Monthly Archives: August 2010

Posted:
Aug 8, 2010
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2 Comments

A Year After Le Cirque

Exactly one year ago today: the infamous Page Six story that made the name “Le Cirque” such a reviled word in the Philippines.  It was former President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo’s infamous million-peso dinner: a scandal so malevolent, a controversy so maleficent, that it behooves us all to just… well, forget about it.  It’s an attitude best reflected in a corporate aphorism: “moving forward.”

I wrote before that L’Affaire du Le Cirque was insulting and disgusting not because of the political and legal concerns that it raised – something that GMA and her peons were very willing to argue from – but because it hit the Filipino smack dab in the stomach, where it hurts.

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Posted:
Aug 4, 2010
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4 Comments

The Wages of Wowowee

The tearful spiels from Mariel Rodriguez meant the end of it: the last ropes that held the curtain up for Wowowee were cut off, and the show was no more.  To the very end – the last “boom-tarats” and the last dollar in the hat – Willie Revillame remained an inspiration, the wellspring of happiness to thousands (if not millions) of people who have watched the “show of every Filipino.”

It was a heartfelt, emotional farewell, from the cheery co-hosts, to the scantily-clad dancers.  From the producers, to the audience members who flew from San Francisco, California, just to watch Wowowee.  And yes, right down to the old women and children near the rafters – those who have spent hours under the hot sun – waiting for a chance to enter the studio, to take a crack at the games, and perhaps win the jackpot.

Conspicuous by his absence: Willie Revillame.  The inspiration, the wellspring of happiness, the icon of hope for millions of viewers.  The story we would like to believe in is that he was cut to size by Jobert Sucaldito, Wowowee Killer.  Wowowee survived allegations of cheating, scandals, the watchful moralistic eyes and ears of the MTRCB.  Heck, Wowowee survived when 71 fans died in a stampede, by the show’s own making.  It was almost invincible, unstoppable, infallible… until the whole thing crumbled into pieces.

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Posted:
Aug 2, 2010
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Ultraviolence

In his essay on wrestling, the French philosopher Roland Barthes described professional wrestling as a “spectacle of excess.”  Before dirt-sheets on pro wrestling websites and TV specials exposing the staged nature of sports entertainment, Barthes could arguably be called the forefather of “sports entertainment;” that the very first WrestleMania was that hall in Paris where he observed – and perhaps over-intellectualized – catch-as-catch-can wrestling.

I’m a mark for wrestling myself; having watched it on TV since I was a kid, I’ve seen – and I continue to see – the spectacle grow.  Back in high school we used to imitate the pro-wrestling matches we saw on television, and I’ll be the first to tell you that improperly-executed sharpshooters and hammerlocks do, in fact, hurt.  Yet over the years, I grew a bit tired of the worn-out “soap opera for men” that is American mainstream pro wrestling – World Wrestling Entertainment, for example – and moved on to shows that fill my appetite for catch-as-catch-can, violence…

… And the occasional steel cage deathmatch where light tubes, steel chairs, and gimmicked tables are completely legal.

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Posted:
Aug 1, 2010
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2 Comments

Marocharim Decides to Die*

I decided to die.

Death is welcome.  Too welcome: whether it’s in spectacular form like car explosions, or in something as absurd like choking on a walnut not chewed properly.  A gun in my head can kill me faster than cigarettes and alcohol.  It doesn’t really matter if it’s a slow, painful process or a quick and easy instant: death is welcome.  It’s right there.  Not that life is pointless, or that I’m sad or that I’m depressed.  Death is just there, waiting.

I never gave much thought to death until that taxi ride where I decided to die, for no reason at all.  When you’re cruising through the highway a little above the speed limit, with cargo trucks weaving through lanes with the occasional Porsche speeding along the asphalted shoulder of the road, you think death.  I could die here, whether it’s a spectacular car crash or a hard thud on the barricades.

Then I figured I don’t really have to do that.  Death is welcome; I can die at any instant.  I could just not see tomorrow, and that’s it: I don’t have to get hurt.  I don’t have to feel pain to die.  In that hope of trying to extend your life by cutting yourself away from vice, they’ll catch up with you one day.  You never know when some lunatic will point a gun at the back of your head and shoot.  You never know when that walk on top of an office building will send you hurtling down the ground.  The next thing you know you’ll be with a hundred other people looking at the sunset from the beach, with your trench-coats on, not feeling the sand between your toes.

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Posted:
Aug 1, 2010
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The Yellow Elephant in the Room

A year into Cory’s death, and 32 days into the Presidency of Benigno S. Aquino III, there’s still that big albatross on the roof gutters of Times Street: could Noynoy have become President if not for the memory of his mother?

The most vocal critics of Aquino have said it themselves on countless occasions on many blogs and articles: that the Noynoy victory isn’t one of democracy or ideals or even hope, but marketing and the Filipino penchant for nostalgia and drama.  It was the last hurrah, the final ace up in the sleeve of those who profess by “Cory Magic.”  For his most ardent supporters, May 10, 2010, was “destiny.”  For his most unforgiving detractors, Noynoy’s victory was the most concerted act of historical coattail-riding in recent memory.

Of course, even the dead wouldn’t rest in peace in the new industry of Aquino-bashing.  Cory wasn’t a hero, and you have endless stories from the gates of Hacienda Luisita – and a mounting national debt – to back that up.  It evokes different kinds of nostalgia: of Marcos “instilling discipline” upon the people, or looking back at Gloria Macapagal Arroyo’s regime as the “glory days” of a nation that’s now facing up to the gaffes – and perhaps the glibness – of the new Administration.

A year into Cory’s death, and 32 days into the Presidency of Benigno S. Aquino III, there’s that yellow elephant in the room again.

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