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Wednesday, November 30, 2005

BEATING SUGAR ADDICTION

Once again it's Wednesday. On this blogsite, Wednesday is beat my sugar addiction day. I invite you to rummage for wisdom here to pass along to someone you know who may be dealing with similar affliction.

The following excerpt is from Mystic Visions’ The Sugar Addicts Anonymous:

Most of us don't realize it, but we are drug addicts. Our drug comes in a pure, white crystal or powder form. We use it even when we don't know we're doing it. It's in salad dressing, peanut butter, soup, pickles, bread, jam, yogurt, canned fruits and vegetables... We crave it after every meal. On an average, each of us consumes about 130 lbs. per year. What is this controversial drug, you ask. It goes by many names, but the most common is sugar.

This deliciously sweet substance is also deliciously devoid of any nutritional value. Sugar passes through the wall of the stomach so quickly that it causes blood sugar levels to skyrocket, then plummet just as rapidly. I'm sure you are familiar with the feeling.

The problem that arises in coping with sugar addiction is that sugar is in so many common foods now, it's practically impossible to cut it out completely. You can't eat a sandwich without getting sugar from the bread or the mayo. You can't eat a salad without getting sugar from the dressing.

Beating sugar addiction may seem like a hopeless battle, but just like any drug addiction, you have to have a structured plan to win the war. I make no claims that it will be an easy battle. You won't be vomiting in back alleys or shivering in bed all night, but you will have the uncontrollable desire for something, anything that will give you your sugar fix.

Check out the 12 Step Program to Beating Sugar Addiction by James Keller. Good luck!


The Mystic Visions
www.aksworld.com

Labels: health issues

posted by Señor Enrique at 7:15 AM | 0 comments

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

THE BEATLES: The Biography

At nearly 1,000 pages long, including more than 100 pages of footnotes, bibliography, discography and other end matter, "The Beatles," by Bob Spitz, is as big as a Bible. But as we hefted this literary cinder block and contemplated reading it, we had to wonder what could possibly be left to say about the musical foursome whom John Lennon once declared more popular than Jesus.

Ten pages in, we were hooked. Bob Spitz's beautifully written chronicle breathes new life into the familiar story of the Liverpool boys who conquered the world and became, according to a recent Variety poll, the most influential entertainers of the past century. The author's passion for his subject, and for every nuance of every scene, electrifies even the most familiar moments in the legend. Spitz cast his net wide, gathering little-known information from contemporary radio interviews, fanzines, Brian Epstein's personal diaries, and such arcana as the architectural renderings for John and Cynthia Lennon's home and a pamphlet called "A Short History of the Liverpool Cotton Market." The scene-by-scene particulars are fascinating; for example, the description of Ringo meticulously rolling up towels to seal the threshold under the door of a room at the Delmonico Hotel in New York the night in 1964 when they met Bob Dylan and Dylan introduced them to marijuana. "An unusually gregarious Dylan was delighted by the Beatles' curiosity and readiness to experiment," Spitz writes. "They got right in the groove, which relaxed the recalcitrant bard, who lit joint after joint, fanning the fateful flame." The chapter ends: "Nothing would ever be the same again."

Read more: You Know You Should Be Glad, a review by Jane and Michael Stern (The New York Times)


The Beatles: The Biography, by Bob Spitz
Published: November 27, 2005

Labels: Featured book

posted by Señor Enrique at 2:49 PM | 0 comments

SILENCE

Labels: Words of wisdom

posted by Señor Enrique at 7:31 AM | 6 comments

Monday, November 28, 2005

WHAT'S IN THE NAME?

I was born in the year of the dragon in Santa Cruz, Manila, and given the name Enrique after the father of a famous Filipino actor Pancho Magalona. I liked it; not too many kids have that same name at that time.

However, I became to detest it while growing up. Although nicknamed Ric, I would be called Enrique—and rather sternly at that—whenever suspected of some mischief or worse, I had to run another errand, which none of my older brothers were willing to do.

Consequently, hearing it called out by my mother, eldest sister, or by any of the five older brothers on the totem pole made me associate Enrique with agony and/or resentment.

I began to avoid using that name unless required as in school documents or passport application. In school I was referred to by my last name. The only other place I was called Enrique was at the Jai-Alai fronton when I became an amateur at the age of fifteen. The man who managed the amateur club at that time delighted in calling me Enrique. I knew better than to correct him lest I wanted to be paired against a senior player whose sole aim was to bash in a novice’s front teeth with his menacing carambola. No protection of any kind was worn at that time.

After high school was New York. At that time, Julio’s son with a Filipina socialite was not yet around; thus, New Yorkers would often mispronounce my name as Ahn-ri-quah or Ahn-rick. Soon, I was nicknamed Eric to make life simpler for everyone.

When I lost my green card, I was informed by the immigration officials that applying for American citizenship would be a lot easier than to go through the legal process of having it replaced. When I opted for the citizenship I dropped Enrique altogether for Eric. It was a decision I came to later regret.

Since coming back to Manila, I was haunted by my old name; hence I started using it as a pen name, but added senor as prefix to denote a much older (and hopefully, wiser) Enrique. However, with our society being more attuned to English names nowadays, to some, Senor Enrique conveys an old world distinguished persona or someone well-versed in Spanish language and history -- an ilustrado.

The fact is, although I had Spanish in high school, I was more fluent in Spanglish, which I would use in San Juan, Puerto Rico or amongst Hispanic friends in New York. That was the extent of my experience with the Spanish language.

But then again, the Spanish spoken in Puerto Rico is debased Castilian. So, when Rizalist had asked for my definition of a bodeguero as applied in late 19th century Manila, I would have instinctively depicted a brawny peon hauling stuff in a bodega, but would have been proven wrong anyway. A bodeguero, as Rizalist himself had pointed out, was a member of the bourgeoisie or better yet an illustrado; therefore, more of a manager in those days. Actually, I tend to believe his having asked for my thoughts on such linguistic matter was his gentlemanly way of inviting me to join in their blog exchanges. Unfortunately, I never made it back to Marvin’ site after having expressed my gratitude for his efforts.

As for history, I often resort to knowledgeable friends, books, and more recently the Web and blog sites such as La Vida Lawyer’s series on Bonifacio’s trial. Daunted by the fact that history is written by the winners, as Marvin Aceron and Carlos Celdran had said, I’ve shied away from engaging in its discourse. Had I the photographic mind of Fidel Castro, who could quote verbatim immense passages, including their provenance with uncanny precision, I’d gladly do so. That is because if unsuccessful with my arguments, I could at least dazzle the other side with startling quotations.

I therefore apologize, especially to Rizalist if my nom de plum tips off a wrong clue. I’m merely reclaiming a part of myself—a name I now treasure as I get older, but used to loathe when younger, because of the never-ending errands (and on rare occasions, mischief) attached to it.

Ah, the pains of being the youngest in a big family.

Labels: Growing up memoirs

posted by Señor Enrique at 6:36 AM | 13 comments

Sunday, November 27, 2005

Featured Book: REAL MAGIC

I was blessed with having mentors in my life. Had it not been for their time and patience I never would have known the value of creating options for myself, as well as seeking alternative paths in the pursuit of a more fulfilling career and personal life. And so, when I had acquired some years and wisdom, in reciprocity, I engaged in mentoring.

For the most part, I would stress the importance of spirituality in one’s life; not so much religiosity, but rather an inner knowing of one’s connectivity with others and the universe. I did this by recommending a study of a martial art and the book, Zen in the Art of Archery. Learning martial arts, by the way, also hones one’s ability to focus in spite of tumultuous factors that may surround him.

Almost in all cases, the topic of cultivating financial security from one’s career would arise. New York has a glut of financial wiz and planners who offer guidance, as well as a number of respectable graduate schools to acquire appropriate credentials from in order to enhance one’s resume and earning power. Either one should be able to address the issue.

However, there are other more affordable alternatives such as Dr. Wayne Dyer’s book, Real Magic, and another I had previously featured, As a Man Thinket by James Allen.

In Real Magic, Dr. Dyer basically points out that everything we need to acquire prosperity has always been within us, but we must first eliminate the hindrance—the scarcity consciousness—which prevents us from experiencing abundance in our life. He illustrates this principle with the following story:

A man who was ragged and appeared to be without anything in a physical sense came upon a road boss and said, “Can you help me? I need work.”

The road boss said, “Fine, take that large boulder over there and roll it up and down the hill. If you need work that will fulfill your need.”

The man said, “You don’t understand, what I really need is money.

The boss replied, “Oh, if it is only money that you need, here is fifty dollars. But you cannot spend it.”

Again, the man was perplexed. “You don’t understand, what I really need is food and fuel and clothing, not just money.”

The boss again replied, “If you are sure that this is really what you need, then spend the money for food, fuel and clothing, but don’t eat the food, or burn the fuel or wear the clothing.”

The man was finally forced to look at what he really needed, which was a sense of security, peace and inner satisfaction. All totally invisible, all within the mind. All divine sustenance.

The author further claims, “What you need, you already have, and when you know it, and go within and create it in your mind, the divine sustenance you seek in the form of material things or money will be manifested in whatever amounts needed.”

That whenever we say to ourselves, “I don’t have enough money,” “The economy is bad these days,” “I don’t have the appropriate educational background,” or, “I didn’t come from the right family and therefore, will never get the promotion and earn the money I want,” we are operating in our mental world from a position of lack or the underprivileged. Therefore, we deprive our own self the opportunity of going into the world of real magic; hence unable to experience a life of prosperity and abundance.

Dr. Dwayne Dyer also mentions of the time he was accused of having a cavalier attitude toward the poor by a radio talk show host when he was a guest on his program. Dr. Dyer’s contention was that being broke is a temporary state of affairs that afflicts everyone at some point in life, but being poor is an attitude, a set of beliefs that gets reinforced when we shift to blaming life circumstances for the condition of poverty.

One of the incoming calls in response to this radio conversation was from a physician in Washington, D.C., who had grown up in a family of thirteen children in appalling poverty in Jamaica. He disagreed with the host, saying:

I lived in dirt-poor conditions all of my life. I mean hungry, starving poverty. But I always had a vision of myself as a doctor. I could not lose that vision, and I would always tell my grandmother about that picture in my head. She was raising all of us on practically no income, and she always told me to never, but never, let the picture become blurred. She told me about the value of that inner picture, and that I always kept it, and believed in it, I would only have that picture to act upon.

As I got older and finished high school, I applied to several schools in premed curricula, and I was rejected over and over again, but I could not shake that picture that my grandmother helped me to have as a ragtag little boy playing with the chickens in our little hut in Jamaica. Finally I was given a conditional opportunity to enroll in a premed program in Europe, and I worked my way there and through school.

Today I am a physician with a thriving practice. Without that vision, without that invisible picture in mind, I could never have escaped the life of poverty that continues today for most of my brothers and sisters and all of my friends there. They live in poverty and believe that life dealt them a stacked deck, and that I was lucky. But I know better. I am living the life I pictured for myself.

And Dr. Dyer, don’t you ever let anyone dissuade you from telling the truths that you know, because you are doing much more to help those in horrible circumstances than those who buy the big lie that their lives are beyond their own control.

Dr. Dyer asks his readers to suspend any erroneous beliefs that these truths apply exclusively to him, the doctor in Washington, D.C. and to a chosen few, but has nothing to do with any of us. In actuality, it has everything to do with all of us.

He argues that these truths transcend individual lives because it involves universal laws and principles that were here long before we all showed up in our physical form. He’s simply reporting on what he knows to be true for his own self and many others. That if you want to experience prosperity in a miraculous level, he suggests that you must leave behind your old ways of thinking and develop a new way of imagining what is possible for you to experience in your life.

The old tried and true adage supports Dr. Wayne Dyer's principle: Thoughts manifest themselves.

Ask and you shall receive, applies as well.

Labels: Featured book

posted by Señor Enrique at 7:23 AM | 0 comments

Saturday, November 26, 2005

ABOUT MANANG SETA

Manang Seta is able to do remarkable feats in her dreams—she can be the prima ballerina of the national ballet, overcome her fear of snakes, sail solo to distant seas on her high-tech yatch, or become a sultry jazz singer in New York’s Carlyle Hotel with Bobby Short on the piano. And through it all she never once doubted her abilities to become any of those things

However, in her waking state, Manang Seta is a fearful, doubtful woman. Even the simplest of choices would make her eternally indecisive. Her basic arithmetic skills would escape her; she’d leave the market always feeling short-changed. Her sense of direction would get hazy; driving to and from nearby destinations has become a daunting task.

She was never like this. She was once jovial and vivacious. However, going though a lengthy bitter divorce has traumatized her deeply. She gained weight which made her look distinctly aged. She failed to understand how her husband could easily trash away their 35-year marriage. Worst of all, her two daughters sided with their father; leaving her feeling completely abandoned and confused.

The court was fair with settling their disputes. She was awarded half of their total assets. Right after liquidating most of which, she went home to the Philippines to heal her soul. Only problem was she was away for so long the landscape has changed; it appeared foreign to her.

Her sister, Aling Meding, exploited her vulnerabilities with a vengeance. She assisted Manang Seta all right, but unbeknownst to her, Aling Meding would tack on a few bucks for everything her sister would ask her to get for her. She made a substantial profit when Manang Seta had entrusted her to shop for all her appliances and furniture for her condominium in Makati.

Aling Meding for many years has been dependent upon her sister’s generosity. In fact, her four children were educated in large part by Manang Seta. More than 20 years ago, Aling Meding left her husband and took the children with her without so much as asking her husband for child support. She obligated her sister and brother in the States instead.

Aling Meding’s children are all grown up now and married, except for the oldest son who is holding out for a rich woman to marry. The other boy and two girls have children of their own, yet Aling Meding has been slyly maneuvering for Manang Seta to absorb the grandchildren’s schooling expenses as well. All her children, at one time or another, had asked Manang Seta for loans, but obviously with no intention of repaying her. Aling Meding does not ask for any loans, but nonetheless expects her sister to give her a monthly living allowance. “Why not … she has money, no?” she would argue.

Nowadays, Manang Seta spends most of her time in Metro Manila alone or with the company of her maid. She has learned to find her way around the city without the guide of her sister. Actually, ever since she expressed a lack of interest to support Aling Meding and her children’s families, their relationship changed.

Aling Meding is angry at her sister for the simple reason that Manang Seta has money, yet refused to share it with her willingly. As revenge, she has instructed all her children to ignore their aunt. “That’ll break her,” she would claim. Much to Aling Meding’s ignorance, she doesn’t realize that Manang Seta’s many years of having lived in New York had taught her to be self-reliant and cognizant of people with ulterior motives.

She gets along quite well with her new maid; unlike the previous two referred by Aling Meding who were more loyal to her than to Manang Seta. This one was referred to her by the family of a very good friend from New York. She takes her along to every where she goes. Recently, Manang Seta had suggested for her to take up a vocational course in the evenings in which she’d gladly pay for.

She has been living in Metro Manila for almost two years now, and had adjusted to its hustle and bustle rather well. To help her resolve any leftover inner turmoil caused by her failed marriage, she has enlisted the assistance of a psychologist. She’s learning some relaxation techniques to help her focus better on daily activities, as well as in dealing with unexpected challenges. Most importantly, she’s learning how to forgive her husband and her own self from being unable to sustain their marriage as per their vows.

She has also started to love her two daughters even more, and has refrained from expecting them to fight her battles. As for her sister Meding and her children, she reasons she has helped them long enough; it’s time they all start learning to help themselves earnestly. And if they wish to alienate themselves from her, so be it. She’ll manage with or without them.


Links

Coping with Divorce
http://www.mentalhelp.net/psyhelp/chap10/chap10p.htm

Balikbayan Chronicles
http://www.filgifts.com/ffp/chronicles/read.asp

Money Matters with Relatives and Friends
http://www.cahe.nmsu.edu/news/1999/010199_RISKY.html

Labels: Fiction

posted by Señor Enrique at 8:27 AM | 2 comments

BY ALING MEDING

I left my husband, mind you; she, on the other hand, was abandoned by her husband. The fool ran off with his secretary. Not only that, her daughters decided to live with their father, not with her. That should tell you enough about Manang Seta!

So, what is so wrong about my expecting her to help me out? She has money; I don’t. Yes, I admit if it wasn’t for her and our brother, Edward, none of my children would have gone on to college. I thank them very much, but hey, I have six grandchildren now and you know how fast time flies. Before you know it, they’ll be getting ready for college as well.

She’s telling me she has to be careful with her money and stuff, but look where she bought herself a condo; in fancy Ayala Avenue! And she got herself a brand new Civic too. By the way, when I was with her checking out some condos when she first got here in Manila, I thought she would get a two-bedroom for the two of us. Lo and behold! All along she only wanted a one-bedroom condo just for herself. How selfish!

And so what’s wrong with my padding up the actual costs of her furniture and appliances? That was a lot of work doing all that shopping for her. I got to make money somehow, no? And don’t worry she got plenty. I was with her when she opened a dollar account and a peso checking account at BPI. I was told to wait outside the manager’s office so, I didn’t really find out the exact amount, but I’m sure it was big. You should have seen those bank personnel treating her like royalty.

Don’t you worry about my oldest son, Edgar. He’s fine. He knows what he wants from his life. He’s quite a looker and there ain’t nothing wrong if he wanted to marry a rich girl. The boy deserves it. He’s a college graduate and one of these days he’ll pass his board exam. I know he failed three times already, but he wasn’t feeling so good when he took them. The boy was down with the flu. So, just let him be. He told me one time, “You know, mommy? I’ll take care of you. Promise!” That’s my baby boy!

And don’t you get me started with the money my kids borrowed from Manang Seta, now. They got themselves in a jam, you know. Times are bad these days. And that old hag had the audacity to make my kids feel ungrateful whenever they ask her for another loan or something. Well, she would tell them they should learn to be more careful with their spending habits and that they should be saving some money, too … blah, blah, blah.

Now, how does she expect the kids to save when they ain’t got no money to begin with? So, can you blame my kids if they don’t want to see their aunt no more?

I got to go. I have to take the grandchildren to see Harry Potter. Don’t wait up for us. We’ll all eat at the mall after the movie.

Bye, sweetie!

Labels: Fiction

posted by Señor Enrique at 8:16 AM | 2 comments

Friday, November 25, 2005

A STATEMENT ON LOVE

Love is union under the condition of preserving one’s integrity, one’s individuality. Love is an active power in man; a power which breaks through the walls which separate man from his fellow men, which unites him with others; love makes him overcome the sense of isolation and separateness, yet it permits him to be himself, to retain his integrity. In love the paradox occurs that two beings become one and yet remain two.

Labels: Featured book

posted by Señor Enrique at 3:57 AM | 2 comments

Thursday, November 24, 2005

The Wit & Wisdom of MARK TWAIN

I love pizza. I practically lived off on them while a working student in New York. I had them for lunch and dinner, including the right-off-the-fridge leftover on Sunday mornings. When you get up at 7 in the morning and don’t get home until 10 at night, pizza was more than good enough.

It was while enjoying some chilled brew and feasting on a large pizza pie—on my birthday almost 10 years ago with my two best friends—when I learned something new about Mark Twain. It was because one of them gave me a copy of Sitting in Darkness; the backdrop of which was the Filipino-American War.

While flipping through its pages in between taking bites off a slice of pizza, I learned the title of the book was taken from one of Mark Twain’s essays. And much to my surprise, I also learned he was a staunch anti-imperialist who gave the Filipinos a voice in the American press during the turn of the century.

Through his essays, Mark Twain articulated his sentiments against America’s occupation of the Philippines. He became an active speaker at anti-war rallies and flooded newspapers with his letters of protests. With a caustic tone he even suggested a new flag for the Philippines — "just our usual flag, with the white stripes painted black and the stars replaced by the skull and cross-bones."

In his 1901 essay entitled, To the Person Sitting in Darkness, Mark Twain pointed out how the occupying Americans treated the Filipinos.

He wrote, “We had lent them guns and ammunition; advised with them; exchanged pleasant courtesies with them; placed our sick and wounded in their kindly care; entrusted our Spanish prisoners to their humane and honest hands; fought shoulder to shoulder with them against the common enemy (our own phrase); praised their courage, praised their gallantry, praised their mercifulness, praised their fine and honorable conduct; borrowed their trenches, borrowed strong positions which they had previously captured from the Spaniards; petted them, lied to them—officially proclaiming that our land and naval forces came to give them their freedom and displace the bad Spanish Government—fooled them, used them until we needed them no longer; then derided the sucked orange and threw it away. We kept the positions which we had beguiled them of; by and by, we moved a force forward and overlapped patriot ground—a clever thought, for we needed trouble, and this would produce it. A Filipino soldier, crossing the ground, where no one had a right to forbid him, was shot by our sentry. The badgered patriots resented this with arms, without waiting to know whether Aguinaldo, who was absent, would approve or not. Aguinaldo did not approve; but that availed nothing. What we wanted, in the interest of Progress and Civilization was the Archipelago, unencumbered by patriots struggling for independence; and War was what we needed. We clinched our opportunity. It is Mr. Chamberlain’s case over again—at least in its motive and intention; and we played the game as adroitly as he played it himself.”

One scholar, Tom Quirk, noted, "Particularly in his later years, the fierceness of Twain's anti-imperialist convictions disturbed and dismayed those who regarded him as the archetypal American citizen who had somehow turned upon Americanism itself."

Who would have thought that Mark Twain—the author of Huckleberry Finn, the first truly American writer known for his wit and wisdom—would be so radical and intrepid as to speak for the Filipinos and against the American occupation of the Philippines?

Labels: Featured Writer

posted by Señor Enrique at 7:31 AM | 4 comments

Featured Book: SITTING IN DARKNESS

My best friend in New York gave me a copy of this book as a birthday gift 10 years ago. The following is a review of it by T. Bailey of The Washington Post (February 25, 1985):

IN WHICH WAR was the term "Gook" invented? When did American soldiers conduct their first body count and pioneer the use of the "water cure" to persuade Asian guerrillas to betray their comrades?

After which battle did a young rifleman write home to the folks in Kingston, New York, "I am in my glory when I can sight my gun on some dark skin and pull the trigger"?

Modern as it all sounds, the answer is not Vietnam, or even Korea or World War II. The American conquest of the Philippines barely rates a mention in school history books, usually as a cryptic footnote to the short war which President William McKinley and publisher William Randolph Hearst waged on Spain in 1898 for the independence of Cuba and the circulation of Hearst's newspapers. Yet 126,458 Americans fought in the Philippines between 1898 and 1902, of whom 4,234 died, while 16,000 Filipinos died in battle and another 200,000 in "reconcentration camp." There were in addition massacres of civilians in reprisal for guerrilla attacks and similar sideshows all too familiar in subsequent Asian wars.

The story of how, and why America liberated the Philippines from Spain and then took the islands back from their inhabitants two weeks later is a complicated one, already well told in one of the classics of American historiography, Leon Wolff's Little Brown Brother, published in 1960. But the writing of history is never finished, and David Haward Bain has managed another fine book on the subject, not disagreeing with Wolff's conclusions, but making them fresh and vivid for a generation which has seen yet another Asian war.

This is not, however, simply another tale of savagery in the rice paddies. Almost as if he could read tomorrow's newspapers, Bain has brought his account up to the minute, with perceptive entries, for instance, indexed under Aquino Benigno and Ver, General Fabian (the latter currently on trial for complicity in the former's assassination). This energetic young historian has thus pulled off that rarest of publishing coups, a scholarly historical work of bang-on topicality. He has, what's more, found a most original way of bringing his story to life.

From this distance, and even at the time, the American conquest of the Philippines has always been difficult to fathom. But, then and now, two figures jump forth from a cast of thousands: Emilio Aguinaldo, not quite 30, brave and passionately patriotic, the president of the republic of the Philippines proclaimed as the beaten Spaniards departed (and the first republic in Asia) and Colonel Frederick Funston, six years older, who drove the last nail into the republic's coffin by capturing Aguinaldo on March 23, 1901, after a long and daring hunt through the jungles and mountains of northern Luzon.

Aguinaldo, who looked remarkably like his current successor, Ferdinand Marcos, survived his capture and lived a long life, long enough to welcome the arrival of the Japanese in 1942 (understandably, perhaps; the new invaders also promised liberation), to march in the Manila independence parade of 1946, carrying the flag he first raised against Spain in 1896, and to see a new American war just getting under way in Asia in 1964, the year of his death. A largely forgotten figure now, even in the Philippines, Aguinaldo emerges from Bain's book an authentic hero and his republic a tragically missed chance for the United States to have been the protector of Asia's first genuine democracy.

His captor, the adventurous son of a Kansas politician known as "Foghorn Funston, the farmers' friend" was plainly just as archetypal a figure. "I am afraid that some people at home will lie awake nights worrying about the ethics of this war, thinking that our enemy is fighting for the right of self-government" he told a New York Times correspondent. "The word independent, which these people roll over their tongues so glibly, is to them a word, and not much more . . . . they are, as a rule, an illiterate, semisavage people, who are waging war, not against tyranny, but against Anglo-Saxon order and decency." Funston's feat, a mixture of reckless daring and ingenious double-cross, or what used to be known in Vietnam as a "John Wayne stunt," was the stuff of movies, and would have made a splendid vehicle for James Cagney (Funston was 5 feet 4 inches tall and touchy about it) if Hollywood had blossomed before American imperialism went out of fashion.

BUT, LIKE MANY a veteran from the East, Funston could not settle down to life back home, took to the bottle and died at 51 in 1917, when he was being seriously considered for command of the American Expeditionary Force that went to France that year. But for his heart attack, in fact, we would very likely now be debating the merits of the Funston rocket instead of the one named for his deputy, General John Pershing, who got the job instead.

Here, unmistakably, we have the Green Beret, or cowboy turned romantic military stuntman. In fact, Funston's boss, General Arthur MacArthur, father of the even more famous Douglas, was an old Indian fighter, and so were many of his buddies in the 20th Kansas infantry he led to the Philippines. The fact that the Far East is West of the Wild West has profoundly shaped America's wars there, a point made in the insightful and absurd movie The Deer Hunter.

It is hard to quarrel with Bain's conclusion that the years of American rule did little or nothing to solve the basic political problem of the Philippines. After three centuries of Spanish colonial government, the islands had none of the institutions of self-rule and no experience of it. All the new rulers achieved was a superficial Americanization of the illustrades, the Hispanicized native upper class, leaving the masses in pious poverty and the way open for a native-born dictatorship to follow the authoritarian rule of slippery Spaniards and decent Anglo-Saxons. People learn self-government by governing themselves and making their own mistakes, and America put off the Philippines' fateful day for 50 years, failing, in the end, even to supply the military protection that is the only justification for empire.

But Americans are still well thought of in the Philippines, as Bain and a group of friends, including his photographer-brother Christopher, discovered when they repeated Funston's epic trek through the Luzon jungle in 1982, talking to the same locals, fording the same streams, and being bitten by descendants of the same mosquitoes which bit the pint-sized adventurer and his party 80 years earlier. Melding past and present, and interweaving the historical background with present politics brings vividly home the long shadows still cast by America's first adventure in Asia. This is an important story, honestly researched and well told -- a second classic, in fact, on a fascinating subject.

Review by T. BAILEY
The Washington Post, February 24, 1985

Sitting in Darkness, Americans in the Philippines
By David Haward Bain
1984, Houghton Mifflin Company


Related link: Same As It Ever Was

Labels: Featured book

posted by Señor Enrique at 4:32 AM | 4 comments

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

SWEETS FOR MY SWEET CHILD

Last Wednesday, I mentioned seeking the help of a local spiritual healer since my New York physician was unable to curtail my sugar cravings. Last Friday, my aunt came over with one. She’s a rather stocky Visayan about 55 years old. Her father used to be their town’s albularyo (medicine man) and had passed on the torch to her, so to speak. She does her healing through hilot (massage); however, she would first go into a trance-like state to allow her spirit guide to take over and pinpoint any health problems the client might be suffering from.

There wasn’t any health problem seen in me. As for my sugar dependency, she simply recommended to put some diced ginger in boiled water; that whenever a craving for sweets kicks in, I should have a couple of sips of it. Moreover, she claims ginger is good for flushing out the impurities that may clog our arteries.

She then proceeded to give me a massage with oil of her own concoction. The diagnosis sort of left me in limbo; I thought my complaint was taken too lightly. The massage, on the other hand, was incredibly soothing. It was by far the most healing I had ever experienced. She detected several lamig spots (knots) all over my body and worked on each one methodically. After it was over, all I wanted to do was sleep. I felt invigorated but at the same time weakened by the entire session. The next morning I felt extremely revitalized.

The hot ginger drink works so far in suppressing my sugar cravings. I complement this regimen with certain tricks learned from the past like immediately brushing my teeth after each meal. This way, any leftover salty or spicy tastes in my mouth would be washed out and no desire for sweets would be triggered.

In addition, so as to prevent sugar attacks, I limit myself to fructose, which is sugar from fresh fruit. I also limit my intake of rice (a real challenge since it’s a regular staple that goes with any Filipino dish). Rice and other carbohydrates like bread and potatoes turn into sugar once ingested. So for now, I have to resist the indulgence and adhere to moderation. As we all know, one of the adverse effects of sugar addiction is obesity.

Incidentally, this week, Inside PCIJ is running a series of reports on the theme, Food and the Filipinos. One of which is Vinia Datinguinoo’s The Big Picture, which outlines why Filipinos—especially their children—are becoming overweight and obese. Overall it’s an excellent report, but I was rather disappointed that she didn’t elaborate further on the contributions of refined sugar to this growing dilemma. However, she writes, “Health nutritionists and experts agree about the ingredients that make up what they call an obesogenic environment, one that makes people grow fat, fast: high-fat, high-salt, and high-sugar diets.”

In the States, the press is intimidated by the almighty sugar industry; not to mention that Washington is blatantly subservient to its powerful lobbyists. Oftentimes, it’s also the case of the publishers not wanting to miss out on the millions of advertising dollars doled out annually by various sugar-rich product manufacturers. This is the reason why there isn’t much public awareness of the addictive nature of sucrose in America.

Sadly, those who deny this fact are almost always addicted to sugar themselves without admitting it. It’s sad because in their denial, they subconsciously pass on their addiction to their children. For those who think refined sugar does not adversely affect them health-wise, my intention is to make them aware enough so they may at least save their children from sugar addiction. In short: if not them, their children.

To cite an example as to how sugar encroaches its way into our homes and wins over our children, the article Sugar, Sweet Suicide claims, “With only 16 calories per teaspoon, what's the harm in a little sugar? Problem is, we can't get enough of the stuff. In a world where soft drinks and processed foods have become dietary staples in lieu of fresh fruit and vegetables, fiber-rich grains, and pure water, people are swallowing an average of 4l teaspoons (or 201 grams) of sugar daily, 31 teaspoons more than the maximum amount recommended by the United States Department of Agriculture (USDA). Over time, that adds up to a whopping 162 pounds per person per year. And when you consider that part of the population eats far less or no sugar at all—diabetics or babies, for instance—that figure further soars. Thanks to their love affair with soft drinks, many children are at the higher end of this scale, consuming an additional 21 teaspoons of sugar daily.”

Next Wednesday, I’ll cite more instances as to how sugar affects our minds and bodies. I will also write about other resources in my battle to overcome my sugar addiction.

Until then, to borrow from Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, “love the one you’re with.”


Links

Advice for Parents with Overweight Kids
A major lifestyle change means deciding as a family that everyone changes

The Big Picture - Why Pinoys Are Fatter Than Ever
By Vinia M. Datinguinoo - Philippine Center for Investigative Journalism

The Politics of Sugar
NAFTA, GATT and SUGAR

Sugar, Sweet Suicide
Townsend Letter for Doctors and Patients

The Addictive Personality: Take the Test,
Disorders by Enneagram Type

Labels: health issues

posted by Señor Enrique at 4:34 AM | 4 comments

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

Featured Quote by OPRAH WINFREY

Oh, Oprah, 20 Years of Talk, Causes and Self-Improvement
By Alessandra Stanley, The New York Times

“Most significantly, she presents her triumph over adversity, discrimination and child abuse in positive terms that allow Americans to feel better about themselves - a quid pro quo that she shamelessly exploits for good, goading viewers to improve themselves and also give something back. Ms. Winfrey, who speaks in slow, emphatic phrases, can be deadly earnest at times, but she also brought fun to philanthropy. Hers is a frilly pulpit: the self-made billionaire appears to spend as freely and gleefully on friends, strangers and the needy as herself.”

Read more…

Labels: Words of wisdom

posted by Señor Enrique at 5:41 AM | 0 comments

Monday, November 21, 2005

MY LIFE WITH A PIG

It was only for about a month one summer when I was 6 years old. Our barrio is the last of Subic; the next town, separated only by a river, is Castillejos. This is in Zambales. My aunt, unable to find me a puppy (or so she said) tied a rope around the neck of one of her piglets and let me have him as my summer pet. I reluctantly took it thinking she had gone batty from drinking the elixirs bought from a salesman who traveled through our barrio. That following weekend when my father came, I told him about his sister’s vice, but he ignored me. He paid more attention to my pet pig.

My father always gave me a puppy during the summer and just before school would start, it would be sent off to my aunt’s in the province. One summer, when I was about five, the puppy I had once taken care of had grown into a vicious guard dog and would only respond kindly to my aunt. When I arrived for my summer vacation, he saw me as nothing more than an intruder. He incessantly barked and snarled at me. I was upset by it. I thought he was an ungrateful scruffy dog worthy of serious discipline from his master—me.

The next morning, I grabbed one of the rakes leaning against the side of the tool shed and proceeded to scare him with it if he didn’t learn to hush at my presence. He only got meaner and his barking increased even more in intensity. I stopped when I heard my aunt calling me. She handed me two pieces of corn bread as late morning snack, which I decided to share with that scruffy dog chained under a tree. Stupid me, I pulled a stool to sit next to him so we could eat together like we used to when he was a puppy. Instead of going for his piece of corn bread, he went for my right thigh.

My aunt was worried to death; not because I got bitten, but how my father might react when he found out. Twenty-five excruciating shots I had to endure during that summer vacation. The doctor would always have a little plastic toy for me or a piece of candy, but I was always so traumatized by the needle that I enjoyed none of it. So, the next summer when I was asking her for a puppy, she thought I might be safer with a pig.

We became the laughing stock to some of the folks in that barrio, but I paid them no mind; wherever I went, there, tagging right along was my pet pig. He was a dark brown with spots of mostly tan and lighter shades of brown. I had trained him well enough that he no longer required a rope around his neck.

I would also regularly bathe him with soap like I did with my puppies. He was regularly groomed and kept clean that my aunt allowed him inside the house much to the envy of that vicious scruffy dog tied under the tree. In the afternoons when we went swimming at the river, he would occupy himself by sniffing along the bank. Sometimes, he’d find himself a shade and take a nap. He would awaken when it was time for us to go home.

People would also find us sitting by the sideline during the inter-barrio basketball games. Some of the players asked me to have him as their team mascot but I refused. I knew he’d end up as pulutan after the tournament. But my pet pig proved to be a great distraction to the opposing teams that we soon got the respect of the barrio’s comedians; we were no longer the butt of their jokes.

There was also the summer evening dance on that same basketball court in which the lights and music would be powered by a generator. My pet pig, cousins and I would be at the far corner where we would watch the barrio’s young ladies and men having the time of their life. We would poke fun at our older brothers on the dance floor while my pet pig next to me tried to make sense of the whole event.

Twice a month, a Sunday mass would be held in our barrio’s chapel next to the basketball court and my aunt would prepare the after mass breakfast. It was a big effort since other relatives would come over, including the visiting priest and his entourage from the church in Castillejos. I guess it was my aunt’s show of gratitude for having been blessed with a good income from her backyard poultry and piggery business.

My going back to the city coincided with one of those after mass breakfasts. It was actually a grander affair because my entire family was there to take me back home. Instead of immediately joining everyone for a hearty meal after mass that morning, I was running around frantically looking for my pet pig. I actually wanted to spend whatever time we have left together. And when my father heard me asking for him, all of a sudden he announced that we had to leave and would just have breakfast somewhere along the way. I found myself in this whirlwind of saying goodbye to everybody and then immediately getting whisked out and off on our way home.

The following week, when my father sensed that I was attempting to request for my pet pig to be brought to Manila, he told me the truth. Supposedly, my aunt had mistakenly turned him into a lechon de leche; the table’s centerpiece on that Sunday’s breakfast buffet. And as I cried, my father comforted me by saying that I was right all along; that my aunt had, in fact, gone batty from those elixirs she loved to drink.


Note:

Every now and then I’d still think about that summer with my pet pig. In New York, people I talked to about it were either puzzled or revolted by the idea of my having a pet pig. It wasn’t until later on when it became a more acceptable idea; the evening news during the ‘90s started to feature special interest stories about domesticated pet pigs. People started becoming more aware how smart these animals are. And of course, the movie Babe endeared pigs to a lot of people.

More recently, Oprah Winfrey featured a pet pig that ran out of the house and played dead right on the middle of the street. When a couple of people walked near him, he suddenly got up, made a lot of noise and headed back to the house, but kept turning to look at them. The people followed the pig back to the house and discovered lying on the living floor was his master suffering from a heart attack.

The doctor who treated my dog bite was given a distinguished award a couple of years ago for his services to the poor. I will blog about him another time.

The photograph of a sow and her piglets taken by Noel and featured on his NoelG blogsite inspired me to write this blog.

Labels: Growing up memoirs

posted by Señor Enrique at 6:22 AM | 11 comments

Sunday, November 20, 2005

WANT TO MAKE MORE MONEY? THINK BIG!

Labels: Local culture, Words of wisdom

posted by Señor Enrique at 7:35 AM | 8 comments

Saturday, November 19, 2005

I TOLD HER SO

I told her she should create a special place where she can completely be herself. It might be a room in her house or a park near her home. It might even be a bench at her favorite mall where she can sit and sketch the happy faces of people around her. It might also be a corner table at Starbucks where she can scribble uplifting thoughts. It can be the comfortable lounge chair in her parents’ living room where she can hug an overstuffed pillow.

The only criterion here is it should be a place she can experience what she is and what she might become; a place to roam her field of dreams.

I told her to think of ideal conditions that she wants to manifest in her life. It might be about a more fulfilling love life or the financial independence she has been longing for. I urged her to begin actualizing those desires by creating detailed mental movies about them. And that she should save them in a special place in her mind for her to return to and expand upon on a regular basis.

In case disturbing thoughts overwhelm her consciousness, I told her to keep her eyes closed and focus on her breathing. She should then count the first inhale as one, the exhale as two, and so forth; return to one again after the tenth count. Should those negative thoughts persist, I advised her to firmly but silently utter the word, “Stop!” And to keep saying it until she regains total control of her thoughts. After which, resume her breathing exercises, but on a slower pace. I told her to do this for about 10 minutes, or for whatever length of time she is comfortable with.

When she likened it to meditation I said, “Sort of, but it’s more like setting the stage for a magical life.” When she asked who powers this magic, with a smile I told her, “You do, because your inner desires of good are God’s desires for you.”

Labels: Words of wisdom

posted by Señor Enrique at 6:01 AM | 4 comments

Friday, November 18, 2005

SCHOOL OF HARD KNICKS

While flipping through the channels last Monday, I came across the New York Knicks playing against the Sacramento Kings. Usually, I’d move on right along, but Coach Larry Brown caught my attention. I had always admired him when he was coaching the Pacers, and now he’s the Knicks’ supreme strategist. Out of respect for the man, I decided to kick back and watch the game.

The Knicks won. They were a sight to behold; they played smart basketball. The New York Times sports writer, Howard Beck, claims, “For the first time since Brown took the team's reins, the Knicks - the kids, the veterans, all of them - displayed a grit and passion worthy of their Hall of Fame coach.”

If this new ensemble of agile and talented young players could sustain this kind of smart playing, they stand a good chance of making it to the playoffs. But then again, I shall remain distant. I had already learned my lesson.

You see, my first love affair with the Knicks was a pleasant one. With Red Holzman as their coach, they won two NBA titles. It was a team of smart players who played smart basketball — consistently; thus, the two rings. Subsequently, as new players replaced the veterans, I lost interest altogether and switched to tennis. No one abandoned anyone here; it was an amicable parting of ways for all.

When Pat Riley took over as coach in the ‘90s, I went back to following the Knicks. However, it was a wrong move on my part. The Knicks subjected me to a couple of seasons of emotional roller coaster. The team had so much promise, but the emotions of Pat Riley’s players overwhelmed their intellect. They evolved into a team of all brawn, no brain and soon became NBA’s bad boys. The emotional intensity that fueled their every game sometimes incited all-out brawls; a more common scene in hockey games than in basketball. Once it happened while the NBA commissioner was in the audience; embarrassment was etched on his face.

But worse of all, the Knicks failed miserably on a couple of occasions to stop the ultimate nemesis — Chicago Bulls’ #23 — the devil incarnate; the vainglorious terrorist who inflicted pain and humiliation to millions of New Yorkers. He was a shameless sharp-shooting maniac who deliberately deprived New York basketball fans of their moment of glory — a championship. Yes, the Knicks were unable to contain him. And for that reason alone, I dropped the Knicks and ignored them the way grandma did to rancid fish in the wet market.

Being a sports fan is not easy. I didn’t like what became of me. Besides developing intense passion for the game and the home team itself, I also became strangely superstitious. To ensure victory, I would perform cultish rituals like a deranged monk before each game. If the team should lose, the wrong shirt I wore at the game could be at fault. My dog was not safe from blame, either. His having pooped at the wrong curb or the wrong part of the neighborhood could jinx the team’s game that evening. Ridiculous, indeed, but hey, it’s part of being a fan.

As for the Knicks, let’s just say I’ll play hard to get for now. If they play smart this season, they might be able to woo me back.


Links

New York Knickerbockers
http://www.nba.com/knicks/

Superstitious Sport Fans
http://www.psychologyofsports.com/guest/superstitiousfans.htm

Michael Jordan
Come on, he’s a nobody; a waste of time.

Labels: Sports

posted by Señor Enrique at 5:07 AM | 2 comments

Thursday, November 17, 2005

SHOP FOR LIFE

If Pilosopong Tasyo was of this day and age, he would point out with utmost cynicism what gambling chips and credit cards have in common – plastic. And that plastic actually obscures the true value of money. Therefore, one tends to gamble or spend more with a piece of plastic than with actual cash as in Suzette’s story.

On the day she received her credit card, she took her boyfriend out to dinner after work at Friday’s in Robinson’s Malate. It was to celebrate her entry to the world of privileged adulthood: a major bank has entrusted her with a credit line twice the amount of her monthly gross salary.

Ronald had burgers with fries and a couple of bottles of imported beer while she had Fettucine Alfredo and two glasses of her favorite cocktail of gin and tonic. The dinner cost more than two thousand pesos.

Feeling a bit woozy from the gin, while strolling in the mall after dinner, she spontaneously dragged Ronald inside the Lacoste shop. She bought him a pricey pair of sneakers and a plaid short-sleeved shirt. The total came close to six thousand pesos.

Ronald was so happy for the unexpected gifts on top of a great dinner that he, too, spontaneously dragged Suzette to a nearby hotel for some mad love to express his gratitude. She was in heaven. While checking out, still giddy from Roland’s show of gratitude, she insisted that the bill of almost two thousand pesos be paid with her card as well.

That first night out with her credit card, she accumulated a debt of about ten thousand pesos. From that night on, Suzette never left home without it.

Eventually, she found herself maxing out her credit line. However, she managed to pay at least half of her accumulated charges by drawing from her savings. Unfortunately, instead of taming her spending habits, she pursued it with the same fervor and after a few months, she had used up her credit and depleted her savings. At the end, she could only afford to pay the minimum amount due. She now has to leave home without it.

In the interim, another bank had issued Suzette a credit card. Although its credit line was not as much as the first, it was still good enough. She promised to use it more wisely; however, she and her boyfriend started having problems.

In order to preserve their two-year relationship, Suzette suggested they spend more quality time on weekends. She and Ronald had taken into driving out of town and staying at nice resort hotels.

Only a couple of months later, she had tapped out its credit line as well. The stress from diving deeper into debt made Suzette jumpy and tense in which no mad love could alleviate. After a series of hurtful exchanges, Ronald thought it was best to separate just until they find a way to work out their differences.

Less than two years after receiving her first credit card, Suzette found herself in dire economic circumstances and without a boyfriend. Collectors started aggressively hounding her at work and at home. Embarrassing messages would be left with her officemates whenever unable to reach her. Calls to her house came in late at night when most households had gone to bed.

The collectors didn’t hesitate suggesting to anyone who answered the phone that Suzette might have become a woman of loose morals and ill-repute — the type that wanders aimlessly along the dark alleys of Avenida Rizal in their sheer skimpy clothing and red stilettos looking for cheap trick. And that was the reason she was never home when they called late at night. Actually, Suzette would be entirely covered by her blanket with her head buried under the pillow to avoid hearing the ringing telephone.

The tactics used by the collection agents were so harsh and brutal Suzette would be reduced to tears. Unable to deal with the humiliation any longer, she begged her father for a loan to pay off her debts. The father had to dip into his savings, including selling his treasured Callaway golf set at a loss – a 50th birthday present from her mother – just to help her.

Over dinner one night, her mother finally told her, “Ever since you got yourself a job, you never once helped out with the household expenses. And because you were too retarded to make any smart decisions, the only thing that gave your father much pleasure had to be sold to pay for your selfish, idiotic habits!” Suzette could only cry in response.

Ironically, inside Suzette’s closet were a couple of shopping bags full of brand new clothes with price tags intact; traces of past shopping sprees. Apparently, she never really needed most of those things; she just bought them for the rush it gave her from making the purchase.

Ronald never reconciled with her. He’s now living with a much older woman; an entertainer in Japan who has saved enough money to retire early from the profession. He is enjoying the fine clothes, jewelries and a brand new car from his new lady friend.

As for Suzette, as a means to pay back her father sooner, she took a second job on weekends at her friend’s restaurant. With her new boyfriend, Ramil, an attorney, she’s exploring the idea of setting up an advocacy group against abusive collection tactics.

It may be argued that the plastic card itself is not at fault here. True. But it did, however, facilitated an inchoate aberration to manifest as a harmful pattern of behavior.


Links:

Article: Credit Card 'Sales' People Remain Untamed
http://www.inq7.net/lif/2004/jun/17/lif_32-1.htm

Article: You Might Be a Shopaholic
http://moneycentral.msn.com/content/SavingandDebt/P58684.asp

Pilosopong Tasyo a character in Jose Rizal’s Noli Me Tangere
Translated in English by Maria Soledad Lacson-Locsin)
http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/0824819179/103-6684889-5279028?v=glance

Labels: Fiction

posted by Señor Enrique at 6:40 AM | 1 comments

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

SUGAR IS SWEET, THEREFORE, NICE

I’m a sugar addict. There, I said it.

As far back as I can remember, at any banquet or restaurant that offers eat-all-you-can buffet specials, I’m more attracted to the colorful sweets and desserts on the buffet table than to the array of delectable dishes.

I’ve undergone various vitamin therapy and nutritional regimens under medical supervision, but without any lasting success; I still have intense craving for sugar. Even though the regular tests performed by my doctor proved I’m not diabetic, I’ve had my share of sugar-related complaints through the years.

Despite all information now available online that outlines the ill-effects of sugar, as well as scientific explanations of the processes it goes through once ingested, eliminating one’s craving for sucrose or table sugar seems an almost impossible feat.

The only good thing about sugar is that it tastes good. And that is why it’s added to almost everything we eat these days — to make them taste better. The fact that sugar is highly addictive does not prevent our food industry from adding it to many of its processed food products. Actually, as long as the packaging label includes sucrose under the list of ingredients, the government gives manufacturers its seal of approval.

The lack of public pressure to acknowledge the adverse effects of sugar makes it even more difficult to lick one’s addiction to it. Worse, sugar has been accepted as a natural fact of life even to a wider extent compared to alcohol and cigarettes. Through our pop culture, sugar has been embedded in our psyche as being sweet; therefore, nice. This explains why in certain social circles, to call attention to one’s dependency on sugar is akin to being cute or downright silly.

But here’s the scary part, according to Licking Sugar Addiction by Elizabeth Bohorquez, “Sugar is well known as the underlying addiction to all addictions, and can be seen hiding under alcoholism, caffeine, nicotine and drug addictions of all varieties from recreational to over-the-counter, as well as prescription medications.”

I am cognizant of the almost superhuman efforts required to defeat an addiction; that oftentimes, spiritual introspection is needed as well. After all, addiction is a soul thing. Thus, I have decided to dedicate my Wednesday postings on this particular journey.

By having publicly admitted it, as they say, half the battle is already won. It demonstrates I’m past the denial and anger stages, and now ready for the healing process to begin. Lately, I’ve been thinking that since my New York physician was unable to help, I wonder if perhaps, as an alternative option, a local spiritual healer might be able to do the job. My aunt had arranged an appointment for me to meet with one this weekend. I’ll write about that experience and post it next Wednesday.

Until then, may peace light your path.


Links

A Real Sugar High
http://www.psychologytoday.com/articles/pto-20030124-000002.xml

Sugar Addiction FAQ
http://www.sugar-addiction.com/sugar_addiction_archives.htm

Licking Sugar Addiction by Elizabeth Bohorquez
http://www.healingwell.com/library/health/article.asp?author=bohorquez&id=1

Sugar Addict Anonymous
http://www.aksworld.com/FreeReports/sugar-addiction.htm

Labels: health issues

posted by Señor Enrique at 6:41 AM | 2 comments

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

A Master Storyteller: JOSEPH CAMPBELL

If you do follow your bliss, you put yourself on a kind of track that has been there all the while waiting for you, and the life you ought to be living is the one you are living. When you can see that, you begin to meet people who are in the field of your bliss, and they open the doors to you. I say, follow your bliss and don't be afraid, and doors will open where you didn't know they were going to be.

Joseph Campbell, The Power of Myth with Bill Moyers, “Bliss and Sacrifice”



It’s interesting how people in New York behave with some of their neighbors. They can be living in the same apartment building for years, but the extent of their interaction — when in the elevator or in the laundry room — is often limited to a nod of acknowledgement. Such was with my neighbor, Marc.

He was already living in the building for about two years, but I only got to know him when we ran into each other at a lecture about Joseph Campbell and his influence in film and television storytelling. It was held at the Institute of Religious Science on East 48th Street in Manhattan; the speaker was at that time the curator of the Joseph Campbell Library at the Pacifica Graduate Institute in Santa Barbara, California. A lot of people in the audience were graduate students of Jungian depth psychology, as well as writers in film and television. Marc, I later found out, was a writer for Late Night with David Letterman.

It was a delightful evening with the speaker citing several popular films and pointing out the basic storytelling elements they all shared; elements that are imbedded in our universal subconscious as expounded upon by Joseph Campbell in his book, A Hero With A Thousand Faces.

This master storyteller gained major prominence in 1988 when millions were introduced to his ideas by the broadcast on PBS of Joseph Campbell and The Power of Myth with Bill Moyers. It was a series featuring electrifying conversations that the two men had videotaped.

When he died in 1987 before his PBS series aired, Newsweek noted that “Campbell has become one of the rarest of intellectuals in American life: a serious thinker who has been embraced by the popular culture.”

Since that evening at the lecture hall, doing the laundry became more interesting. Whenever I ran into Marc in the laundry room, we would talk about Joseph Campbell and Carl Jung. Other people would join in and then someone would collect money for pizza and soda; before realizing it, we would have a pleasant weekend afternoon party going on in the laundry room. Oh well, that’s Manhattan for you. When Mark’s contract with David Letterman expired he headed west to Hollywood with his fiancé.

Here’s an interesting trivia for fans of Star Wars: PBS is a network of publicly-supported television stations. When Bill Moyers was scouting for an affordable location for his series with Joseph Campbell, George Lukas heard about it and immediately offered his facilities at the Skywalker Ranch in California for free provided that he was allowed to sit in during the videotaping. George Lukas is one of the many storytellers greatly influenced by Joseph Campbell.

Labels: Featured Writer, Life in New York

posted by Señor Enrique at 6:29 AM | 0 comments

Monday, November 14, 2005

Featured Artist: Jeff Vergara

When Jeff Vergara gave me the permission to feature one of his photographs, I picked out his #9 — from his Dubai landmark series. I did so as inspired by what a friend of mine in New York once told me, “An artist’s soul is often revealed by his abstracts more so than by his sweeping landscapes.”

I feel #9 conveys Jeff Vergara more as an artist as opposed to his other — just as stunning — photographs which highlight where Jeff Vergara is.

And if his intention was to reveal his fondness for modern architecture through his photographs, he has succeeded indeed, because certain elements of his #9, although abstract, remind me of Frank Lloyd Wright, a legendary American architect and proponent of organic architecture.

Other photos from his landmark series expose the immense wealth of Dubai and its receptiveness for modern architectural designs. The Burj Al Arab, for example, shares a striking resemblance to Frank Gehry’s modernistic approach to primal geometry as exemplified by his two Guggenheim Museums; one in New York and the other in Bilbao.

But what I find even more fascinating is that Dubai, with its well-constructed roadways, barely has any traffic. What a dream that is, especially to traffic-battered motorists of Metro Manila and New York.

And from reading Jeff’s regular posts, he seems to enjoy his time away from work by, among other things, attending art and photography classes, as well as trekking to other exotic places with a group of his friends. And in most of their soirées, they feast on sumptuous, mouth-watering Filipino dishes, including lechon kawali. What a fun life!

Now, what most people do not know is Jeff also designed this new template of my blogsite.

In my post of November 4th entitled, The Atari ST, I mentioned how musicians thousands of miles apart during the pre-Internet days used to collaborate by exchanging MIDI files through a bulletin board system (BBS). Now, fast-forward two decades later, and you’re looking at a result of another collaborative effort, this time through the Internet — this blogsite. The client, me, here in Metro Manila while the artists, Tet and Jeff are in Dubai.

I have never met either Tet or Jeff in person although it feels like I have. I’m a frequent visitor to Jeff’s The Dubai Chronicles and Tet Bautista’s Penovate blogsites. One of Tet’s paintings, Tsinelas, I had previously featured on this site. It was Tet who connected me with Jeff.

Since this was a visual project more so than audio, at first I was apprehensive to work with someone thousands of miles away, but then I thought, as long as I know what I want, there shouldn’t be any problem. I was right. Everything went smoothly from the beginning.

In almost all client/designer relations, problems arise only whenever a client has no idea of what he wants and would oblige the designer to do the guessing for him. Unfair to the designer because he could come up with several variations and the client will still have something new to add or delete ad infinitum. At the end, the artist would be left feeling under-compensated for all those time and effort he had allocated for the project.

Now, going back to Jeff’s #9 photograph as featured on this post, I told him that it’s inviting as well — prompting the viewer’s imagination to interplay with it. Personally, I see the circle on top as the sun and the lines its rays of light and energy (forces of life). Reminds me of what I once read somewhere, “The life force within you is the same life force as within me.” That, in essence, we’re all interconnected as one.

Finally, when you take a closer look, you’ll notice the color palette of Jeff’s #9 resembles the colors of my new blogsite. And the uncluttered minimalist approach that Jeff used for its layout reflects Dubai’s sleek and modernistic infrastructure. Thus, this featured photograph is truly a fitting image to celebrate our successful collaborative effort.

Thank you, Jeff and thank you, Tet!

posted by Señor Enrique at 5:58 AM | 7 comments

Sunday, November 13, 2005

Sunday Insight: PATIENCE

A man who can wait,
for it marks a great heart endowed with patience;
never to be in undue haste, or excited.
Be first the master of yourself,
and you will thereafter be the master of others;
one must journey far through time to get to the core of anything.
A prudent waiting brings season to accomplishment and ripeness
to what is hidden.
The crutch of time accomplishes more than the iron club of Hercules.
God himself does not tame with a whip, but with time, a great truth this: Time and I ‘gainst any two.
Fortune herself crowns patience with heavy garlands.

Baltasar Gracian


The Art of Worldly Wisdom
A collection of aphorisms from the works of BALTASAR GRACIAN
Translated by Martin Fischer
Published by Barnes & Noble Books, 1993

Labels: Words of wisdom

posted by Señor Enrique at 9:10 AM | 0 comments

Saturday, November 12, 2005

Featured Humor by Henny Youngman

When I read about the evils of drinking, I gave up reading.

Henny Youngman


Hailed as the "the king of the one-liners," for his rapid-fire style, Henny Youngman was one of America’s most famous stand-up comedians. Also a trained violinist, his father wanted him to be a virtuoso, but another comedian once quipped, "Henny's the only guy who, when he opens his violin case, the audience hopes he's got a machine gun in there." Among his most famous lines were "I was so ugly when I was born, the doctor slapped my mother," and "Take my wife -- please!" When the New York Telephone Co. started its Dial-a-Joke line in 1974, over three million people called in a month to hear 30 seconds of Youngman's material—the most ever for a comedian.



More on Henny Youngman
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henny_Youngman

posted by Señor Enrique at 5:59 AM | 2 comments

Friday, November 11, 2005

New York Times Scoop: Emmy Award for iPod Broadcast

The New York Times reports today that The National Academy of Television Arts and Sciences, best known for handing out the Daytime Emmy Awards, is expected to announce on Tuesday that it has created an award category to recognize original video content for computers, cellphones and other hand-held devices, like the video iPod and PlayStation Portable.

Read more:

And the Emmy for Best Actor on iPods Goes to ...
By Laura Holson
http://nytimes.com/2005/11/11/technology/11emmy.html?hp&ex=1131685200&en=55b0e95b1bd3be0c&ei=5094&partner=homepage




Related Links

Apple Ipod
http://www.apple.com/ipod/ipod.html

National Academy of Television Arts and Sciences
http://www.emmyonline.org/emmy/edu.html

posted by Señor Enrique at 10:54 AM | 1 comments

TWICE THE MAN

It was a brutal beating. Dennis suffered a broken jaw, a broken arm, a hideous black eye, and bruises on his arms and back. It was a beating fueled by pure hatred; mercilessly executed by someone bigger and stronger. It was his older brother, Junior.

Their mother was hysterical. She was shocked to see his older son letting loose on his little brother as if he were a rabid animal that had to be killed. The sound of the older boy’s fist pounding on the young boy’s chest and back reverberated into her heart; stifling her breath until she passed out.

It took two large men from the Barangay Hall to collar the drunken young man and to stop him from further pummeling his almost lifeless little brother.

Mr. Yu heard about the beating the next morning. He asked his wife to look after the store while he rushed to the hospital. In a cab, on the way to the Orthopedic Hospital in Quezon City, Mr. Yu remembered when he first met Dennis for the first time. He was barely 14 years old then. Like a seasoned salesman, he showed him and his wife samples of hair accessories of his own creations. Mrs. Yu was so excited she placed a big order immediately.

It was a big hit in their Divisoria store. And from that time on, Dennis has been supplying them with wonderful and sometimes outrageous pieces that their customers would always rave about. Mr. and Mrs. Yu consequently became the young designer’s wholesale distributor of his hair accessories. He was an instant success.

Dennis is gay; never wanted it and never asked for it. From as far back in his childhood as he could recall, he knew he was different from his older brother, as well as from the other boys. He had lots of girl friends, playmates actually, but it was their brothers he would crave to be intimate with.

Even at a young age, Dennis decided to accept himself for what he truly is – a budding homosexual. He realized there was absolutely nothing he could do to change the fact. Thinking no one else might love him for what he is, he resolved from that moment on to learn to love his own self in spite of the many beatings he endured.

His mother knew all along but wasn’t at all disturbed by it. Actually, she was praying for a girl when she was pregnant with him. His father, even if he knew, was too distant to give a damn; he abandoned them when he fell in love with a nurse he met in Los Angeles when Dennis was only a month old.

His brother, Junior, older by three years was another story. Filled with teenage angst, he hated Dennis with a passion because he was embarrassed by his little brother behaving like a little girl; worse, he believes Dennis brought bad luck to the family when he was born. It was his fault that the father he adored left them for another woman. Roughing up Dennis, therefore, has become a common phenomenon, especially whenever under the influence of alcohol.

Those close to the younger boy expressed grave concern for his welfare; afraid this senseless beating will happen again. It took Dennis months to fully recuperate from his injuries sustained from the last beating. The next one might be worse; it might physically deform Dennis for good.

Finally, it was Mrs. Yu who talked to Dennis’ mother. She suggested that perhaps, it would be best if Dennis live with them just so as to remove him from a hostile situation. His mother agreed.

Years passed. Junior went on to finish his studies at a criminology college and joined the police force. Glad not to have his gay little brother around to contend with.

Dennis was made to feel as if their own son by Mr. and Mrs. Yu. After graduating from college, with some of the money he had saved from his hair accessory business, they helped him set up his own design and manufacturing business. Under Mr. Yu’s guidance, Dennis’ business thrived.

His biggest success came — a coup de grace, indeed — when Beyonce Knowles was featured on the cover of Rolling Stone Magazine wearing one of his pieces, and Angelina Jolie was reported by a Women’s Wear Daily style editor as fond of giving away as gifts to her friends in Hollywood these wonderful hair ornaments from Manila. The demand for his products skyrocketed and Mr. You had to go to China to immediately negotiate a manufacturing deal with a major factory to fulfill all their incoming orders from foreign markets.

Throughout those years while living with Mr. and Mrs. Yu in Binondo, his mother would visit with him often. Dennis would always give her a substantial amount from his earnings. When his mother got sick, it was Dennis who paid for all her treatments and medications. And when she passed away, Dennis made sure she had the best funeral.

It was only at the service that the two brothers finally saw each other again; more than ten years since the last beating. Junior, dressed in his police uniform, looked older than his age and somewhat projected a forlorn look. Dennis, on the other hand, conveyed dignity and a sense of contentment; not to mention that he looked dashing in his black suit and white shirt with a striped necktie.

At the cemetery, after the interment service, Junior and Dennis were the only ones left sitting on white folding chairs; two vacant seats between them. The others had left while a few walked away just far enough to give the brothers privacy.

Junior sort of broke the ice. With a voice hoarsened by years of smoking, he asked Dennis if he was still angry at him for beating him up when he was young. Dennis slowly turned his head to face his older brother. He told Junior that his cruelty didn’t make him hate himself as he had wanted him to. And by loving his own self, he has learned not to harbor any anger for anyone else.

He admitted to Junior that to this very day, he’s at a loss as to why he’s gay and why there are gays. And why there are those who are so extremely prejudiced against someone simply because he’s gay that he would beat him to a pulp even if his own flesh and blood.

Dennis fixed his eyes on his older brother’s eyes this time and said, “For having been able to put food on our table, as well as for having given our mother some comfort until her final days while you’d only hang out and drink most nights makes me twice the man than you are.”

As Dennis was getting up from his seat, he took a final look at his older brother and said, “How could I ever be angry with you when, in fact, it was I who paid for your college education all along … with the money I made from making those pretty little hair clips that you hated so much?”

With those last words, Dennis walked towards his chauffeured car.


Link

What Does Gay Mean? How to Talk with Kids about Sexual Orientation and Prejudice
http://www.nmha.org/whatdoesgaymean/index.cfm

Hate Crimes
http://psychology.ucdavis.edu/rainbow/html/hate_crimes.html

The Psychology of Prejudice: An Overview
http://www.understandingprejudice.org/apa/english/

Labels: Fiction

posted by Señor Enrique at 6:32 AM | 1 comments

Thursday, November 10, 2005

LOST IN TRANSITION

Depending upon one’s perception, it’s either exhilarating or frightening how swiftly time seems to move. Conrado remembers as if only yesterday when he and his wife bought Boyet school supplies for his kindergarten class. And now, as if suddenly, his only son is entering his third year of high school at the end of the summer.

Nowadays, he worries that Boyet, who is autistic, might get lost in transition into adulthood without the capacity for adequately understanding the rigors involved in relationships. Will Boyet who is now getting more curious about girls eventually find someone to love who will love him back?

Last Sunday, at a cousin’s birthday party, after a game of basketball, Boyet began slurring his words. He then reverted to just groaning his thoughts like a toddler. His cousins and friends are quite used to it. They know that Boyet tends to forget his words whenever he gets overly exhausted. But to some of the girls at the sideline, it was a startling sight. A couple of them tried to control their nervous laughter; unsure how to react to Boyet’s odd behavior. One of whom, Boyet has a serious crush on.

On another occasion, while Boyet was hanging out with friends in front of the house, Conrado overheard his son rating certain girls from the neighborhood. It was immediately followed by a raucous hurling of innoucuous insults on one another. They were all normal talk among teenagers all right, but what was peculiar was how Boyet laughed a bit late at his friends’ jokes -- as if following the beat of a different drum. Sometimes he has trouble deciphering jokes and would laugh anyway because his friends were already laughing. Conrado realized that Boyet usually patterns his behavior through observations and by taking clues from those around him.

And there’s also his voice. Boyet has problems varying its strength and pitch; often unaware that his supposed whispers are uttered in regular speaking volume which becomes audible to others as well. Like one time at the grocery store, he meant to whisper to his cousin about the cashier’s cleavage -- partly exposed by her blouse’s low-cut neckline -- but he unknowingly said it quite loudly; embarrassing both his cousin and the cashier.

Conrado would sometimes think of how different he was from his son. Since high school he had no problem asking the girls he desired for a date. After all, he was a popular athlete with good looks and masculine charms. In college, along with fellow varsity players, it became a sport for him to grab as many girls possible and bed them. Apathy was the rule of the land. There was no room for emotional entanglements; just pure raw lust. He made full use of his intense sex appeal but in the process made a number of young girls cry.

Even when already married with three daughters, Conrado indulged in his wanton desires. His extra marital affairs went unabated until Boyet was born. Unfortunately, the only son to carry on his name was eventually diagnosed with autism. Consequently, most of the money that Conrado saved from his years of playing professional basketball have been allocated for the boy's special education, including the hiring of speech and cognitive therapists.

Oftentimes, Conrado ponders that perhaps, the universe ushered in Boyet into his life to teach him about the matters of the heart.

“How ironic,” he would muse, “that it would take a child to teach me about something I always thought I was a master of.” As for his three daughters, he knows they were meant to remind him of women’s vulnerabilities in a world full of unpleasant intentions.

But what he’s certain about is that none of his children will have to pay for any of his wrongdoings; he doesn’t believe in a cruel and unmerciful God. He’s fully resigned to the idea that someday he alone will step up and stand before God to answer for his actions.

His wife and the girls will come home next week from their month-long vacation in San Diego. Next month, he and Boyet, just father and son, will fly to New York for a couple of weeks to visit with his mother and brothers. While there, Conrado plans to seek an appointment with a specialist to take a look at his son.

As for tomorrow, he plans to take Boyet to the tailor to have new school uniforms made for him. He gained height and weight during the past few months; looking more like a young man now than a young boy. After the tailor, they will head on over to Glorietta to catch the new Batman movie.

In the darkness of the theater, Boyet will blend in with the crowd like a regular normal young man and delight in the superhero’s latest adventure. As for a miracle cure to completely eradicate his autism, Conrado, like a child, will wish he could summon Batman to do the job.



Links

Center for the Study of Autism
http://www.autism.org/contents.html

Parents of Autistic Children
http://www.poac.net/

Labels: Fiction

posted by Señor Enrique at 6:49 AM | 1 comments

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

Featured Artists: A GANG OF FOUR

"My painting is visible images which conceal nothing; they evoke mystery and, indeed, when one sees one of my pictures, one asks oneself this simple question - 'What does that mean'? It does not mean anything, because mystery means nothing either, it is unknowable."

Rene Magritte (1898-1967)
http://www.artchive.com/artchive/M/magritte.html



“The creative act is not performed by the artist alone; the spectator brings the work in contact with the external world by deciphering and interpreting its inner qualifications and thus adds his contribution to the creative act.”

Marcel Duchamp (1887-1968)
http://www.artchive.com/artchive/D/duchamp.html



“All good ideas arrive by chance.”

Max Ernst (1891-1976)
http://www.artchive.com/artchive/E/ernst.html



“An original is a creation motivated by desire. Any reproduction of an original is motivated by necessity. It is marvelous that we are the only species that creates gratuitous forms. To create is divine, to reproduce is human.”

Man Ray (1890-1976)
http://www.artchive.com/artchive/M/man_ray.html

Labels: Featured artist

posted by Señor Enrique at 6:59 AM | 0 comments

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

Featured Humor by TINA FEY

A man who had a heart attack while he was alone in his house was saved when his dog brought him the phone so he could call for help. However, it should be noted that for every one of these heartwarming stories, there's a million others where the dog just sits there like a moron and watches you die.

Tina Fey


“Writers love Tina Fey because she's living proof of our own potential. When she was hired as a co-anchor for SNL's "Weekend Update," and even more surprisingly, became an overnight celebrity because of it, comedy writers everywhere took notice. Her improbable stardom confirms our suspicions that if we were only given a chance in the spotlight, we would prove once and for all that we are exactly as attractive and witty as we always suspected. Not many writers are as charming in person as they are on the page. But Tina Fey has proven that we, in our dreams, are not entirely deluded.” Read more...

The Believer
http://www.believermag.com/issues/november_2003/fey.php


Tina Fey (Official Saturday Night Live Website)
http://www.nbc.com/Saturday_Night_Live/bios/Tina_Fey.html

Labels: Featured quote - humorous

posted by Señor Enrique at 5:05 AM | 0 comments

Monday, November 07, 2005

SUMMERTIME SANTA

It was always a much anticipated event; far more exciting than Christmas, in fact — Uncle Jerry’s annual homecoming from his job abroad. There were always lots of presents and chocolates, as well as trips to the mall for lunch and then shopping for toys for all the kids.

This time was no different. Almost every night there were unexpected friends dropping by to say hello. And as usual, Auntie Myrna was quick to prepare something for the guys to nibble on to go along with their San Miguel beer, Emperador brandy and never-ending conversations.

At Aling Nena’s store, a substantial inventory of Uncle Jerry’s favorite beer and liquor would always be in stock for these nightly get-togethers. Uncle Jerry was indeed a cash cow during these times and Aling Nena was among the local merchants who benefited immensely from his swollen wallet.

His homecoming would always coincide with the summertime fiesta wherein a much grander and elaborate party would be held for all to enjoy. There would be the usual lechon as centerpiece, all his favorite delectable dishes, steamed prawns, and all those wickedly tempting desserts. To top it off, an abundant supply of beer and liquor for an all day and all night partying.

Consequently, the well of prosperity would soon dry up. By the time Uncle Jerry started preparing his documents for yet another one-year stint abroad, he would be asking his wife for some leftover cash. Assured that he would soon be off to make more money again, Auntie Myrna wouldn’t hesitate calling the money lender from Bombay just to give Uncle Jerry some spending money.

However, unlike the previous times, there appeared to be some sort of a snag with his papers. The main man at the agency seemed evasive at first, but eventually relented. But just before the man said anything, Uncle Jerry’s gut feeling had already told him it may have something to do with an incident four months ago aboard the ship.

The racial jeering and howling turned nasty one humid afternoon; prompting Uncle Jerry to jump a Pakistani guy from behind and threw several punches at him.

Although swiftly subdued — preventing a minor fistfight from escalating into a major racial brawl — the deck officer on duty, following standard procedures, filed an incident report. The Captain opted to suspend issuing a reprimand; they were at that moment facing a major hurricane in the middle of the Atlantic. It was an arduous ordeal with the entire crew staying awake for long periods of time until they’ve passed through the storm. The cargo ship sustained damages that needed immediate attention.

Uncle Jerry suspected that the storm and all the frantic activities that followed had made the Captain overlooked the skirmish he had with a Pakistani shipmate. He was wrong. When his employer reviewed Uncle Jerry’s application for re-hire, there in black and white, was the incident report about Uncle Jerry’s racially-motivated scuffle with a Pakistani fellow-worker. He was turned down.

The agency had difficulties placing him with other cargo shipping firms as well. Uncle Jerry was blacklisted, deemed undesirable to board any international ocean vessel as a crew member.

When the main man at the agency told him of his unemployable status, Uncle Jerry suddenly slumped on his seat as if the air was sucked out of his entire system. He then unleashed a slew of racial slurs against the Pakistanis, which made the main man visibly upset. He immediately called security to remove Uncle Jerry from his respectable office.

Uncle Jerry was too lost in his gloomy thoughts. He had become perilously oblivious to his surroundings as he walked aimlessly from the agency. He almost got hit by a jeepney while crossing Taft Avenue.

Unable to get a job aboard an international ship, Uncle Gerry faced the grim prospect of going back to where he was five years ago, a dejected nobody -- no longer deserving of the moniker, The Summertime Santa, the once-a-year big shot oozing with green dollars. Uncle Jerry was again another insignificant resident of Barangay Sto. Cristo of Tondo, Manila.

Subsequently, the friends who used to flock to his house during his annual homecoming had stopped dropping by. His wife reverted to her moody nagging self. The kids became lethargic yet high strung. The house seemed gloomy. Money has run out. Partying away most of the money he earned from working abroad, left the family once again in limbo -- creeping bent over backwards beneath the poverty line.

Two months later, just as he was about to consider peddling taho for a living, his uncle whom he never cared enough to invite to any of his festive soirées in the past, stopped by and tipped him off about a certain job opening.

He couldn’t ascertain whether his uncle was being funny or downright insulting with this particular job lead. Nonetheless, he decided to go and apply for the job even if just to enable him to put some decent food on the table for his family.

The manager who reviewed his credentials and employment history went against his better judgment and hired Uncle Jerry. He thought he’d give him a much-needed break, especially with Christmas lurking just around the corner.

It has been a year since Uncle Jerry started on this new job. He has adjusted very well to his duties and with the people he works for. The job wasn’t as bad as he had anticipated in the beginning; the people in the complex were all nice, courteous and well-educated. The manager, just the other day, cheerfully whispered that a promotion was indeed in the offing for him; in time for the upcoming Christmas holiday. Uncle Jerry was thrilled upon hearing this wonderful news. He was thankful for his employers for having appreciated his performance.

That evening, just before heading home, Uncle Jerry stopped by at Baclaran Church to light a candle and offer a prayer of gratitude. As he was leaving the church’s grounds to go home, he ran into Romero, a fellow shipmate from the past. When Romero asked him were he now works, Uncle Jerry paused for a moment, took a not-so deep breath and gladly replied, “At the Pakistani Consulate here in Manila.”


Links:

Racial Prejudice
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Racism

Racism in the Workplace
http://www.businessweek.com/magazine/content/01_31/b3743084.htm

Seamen Employment Resources
http://www.pacificseamen.com/main.html

Filipino Sailors Challenge Ocean-Going Colonialism
http://dbacon.igc.org/Phils/03Sail.html

Taho, a by-product of soy bean curd
http://pinoycook.net/index.php/recipes/recipe/taho/

Labels: Fiction

posted by Señor Enrique at 7:52 AM | 1 comments

Sunday, November 06, 2005

Sunday Insight: A COMPASSIONATE HEART

Evil is the absence of light. The remedy for evil is presence.

When you hate, you bring that suffering to yourself. Hatred of evil affects the one who hates. It makes him a hateful person, a person who has also absented from light.

Understanding evil as the absence of light does not require you to become passive, or to disregard evil actions or behavior. It is appropriate to do what you can to challenge it, but if there’s no compassion in your heart also for those who abuse or oppress — for those who have no compassion — do you not become like them?

Compassion is being moved to and by acts of the heart, to and by the energy of love. If you strike without compassion against the darkness, you yourself enter the darkness.

A compassionate heart is most effective against evil for it can engage evil directly by bringing light where there was no light.

Understanding evil as the absence of light requires you to examine the choices that you make each moment in terms of whether they move you toward the light or away from it. It allows you to look with compassion upon those who engage in evil activities, even as you challenge their activities, and thus protects you from the creation of karma. It makes you see that the place to begin the task of eliminating evil is within yourself. This is the appropriate response to evil.


Gary Zukav
SEAT OF THE SOUL

Labels: Words of wisdom

posted by Señor Enrique at 6:59 AM | 0 comments

Saturday, November 05, 2005

WEEPING WILLOW

It was a means to escape an impoverished life. To provide a better future for her son, Tomas, whose father turned out to be a married man with four children. She was young and gullible then; desperately believing Mario’s drunken words of a blissful eternal love. But as soon as she uttered the word pregnant, Mario flew out of their love nest like a bat out of hell.

Nine years later came Mr. Stanley, a retired dockworker from Baltimore, Maryland. The two benefit checks he receives regularly, one from social security and the other from his Teamster pension fund, amount to almost a quarter of a million pesos a month. When he proposed marriage, Feliza, with just a hint of pretentious reluctance, said yes.

Even before the wedding, instead of the States, Mr. Stanley suggested staying in the Philippines, much to Feliza’s elation. With money earned from selling his house in Baltimore, Mr. Stanley bought a nice spacious bungalow with almost 500 meters of wrapped around lawn in a gated community in Quezon City. Feliza learned to drive and Tomas was schooled by the Jesuits.

Five years later, despite a comfortable life, Feliza realized she wasn’t happy; a common complaint amongst many local women who had married a foreigner for money.

She was as diligent as ever when attending to Mr. Stanley’s needs, but the old man was wise enough to feel the absence of true love from their relationship. Ah, true love, it was the one thing he sought in life since his young wife -- his first love -- was shot in the back as she ran from the Gestapo in a Jewish ghetto in Poland.

And since the war, what became an ardent obsession for Mr. Stanley was to once again experience the intoxicating joys of true love. Unfortunately, unable to find it, even from his Filipina wife, made Mr. Stanley irritable and contemptuous.

The old man would sometimes direct his bitterness on Tomas, making life miserable for the young man. Tomas has always been respectful of his stepfather; even too servile at times, but Mr. Stanley trashed it to fear more so than love. Old age and unfulfilled desires can certainly turn a battered soul into a harbinger of scorn and mistrust.

Nevertheless, he had adopted Tomas earlier on and had put aside more than enough money for him to study abroad. Hence immediately upon graduating from high school, the young man decided to go to New York to study Industrial Design at Pratt Institute in Brooklyn.

Feliza was saddened when his boy left for America, but somewhat relieved that he no longer had to suffer from his stepfather’s misdirected ire. Mr. Stanley missed the young man and felt bad for having been unreasonable with him at times; however, he thought, perhaps, now that the he's away, Feliza might learn to love me just a bit more.

Relentlessly bullied and taunted a bastard by the menacing kids in their old squalid shanty neighborhood took a toll on little Tomas; he grew up timid and withdrawn even after Mr. Stanley moved them to a swanky gated community. His room became his sanctuary, his studies his solace.

Even in his new college surroundings in Brooklyn he was reclusive; rarely venturing out of his studio apartment to participate in after school activities with his fellow freshmen. That is, until Mr. Ramos came into his life. A forty-something brawny man who walks with a slight limp and a demeanor that suggests impatience with life’s divine promise.

He works as a cook in Pasta Bella, a charming Italian pizzeria and restaurant nearby where Tomas rents an apartment. Indeed, the young man was happy when Mr. Ramos struck up a conversation with him in Tagalog. He usually walks with eyes fixed on the ground; barely noticing anyone, let alone Mr. Ramos who had always wanted to get to know him. Tomas was thrilled to meet another Filipino right in his own neighborhood.

Mr. Ramos told him he has been working at Pasta Bella for six years now since he arrived in New York. He was a seaman who jumped ship when they docked in a Brooklyn pier. That probably caused his limp, thought the young man in jest. Mr. Ramos has been evading the immigration agents since then.

Mr. Daliana, the old man who owns the pizzeria gave him a job as janitor. Mr. Ramos somehow reminded the kindly Italian man of his own father’s adventures from Sicily to New York before the turn of the century and took a quick liking to him. Mr. Daliana has since moved up Mr. Ramos in rank as one of his cooks in the kitchen.

The friendship between Tomas and Mr. Ramos grew auspiciously for both lonely souls. Mr. Ramos patiently brought out the young man from his shell, while Tomas brought back joy in Mr. Ramos’ dreary life. He terribly missed his own children back in the Philippines and has taken in Tomas as if he were his own son.

Eventually, the Daliana Family also got to know and like Tomas; he, too, ended up working in the restaurant on a part time basis. Tomas loves the crazy but nurturing atmosphere in that restaurant. The more time he spent in there, the more gregarious he became. By the time Tomas reached his senior year of college, he had made a number of friends and had acquired the skills to whip up some fine Italian dishes, including twirling a pizza dough.

Tomas also fell in love with Tina, Mr. Daliana’s granddaughter. It was a courtship blessed by her family. One Sunday afternoon, under the shade of an old weeping willow tree in Brooklyn Botanic Garden, Tomas proposed and Tina accepted with tears of joy in her beautiful blue eyes.

On the young man’s graduation, Feliza and Mr. Stanley came to New York for the ceremony. Tomas profusely thanked his stepfather for his generosity that allowed him to earn a degree from a prestigious college in New York. Mr. Stanley sort of waved him off; embarrassed by the young man’s profound gratitude. His mother whispered that Mr. Stanley has mellowed out the past couple of years; no longer cranky and bitter with life as he once was.

The party was held at Pasta Bella. It was closed to the public for that day. They had a deejay with his mobile music setup, lots of colorful balloons and plenty of both Italian and Filipino dishes and sweets prepared by Mr. Ramos and the entire kitchen staff.

The celebration was highlighted with the announcement of Tomas’ and Tina’s engagement. Thrilled by having detected true love shared by Tina and Tomas, Mr. Stanley excitedly announced that he would contribute generously for a grand wedding.

Towards the tail end of this boisterous celebration, unnoticed by all, out in the restaurant’s back alley by the exit door, Mr. Ramos and Feliza were engaged in a hushed, guarded conversation. They were trying to figure out how to resolve a dilemma that was suddenly presented upon them. After all, as Tomas’ real father, Mario Ramos has the right to attend his son’s wedding and be introduced as such to everyone.


Links

Brooklyn Botanic Garden
http://www.bbg.org/

Pratt Institute
http://www.pratt.edu/

Labels: Fiction

posted by Señor Enrique at 7:28 AM | 6 comments

Friday, November 04, 2005

The ATARI ST

Atari is currently celebrating the 20th Anniversary of its Atari ST.


Known more for manufacturing games and game machines, the ST was Atari’s first major foray into the world of personal computing.

Like the Macintosh and Amiga, the Atari ST was based on the Motorola 68000 processor. It offered medium resolution color graphics and high quality stereo sound, and its GEM operating system featured a graphical user interface.

With an 8 MHz CPU, one MB RAM and no hard drive, its suggested retail price was about $1,000.00 back in those days. I got mine for $800.00 at J&R Electronics in downtown Manhattan.

Unfortunately, Atari ST was unable to compete with the IBM PC and Apple Macintosh for mainstream business purposes. As for graphics and games, the Amiga pretty much had that market covered. As a result, the ST struggled to find its place, but it managed to carve out a niche in the music and audio editing market, where many music professionals used it as an advanced sound mixing and sound effects machine.

During that period, I was taking private music lessons from a great teacher, Sam Kanter. With the aid of an Atari ST, sequencing software, a Roland drum machine, and a Korg M1 keyboard, he molded me into a better lover of music through the rudiments of composition, arrangement, orchestration and sound design. Suddenly, I became a proponent of Brian Eno’s theory that anyone can play music.

Subsequently, as a way to interact with musicians and other students to further expand my horizon, he sponsored my membership to an exclusive music-related BBS or bulletin board system.

Before the Internet became publicly accessible, BBS enabled large amounts of people with personal computers, modem and telephone line to connect with one another. Most early computer bulletin boards were run as free public hobbyist systems — mostly for game enthusiasts — or as exclusive membership-only systems.

Back in those days, you must strictly comply with their rules of etiquette when posting your opinions or responding to someone else’s. A sysop or system operator closely monitored every forum. Knee-jerk responses were discouraged. Your posting must be written as coherently as you possibly could; otherwise, it would be deleted.

On the upside, through the BBS, a lot of project collaborations were formed, as well as job leads to be discovered. Resources were plentiful for all music enthusiasts — professionals and students alike.

Modem connections were primitively slow back then compared to today’s standards. Nonetheless, file sharing was possible, and artists from various locations were exchanging MIDI files; creating incredible original works thousands of miles apart.

What did I get out of those four years of private music lessons? Not much to rave about or worth carving onto my tombstone.

I had nothing that made it on Billboard’s top 10 or top 1000, or even top one million for that matter. However, being accepted as a member of the American Society of Authors and Composers and BMI helped me land projects to defray the costs of my private lessons.

But the most exciting was my participation as a technical legal assistant in a patent infringement case that involved the compact disc technology. I held with my own hands the prototype of the compact disc which was made of glass; it was twelve inches in diameter while its player was a hefty box made of plywood. Two of our witnesses were Nicholas Negroponte of MIT’s Media Lab and Robert Moog, the man who invented the Moog synthesizer. We won the case.

I’ve had a few computers since the Atari ST, but as in any love affairs, memories with the first one tend to last forever even if the object of desire is no longer around; especially, when that first one has transported you to higher realms of ecstasy never before experienced in life.

Links
More on ATARI ST (technical Specifications, Origins, Software, Screenshots)
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Atari_ST

BBS Backroads
http://www.fanciful.org/bbs-promotion/how-to-bbs/bbs.htm

MIDI
http://www.midiweb.com/

Brian Eno
http://music.hyperreal.org/artists/brian_eno/

MIT Media Lab
http://www.media.mit.edu/

Robert Moog (Moog Music)
http://www.moogmusic.com/history.php

Thompson v Quixote
http://caselaw.lp.findlaw.com/scripts/getcase.pl?navby=search&case=/data2/circs/Fed/971485.html

Labels: Life in New York

posted by Señor Enrique at 6:00 AM | 3 comments

Thursday, November 03, 2005

Featured Book: AS A MAN THINKETH

What makes life difficult throughout the history of mankind is that we are born without a manual. As we struggle to follow our bliss; to fulfill our inner longings that will consequently define our life, we find ourselves at a certain crossroad: whether or not to transcend our comfort zone – family and culture – that once nurtured us. Thus, begins what Joseph Campbell would refer to as the hero’s journey.

From teenage angst to mid-life reevaluations, for the most part, we cope with personal issues alone. Regardless of our basic support system comprised of family and friends; despite of their well-meaning intentions, suggestions and recommendations, we often base our decisions on the set of thoughts and core beliefs that we alone ascertain for ourselves.

As a Man Thinketh tells us that although we are powerless to change any person or condition that comes our way, we do, however, have the power to provide its meaning, as well as how and to what extent we will allow this person or condition to affect us. But then again, this book argues, most people and conditions that we attract into our life are equivalent experiences of the thoughts we harbor in our mind.

Long before the publication of this tiny book, many had already attested to the power of thoughts to manifest themselves; that our every uttered word and every action taken was preceded by our having thought about it first. Everything around us – from our cellphones (or mobiles, as they are now beginning to be referred to these days) to the cars we drive — all came from thought.

Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, Emperor of Rome, A.D. 161-180, said, “The happiness of your life depends upon the quality of your thoughts, therefore guard accordingly; and take care that you entertain no notions unsuitable to virtue, and reasonable nature.”

James Allen, in this tiny book, also underscores our innate power to fill our mind with thoughts of what we want to experience in our life, as well as our power to filter out those we do not wish to experience.

He claims, “Of all the beautiful truths pertaining to the soul which have been restored and brought to light in this age, none is more gladdening or fruitful of divine promise and confidence than this – that man is the master of thought, the moulder of character, and the maker and shaper of condition, environment, and destiny.”

In essence, we actively participate in creating our destiny through the thoughts we often find ourselves thinking a lot about.

This is a wonderful book that reminds us about a simple truth: we are what we think.

Labels: Featured book

posted by Señor Enrique at 6:19 AM | 2 comments

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

WHIPPED GOOD

Fourth of nine children, Nenita was forced to leave home and venture to Manila to find a job and help her poverty-entrenched family. She was miserably homesick, longing to go back home, but had no choice in the matter.

Her father, only in his forties, was a strong man but too afflicted with a passion for brandy and cockfights. He would waste his money earned from the harvest on foolish vices instead of providing for his family.

Her mother, a 'modern-day Sisa,' would often plow the fields herself whenever her husband was too hung over from the previous night’s carousing, which was almost always the case.

She would supplement their meager income by doing laundry for the rich families in town, as well as clean their houses on weekends. In the afternoons, she would take bets for the local jueteng bookie if Don Castillo had no work for her at his vast sugarcane field. No wonder she looked way past her actual age of 38.

The older children were tasked to peddle her homemade rice cakes that she would prepare before the break of dawn. That would be around three in the morning because by five, she should already be in line at Mang Berting’s to rent a carabao to pull her plow.

Nenita was only 16-years old when her boat docked in Manila. To make her of legal age for employment purposes, her cousin Charing got her a birth certificate to state her as such from one of the document wizards of Recto. And after updating Nenita’s measly wardrobe at Baclaran, they went to see Chinita, Charing’s gay beautician friend, to give Nenita a wicked makeover.

By the time she was introduced by Charing to her friend, Milang, who worked at a bakery in Divisoria’s Tutuban section, Nenita has been transformed from a provincial peasant into a young woman of beguiling beauty. Her shyness only enhanced her alluring charm. Nenita was immediately hired by Mrs. Chan, the notorious bakery owner from hell.

She fancied carrying a folding fan -- to cool her with, as well as to keep her workers in line. Once snappily folded back, she could surprise any one of them –- with an upside whack on the back of the head with military-like precision –- should they displease her for any reason however petty, that is.

Anything above the scale of petty -- aside from the customary surprise whip -- any offender or slacker would also be harangued by Mrs. Chan for about 15 minutes in some funky cocktail of Mandarin and Tagalog, with a couple of Biblical verses in Elizabethan English thrown in for good measure.

It was a bizarre language of her own concoction that only she could understand. Its purpose was to discombobulate -- obliterating the victim’s sense of purpose for living even if for a few minutes -- delivered in rapid-fire unintelligible bursts an octave beyond her usual range.

It was so sonically annoying her workers would much rather receive 40 lashes from her folding fan rather endure this heinous linguistic torture.

As for the folding fan, it actually didn't inflict much pain. It was the surprise element that was nerve-wracking; always eluding even a senior worker’s gut-feel radar. One worker eventually mustered the courage to file a case with the Department of Labor. She complained that she had stopped lactating due to stress from Mrs. Chan’s stealthily devious fan-whips.

The judge ordered Mrs. Chan to compensate the complainant with P75,000.00 for her pain and suffering. Mrs. Chan defiantly accused the local justice system of favoring breast-feeding, baby-breeding factories. She was fined another P50,000.00 for contempt.

“I don’t care. I have money!” she screamed back at the judge while pointing her dreaded folded fan at him. The judge wisely avoided staring at it as a Turkish peon would to an evil eye medallion.

“Good riddance!” she said about the worker who quit and went back to Bohol with her P75,000.00 in compensation.

Despite her judicial setback, Mrs. Chan’s irritating disciplinary methods went unabated. She went on to take much pride in having mastered such techniques purportedly inspired by her idol, Jiang Qing, and her revolutionary treatise on cultural reforms and mass discipline.

Meanwhile, back in Bohol, upon arriving home from Manila with her baby, Nenita bought her mother a carabao of her own and invested the rest of her P75,000.00 on a piggery business. She gave her father zilch.

A month or so later, after graduating from college, the baby’s father followed Nenita to Bohol to marry her. It was Hamilton, Mrs. Chan’s youngest and most handsome favorite son.

The young couple’s piggery and bakery businesses are now doing well in Tagbilaran City. Mrs. Chan regularly visits her favorite grandchild sans the folding fan.

More recently, Mrs. Chan and Nenita’s mother went into business together making Tessen fans strictly for export to Japan. Their creations are fast becoming collectible pieces.

Nenita’s father has gone back to plowing the fields.


Links

China: Kingdom of Fan-making
http://app1.chinadaily.com.cn/star/2003/0515/cu18-1.html

Tessen Fans
http://www.e-budokai.com/hibuki/tessen.htm

Bohol, Philippines
http://www.bohol.ph/

Sisa, a character from Jose Rizal’s Noli Me Tangere
http://www.hawaii.edu/filipino/Related

Jiang Qing, founder of the Gang of Four, wife of Mao Zedong
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jiang_Qing

Evil Eye
http://www.themystica.com/mystica/articles/e/evil_eye.html

Labels: Fiction

posted by Señor Enrique at 6:49 AM | 1 comments

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

FOR ALL SOULS TODAY

Today begin life anew.
Today be born to a fresh, new, bright glorious day.
This new day has never been lived before and will never be lived again.
Enter into this new day with enthusiasm, knowing that the Presence of God uplifts and enlighten you.
Bring into this new day only intelligence, wisdom peace, joy and understanding.
New courage, new strength, new life are yours to share.
Add to this new day new ideas, new methods, new thoughts and new attitudes.
Today you are rich in radiant health, infinite Abundance and Love.
The beauty, warmth, color, protection and comfort of His loving presence fills you with deep sense of peace, joy and security.
Pour into every moment of this new day the wonderful blessings that abound for you.
Your cup runneth over.
This is indeed your day of fulfillment.
Today you are living in a new heaven and new earth.
Thank God, for this new day!

Jack Addington


Your Needs Met
http://www.abundant.atfreeweb.com/inspirationalbooks.htm

Labels: Words of wisdom

posted by Señor Enrique at 5:35 AM | 0 comments

Life in Manila as observed by a former New Yorker who with a laptop and camera has reinvented himself as a storyteller. Winner of the PHILIPPINE BLOG AWARDS: Best Photo Blog in 2007 and three Best Single Post awards in 2008.

 

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