Monthly Archives: February 2009

Where Is Stefano Mori?

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I’d like to talk about political issues, about social concerns, things of that nature.  Heck, I’d like to work on lyrics translations of Bon Jovi.  Uh… no, not today.

For the past few days, I had a rather unhealthy preoccupation with old showbiz.  My status message in Facebook began with a bad epiphany: if the name “Lindsay Custodio” still rings a bell, you’re probably old.  True enough, some of my friends responded to the affirmative; hey, we all grew up watching Ang TV. That, and having a good memory of the opening tune of Showbiz Lingo.

The highlight of last week’s jolography (so to speak… not of the jumping form) was Stefano Mori, so much so that I actually changed my Plurk display ID from “Marocharim” to “Stefano Maro.”  Yes, Stefano Mori; one-third of JCS.  While you’ll still hear of John Prats and Carlo Aquino today, you’ve probably forgotten about Camille Prats’ love interest in G-Mik.

If you’re willing to admit your age and stop blaming things on cultural milieu, you very well know that Stefano Mori played “Borj,” Camille Prats played “Roni.”  That tandem, for a time, was the backbone of G-Mik. More than that, Stefano Mori was a mainstay in Mula sa Puso (if my memory serves me right, he was the kid brother of Claudine Baretto), and also played a few anak roles in Maalaala Mo Kaya.

So, whatever happened to Stefano Mori?

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"Buti Pa Noong Panahon Ni Marcos"

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These days there seems to be some nostalgia for Ferdinand Marcos.

When Ferdinand Marcos fell from power through EDSA I, I was all but seven months old.  Since there’s no such thing as a politically conscious infant, I only became somewhat conscious of Marcos when I went to school, when the strongman was gone from the seat of power.  Everything I know about Marcos from people who actually lived through Martial Law.

For a time, it seemed that Marcos’ legacy will be forever tainted and reviled.  Some people truly and genuinely resented Marcos, and that Martial Law was like our Dark Ages.  You would have heard of “Marcos stories;” how you would be forced to sing the national anthem in the middle of the street for jaywalking, how “Voltes V” was banned, how troops would patrol the streets after curfew hours.  For a time, and to a certain extent, Marcos was the closest equivalent we had to a political Beelzebub; Marcos was as much a caricature as he was a historical figure.

We’re the generation that didn’t have to go through Marcos.  The political consciousness of this generation was molded after Marcos.  Everything we know about Marcos is secondhand knowledge, lore passed on from the generation before us.  We cannot speak of “better times” with reference to Marcos because, as far as this generation is concerned, we weren’t born yet.

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Trying

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I’m trying to work on short stories… now there’s a good qualifier: “trying.”

I don’t consider myself a good writer.  Whenever I go to work, or whenever I write for my own personal amusement, I always take it as a learning experience.  I try to convince myself that there’s a lot to learn, and that there will always be a few mistakes here and there.  In a way, I can only call myself a true-blue, honest-to-goodness “writer” if I can write something perfect.  If I get recognition, if another person calls me a writer out of respect for what I write, if I can be a peer to the writing community.

Last year, I gave myself a goal that in 365 days, people will know who I am.  People will respect me for my writing.  Cause celebre, hailed as the new wunderkind of Philippine literary circles.  Today, I find myself writing – trying to write – a short story on the wee hours of the morning, drawing from a very shallow well – and a very shallow understanding – of diligence and discipline.  If there’s anythming I have to do to be recognized, it’s to work my ass off even if it hurts.

My hands hurt, my head hurts.  Just before I started writing this godforsaken entry, the shooting pain that radiates from my hands to the base of my spine reared its ugly head again.  In yet another emo episode that involved a good measure of self-flagellation, I just cracked my knuckles, bent my neck from side to side, and stretched my fingers as far as they will reach.  Knuckles that have been strained, a spine jarred since my childhood, and fingers that have turned to claws.  I felt the urge to scream in pain, bit my lip, and waited for the pain to subside.

Then, it was back to the draft.  Back to a miserable, almost Quixotic struggle to reach a goal and to keep a promise.

With bloodshot eyes, I looked at the few paragraphs in front of me.  I wondered aloud, “Why am I doing this?”  Whatever I’m doing is not an act of passion or heroism, but suicide.  Diligent or disciplined as it may be, it’s not a cause for admiration.  Rather, the pain that I put myself through on a daily basis is a cause of shame, embarrassment, and alarm.  Too much self-sacrifice is useless for something that is not assured.

I don’t know when that recognition will come, but that is not worth the pain.  Yet until then, things still need to get done.  Works need to be written.  I’ll just have to draw the strength from a well much deeper and full than where I’m taking it from.

Behind the Curtain: Marocharim Reviews "The Wrestler"

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I’ve been a wrestling fan since I was a kid, and grew up to be a bit of a mark for it.  Never mind that it’s fake and scripted; there’s always something about professional wrestling that keeps me riveted to every storyline, every angle, and every match.  I guess it’s the element of spectacle in pro wrestling; in so many ways, a pro wrestler icon is larger than life.  Why wouldn’t you be, when you’re supposed to be at the peak of physical fitness?  Why wouldn’t you be, when you lead entirely different lives in and out of the ring?  That difference, I think, is the underlying theme of The Wrestler.

I’m going out on a limb in saying that this could very well be one of the best movies of the year.

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Kids, If You're Gonna Drink…

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I was reading a friend’s wall post in her Facebook account about one of these “hardcore drinking parties.” I won’t go into the details because it’s absolutely inane and asinine, but then again, I smoke and I drink.  I have my vices.  I was wild back in high school.  So in the interest of “public service,” I am writing this entry.

I’m not going to get on my moral high horse, because I don’t have one.  As a smoker and as a drinker, I can’t tell kids to stop smoking and stop drinking.  Lemme put it this way: if your idea of a high school drinking experience is to drink a shot of vodka and a cold glass of beer, and you’re all gonna do is to start phreaking out, you kids don’t know a damn thing about drinking.

I don’t have a problem with parties.  I’ve been to a lot of parties.  I’ve drank my ass off more times than I can count.  Then I realized there really is no difference between drinking on your own, and drinking with a group.  Then I realized that there’s no worse feeling than a bad hangover, coupled with a bit of incontinence and diarrhea.  I won’t go into the details of that, but I’m telling you, it’s not a very pleasant experience.  It’s a good thing I can handle my alcohol very, very well; the stupidest people I’ve seen are drunkards.  Drunk kids.

Inebriated boys and girls who think they’re the coolest in the neighborhood, and spend all their money on booze.  Kids who puke their guts out at 11 PM.  Kids who, nine months later have children of their own.  A year later, that very same drunk boy from the last is the exact same kid serving me my Chicken McNuggets 15 minutes after I ordered it from the cashier at McDonald’s.

There’s an old saying that goes, “In vino, veritas;” in wine, there is truth.  If you start doing something stupid while you’re under the influence of alcohol, you’re pretty much stupid.  For all intents and purposes, you’re not insensitive.  You’re not even immoral.  You’re just plain stupid.  If you’re gonna drink, hold it in your stomach; don’t hold it in your brain.

Young minds are terrible things to waste.  And if you’re gonna puke it out, try to hold it in, experience the hangover.  Alcohol is a terrible thing to waste.

Fence

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(Posted as a reply to Katrina Stuart-Santiago and the anti-JJ crowd… a riposte)

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The chicken wire enclosure to your left may seem meaningless; it’s found on every open parking lot in Ortigas Center.  That itself carries with it an import; that I am not supposed to cross here, that I am not allowed here unless I have a car and am willing to pay the fee.

It may all seem trivializing, but you can derive meanings like that from things which are nothing more than simple enclosures to public space.   For something made with wire and metal tubes, a fence can evoke strong feelings.

It’s not that fences are built to be evil, but it is the purpose of a fence that carries with it some degree of meaning.  

After the Friday the 13th incident at the UP Fair, I’ve been reading up a bit on talk of “securing UP’s borders;” the gated community, fences, and so on.  The “us-against-them” mentality that seems to be present in UP right now is starting to creep up on the University grappling with the idea of “us-against-them,” of “UPians” and “outsiders.”  My stay in UP was sort of defined along those lines as well; I’ve seen some sort of violence erupt outside the fence of my own campus some years back which involved “outsiders” enjoying the Christmas concert.

The Metro Manila Development Authority (MMDA) can build fences in a matter of hours if the feel like it, y’know.  Now as far as a fence goes, building one around UP Diliman is rather easy:

  1. Evict the families, communities, the “Jumping Jologs,” and other “non-UP people,” and move them all somewhere to Katipunan or C.P. Garcia.
  2. Use UP’s funds (or alumni funds, or take up a collection among students) to build and erect chicken-wire fences on the perimeter of UP.  Better yet, make fences made from stone and iron bars.
  3. Build gates on strategic locations.  Give or take a year of construction work, you have successfully “secured UP’s borders.”  Heck, you can electrify this fence come the next UP Fair.

So much for being a fence-sitter, so to speak… here goes.

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