Lugod sa gulugod

GULUGOD ng lupa ang turing sa bato. Lumamig na putik na ibinuga ng bulkan, mga nagsanib nang kalansay ng bahura o coral, lastillas o mga bilugang tipak ng batong pulos mababang uring silicon ang sangkap, adobeng bulik, escombro, batong dapi o limestone na tahasang calcium carbonate at kauring pangunahing sangkap ng buto ng hayup ang taglay… hahaba ang talaan natin kapag inisa-isa ang kani-kanilang pangalan.

Gulugod kaya higit na kaalaman ang kailangan para maisalansan nang matino—haligi na’y pader pa ng ititindig na tahanan. At katuwang na ng mga nakatindig na tahanang bato ang mga angkan ng panginoong maylupa’t maunlad na mangangalakal. Nakalublob lang sa bahay kubo o dampa ang mga hapay at lupaypay ang kabuhayan.

Nagtitindig ng tahanan mula sa mga sangkap na maapuhap sa kapaligiran. Dayami’t putik ang pinaghahalo sa pamamaraang wattle-and-daub na matutunghayan sa mga dampa ng dukha sa China. Suson-susong tipak ng yelo ang kabuuan ng igloo ng mga Eskimo. Pinatuyong dayami’t putik ang mga dampa sa kabundukan ng Mexico. Tagni-tagning bahura’t bato mula dalampasigan ang karaniwang tahanan ng mga Ivatan sa Batanes.

Mga Ivatan lang yata ang nangahas na bumuo ng bahay na bato, hindi man sila mula sa angkan ng mga panginoong maylupa o maunlad na negosyante.

Pansinin na pawang bato ang mga sinaunang simbahan saanmang kuyukot at tumbong ng ating tinubuang lupa. Hindi naman siguro ipinagbawal ng mga fraile sa mga Indio ang pagpapatayo ng mga dampa na yari sa bato—na matatagpuan nga sa mga liblib na lupalop ng Mexico, na kinapadparan din ng mga fraile’t sinakop din ng España.

Mas mataas na antas ng kaalaman sa pagtitindig ang kailangan para sa masinop na pagsalansan at paghahanay ng mga tipak ng bato. At kailangan din ng malalim na imbak ng tiyaga at sigagig. Matagalan ang pagtibag mula sa mga pampangin ng ilog o dagat. Matagalan din ang paghubog sa mga tipak sa angkop na laki na magiging sangkap sa ititindig na tahanan.

Batid na natin ngayon ang pahalang na ugit ng lakas o lateral stress at pabagsak o vertical stress sa nakatindig na istruktura. Naaangkupan ngayon ng steel reinforcing bars—lalo’t buhos ang kongkreto na hindi na kailangang isalansan, titigas na lang.

Mas malalim at matalim na kaalaman ang hinihingi ng batong paninindigan.

Kaya gumagamit ng mga kasangkapan sa pagtitindig. Mauungkat na straight edge ang isa pang taguri sa ruler o panukat ng haba—no ruler can be crooked, a ruler should be always straight edged or it loses its edge and becomes a crook which isn’t useful for setting things straight.

Can the structure stand true and not collapse if the ruler is a crook?

Sa mga dampa, barong-barong at mahinang uring istruktura lang puwede ang tiwaling tindig—hindi sa istrukturang nakasandig sa batong gulugod ng daigdig.

Palaruan nga pala ng unos at daluyong ang mga dako ng kapuluan na nakaharap sa Pacific Ocean—tuwinang mahahagupit ng mahigit 20 bagyo taun-taon. Nagkalat lang ang mga tipak ng tumigas na putik na isinuka ng bulkan, mga batong buhay, escombro at nagsanib nang kalansay ng bahura sa kapaligiran doon.

Sumulong na ang materials technology pati na mga pamamaraan ng masinop na pagtabas ng bato—may carborondum at diamond-tipped cutting saws. At hitik na hitik ang kabatuhan sa paligid, nananatiling tiwangwang na para bang payo ng yumaong Dr. Jose Protacio Rizal ukol sa buhay na walang kabuluhan at pakinabang—hindi naging bahagi sa pagtatag at pagtindig ng gusali.

Hikahos pa rin talaga sa kaalaman ukol sa mga lihim ng matikas na batong pagtindig.

Iba yata ang mga Ivatan. Habang ang karamihan ay uugod-ugod, may naitindig, itinanghal sila na mga lugod mula sa gulugod.

Puzaza

HINDI naman alam ng kumag na Batman na matalim ang kanyang mga kuko’t pangil. Kaya laging mag-iiwan ng mga kalmot, galos, gurlis, pawang mababaw na sugat sa balat ang kanyang mga paglalambing sa sinuman sa amin.

Hindi naman lahat ng pusa—puzaza ang naging term of endearment namin sa kanila, halaw sa batlaya ng pamumunga na naglalakbay sa bigwas ng hangin, si Pazuzu. Hindi lahat ng pusa’y dumaraan sa ganoong yugto ng pagtuklas sa kanyang mga kapisan sa pamamahay. Lalo na ang mga tinatawag na pusang hindi ibilnilang, iniligaw o itinapon na lang dahil dagdag na bibig din na dapat paglaanan ng kahit tirang pagkain.

Pero mayroon ngang yugto ng pagtuklas sa paligid pati sa mga makakasalamuha. Kailangang mailimbag sa katawan at diwa ang mga batayan at sandigan ng mga magiging gawi’t gawa. Mas masinop nga ang pusa sa ganitong pagtatakda, sa tinatawag na biological imprinting process. Tao man ay dumaraan sa ganoong landas ng masinsinan at masinop na pagtuklas.

May mapupulot na aralin sa mga kumag na pusa—na karaniwang mas matapat sa latag at lawak ng kanilang kikilusang lupain. Feline loyalty ba ang itatawag sa ganoon dahil pusa? O napakababaw na pagmamahal sa ginagalawang at nagtutustos na lupain. Napapalapit na yata sa itinuturing natin na pagmamahal sa bayan…

“Aling pag-ibig pa ang hihigit kaya
Sa pagkadalisay at pagkadakila
Kundi pag-ibig sa tinubuang lupa
Aling pag-ibig pa?
Wala na nga, wala…”

Salpak na salpak pala sa pamantayan ng bayaning Gat Andres Bonifacio ang biological imprinting process na tinutupad ng mga pusa—lalo na ng mga pusang gala. Kapag lubusan kasing nasinop ang naturang paraan ng pagsanib ng katawan at diwa sa ginagalawang kalawakan ng lupain hanggang sa mga hangganan nito sa papawirin, lalapat naman ang pamantayan ni Loren Eiseley—“man is an expression of his landscape.” Magiging mabunying pahayag ng lawak at hangganan ng lupain ang taong tumatahan doon.

Kinukutuban tuloy na hindi naman masuyong paglalahad ang tinutupad ng lupain kundi pagsusuka lang. Hindi marahil masikmura ang mga sumampid sa pisngi ng lupalop na pawang nakatunganga, ni hindi nagtatangka na tuklasin, sinupin at pagyamanin ang himaymay ng buhay ng lupa.

Kaya heto na nga, nakaamba na ang Taiwan at China na himukin ang ating bansa sa matagalang lease agreement. Uupahan ang mga nagkalat na tiwangwang na lupain sa napakaraming panig ng Pilipinas. Dayuhan na ang magsisinop, magpupunla ng mga mapapakinabangang halaman para matustusan ang kani-kanilang pamayanan.

Ah, igiit ang pagiging makabayan. Ipangalandakan sa kung saan-saan ang masidhing pagmamahal sa tinubuang lupa na kung ihahambing sa singkapan ng sinta, tigang na tigang pala’t uhaw na uhaw sa umaatikabo’t umuusok sa pusok na kaplugan.

Kapag itinustos ang pagmamahal, tutumbasan o susuklian, hihigitan pa ang inialay na pagmamahal.

Kaya dapat na sigurong itaktak, ipukpok na bundok sa ating tuktok ang tumitining nang tanong.

Mahal naman kaya tayo ng sariling tinubuang lupa? Baka naman pare-pareho lang tayong sampid na hindi na masikmura’t tahasang isinusuka na ng ating lupain?

Sandosena na ang pusa naming alaga. Bawat isa sa kanila’y nagdaan nga sa biological imprinting process. Nag-iwan sila ng mga galos at gurlis na pawang mababaw na sugat sa balat—madaling maghilom, mumunti ang naiiwang pilat na pawang lagda ng pagligwak ng galak at sigwa ng tuwa.

Pero may mga napupulot na aralin at kabatiran sa mga kumag na pusa. Mas mahapdi kaysa sugat sa laman dahil bumabaon at umaarok sa lalim ng aming kaalaman.

Ah, love those adorable pussies…

Dalit sa dalita

SANGKILOMETRO ang layo ng sambahayan ng mga sampid pero araw-araw na may tatlo hanggang lima na nagmumula doon para umamot ng talbos ng kamote o malunggay na nakalatag sa bakuran nina Luz. Sa habilin “Sana magtanim na lang din kayo sa bakuran ninyo” itutugon ng sinuman ng nanghingi na “Wala kaming bakurang tatamnan.” O magkikibit-balikat. Hindi na lang kikibo. Pero tuloy lang din sa pamumupol ng talbos.

Napasigasig namang magpanibagong usbong ang tagpi ng kamote’t tulos ng malunggay kina Luz. Walang humpay sa pag-aalay ng matatalbos. Masarap ang inabraw na kamote’t malunggay na nilahukan ng dinikdik na luya, ilang tipak na kamatis, sandakot na tuyong tagunton at santasang malabnaw na kanaw ng bagoong—lalo na’t kagayak ng kaiinin lang na kanin.

Higit sa sandipa ang lupa sa magkabilang gilid ng lansangan—na tumatakbo ng higit pa sa tatlong kilometro, paagos na dadaanan at lalampasan pa ang sambahayan ng mga sampid. Pulos damong mutha lang ang nakatihayang tila suson-susong parausang pokpok na naghihintay ng mga babarukbok, inot na kumakaway sa hampas ng hangin at hamog.

Hindi kaya nasisipat o nakikita ng mga sampid, hindi kaya sila naaakit o nahahalina o nalilibugan sa hubad na magkabilang baywang ng lansangan?

Nang simulan daw nitong isang may katok yata sa tuktok ng pandalas na kaplog ng dulos at gulok sa nakabukakang tipak-tipak na kamunduhan sa magkabilang panig ng lansangan, tumanggap daw ng katakut-takot na libak at kantiyaw sa mga nagdaraang sampid.

Sa hindi madaling sabihing sabi, tinarakan ng mga buhay na muhon—tigtatlong magulang na tangkay ng kamote at taba-habang tarugo ng malunggay—ang baywang ng lansangan. Humayo, lumayo’t nakarami ng kantot.

Sarap ng pakiramdam talaga kapag tumatagaktak ang pawis lalo’t humaharurot sa ganoong pagbarurot.

Nakatikom man na hiwang mahiwaga ang alinmang lupa, tiyak na kakatas at maglalawa kapag tinarakan ng punla.

Huwag nang ungkatin sinuman ang utuging santo na gumawa ng ganoong kalibog-libog na himala.

Pero dahil walang kalibog-libog ang mga nakatungangang sampid at dukha, hindi naman pinamarisan, tinularan o ginaya ang naturang ginawa. Lalo lang silang nagsumigasig sa paggawa ng marami pang bata. Na kailangang palamunin marahil ng bunton-buntong talbos ng kamote’t malunggay.

O kung isasaalang-alang ang pananaw sa umiiral na kalagayan ng kahirapan daw, dapat lang silang sampid na maging mayaman dahil yumayaman ang lupa kapag doon sila tinabunan.

Samantala, unti-unting nagsilago ang mga itinulos na punla. Na basta na lang tinuwaran ng sinumang hinayupak na iyong may katok yata sa tuktok at tatlo ang taling sa ulo ng uten—aba apat pala ang nunal kaya sagad-buto’t sa kung saan-saang pook, lupa’t lupalop umiilandang at humuhulagpos ang iwing libog.

Kasagsagan ng tagtuyot noon sa Mindanao nang umagos ang mga ulat na namamatay daw sa gutom ang mga bata sa mga liblib na lalawigan. Maghapon daw naghahagilap ng mahuhukay na lamang-ugat na name-- na nagtataglay ng mabagsik na lasong oxalic acid at hindi pa matukoy na alkaloids at steroids. Ginagayat sa maninipis na tipak ang name, isisilid sa sako saka tatlo hanggang limang araw na ibinababad sa ilog para mapalis ang lason. Gawgaw lang ang malalabi sa mga tipak ng name-- isasaing na tila kanin, gagawing maruya o puto kaya. Maraming paslit at matanda ang namatay. Nalason sa name.

Opo, tatlo hanggang limang araw na dapat nakababad ang isinakong name sa agos ng ilog.

Opo, marami pong ilog doon na mapagsasalukan ng tubig.

Maididilig naman ang tubig sa mga tangkay ng ipupunlang kamote— hindi ito nakakalason.

Hindi pa po endangered species ang kamote. Maraming mapagkukunan ng maipupunlang tangkay. Hindi na kailangan pang dumayo sa bakuran nina Luz na kalapit ng Antipolo Christian Fellowship Church para humakot ng punla.

No thanks for the mammary

WHEN personal medical history is plied out to kindle earnest conversation or friendly banter strays into citing an array of exotic ills, allergies or hypochondriac infirmities one’s body wears like a swathe of military service decorations, such talk might be fashionable confession. Or much of it is bellyaching in lieu of breast-beating, maybe lavish indulgence to solicit sympathies or draw attention.

New York-based science fiction and fantasy writer Steve Carper plunged himself into earnest research after learning in 1978 that milk, dairy products and milk-laced food wouldn’t agree with his tummy. He learned a lot more about the quaint condition he suffers from. By 1996, he had turned up a volume, a 330-page straight-teller called Milk is Not for Everybody (Living with Lactose Intolerance) that is a joy to read.

Lactose intolerance isn’t a unique fad he picked up from any of about 3 billion people in the world that are lactose intolerant—virtual sitting ducks caught in the crossfire of a multi-million dollar advertising battle as two multinationals seek to corner a $100-million market in products for the lactose intolerant.

So there’s much lucre to be made from lactose intolerance which, as Carper had it worded "is not a disease, not a syndrome, not a disorder. It is the normal state of humanity and always has been throughout history."

Normal it is for one’s innards suddenly turning into a catastrophe zone: "Rumblings, gases, noises, explosions, rushing water and general commotion—a bout of lactose intolerance makes my insides feel like Tokyo in the midst of an attack by Godzilla. Amazingly, all that sound and fury comes not from a 100-foot-tall monster, but from a mere fraction of an ounce of (milk) sugar hidden in a delicious and nutritious meal."

Now, that makes sense with a sense of humor shining through.

Milk sugar-induced agony seems nothing to carp about: "You can define lactose intolerance simply as letting your lactose intake exceed the production of an enzyme called lactase, but that’s like dismissing the national deficit as nothing more than letting spending exceed taxes. It’s true as far as it goes, but if you want to do anything about the deficit it helps to know some basics about economics, party politics and what a trillion is. Digestion, fortunately is somewhat simpler to explain."

Carper lets out punch lines at himself and the whacked-out state of national affairs. But to even out, he takes a dig at doctors predisposed to brewing names in medical journals to latch a tab on what they thought to be a disease.

For convenience, he settles for "lactose intolerance" since no such "popular equivalent name exists for the ability to digest lactose, just as there is no term for the state of having a broken leg."

Water, vitamins and minerals are tolerable goodies directly absorbed in the digestive tracts— but other food molecules are too large and too complex in their biochemistry to be similarly processed. The body produces specialized proteins called enzymes to render molecules of protein, fat and carbohydrates into less complicated basic components—amino acids, fatty acids and simple sugars that can now be sifted into the bloodstream. This is what digestion boils down to.

Milk is water-doused sugar technically called lactose, thanks to mom’s mammary, we’re all born with a sweet tooth. Each molecule of lactose in milk is a fusion of two simple sugars glucose and galactose. Lactase is the digestive enzyme assigned the task of tearing down lactose into tenable bits fit for absorption into the bloodstream. If lactase isn’t there or its production has been stopped in the digestive tract, milk intake spells tummy trouble.

As last and weakest among intestinal enzymes, lactase is also the first to go: "The lactase-making ability of a few may diminish in their first year of life. Many more will keep their lactase high enough through age five and only then see a drop. And many more people simply keep producing sufficient lactase and never have lactose intolerance at any time in their lives."

About one fifth to one in every three people with lactose intolerance wreak havoc on their alimentary by taking a full glass of milk—and two glasses a day, as a TV ad prescribes will trigger a riot of sorts in tummies of nine among 10 lactose intolerance sufferers.

That doesn’t mean sufferers have to avoid milk and milk-based products like the plague. Say, butter is almost entirely milk fat—and is likely to inflict greater horrors on the circulatory system. Cheese is from milk protein and sheds off lactose remains via processing and aging—it takes two kilos of milk or cheese to equal the lactose content in two glasses of milk, a famished gourmand might as well eat a horse than dump two kilos of butter or cheese down his gullet.

And there are traditional sour milk preparations—yogurt, kumiss, kefir and acidophilus milk—with beneficial bacterial colonies swimming in them and churning out lactase of their own to break down up to 40% of milk’s lactose content.

Milk squeezed out of a cow’s teats is a niggardly 5% lactose, mom’s is 7% but dried milk products pack up to 80% that the sufferer need not inflict on his insides.

Despite those ads that bombard the sound bite "You never outgrow your need for milk," the hankering for milk can be outgrown and serious thought should give way to a craving for teats. Thus, Carper lets out a caveat: "If you believe everything you read, lactose intolerance may be the most widespread medical condition in the U.S."

He cites a veteran in gastrointestinal research who dismisses the hype about lactose intolerance: "Marketers are overdoing the severity of the problem."

The woes can be downright alimentary but there’s mounds of monies that can be realized from lactose intolerance— sales of lactase enzyme pills, reduced-lactose milk products and nondairy milk alternatives now exceed a fat $200 million a year in the U.S. alone.

Lactose intolerance can spawn such social gaffes as farting in sweet sorrow or too many a visit to the comfort room but, as Carper asserts, "adults do not die from lactose intolerance, nor do they need extensive testing, prescription drugs, or hospitalization.

"From a doctor’s point of view, lactose intolerance is hardly a sexy issue (nor a very profitable one, if you want to be cynical). Doctors can’t fairly be blamed for fir considering lactose intolerance to be a relatively minor concern."

And in the Philippines in which one of every five Filipinos make do with less than P50 a day for three square meals, pay for the semblance of a roof over his head and a quilt work of rags to clothe himself, lactose intolerance might be taken for a luxury food item that only the moneyed can enjoy.

Sleeping with the enemy, grappling with “he-manity”

Santa Clarang pinong-pino
Kami po sana’y bigyan n’yo
Ng asawang labingwalo
Sa gulpe walang reklamo.

Saint Clare most mild
Please do give us
Eighteen spouses
Who won’t gripe if they’re mauled.

LOVELORN males on a pilgrimage to Obando town in Bulacan some 30 kilometers north of Manila pray and sway skip and hop to a lilting folk tune in homage to Sta. Clara. The patron saint is believed to listen to requests for a fiancé. A reworked version of the same folk tune is often sung in booze binges of Filipino men folk—the drinking devotee brashly asks for a retinue of wives, a harem to serve him without qualm or complaint even if he thrashes anyone in such a string of mistresses in his fold.

That reworked folk tune betrays a mindset that afflicts the Filipino male. It is an affliction that may likely have been ingrained by some 300 years of convent trysts with fat padres and over 50 years of necking in cinema shadows with film demigods—it’s an acculturation process that reduced women to the level of chattels and playthings. We may have grappled with it in a try to struggle and prevail. Or we must have lost badly, embraced and acquiesced to our conquerors. So we took to their ways. Adopt their norms we unwittingly did.

Well-stacked Roma Batarra (not her real name) doesn’t look her age— flirty-something, maybe in her “thrifties” as she tightly holds the purse strings to a thriving publication business. She defied norms, typified the strong woman of substance who runs a tight household and a weekly tabloid. But she sounded like a lost waif as she sobbed a torrent about how her much younger live-in partner beat her black and blue.

Batarra caught him in flagrante with a much younger lover. But he wasn’t sorry getting caught. He was sore at Batarra for getting in his way and whims.

So she caught most of the blows the live-in partner rained at her. Nearly bashed to a pulp, Batarra bawled him out of the house, which she owns. The young man stormed out, still heaping verbal abuse and threats at her.

Batarra wielded her influence as a crusty tabloid journalist and got back at the errant partner whose threats of bodily harm were carried out on him. That interesting story how she got even didn’t break as news. She confided to an erstwhile editor how she got even, got herself together and moved on, sense of self-esteem intact. Body bruises can heal.

Not all bruises heal as seen in this bit lifted off a police blotter: “Insp. Mario Monilar, homicide section chief told this newspaper that they are still waiting for the documents such as marriage contract and death certificate before they could file a parricide case against the husband.

“The wife’s remains are now at the St. Ignatius Chapel… She left behind a one-year old girl.

“The girl’s aunt told investigators the dead woman was a battered wife and had long been taking the abuses.”

Cases of violence against women (VAW) that found their way into police blotters bloated from 1,100 cases in 1996 to 7,383 by 2004. The highest recorded number of VAW cases in the police department peaked in 2001 at 10,343. Both the 2004 police and social welfare records show that battering and rape are the most common types of reported cases.

Battery cases could be construed as attempts to induce abortion: six of ten battered women were brutalized during pregnancy. While a child sired on the missus can be living proof of male potency, an additional mouth to feed can wreak havoc on the man’s earning capacity.

Every now and then Eileen Corporal (not her real name) meets up with advertising honchos, looking like she had gone through 12 rounds with a wannabe Manny Pacquiao to whom she had been married for 20 years. She’d rather not talk about those bouts. She can leave her man anytime she wishes to—she is an heiress to extensive farmlands in Bulacan, she has a stable job that pays well—but she’d rather tough it out. She was brought up, her mindset shaped in time-honored values, maybe quite feudal but she hasn’t outgrown that. She isn’t looking forward to recurring return bouts to count her mounting losses. She can take the beatings.

Unlike Eileen, Siglynd (an alias) snapped after three children and 18 years of toughing it out as a human punching bag totally dependent on her tormentor for financial support: "I thought, if I got past the experience of being a battered wife for so many years, then I could cope with any other trials that come my way."

She sought help from a non-government organization espousing women’s rights. The NGO taught her about her rights and helped her obtain a court-issued restraining order for the husband to cease and desist from mauling her. She now runs a thriving cargo hauling business and sends all her children to school on her own.

In unflinching reminiscence, she muses: "My inspiration are my children. They were also my source of strength during the times that my husband was beating me up. I cannot afford to be weak since my children and I have no one to depend on but myself. I also give credit to the NGOs that not only helped me to stand on my own, but more importantly, helped me banish the trauma from my experience through counseling. Being finally free from my husband, I've now learned to appreciate my self-worth."

In recent years lawmakers have arrayed a legal arsenal to stem the rising tide of violence perpetrated on women and children. The weaponry includes:

RA 7877 Anti-Sexual Harassment Law:
RA 8353 Anti-Rape law - elevation of rape as crime against person; expanding the definition of rape to include marital rape-- 9 of 10 battered women experienced marital rape:
RA 8505 Rape Victim Assistance Act;
RA 6955 Anti-Mail Order Bride Law:
RA 9262 Anti-Violence Against Women and Children Law: and
RA 9208 Anti-trafficking in Persons Act.

Buried in Congress is a bill throttled to death by so-called Pro-Life lobbyists and their lawmaker minions, the Responsible Parenthood and Population Management Act. It is grounded on obligations of national and local governments to deliver basic services including basic health, reproductive health and family planning, with penalties for public officials who shall prohibit or intentionally restrict the delivery of legal, medically safe reproductive health care services including family planning. The bill doesn’t prescribe two-child family as ideal family size.

Legal weaponry aside, women’s rights advocates such as the Cebu-based Lihok Pilipina Foundation have also helped battered women to stand their ground, regain their bearings, and assert their humanity. Tessie Banaynal Fernandez brought the organization to life in 1985 as a group of 20 women to discuss among themselves primary health care, herbal medicines and family problems.

While a clutch of statutes can be wielded in defense of women’s rights, chucking off Jurassic thinking and repressive cultural norms ought to be the more telling tack: "The propensity to do violence begets more violence. When children witness violence, they grow up thinking that it is okay to found a family where violence exists.

"I think one significant indicator of development and all of the things we are fighting for is being able to uphold the personal integrity of each person. Until we have that, violence in the homes, in the fight for properties or land, and everything else cannot be entirely solved," she points out.

Palayain ang mga bihag!

“SANDOSENANG tangke ng saxitoxin ‘tong bihag ko ngayon dito sa buwangan, este, buwagin, oops, bulwagan ng Casa de Hijodiputados. Magkakaubusan dito kapag hindi ninyo ibibigay ang mga kursunada ko. Binabalaan ko kayo! Sumunod kayo sa mga sasabihin ko. Kung hindi—magkakaubusan dito!”

Sa dagundong ng kulog na babala, nabahala ang mga sumugod na kawagad ng pulisya. Nagkatinginan sa isa’t isa habang tinatahip ng kaba ang mga dibdib nila.

“Pa’no ba ‘to, bossing? Pulos seksi daw ang hostage niya. Sandosena. Sapak ‘yan! Katakamtakamtakamtakam…”

“Baka mga pin up na artista sa kalendaryo, ser. Isang hubo tabong 36-24-36 na kukuwentahin ang mga kurbada bawat 30 araw—365 araw na kaligayahang makikita santaon.”

“Seksi na, oks in pa ang sabi. Ibig sabihin, pwedeng pwede nating pasukan.”

“Oo nga. Hinayupak din talaga ‘tong hostage-taker. Parang alam ang weakness natin. Talagang malambot ang mga puso natin kahit iigkas sa tigas ang… Men, we have to cordon the area. Let no meddling media muddle this crisis. Lalala lang ang sitwasyon kapag pumapel ‘yang mga hindot na taga-media.”

Nalalagas ang mga maigting na sandali. Humahaginit na pagong ang usad ng isang oras. Rumaragasang tila alon sa imburnal ang pagdagsa ng mga usyoso sa paligid ng Casa de Hijodiputados. Kasunod na bumuhos ang mga nagtitinda ng taho, nilagang mais, inihaw na isaw, fishballs, sorbetes, kendi, yosi, mani, balut, chicharon, pati na ahente ng punerarya.

“Baka pakawala ‘yan ng kandidatong barangay kakawat o kupitan de barangay na mababa ang ratings sa voters survey. Magpapakodak lang sa mga fotog ng diyaryo. Papakuha sa mga taga-TV. Libreng media mileage nga naman.”

“Ba’t hindi pa humihirit ng gusto n’ya?”

“Hindi naman civil engineer o may-ari ng iskul bukol na gaya no’ng Armando Ducat. Pero kapag humirit ‘yan na kailangang tiyakin na makakatapos sa kolehiyo ‘yung mga seksing hostage, babakas na ‘ko kahit sa isang scholar. Bibigyan natin ng special tutoring.”

“Baka naman talent manager ng mga isasalya sa Japan. O baka fashion designer na may alagang rumarampa. Kaya siguro pulos seksi ang bihag ng hinayupak na ‘yan. Ni hindi nga pumapalag ‘yung hostages. Ni walang pumipiyok.”

“Kapag hiniling niyan na maging hostage negotiator si Kris Aquino o si Joey de Leon nalintikan na tayo. Basta kailangang makakuha tayo ng autograph saka magpapakodak tayo. Group picture para masaya.”

Kulog na dumagundong ang tinig mula sa public address system. Tinig ng hostage taker. Kalmadong kalmado.

“Pakakawalan ko ang mga bihag na saxitoxin dito sa session hall. Meron ditong special session para paghati-hatian nila ang pork barrel na ibubuhos sa huling linggo ng kampanya bago maghalalan. Tiyak na dadanak dito sa low density lipoproteins, babaha sa karumal-dumal na cholesterol! Tiyakin ninyo na walang makakalabas dito! Walang makakalabas!”

Kunot-noo ang bawat pulis na nakatutok sa krisis. Mahirap nga namang mahiwatigan ang katuturan ng low density lipoproteins na tila malapit na kamag-anak ng liposuction.

Kumakagat na ang dilim nang mag-ikaanim ng gabi. Walang maulinig ni masagap na ingay mula sa mga pinid na pintuan ng Casa de Hijodiputados. Biglang-bigla, nakarinig ng malakas na pagaspas ng pakpak mula sa itaas. Bigwas ng bagwis na lumikha ng mga mumunting buhawi. Hindi magkamayaw sa gitla ang mga miron, media at pulisya. Isang nagliliwanag na anyo ang palayo, patungo sa kaitaasan, pasagasa sa araw—hindi matiyak kung manananggal ba o anghel kaya.

Limang oras matapos makatakas paitaas ang inaakalang hostage taker, inihayag ng sumuring forensic pathologist ang sanhi ng pagkamatay ng mahigit 250 kinatawan sa Casa de Hijodiputados.

“Paralytic shellfish poisoning— ghastly death induced by STX. Saxitoxin. A dose of 0.2 milligram can kill a man of average weight. A thousand times deadlier than nerve gas. The STX released in that chamber was more than enough to kill thousands…”

Gone to seed

MANONG Willie Baun insists that Republic has been rated substandard. It wouldn’t set or cure properly. More appropriate for mixing tough mortar suitable for construction purposes would be the old-fashioned quicklime or apog made from burnt, pulverized seashells and corals, usually wrapped in peppery betel leaf plus a bit or two of areca nut for the traditional chew—nganga-- that is believed to toughen fangs.

We thought that brand name of Portland cement suggested a stwrong republic. Stwrong may take out the sting and honey of spelling bees but it has a nice wring to it.

Now we have to make do with quicklime as we chew like ruminants at the cud of such sound bite or insufferable cackle as “Itanim sa Senado.” That last term refers to a major branch of the national government that draws up, reviews, amends, or chucks outright certain laws. That fat branch is housed in a building that stands on a Pasay City landfill site, more likely on shifting sands or fine aggregate that usually go into mortar or concrete mixture for pouring.

Rustic old-timers, the simon-pure, and the naïve will likely take such a behest of planting something into a major branch as a job strictly for horticulturists—most voters aren’t exactly into that line of work that calls for a certain technique in asexual propagation. We shudder at the repercussions and implications of such a mode of propagation…

Such mode of asexual propagation is called grafting.

Just maybe an undertaking like that calls for the expertise of, well, undertakers.

Why, quicklime or apog is used to cover rotting corpses to stanch the stench. Talagang pakapalan ng apog ang kailangan upang matakpan ang karima-rimarim na sansang at alingasaw.

Centuries back, parishioners were asked by curates to bring eggs to the parish—the albumin was mixed with burnt seashells and corals—apog—as binder for huge blocks of adobeng bulik cut off river banks or hewn off mountains, and piled high upon another without reinforcing steel bars that became the enduring architecture of ages old churches. Yolks turned up as must ingredient for chocolate espesso or were made as custard that went into equally yummy leche flan, tocino del cielo, or brazo de Mercedes.

With an ubiquitous cackle like “Itanim sa Senado,” we can pore over the fond memories of yesteryears when we went out for some hormone-tugging task as paniningalang pugad, that is, gazing up at some heavenly yet downy dark delights nestling between the thighs of an unsuspecting chick. A hen sounds out a cackle after laying an egg, does she not?

The cackle must have been a hen’s cry of apprehension and protestation over the prospect of its unhatched young getting spirited to the local parish. And the unborn is spilled out, its white thrown into a gooey amalgam of powdered burnt shells and corals, the fetus-to-be whipped up into a potage of custard that faintly echoes through the centuries the Church’s unflinching stand against family planning and women’s reproductive rights.

So how do we make sense of that cackle, “Itanim sa Senado?”

One, it calls for a lot of quicklime or apog.

Two, an undertaker ought to be called for such an undertaking.

Three, all it takes is 60 days for bok choi, pak choi or hakusai—Brassica rapa-- to grow from seed and go to seed. This crap, oops, we mean crop needs a lot of manure.

Four, whatever ye sow ye shall reap a thousandfold.

Five, that’s GO in both Cantonese and Nihongo, mwa-ha-ha-haw!

Tanod ba 'yan?

FLABBERGASTED?

Our favorite professor from the UP School of Economics won’t be. Neither would she fire off another fusillade of columns at the Tanodbayan which, by its label alone implies the nation’s sentry that bars the entry of corruption and shenanigans in government service.

Prof. Solita Collas Monsod who ought to have been elected as a lawmaker in Senate had forewarned us about the Tanodbayan training its gunsights on small fry rather than sizeable targets.

She had told us that all that bluster the Tanodbayan had mustered was merely talking the talk—not really walking the walk.

We didn’t fell off our chair nor were we seized by fits of hiccups. We’re enjoying bellyfuls, laughing ourselves hoarse at the prank the Tanodbayan pulled off on the Supreme Court and the Senate.

A Senate panel took the first crack at the shady P1.3-billion contract for of automated counting machines awarded by the Commission on Elections to Mega Pacific Consortium. That deal ran roughshod over Comelec’s own bidding rules. A series of public hearings carried out by the Senate nudged out facts from a battery of witnesses that pointed up anomalies in the Comelec-Mega Pacific deal. At the close of such hearings, aghast lawmakers called for the resignation of Comelec honchos tainted by the anomaly.

In 2004, the Supreme Court ruled that the P1.3-billion contract as illegal. The High Court averred: “Truly, the pith and soul of democracy-- credible, orderly, and peaceful elections-- have been put in jeopardy by the illegal and abusive acts of the Comelec.”

That ought to have hammered the final nails on the coffin of a rotten deal.

Like a bizarre telenovela twist, Tanodbayan ignored Senate findings and the Supreme Court ruling.

Tanodbayan went a step further by overturning whatever the Senate and Supreme Court have established—why, everyone involved in that stinking deal came out smelling like roses.

Call that Tanodbayan move a practical joke, a gag’s punchline, whatever that can tickle the nation’s funny bones. Indeed, Tanodbayan has tremendous reserves of humor to keep us roaring with laughter.

Even so, our favorite UP School of Economics mentor would likely ply her witty parting shot to the Ombudsman: “Tanod ba ‘yan?”

Deus irae

AFTER Howler Milenyo raked across the megalopolis leaving a trail of debris and death, well-meaning lawmakers summoned God in a closed-door hearing. Maybe grilling. Whatever reasons lie behind so-called “acts of God” have to be made clear.

Lawmakers turned dour and sour at the sight of fallen trees crushing cars and hurting people in them. Too, streets turned awash with retted tree leaves and broken boughs—eyesores and traffic hazards these. And a lot of woes for trash collectors. God got away with mayhem and murder when those God-made trees were erected.

Lawmakers have boned themselves on the National Building Code, more so on certain provisions that call for soundness and integrity of structures given permits to be erected in the megalopolis. Those culprit trees are more than usual suspects.

It was suspected that God must have bribed a lot of people or twisted a lot of arms in the permits and licensing offices of local government units. If not, how could He have been allowed to put up structures hereabouts with substandard materials?

The tell-tale signs are there and could be swallowed in any civil court as prima facie evidence. Those postcard-pretty fixtures called trees plopped down at the height of the howler.

Divine handiwork ought to comply with the strictest standards set forth in the existing building code. Pertinent provisions of the code have to be hammered into God’s brain, if He has any.

Say, trees have to withstand intensity 10 temblors on the Richter scale. Like bridges, tree boughs ought to bear both vertical and horizontal pressures of up to 30 tons before toppling like a giant billboard. And those leaves and branchlets need to be firmed up—so that gale-force winds of up to 200 kph would hardly stir ‘em tree parts.

In addition, allowable contraction and expansion of tree parts caused by extremes of heat and humidity should be at a millionth of a millimeter per 100 degrees Celsius drop or rise in temperature.

To err is human, yes. That ought to explain why a lot of those giant billboards infesting major thoroughfares were toppled by a howler’s 130 kph wind blasts. That should quash any argument why rain-soaked concrete walls can come crashing down.

Let’s credit such fiascoes and casualties resulting therefrom to a lapse in structural engineering. Indeed, to err is human and lapses in sound judgment in construction of eyesores, claptraps and death traps ought to be forgiven.

Wordplay

A SPRINKLING of the country’s ScrabbleTM players have earned for Filipinos one of the three top ranks among the world’s best in the word game. That feat of a dozen or so board game competitors sent out to participate in the ScrabbleTM Olympics doesn’t mean we’re world-class in word power—75% of the country’s annual 400,000 college graduates have “sub-standard English skills.”

Achievement tests given to high school seniors in the 2004-2005 school year revealed that less than 7% could read, speak and grasp English well enough to enter college. And about 45% had no inkling of English.

Cebu lawmaker Eduardo Gullas is eyeing word games like ScrabbleTM and crossword puzzle books as tools to rev up learning of English. Indeed, the road to mastery of a global language is paved with desperation.

Sadly, acquiring a cache of stand-alone words—bled of context and content—but ready to be plunked down onto a ScrabbleTM board or tiled in on a crossword puzzle blank don’t inhere a grip on a foreign tongue.

People possess words. Words possess people who have delved into both the content and context of words at their command. So it is bruited that words one possess—or word power-- determines one’s role in civilization. A limited vocabulary will limit one’s potential role.

Researchers claim a 700-word vocabulary is the minimum to get along. It takes less than two years—get acquainted with a new word each day—to muster that minimum. It takes a 3,000-word arsenal—built up over eight years-- as minimum to land a job.

A stockpile of at least 10,000 words primes the individual for a social role. It may take over 27 years to own such a pile, learning a new word a day. Wordsmiths in the league of William Shakespeare, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Rabindranath Tagore or Kung Fu-tze are known to have nurtured a 60,000-word nursery that grew on them, in them.

We might as well pore over the workbooks and textbooks that Filipino schoolchildren use—most of ‘em books are as boring, dull, lousy and numb as their authors who rake in millions from such books.

We could use lively writing in ‘em books to inject life, maybe infect our schoolchildren with a love of learning—whether the subject is math, science, or English.

Dogs of God

POPE Benedict XVI is of the Dominican order— from Domini canis, literally “dogs of God” to evoke canine loyalty and devotion and probably draws humorous inspiration from god spelled backwards.

Dominicans are incorrigible scholars of sorts. Hereabouts they founded the University of Sto. Tomas in the 16th century making it the oldest university in this part of the globe. Dominican friars were also responsible for introducing irrigation system in growing rice, thus doubling yields of the Filipino staple food plus paddy-grown vegetables in the 18th century.

Papa Ratzi is a typical Dominican. Dominicans are known to shun useless chatter. They do daily rapt labor in serene quietude. Or bury themselves in tome after tome of knowledge to keep their minds razor-sharp and agile. Why, such a mind once stretched by a tempest of ideas won’t return to its original dimension—the mind stretches out, reaches into vast frontiers, opens toward limitless horizons.

The current Prince of the Church typifies such a devout scholar. In a speech in Germany last week, he quoted 14th-century Byzantine Emperor Manuel II Palaeologus. It was that emperor who claimed that everything Prophet Muhammad brought was evil, “such as his command to spread by the sword the faith he preached.”

That was an ancient emperor’s opinion.

That wasn’t Papa Ratzi’s, make no mistake about that.

Sadly, ‘twas the pope that got the ire of Muslims worldwide. He had to reiterate that his use of medieval quotes critical of Islam did not reflect his own convictions. He was misunderstood.

“But for the careful reader of my text it is clear that I in no way wated to make mine the negative words pronounced by the medieval emperor and that their polemical content does not reflect my personal conviction.

“My intention was very different. I wanted to explain that religion and violence do not go together, but religion and reason do,” he pointed out.

He said he hoped the whole furor could eventually serve to encourage “positive and even self-critical dialogue, both among religions as well as between modern reason and the faith of Christians.”

Papa Ratzi’s explanations would readily be understood by Sufi Muslims. In contrast to the prevailing Islamic view of the dog as a foul, vicious and unclean animal, Sufis held the poverty and wretchedness of the dog in special esteem, considering themselves to be dogs -- or less than dogs -- in the eyes of Allah.

Redemption

MALACAÑANG’S shilly shallying whether to assign Maj. Gen. Jovito Palparan as government’s anti-gambling czar or consultant on national security need to be resolved pronto. It wouldn’t hurt to name a battle savvy guy like that as anti-gambling lord— every bettor in the street would wager on him taking on the role, playing it to the hilt.

People would love Palparan to ply the usual terminate-and-destroy tack. It ought ot be the same sort of war plan that seeks to extirpate the 8,000-strong New People’s Army in two years flat in which hundreds of civilian sympathizers and suspected Reds were turned into stiffs.

With Palparan at the reins of the government’s anti-gambling drive, we can expect fireworks. Lots of.

Plus a staggering body count—ready the body bags, no prisoners will be taken.

For starters, our idol may be tasked to neutralize coddlers and protectors of, say, jueteng. The illegal numbers game has plagued Luzon for centuries—quite more formidable a challenge to weed out than a 30-year old or so communist insurgency.

People expect lots and lots of jueteng coddlers and protectors done in and queuing up for their appointment with an embalmer.

It is now common knowledge: coddlers and protectors infest local and national government. They come in such guises as councilor, mayor, media practitioner, barangay chieftain, congressman, police or military official, maybe even kith and kin of Malacañg occupants. Self-confessed jueteng bagman Sandra Cam did implicate GMA's hubby and eldest son as among those who were fattened by jueteng protection payoffs, did she not?

That is a formidable array, a multi-tiered assembly of corruption that exploits the Filipino penchant for the get-rich-quick way via gambling.

People would wish for Palparan to take care of ‘em jueteng coddlers and protectors, apply the usual terminate and destroy tack on ‘em. It’ll be a massive cleansing campaign.

Dissidents and their sympathizers call our idol as “butcher.” Enough of such tacky epithets and cranky name-calling.

Once Palparan gets his marching orders as the nation’s anti-gambling czar, people should bequeath him a more appropriate sobriquet.

Say, “redeemer?”

Basta gasta kasta

LAMPAS na ng hatinggabi nang masumpungan sa bukakang bukana ng kalyeng patuhog sa Avenida ang babae. Humarang sa daanan.

Kainaman ang tindig. Makinis. Naghuhulagpos sa galit ang suso sa nakahakab na kamiseta. Kainaman ang ganda ng mukha. Gitara pa rin ang hugis ng balakang. Matindi pa rin ang asim.

Paanas na inialok ang kanyang natatanging paglilingkod. Sa kama.

Napansin siguro nang humugot ako ng ilang pirasong salaping papel. Pulos hilatsa ni dating pangulong Manuel Roxas ang nakabalatay. Binayaran ang napiling guayabano— hustong isang kilo—sa matandang nakapuwesto sa bangketa ‘di kalayuan sa babae. Masarap ligisin ang himaymay ng guayabano. Para lubusang kumatas. Maihahalo ang katas asim-tamis sa paboritong marka demonyo. Isa pa’y pansupil sa mga hindi kanais-nais na singaw at alimuom mula kapaligiran ang mga binhi ng guayabano.

Inulit ng babae ang paanyaya na subukan ang kanyang serbisyo. Pagbigyan ang bisyo.

Inginuso ko ang kuna ng sanggol na kalapit niya. Ilang buwan pa lang ang edad ng sanggol na naroon. Gising pa. Naglilikot. Nakangiti. Walang malay na pagngiti.

“Anak mo?” untag ko.

Tumango ang babae.

“Eh ang tatay nito?”

“Ako ho.”

Tumindig mula sa kinahihigang likmuan sa bangketa ang isang lalaki. Naglalaro siguro sa 20-25 ang edad. Putlain. Lawlaw ang tiyan. Bahagyang nakangisi sa pag-amin na siya ang ama ng sanggol sa kuna.

Iglap na natuos sa utak kung saan mauuwi ang turing na halaga ng upa sa katawan ng ina. Buy Filipino. Eat Filipina. P100 sa tatay na payag namang mapindeho. P100 sa sanggol. P100 sa mismong nagpaupa’t nagpaupak.

Napakamura talaga.

Tiim-bagang na napamura: Putang ina!

Biglang-bigla nanikip ang aking… Hindi dibdib.

Briefs.

Plugging leaks

WE’RE not buying the Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo position—“no retake” for the batch of June 2006 nursing examinees. That sounds like pandering to the infamous batch. The leakage mess will hound them, not forever but for a long time.

A professional puts a prime value on integrity, why, even a true statesman would call for snap elections to shoo away any miasma of a sham mandate. It is expected of those examinees to hew to a similar conduct— yeah, pearls will remain pearls even if they’re strewn among pebbles.

It’s not a matter of plugging a small leak, as a Dutch folktale would have it. Remember: An innocent boy spent the whole night, missed dinner, suffered body numbness. He had to hush his fears of the dark and endured biting cold. But he stood his ground plugging a small leak in the dike with his puny finger. If it were not for that act, the small leak might have grown large. That would break the dike that holds back the sea from engulfing that boy’s community. It was a boy’s courage that held the floodwaters in check. He also saw beyond a mere leak that could touch off tragic consequences for his community.

Indeed, a little leak can sink a great ship—even a multi-ton tanker like Solar I that has spawned a massive bunker fuel spill off Guimaras island. The price to pay for tragedies proves to be more costly.

For decades, our policymakers have merely sat on their fat butts as the nation leaked out its best and brightest health care workers, nurses including. The erstwhile wee leak has widened into a floodgush rushing overseas.

So, who plugs a leak that has grown gargantuan?

Admittedly, as a health professional point out, the demand for nurses in the US, UK and elsewhere has turned into the motive force shaping the crass commercialization of nursing education and the profession.

Whatever fuels the huge demand for a nursing diploma and license to ply the profession has given ground for motley scams that victimize students, their parents, and future patients.

Dump the Hippocratic Oath or whatever oath they swear to. We’re pursuing dollars and have been in pursuit of that myopic policy of exporting skills. Why, over eight million of them skilled workers turn in some $10 billion yearly to prop up an economy in crutches.

Over here, we’re warming up to a shortage of health care professionals and the inevitable crisis of the nation’s health care system.

He's a beauty!

HE’S an oddball alright, the sort of chap infected with child-like enthusiasm and spread the contagion any which way he could. Ain’t he a beauty, that crikey character Steve Irwin?

He couldn’t skeedaddle off into the Great Beyond just like that, we’d cry buckets.

We didn’t mind the thick curious accent as he spouted tidbits of facts. We hardly noticed his khaki outfit that spoke of a fashion sense much close to a carabao’s than to a gadabout mall rat. Irwin didn’t make any fashion statements. He made sense.

Neither did he gab about lazing around in spas for body toning or consultations with a dermatologist to correct skin flaws—he wasn’t that self-absorbed or too indulged about the appearance he gave out to audiences.

He wasn’t cast in the mould of sought-after celebrities puttering about the vacuity and howling emptiness of their lives—we’ll be doubly glad if they just drop dead like flies, let their fans and followers follow suit.

Irwin wasn’t the type “cropped, hedged and distorted by outward, trivial forms, fads and fancies.”

He wasn’t at all squeamish toddling after those slithering critters, handling ‘em with as much care and wonder with a wee bit of whimsy. He was making a pitch for all of ‘em creatures great and small, all things wise and wonderful.

Do we have anybody like him around?

Nah, they all want to be our next idols, plying out song-and-dance acts or going through the motions of acting— terrible phonies all.

Oozing with energy, Irwin gawked and squawked about Nature. He sang to it paeans and praises. Adults these days, especially those soaked through in glamor and marinated in the mediocre don’t come any close to that.

And he could do mud-wrestling with crocodiles, fill in notebooks with sketches of reptiles, plop himself down on mud pies, celebrate life of the wild kind with nary a care.

That must have been a wonderful life!

Now showing

IN Con-Air a crew of death row inmates took over a plane. They crashlanded it smack at the Sands Hotel in Las Vegas. That was a bit of help in the landmark’s scheduled demolition with lots of money and debris flying. Most memorable quote off this 1997 movie: “Just so’s ya know… there’s now three people I trust.”

Con-Ass is something else that we’ve got to see. Could be an outright rip-off from Con-Air. Yeah, we’re copycats. And proud of it.

It might be about a different crew of inmates aboard a huge ass. They may be out to butcher the poor beast, do lots of mumbo-jumbo to transform the carcass into sumptous morsels called pork barrel.

Or the plot could vary. It could be a houseful of asses out to con us, then, leave us high and dry in the desert sand. A circle of vultures and buzzards ought to see our predicament, move in for the feast—and that ought to be a horror-packed film that could scare the living daylights out of viewers.

We’ve seen a trailer before the main feature—something that had the title Murder by the Numbers. Sheer quantity of numbers mustered by Palace minions steamrollered a quixotic attempt to impeach the current top tenant in Malacañang. The tragic try was squashed. That left the antagonists and villains to partake the victuals called pork barrel.

Playing a film critic of sorts, Sen. Loi Estrada views Con-Ass as a disaster movie, citing such “shameless and unconstitutional" attempt by pro-administration congressmen to rush the convening of the lower chamber into a constituent assembly is the "clearest proof why the people should thumb down Charter change."

According to her, under the present condition, a shift to parliament would only entrench the tyranny of numbers that Malacañang and its allies have already welded into a powerful weapon in frustrating the truth from coming out and in disregarding the true will of the people on vital issues affecting them such as the legitimacy of this government.

Far from bringing the country into a new "economic paradise" and bridging the political division now plaguing the country, the opposition lawmaker noted that Cha-cha and its creation, the unicameral parliament, is principally meant to "paint over and constitutionally put to rest" the legitimacy issue hounding the administration.

We expect something of a memorable quote off Con-Ass. Something similar to that plied in Con-Air.

“Just so’s ya know. We can’t trust asses out to con us.”

Lucky text maniacs

TEXT MANIACS are a lucky lot. They do eviscerate both English and Tagalog-based Filipino tongues as they ply communication sans added value. In doing such atrocity, they rack up huge profits for telecommunication firms.

Luck’s on the side of text maniacs. Even the alleged Numero Uno of these islas de ladrones en oficina alta y entre vidas bajas had recently mustered rage to wage war against cellphone filchers, snatchers and thieves.

We’re tempted to recommend one Major General Jovito Palparan to see to the conduct of war to instill terror in those riff-raff who steal cellphones. Uh, wasn’t it Yahweh or plain yawa who commanded humanity not to steal? Cellphones, trifling trinkets like a base in baseball, a turn-over ball in basketball, a chaste maiden’s heart? We hesitate to add to such list “elections” or “mandate”-- rules, like hymen, are made to be broken.

Text maniacs have the powers-that-be on their side. For instance, their tool for sending messages isn’t looked at warily as a suspect in terrorist bombings. As the global fad that began in Great Britain would have it, liquids—read: nitroglycerine-- are the more likely tools with which terrorists would blow up a jetliner, a public utility bus, a rail car or seagoing vessel.

Liquid explosives are the rage of terrorists the world over-- better believe that—from London to New York, and Metro Manila should go gaga doing gaya-gaya so as not to be left out in the conduct of security screening. Maybe, those terrorists out to blow US-bound jetliners in mid-air have sent some of those deadly liquids to their local counterparts.

Thus, a tight watch on liquids is now in effect in Metro Manila. Liquids in whatever containers—cans, bottles, jars, include a full bladder which ought to be discharged--shouldn’t be allowed aboard any public conveyance.

We’re not left being behind in the current fashion. We’re keeping in step with security measures plied in the US and UK. Yeah, we’re not fashion victims. We’re not third-rate trying hard copycats.

We dare not look back in dread at the December 30, 2002 bombing of Metro Manila’s Light Rail Transit system and several buses—22 dead, more than a hundred injured. We dare not remember that in one bus, a cellphone packed with explosives—C-4, Semtex or plastique—was detonated using another cellphone. Those horrible text maniacs…

Meanwhile, psychologists from Asia and the West are gathering in Bali, Indonesia to turn up more Asian perspectives of the science to understand terrorism in the region. It was noted that Western theories dominate psychology but aren’t exactly applicable in the East to figure out the mind of local terror-mongers.

Death penalty here to stay

TWO years isn’t too long a time to blast away off this planet some 8,000 armed regulars of the New People’s Army.

The job is as easy as finding needles in a haystack—those Reds, their cohorts, allies and sympathizers are quite loud and too showy about their beliefs. They will stick out like heinous warts. They’ll stick it out, come what may.

Forget those sound bites and usual excuses trotted out in defense of killing the death penalty—a humane and compassionate society despises taking away the lives of criminals, no matter how loathsome or abominable their crimes. Capital punishment has no place in a—gasp, choke, belch-- decent society.

Now what about those up in arms against, aim to wrest power from duly constipated, ehek, we mean, constituted powers that be?

Yes, we’re pointing accusing and dirty fingers at those virulent NPAs. We’re fingering ‘em—those frigid faggots who allow gay marriages among their regulars. They have opted to wield political power through the barrels of their assault rifles, not through greasy pork barrels. Is there a felony more heinously hideous than that?

Those NPAs exact revolutionary taxes or in plain terms kotong money from both politicos and businessmen operating in NPA territories like scalawag cops do. They bushwhack small-time felons and cops—that’s aping the ways of kidnap-for-ransom gangs, warlords and drug lords. Their spokesman Gregorio Rosal filch unpaid airtime on radio broadcasts to badmouth the government. And they have the gumption to send batches of press releases to news media—without the usual fat envelopes!

Such cretinous charlatans and their creepy collaborators deserve no whit of mercy.

They deserve a fate worse than roasting forever in hell, those NPAs!

In the ensuing two-year campaign against these insurgents, let it be said that our troops intend to truly extirpate ‘em.

No prisoners will be taken—imprisonment will mean we have to treat them like rapists, drug traffickers, murderers, kidnap-for-ransom gangsters, corrupt-to-the-core officials and similar Christians who have committed heinous crimes but won’t be meted capital punishment.

As for those who get caught in the crossfire, we’ll tab ‘em as collateral damage in this two-year campaign.

Sure the death penalty stays—only for NPAs plus some collateral damage.

Time flies, you’re the pilot

“TIME” topped the list of the most common nouns used by English speakers. “Year” took third, “day” in fifth, and “week” turned at the 17th slot in a list drawn by Oxford University Press—it’s the outfit that puts out the Concise Oxford English Dictionary, deemed as the definitive guide to the twists and turns in an evolving tongue.

“Life” turned up at 9th on the list, “work” on the 16th rung.

The researchers noted that gunshot words—those of single syllables— comprise 90 percent of the top 100 words listed. The noun list was compiled for a more interesting view of the English language.

“Money” logged in at 65th—which implies its not so superior importance in the scheme of things we desire and aspire. How did Omar Khayyam’s Rubaiyat point up what it takes to fill the human well of longing? “A jug of wine, a loaf of bread and thou, (and thou, and thou…) with me in the wilderness, ah, wilderness were Paradise enow!”

Pressing out fruit juices and fermenting ‘em to turn up a decent drink takes time. After a thorough kneading, yeasted dough is allowed a rest for sometime. It rises, is kneaded some more, then, cut up into suitable morsels—baking ‘em takes time. And thou getting with me into a wilderness of sweets, that can take a lot of time. A two-bit Eden or any throwback to Paradise? That takes a lot of tilling, spreading manure into soil, and growing a melange of flowers and foliage, ah, seed to full-grown pechay takes 45 days— such painstaking tasks chomp up huge chunks of time.

Ah, it took a 40-day fast in the barren wilderness before Satan turned up to ply the greatest temptations to the Son of Man. First test—hush all-too immediate hunger pangs of an empty tummy, quick, splurge. The tested stuck to His fast. Second test—all the world’s material possessions plus political and military power to boot, just obey the devil. Pelf and power were refused. Third test—give in to folly, say, do a pratfall into a cliff just to see if angels would come to the rescue. Satan was rebuffed. Every test was passed. Those same tests pester humanity up to our present time— and we fail each one every time.

Okay, we’re obsessed with time. We afford it paramount importance. So it’s sounded out oftenest in workaday talk, probably in inane chatter or brainless blabber. Maybe in sweet nothings and endearments poured in feverish stream into a beloved’s earlobes. Why, the world’s best pick-up line— divulged recently by a gaggle of Japanese researchers— packs no hint of sex. It’s worded this way: “This time next year, let’s laugh together and have a great time.”

Dion Boucicault: “Men talk of killing time, while time quietly kills them.”

Henry David Thoreau: “As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.”

Time heals all wounds, wounds all heels— why, History can be an all-too patient assassin waiting, lurking in sun or shadow, taking its own sweet time before unleashing a flurry of killing blows before sweeping culprits into the dustbin. Yes, ambuscades take careful planning—that takes a lot of time. The execution can be swift, in too little or no time at all, hah!

Remember Parkinson’s Law? Work expands so as to fill the time available for its completion. Fact is, there are no expansions. Only dilations or a bloating often characteristic of corpses going through decay. Same volume of bureaucratic work-- that can be done in a jiffy— is stretched out into ages to allow for more salary payments for very little accomplishments.

By our reckoning, time is the most precious commodity. So there’s time management. There’s quality time devoted to kindling or stoking the fires of hearth.

So I spend most times with my Beloved—the missus, my children, our home. The expenditure is worth the bountiful returns, I guess. There are ties that have to bound with a lot of patience, a lot of quantity time.

Do I need the approval or acceptance of others who have so much time on their hands but are frittering it away? Ah, how they’d putter and do running commentary about small tasks I complete or choose not to. They just stand in the way—and in due time, I’ll get to ‘em. Meanwhile I don’t have to waste my time. It’s a sane option. We’d rather not injure eternity, it’s much fun slashing a carotid artery or a femoral vein in just a flick of time.

Or let time quietly kill ‘em, bit by bit by bit. Time wounds all heels.

Hungry eyes

A RECENT US study found that some orientals take in all the details in a picture, a detail at a time with sights rampaging throughout the picture. Their eyes do a thorough sweep. Their opposite numbers in western countries merely latch their sights on a picture’s focal point, skipping on tidbits, nuggets and wee morsels that hungry eyes slurp up and chew as cud.

Paying persnickety attention to details can pay ample rewards. Sights are made for seeing. Go peer. Gaze and eyeful. Look out for signs and wondrous sights that are often wee—not too grandiose nor too spectacular.

Only a Moses got that rare chance to set sights on a burning bush that went on burning and wasn’t consumed by fire. Keep the lights burning, please: peer at the splayed open thighs of one’s beloved and behold her bush emitting light and delight.

Only an Arjuna was given a chance to behold the entire universe that was mere kernel of an incarnate divinity. We’ve been told to grasp earth’s entirety in a grain of sand, see and take to licking heaven in a maiden’s flower.

A well-honed sight imparts a keen edge to slice through or flay whatever’s offered before it. A steady diet of sights can be chewed down, their nutrients and essences absorbed to gain lean insights. Behold, verily, then, hold.

Author Anais Nin avers “we don’t see things as they are; we see things as we are.” So I’ll never have any part in that putative holier than thou anti-pornography group that latch their sights on obscenity and lewdness.

My, oh, my I ought to be those ornate wrought ironwork hand-me-downs from another era—enduring details of the Bautista-Nakpil ancestral home in Quiapo, flaked remnants on the flank of the Monte de Piedad building in Sta. Cruz that I fondly set eyes on on my way to work. That means, and with fingers crossed in wish-craft, I dare say I could endure and be pliant enough to take on geometry and beauty like ‘em.

I remember Friedrich Nietszche stating “look into the abyss, the abyss looks into you.” By extension, quantum physics has it that looker and looked at become one. They swap information in that intimate process. Quantum physics has a quaint word for it. Interface. Information and intimacy accrues both to the parties involved in that meeting of sights.

It’s no longer a transaction or workaday deal pursued for its own sake. Interface leads to transformation.

That implies I am in union with a blur of bright plumage in movement —starlings and sparrows in quick flight are a staple sight my eyes snatch as visual snack. Relish those swish/swirl of feathers light as a heart without a care. And those quick-as-a-wink ambush of reptiles, ah, some magnificence of lizards and skinks and serpents as they catch their prey. Include the dart of wasps and bees unleashed like arrows upon foliage and flowering.

What about author Paolo Coelho’s uptake on the mythical character Narcissus? The pond on which Narcissus saw his mirror image missed the man—it was through his limpid eyes that the pond saw its own beauty. The beholder and the beheld are equally blessed.

Those stand of trees and sweep of grass on a hillside in Ciudad Real in Bulacan, why, they’re a sight for tired eyes, a soothing wash of green, tangled branches and blades and all. I haven’t bothered to ask ‘em though if they also deem me as a wonderful sight.

All I ever get to chat with are the plants that I grow in my garden. That wonderful horticulture wizard Luther Burbank once said a plant has 20 sense organs in it. I haven’t figured out any of such but, hey, a plant can communicate and respond to doting thoughts. Umm, let’s just say a head of cabbage packs more sense than most empty-headed louts inflicting inane chatter on us via TV broadcast networks.

No, I still don’t wear eyeglasses—my sight hasn’t dimmed yet. It has probably adjusted, refitted, maybe retooled itself through the years from the normal 20/20 vision to the more recent 36-24-36.