to destroy my opponent." Instead of literature lauding a candidate's achievements, you get risographed copies of his opponent's muck.
It has been a day since the elections. I voted, if only to earn the right to say something about those who would eventually "rule" for the better part of three years. I voted, if only to make sure that Doc Martin doesn't get a zero in my precinct.
Not that the elections hold much promise. A day later, and I still hear the same stories I've been hearing for four elections or so: stories of leaders pocketing the "meant-to-buy-your-vote money," stories of irate electors who voted for the other candidate because they did not get the "envelope," stories of equally irate candidates whose names "mysteriously" disappeared from the sample ballots on the last hour.
On the canvass board, Doc Martin is way, way below. It's quite shattering to see his name alongside that of Victor Wood. So much for thinking that I could make things happen with my one vote...
Nowadays you could hardly tell real politics from show business. Or from a tacky talk show. Instead of "what I will do to serve my constituents if and when elected" candidates focus on "what I would give to destroy my opponent." Instead of literature lauding a candidate's achievements, you get risographed copies of his opponent's muck.
It has been a day since the elections. I voted, if only to earn the right to say something about those who would eventually "rule" for the better part of three years. I voted, if only to make sure that Doc Martin doesn't get a zero in my precinct.
Not that the elections hold much promise. A day later, and I still hear the same stories I've been hearing for four elections or so: stories of leaders pocketing the "meant-to-buy-your-vote money," stories of irate electors who voted for the other candidate because they did not get the "envelope," stories of equally irate candidates whose names "mysteriously" disappeared from the sample ballots on the last hour.
On the canvass board, Doc Martin is way, way below. It's quite shattering to see his name alongside that of Victor Wood. So much for thinking that I could make things happen with my one vote...
May 8, 2007
Rocking My Vote (Not!)
It’s almost midnight. I’m wide awake—and not liking it one bit! How can I when I can still hear blasts of mindless campaign jingles even in this ungodly hour? Obviously, the candidates have invaded Maytime dances (“kurudalan,” we call them here: you fence in—kudal—a vacant lot, dangle lights and a mirror ball, set up the sound system and presto! a roadside disco is born). As if they can rock their way into the ballot box!
I’d be really glad when the elections is over. For close to a month and a half now, I have been subjected to just about every “personalized” version of “Boom Tarat Tarat,” “Wowowee,” “Itaktak Mo” and the like. As if the original versions aren’t insufferable enough. I happen to have the misfortune of living in a village where everybody is practically a candidate—and those blasted jingles are the first things I've been waking up to recently. Ever heard “patriotic,” “religious” versions of these inanities? Listen closely, and you will find election cliches like “makatao,” makabansa” and “maka-Diyos” tastelessly woven into equally tasteless songs.
I wonder: do platforms still translate into votes? Or does anybody still listen to serious campaign stuff? (Okay, the other day, I tried my best to. But when a candidate started to challenge another with "correct me if I'm right," I suddenly remembered that I had to shave my armpits.) Tragic, but these days, it isn't so much about plans and prospects as digging dirt and mudslinging.
Today's elections are obviously not the sacred political exercise that they should be. Voters' education is a losing proposition. In most cases, it is the same people (or the same kind of people) who get elected anyway. Yesterday, on my way to the office, I passed by the house of two candidates. The queue outside--mostly of women lugging large bags and small children--is depressing. They are obviously there to ask for something: for anything, as a matter of fact. (An exasperated ex-candidate had this story: there was this large contingent who went to his house, asking for money. When he told them he had no money, they asked for rice. When he told them he had no rice, the crowd pointed to the cheesecloth being prepped as banners. They'd settle for the cheesecloth, they said.)
Ugh! Times like this makes me feel that there really should be a law limiting the number of people who can vote. This way, politicians won't resort to gimmicks, voters won't make like beggars and the 45-day campaign period won't be the agony that it is.
I’d be really glad when the elections is over. For close to a month and a half now, I have been subjected to just about every “personalized” version of “Boom Tarat Tarat,” “Wowowee,” “Itaktak Mo” and the like. As if the original versions aren’t insufferable enough. I happen to have the misfortune of living in a village where everybody is practically a candidate—and those blasted jingles are the first things I've been waking up to recently. Ever heard “patriotic,” “religious” versions of these inanities? Listen closely, and you will find election cliches like “makatao,” makabansa” and “maka-Diyos” tastelessly woven into equally tasteless songs.
I wonder: do platforms still translate into votes? Or does anybody still listen to serious campaign stuff? (Okay, the other day, I tried my best to. But when a candidate started to challenge another with "correct me if I'm right," I suddenly remembered that I had to shave my armpits.) Tragic, but these days, it isn't so much about plans and prospects as digging dirt and mudslinging.
Today's elections are obviously not the sacred political exercise that they should be. Voters' education is a losing proposition. In most cases, it is the same people (or the same kind of people) who get elected anyway. Yesterday, on my way to the office, I passed by the house of two candidates. The queue outside--mostly of women lugging large bags and small children--is depressing. They are obviously there to ask for something: for anything, as a matter of fact. (An exasperated ex-candidate had this story: there was this large contingent who went to his house, asking for money. When he told them he had no money, they asked for rice. When he told them he had no rice, the crowd pointed to the cheesecloth being prepped as banners. They'd settle for the cheesecloth, they said.)
Ugh! Times like this makes me feel that there really should be a law limiting the number of people who can vote. This way, politicians won't resort to gimmicks, voters won't make like beggars and the 45-day campaign period won't be the agony that it is.
April 26, 2007
Guinness-Crazy
Call me dense, but I don’t get this Filipino fascination for the Guinness World Record. I mean, just what is the point? Will the biggest bibingka plug up the hole in the ozone? Will the longest longganiza promote world peace?
In just about every festival, there is the showcase of the longest “this” and the biggest “that.” The longest ihawan, for example, or the biggest chineles. I can understand the marketing side of the matter: the need to promote the product, the festival and ultimately the place. But to go to such great lengths as to gun for a Guinness?
Trust me, it has nothing to do with the noble aim of “fostering unity.” I have been a token participant in two attempts, and “unity” is the last thing on one’s mind as one stews in sweltering heat, waiting for the cameras to roll.
The first time I was required to join was in 2004, when somebody broached the idea of our city earning a world record of sorts for the longest nut cracking. For all its worth, things did go perfectly well. Except that the organizers were probably so wrapped up in the prep work they actually forgot to notify the Guinness people!
My second stab at fame (ha!) took on an even more ambitious coverage: the whole stretch of the Maharlika Highway from up North to down South. It was supposed to be the longest tree planting ever. It could have been. The thing is, eight months later, I wonder where all the trees have gone. I don’t even know if we even set a record.
I remember the first time (or was it?) the Philippines tried to get a Guinness for the longest sausage or something. Way before the signal was given however, hungry participants—who had been in line for an hour or so—had already wolfed down the better part of the sausage.
And then, just last year, a town tried its hand at a Guinness for the longest grill. The smell of the inihaw, however, may have proved too much for the would-be record holders. They carted off just about everything, grill, charcoal and yet-to-be-grilled fish included.
On May 2, my beloved Pinas will again go for the gold: this time for simultaneous breastfeeding. Will “Sabay Sabay Sumuso sa Nanay” work? Or will the babies—and the mothers—decide that it’s just not worth the effort? If it doesn’t, well, we can always earn a spot in the Guinness Book of World Records for the country with the most number of Guinness attempts.
In just about every festival, there is the showcase of the longest “this” and the biggest “that.” The longest ihawan, for example, or the biggest chineles. I can understand the marketing side of the matter: the need to promote the product, the festival and ultimately the place. But to go to such great lengths as to gun for a Guinness?
Trust me, it has nothing to do with the noble aim of “fostering unity.” I have been a token participant in two attempts, and “unity” is the last thing on one’s mind as one stews in sweltering heat, waiting for the cameras to roll.
The first time I was required to join was in 2004, when somebody broached the idea of our city earning a world record of sorts for the longest nut cracking. For all its worth, things did go perfectly well. Except that the organizers were probably so wrapped up in the prep work they actually forgot to notify the Guinness people!
My second stab at fame (ha!) took on an even more ambitious coverage: the whole stretch of the Maharlika Highway from up North to down South. It was supposed to be the longest tree planting ever. It could have been. The thing is, eight months later, I wonder where all the trees have gone. I don’t even know if we even set a record.
I remember the first time (or was it?) the Philippines tried to get a Guinness for the longest sausage or something. Way before the signal was given however, hungry participants—who had been in line for an hour or so—had already wolfed down the better part of the sausage.
And then, just last year, a town tried its hand at a Guinness for the longest grill. The smell of the inihaw, however, may have proved too much for the would-be record holders. They carted off just about everything, grill, charcoal and yet-to-be-grilled fish included.
On May 2, my beloved Pinas will again go for the gold: this time for simultaneous breastfeeding. Will “Sabay Sabay Sumuso sa Nanay” work? Or will the babies—and the mothers—decide that it’s just not worth the effort? If it doesn’t, well, we can always earn a spot in the Guinness Book of World Records for the country with the most number of Guinness attempts.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)