Celebration: An Anthology to Commemorate the 50th Anniversary of the Silliman University National Writers Workshop Sands and Coral, 2011-2013
Silliman University, 2013
One has to admire the cocky display of intellectual masturbation of the very, very young. They're so cute! They mouth off theory and obscure cultural references with the gusto of fireworks -- the way we used to do it. But yes! We were once like them. Now, time has thankfully mellowed us and has proven that all that posturing is at best ultimately silly -- and the only way to go about it, especially when you encounter it again in people half-a-decade younger, is to smile and thank God there was no Facebook then to document all that silliness.
What the...? I'm watching the rerun of the Oscars over at StarMovies -- and they totally cut Milk's scribe Dustin Lance Black's beautiful acceptance speech about growing up gay!
The complete speech goes this way:
Oh my God. This was, um, this was not an easy film to make. First off, I have to thank Cleve Jones and Anne Kronenberg and all the real-life people who shared their stories with me. And, um, Gus Van Sant, Sean Penn, Emile Hirsch, Josh Brolin, James Franco and our entire cast, my producers Dan Jinks and Bruce Cohen, everyone at Groundswell and Focus for taking on the challenge of telling this life-saving story. When I was 13 years old, my beautiful mother and my father moved me from a conservative Mormon home in San Antonio, Texas to California, and I heard the story of Harvey Milk. And it gave me hope. It gave me the hope to live my life. It gave me the hope one day I could live my life openly as who I am and then maybe even I could even fall in love and one day get married. I wanna... I wanna thank my mom, who has always loved me for who I am even when there was pressure not to. But most of all, if Harvey had not been taken from us 30 years ago, I think he'd want me to say to all of the gay and lesbian kids out there tonight who have been told that they are less than by their churches, by the government or by their families, that you are beautiful, wonderful creatures of value and that no matter what anyone tells you, God does love you and that very soon, I promise you, you will have equal rights federally, across this great nation of ours. Thank you. Thank you. And thank you, God, for giving us Harvey Milk.
Instead, it went...
Oh my God. This was, um, this was not an easy film to make. First off, I have to thank Cleve Jones and Anne Kronenberg and all the real-life people who shared their stories with me. And, um, Gus Van Sant, Sean Penn, Emile Hirsch, Josh Brolin, James Franco and our entire cast, my producers Dan Jinks and Bruce Cohen, everyone at Groundswell and Focus for taking on the challenge of telling this life-saving story. When I was 13 years old, my beautiful mother and my father moved me from a conservative Mormon home in San Antonio, Texas to California, and I heard the story of Harvey Milk. / Thank you. Thank you. And thank you, God, for giving us Harvey Milk.
Censorship!
Then again, what can we expect from the broadcast family that has given the world stupid FoxNews?
It gives new definition to that ultimate social-networking status, It's Complicated.
Tell me your Facebook relationship dilemmas, guys. Comment away!
[update]
The Pope weighs in on Facebook, welcomes it, but warns that "obsessive virtual socializing can isolate people from real interaction." Does he know what the heck he is talking about? I have never ever been this close to many of my friends, and it's all because of Facebook. The online interaction does extend to offline camaraderie, as a recent Time Magazine article pointed out.
Oh my God. Dear Ms. Emily Marcelo, this is so me! I read your advice for Frustrated Professor, and it just went over me like a cold, sobering shower. Because I was starting to waver in my resolve, see, and crumbling a little bit. But what you wrote slapped me back to reality. Thank you, Emily. Your advice was for another man, but by God, you spoke to me, too. And I'm grateful.
Trust me, this will put the Happy in your New Year. I rarely rave about any blog -- because there's so much trash out there, and porn and spam always get in the way -- but this is the first time since Postsecret and The Search for Love in Manhattan that a blog has made itself something of a must-read for me. I just stumbled into Fuck You, Penguin, and it is the most darling thing in the Internet next to that game where you throw shoes at George W. Bush.
The blog is about something simple: it's a blog about putting cute animals in their place. Here's a sample post about ... puffins:
There's nothing more obnoxious than a fake animal that tries to pass itself off as an authentic member of the animal world. Puffins are maybe the biggest offenders when it comes to this, even going so far as to pretend to take pictures with humans and hang out in places like Iceland where no normal person can confirm that they were really there. (Like Iceland is a real place, anyway. "Björk" is from there!) Take a look at this clearly computer generated motherfucker above. Of course, he tries to blend into the scenery by standing by a rock in some grass, but do you see it? The only shadow is from the rock. IF YOU'RE SO REAL, PUFFIN, WHERE'S YOUR FUCKING SHADOW. Busted, Puffin. Now go back to living inside a fucking 8-year-old girl's head.
Precious!
But this one really had me in stitches...
In the name of ALL THAT IS HOLY put that foot down, Kitten! What are you trying to prove? You know what, Kitten? FUCK YOU AND EVERYTHING YOU STAND FOR. It might be your world now, Kitten. But you can't stay on top forever.
Bwahahaha!
Now go and read, and split your sides from laughing.
Speaking of The Search for Love in Manhattan, Faustus has a post that says something about the addiction I am currently enduring: Facebook. Here it is...
I understand that, for the young, Facebook has virtually innumerable appealing qualities.
However, for people of a certain age, the best things about Facebook, as far as I can tell, are that you find out
1) all the people you wanted to sleep with in high school but couldn't dream of doing so because they were straight are now gay; and
2) All the people you were jealous of and wanted so badly to be that it made you bleed are now fat and real estate agents.
FROM THE WEBSITE: The mission of the Global Orgasm is to effect positive change in the energy field of the Earth through input of the largest possible instantaneous surge of human biological, mental and spiritual energy.
WHO? All Men and Women, you and everyone you know.
WHERE? Everywhere in the world, but especially in countries with weapons of mass destruction and places where violence is used in place of mediation.
WHEN? December 21st, at 12:04 Universal Time (GMT). In the Philippines, that's 7 p.m.
Many months ago, Mark and I were sitting in the backseat of his car, and his six-year old niece was up front. Then she casually asked, "Daddy*, is Eee-yan your best friend?" We both looked at each other and then laughed. "Yes, Dewey," we chorused.
Days ago, I went by Mark's office to say hi, and Dewey was there busy drawing on pink (pink!) Post-Its. She said she wanted to draw us. And these were what she drew (click to enlarge):
Note the heart and the holding of hands. Pray tell me, what does a six-year-old know?
Months ago, in a writers’ conference in Baguio, while we were waiting for a van to take us to the house of National Artist BenCab, a bunch of friends and I stumbled on an online phenomenon that took ego-tripping to a new level: it was called Google Fight, and it inserted Internet technology to our most casual sense of narcissism.
Google Fight is relatively old (almost as old as Google itself), but my Baguio friends found it quite novel. It takes something as simple as search, and turns it on its head, making Googling a game of "My father is stronger than your father"-proportions. The idea, of course, borrows the very wonders of Google, the world’s foremost Internet search engine whose secret algorithms allow it to scour the billions of webpages available out there, just to ferret out information most worthy of one’s search words. In less than a decimal of a second.
Of course, in the usually private act of our Internet surfing, the idea that comes must be common to all who have half the wit of being curious: “If I Google myself, what will I find online?”
Google Fight takes that fascination further by giving any Internet user two search fields: you simply type in two specific keywords, each to its own search field, then you press Enter—and Google Fight determines which keyword brings back the most returns. If you type in “Obama” vs. “McCain,” for example, Obama wins hands-down with 244,000,000 returns compared to McCain’s 157,000,000. This means that there are more Internet references and links to the keyword “Obama” than to “McCain.”
In Baguio, this led to a merry Google Fight between all our names—which begged the Existential question just right for the Information Age: if you Google yourself, and you don’t find anything, do you really exist?
Googling oneself, of course, is such a narcissistic thing to do. It is also something that spares no one, and everybody I know is guilty of it. One friend Googles himself constantly, just to settle his inflated sense of paranoia that people may be spreading bad gossip about him online. (The infamous Brian Gorrell blog has made that a plausibility, of course.) I, too, Google myself sometimes—for a variety of reasons, one of them being a tiny sense of affirmation—God help me—that I actually exist. And I do get unique results of my online self-searches, if only because I have such a weird family name. I’m not a Piñero, a Reyes, a Villanueva, a Perez, or any of that sort. These are surnames of thousands. I’m a Casocot—that stands out clearly from a crowd of surnames.
I used to be ashamed of my surname. Casocot. The whole thing sounds utterly made up. I also used to be convinced that it sounded silly, somewhere in the neighborhood of Makabalig-otin, or any of those memorable Siquijodnon surnames.
My father used to tell us that the Casocots a generation before him had coined this strange family name out of thin air because the Murillos—our supposed old (and real) family name—were being hunted down by the Japanese kempetai during World War II. As to what specific offense or guerilla honor it was, I have no idea. But father was often fond of tall tales, and while I used to be inclined to believe him, I really have no way to verify anything anymore. He died when I was 21, and with him died a chance for knowing the real score. So now my brothers and I are stuck with merely wishing for the generic-sounding “Murillo,” because, truth be told, that surname does make things easier. At least bureaucratically-speaking. My brother Rey, who is based in Los Angeles, got tired of being asked to spell out and explain “Casocot” every time he had to process papers that he had since legally changed his surname to that of my mother’s maiden name, which is Rosales. (Now there’s a very generic surname.) He had also given himself a new second name, Gio. So the Rey Rosales Casocot of old is now Rey Gio Rosales. Everybody mistakes him for a Latino now, and he doesn’t care.
Casocot. It sounds dirty sometimes, and when foreigners do try to pronounce it, they say “Casket” instead. Like “death” itself. Even the great poet Eileen Tabios once called me Ian Rosales Scott. Because, well, there’s just no spelling it correctly, especially the first time around.
Kasukut. Casukot. Kasokot. I can go on, and on.
And so, I tried Googling the whole damn surname, to see if I could get anything beyond returns with my name in them. (This is easy to do. I simply wrote in “Casocot –Ian –Fermin –Rosales,” which effectively cancelled any returns with “Ian Fermin Rosales” in them.)
I did get some results.
One historical website lists down what remained of old Filipino surnames before the Claveria Edict of 1849, which called for the Hispanization of family names in Spanish colonial Philippines. One entry points out to an old Tagalog surname, “Casuco,” which meant “fellow surrenderee.” (My ancestors surrendered? To what? And is “Casuco” the real forerunner of “Casocot”?)
But now, also a deepening mystery. There is now the matter of “kinsmen” found online, all of us sharing a weird name, most of them quite thick in Nasipit or Butuan City, Agusan del Norte. Who in heavens is Alona Brenda Casocot? Danilo Casocot Brucal? Vhim Pate Casocot? Felix Casocot? Rodel Castor Casocot? Jesebelle Casocot? Maria Ruena Casocot? Sirelo Casocot? Lauro Casocot? Florencio T. Casocot? Nestor Malalis Casocot? Are they relations?
Why does a certain Lalaine Casocot proclaim in her Friendster profile, “nvr let guys hurt u..we women r d planetz pride..so wen guy hurtz u..,stand tall and say!!Im too beautiful to be yours..!!”? And why does a certain Christine Casocot, also in Friendster, describe herself thus as “gwafa q wui, way palag kay wla tambal sa insicurities hehehehehehe..”? Do Casocots normally murder language this way?
Worst of all, who is Flordeles Casocot?
And why does she have an online dating profile for a site usually reserved for mail-order brides desperately looking for white, dirty, old men? And why does she look like an overly Block & Whitened tsimay? And does the same blood course through my veins? Oh. My. God.
Fun, fun, fun.
Try it. Google yourself. Sometimes you can never guess the surprises you will find online.
I don't know whether to be horrified or to be tickled pink, but it seems as if the Edu Manzano-popularized "Papaya Dance" has become the new macarena. Over at Good Morning America, where Diane Sawyer holds court every morning in American television, the dance has the whole crew shaking and waving, and shaking and waving... Oh, dear Kapamilya.
(Kris never had this good when she was Game KNB queen, did she? Loser.)
Two points though: First, Ellen would probably do "Papaya" more dancing justice than Diane can. I'd like to see this tried on Ellen. You can imagine it now, can you... Second, with this and the other videos, plus the fact that we seem to be the only Asians who've made constant impact on American Idol (with Jasmine Trias, Camille Velasco, AJ Tabaldo, and now Ramiele Malubay) -- we've truly become the unsurpassed court jester, uhm, entertainer of the world.
Happy Easter, people!
[video swiped from mukamo, who doesn't want to share this video apparently: he has disabled embedding -- but thank god there's ripzor]
Three days ago, Arthur C. Clarke left for the stars. If you have read his brilliant short story "The Star," you will know that the story is a kind of shorthand for many of the themes in his fiction, particularly of the spiritual sort. "The Star" is about an astronaut/theologian who ventures off with a space crew deep into the cosmos to probe the remains of an exploded star. He soon stumbles on an extinguished civilization on one of the planets in that solar system, and discovers an faith-shattering evidence of Biblical resonance.
A star 7.5 billion light years away exploded, giving off the brightest gamma-ray burst afterglow ever seen.
Yesterday, earthlings (well, at least NASA people) saw a star from 7.5 billion light years away explode: it was bright enough, the news reported, that anybody on earth could see it with the naked eye.
Clarke. Death. Exploded star. More than cosmic coincidence, methinks.
I get this every time I watch E! News and Ben Lyons comes up to give his two-cents' worth about the films opening over the weekend: the shivers. I mean, he's an okay-looking guy, and he sounds like a true movie maniac. But have you considered those eyes? Those dead black pools that reveal absolutely nothing? When he looks into the camera, I get nauseous and nervous. Like, there's nothing behind those eyes at all. Like there's nothing in there, only a black hole that will eat you.
People were wondering where Arnel Salgado disappeared to after enduring the most humiliating latest installment of his life. Not for penning the scabrously delightful The Fireless Inferno or Kidnapped by the Gods or Love in Time of Anguish, but for the sex scandal that "sullied" his name. Jara commented on my last post on Mr. Salgado: "Unfortunately, the cell number for ordering his new novel has not been on for weeks and he has not been answering correspondence sent to his email addresses."
Ladies and gentlemen, Salgado worshippers, and members of The Saucy Fellowship, the mystery has been solved. An announcement from the blog of the infamous novelist of the purple order reads: "Since my life was destroyed by the trumped up and unsubstantiated charges against me, I decided to go back to the MOUNTAIN and continue my struggle there. It is the ONLY place where I can find justice and peace. I was already judged by the people around me. I lost my DIGNITY, HONOR, PROFESSIONS and my FAMILY. I have to fight back and gain so much will to fight from my brothers and FORMER comrades in the communist movement. May the almighty FATHER guide me always. Nos cum prole pia, benedicat virgo Maria."
Bless you. Now you can sing your phantasies of air castles to the mountains of perchance. Don't stop writing those novels. Maybe a forthcoming one should be titled, Comrades of the Dignity Mountain...?
Before I let this go, I can't help but share Mr. Salgado's formula for perfect injustice:
½ t [an + bn + cn] = d where: a = complainant with questionable motive b = NBI agent who wants achievement and recognition c = IMBESTIGADOR or any TV investigative show d = (Dean) Injustice t = truth or lie depending on the point of view of the complainant n = number, 1,2,3…ad infinitum
I don't know what it means, but it reminds me of Imelda Marcos's crazy formulations about world peace and beauty. There's something about bogus mathematical expressions that snare in not-so-beautiful minds, I guess.
He looks absolutely distressed, the poor guy. Gikuot sa kagwang (the "me" in the still).
He was having a concert in Sydney when he chose to go over to the screaming ladies in the expensive row. Bad move. Because that was when Kristyn grabbed him, and refused to let go. She had to be restrained and dragged away by some burly security guard. Dear Grace, I'm disowning knowing you. Love always, Will.
12:15 PM |
Can You Say "Rabbit Stew"?
[swiped from keith cortez, bunny lover]
A star 7.5 billion light years away exploded, giving off the brightest gamma-ray burst afterglow ever seen.
