I just put in 11 hours today. I’m either a workaholic, or I’m addicted to writing…
Or maybe I’m just pissed off.
As a twenty-something, I belong to that generation that lacks a name. Only two years separate us from Generation X and the generation after Ferdinand Marcos. What exactly are we? There’s no other way to put it: we’re the Call Center Generation. Almost everyone my age is employed by the outsourcing industry. We are the generation that saturates Ortigas Center, Makati CBD, and Eastwood. Beyond the bars, the skyscrapers, and the perceived glamor of Metro Manila’s three biggest financial districts is a world of headsets, lights turned on for 24 hours a day, the ocassional ampethamine, and proxy servers.
Yes, there is something definitely wrong with this picture.
Anyone who works in a BPO will definitely lose an edge when it comes to politics. I should know: these days, I think I have the political edge of a rubber prop knife. And I’m not even a call center agent.
I think the politically-passionate are right to condemn us, the Call Center Generation, for being party animals drinking buckets of San Mig Light every payday. Yet to understand the seeming apathy of my generation, you have to put yourself in our shoes. “Shutting yourself off from the realities of life” is a very poignant rhetorical device: a computer, a headset, and Skype is the absolute “reality of life.”
Emo? Say what you will about skin-tight jeans that prevent circulation to your genitalia, but it’s so effin’ true.
Karl Marx’s favorite metaphor, “chains,” takes a whole new meaning for my generation: electrical wires are chains connected to a computer network (which is a chain in itself) connected to a chain an entire ocean away. You are chained to your job because you’re lucky to have one; you don’t have to walk around wearing your best clothes carrying a brown envelope staving off your hunger with Hong Kong Style Noodle. You don’t know what to protect: your wallet, your cellphone, your reputation, or your resumé.
When people ask you about Meralco, Jun Lozada, or the rice crisis, you either don’t know, or you don’t care. Who reads the papers when your payslip is enough to depress you? Who cares about Meralco bids when your building has a backup generator? Who cares about Jun Lozada’s foibles when there’s the proxy server to get to know more about Jennifer Lopez? What rice crisis are you talking about, when there’s always McDonald’s or ala carte (the sosyalin version of street food) to eat?
Besides, we are cogs in the wheel of what? What is our contribution to history? What do we have a stake on when there’s a newly-opened BPO a few blocks away? What identity do we, the Call Center Generation, hold on to, when it is but normal to us to converse to faceless people on another continent using a faceless name just given to us out of standard practice?
We are no more departed from the self-deprecation that was Generation X, and the self-glorification that characterized the generation that became teenagers with Beyoncé. We are no more politically-passionate than Martial Law alumni, and no more politically-immune than people who were made aware that Fidel Ramos’ cigar was the Vice President of the land. We are a generation caught in between history. We are products of history. We are cogs in the wheel of absolutely nothing.
Emo? Say what you will about side-swept hair made stable by a dollop of Gatsby hair wax, but it’s so effin’ true.
A friend of mine has a rather strange, if not extremely accurate, phrase for it: “Life then is but a tormenting inferno of pain masked behind a fictitious smile in a quasi-state of reality.” Indeed, life for this generation is nothing more than a tormenting firewall behind that assumed smile that you assure some irate customer that you’re making a difference with a brand-new Panasonic DVD player that can play Blu-Ray… if you can place the order.
That – not “apathy” – is the damning thing.
Marlene Dietrich is the classic Hollywood femme fatale. In her Hollywood career, Marlene has always been considered an “outsider;” her foreign looks added more mystique to her image. Marlene is, was, and forever will be a Hollywood legend: her presence in films like Morocco and Shanghai Express are most memorable. If anything, what I really admire about Marlene is that glance – that look – that made her such an iconic image in popular culture, from The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper album to Madonna.
In the history of Hollywood intrigue, if you get married nine times, get divorced seven times, have one annulled marriage and are currently married to a rather strange guy, you must be a real legend. Zsa Zsa Gabor is one of those legends. There’s just something about old portraits of Zsa Zsa that speaks to why she really is that famous: those arching eyebrows, those high cheekbones, that socialite grace. In this day and age of kikays who go clubbing on a Saturday night, they can always learn a thing or two from Zsa Zsa.
I think that no other actress can wear the slinky red dress better than “The Love Goddess” herself, Rita Hayworth. Rita can do it all: she can dance, she can act, she can sing, and she’s one of the sexiest sex goddesses of classic cinema. Her enduring grace and passionate performances are the stuff of legend. Who can forget Rita in Gilda, where that one glove she removed became one of the sultriest and most electrifying things that came off the silver screen? I wouldn’t mind having a poster of Rita Hayworth a’la The Shawshank Redemption, although there would be more reasons for me to stay in prison than to tunnel out.
There’s just something about Marilyn. Far from being the stereotypical blonde bombshell, Marilyn’s tragic death only served to highlight her remarkable life. That skirt-blowing scene in The Seven Year Itch is something to remember; so is her song “Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend.” To be honest, the only reason why I read the plays of Arthur Miller is because of Norma Jean. And there’s just something about how you say that name – “Marilyn Monroe” – that still reminds you of how much a superstar she is today as she was back then. Then again, everything about Marilyn will always be a mystery… that’s why she’ll always be a star, a legend, and an icon of the silver screen.
Ah, Lauren Bacall. That penetrating gaze, that voice, those smart remarks. In these days of “dumb bimbos” and all-out stupidity in weekend showbiz shows, our local celebrities can – and should – learn a thing or two from Lauren. “Looking at yourself in a mirror isn’t exactly a study of life,” she says, and it still holds true today. The many things she has to say about her ex-husband Frank Sinatra are stuff that should right now be on Friendster shoutouts. A journalist once called Lauren: “Slinky as a lynx, hot as pepper, cool as rain, dry as smoke.” Suffice to say, that’s a good way to describe Lauren Bacall. Among other things, she is truly a legend of the silver screen.
“Everything you see,” said Sophia Loren once, “I owe to spaghetti.” There must be more than spaghetti that explains why Sophia’s legs go on forever. Whether or not she had an affair with Cary Grant is something we may never know, but if they ever did, Cary must be one lucky dog. What exactly is in Sophia Loren, I do not know. Millions of men would have had fantasies and dreams of Sophia Loren. Even I did; to be perfectly honest, I fall ever-so-often for girls who have the eyes of Sophia. Not too many girls could have the kind of figure Sophia Loren has, even at 73.
In this day and age of Paris Hilton’s, Britney Spears’s, and Lindsay Lohan’s, few celebrities will ever have that defining mystique that becomes Hollywood glamour at its finest. Such is Greta Garbo. She was intensely private; she didn’t sign autographs, she didn’t give interviews, she didn’t divulge much of her personal affairs. Even in her silent films, her introverted disposition gave her a mystery that is the stuff of Hollywood legend. As a star of silent films, Greta let her actions do all the talking. Hey, nobody’s complaining. When you are an actress the caliber of Greta Garbo, you don’t need publicity stunts. If anything, Greta is the ideal actress.
My favorite classic movie – period – is Casablanca. Not only because of that painful heartbreaking story, but because of Ingrid Bergman. While gin joints and piano bars are a thing of the past these days, Ingrid Bergman forever remains to be one of the best actresses of classic film. There’s something about Ingrid: her voice, her presence on camera, her many award-winning performances, her timeless beauty. Or that song she told Sam to play again is a good metaphor. As time goes by, she is that legendary actress that few will ever match, much less surpass. Then again, they’ll always have Paris… and we’ll always have Ingrid.
No other actress possesses the kind of beauty and grace of the one and only Grace Kelly, Princess of Monaco. Films like Dial M for Murder and On the Waterfront showcase her talents, and that statuesque, graceful, royal figure she has. Not to mention that smile… how many times have I tried – and failed – to hold up on my stoic, unresponsive usual expression whenever I saw Grace smile on those pictures. And those eyes… royal, yet at the same time ever-so-charming. How many actors in Hollywood have fallen in love with Grace Kelly, I do not know. One thing is certain, though: they had all a good reason to fall in love with her.
Breakfast at Tiffany’s is one of my favorite classic movies, and Audrey Hepburn is one of my favorite actresses of all time. There’s something about Audrey and that little black Givenchy dress. Audrey Hepburn set standards for fashion that to this very day are still emulated, repeated, but never duplicated. Cuteness? Timeless beauty? Definitely understatements, for one of the greatest actresses ever on the silver screen. Audrey was also a great humanitarian, which set the standard for almost every Angelina Jolie and KC Concepcion of today. Yet it is her memorable performances – not just in Breakfast, but also in My Fair Lady and of course, Sabrina – that makes Audrey stand out as one of the greatest legends and most beautiful faces of cinema. Besides, no one else can fit into that little black dress like Audrey.