May 2009 Archives

Pennie Azarcon-dela Cruz Executive Editor, Sunday Inquirer Magazine YUP, this is one of those times when I’m actually glad I’m ancient and have committed my share of youthful indiscretions way way before video cameras made them easy fodder for the Net. Not that the Katrina-Hayden video is anything new.  Marcos started it all in the late ‘60s with his croaky “Pamulinawen” caught on a tape recording that his inamoratas, Dovie Beams, so generously shared with an amused nation.  Then there were those betamax tapes—notably Vivian Velez and former Ilocos official Rudy Fariñas-- the Dumaguete tapes, and of more recent vintage, the cellphone cameras showing Ethel Booba in flagrante delicious and Mahal in the shower (barf!). So why all this chest-thumping rage on the one hand, and such furiously titillated downloading from the Net on the other? Well, I guess people have had enough of the swine flu scare, and the peccadilloes of this male chauvinist swine was a welcome change. Which explains why this dangerous liaison has been hogging the headlines for three days now.  Then there are the conspiracy theories and how Manny Villar had so wanted a distraction from the Senate, uhm…probe of his pork insertions (that image again), that he leaned on good friend Bong Revilla to spill the beans on the Katrina-Hayden video.  What excelling timing, observers note, considering how rumors of the video’s existence have been floating around since December last year. And of course, admit it, we’re all prurient creatures deep down despite our window-dressed Catholic upbringing, and can’t stop our raging hormones from seeking out the lewd, lecherous, libidinous, lusty and lubricious in our quotidian lives.  Given all that, we’re just waiting for the honorable Justice Secretary to weigh in on the issue with his uniquely out-of-this-planet perspective before we lay it to rest. In the meantime, what’s the full-blooded Viagra-energized couple to do when the urge to copulate strikes?  Is that a smoke detector on the motel’s ceiling or a hayden camera? How are those sweet young things to know whether their Prince Charming of the moment isn’t really a pervert who’s recording all their thrashings for future gain? What are the new ethics on lovemaking in these times of covert recordings and instant downloading? A few suggestions: 1. Make sure to conduct all lovemaking under a blanket.  Take care that no heaving chests, throbbing appendages, slick and sweaty limbs and hirsute nether parts are visible to avoid any impression that you’re doing anything other than sleeping on that bed. You don’t want to give the bishops more nightmares than they can handle. 2. To save energy—in all sense of the word—turn off the lights before you so much as unhook a bra or slip into pajamas.  To further frustrate the hayden camera that might have night vision capacity, cover up with a thick blanket as well, never mind if it feels like a sauna.  Think of all the pounds you’re bound to lose the morning after. 3. Invest in masks and complete anonymity and turn foreplay into fun and games.  A bayong like the Makapilis used during the Japanese occupation, or a Ku Klux Clan head cover might be a good idea for your mate, just in case he turns out to be a toad later.  (Hah, let’s see how the DVD pirates are going to title that:  Porky Pig and Minnie Mouse sex scandal?) 4. Be considerate of minors who might later be watching your video.  Before starting anything scandalous, be sure to hold out a notice reading:  “The following scenes contain adult material and may not be suitable for very young viewers.  Parental advice is encouraged.”  Due diligence is always appreciated. 5. Be sure to give credit where it’s due.  Couldn’t Hayden have pentel-penned on Katrina’s perfectly flat tummy the words she was paid to mouth at every instance, i.e. “Body by Belo” ?   He could have made a game of it, right?  We’re sure Vicky would be grateful.  Sayang! What a missed opportunity that was. 6. And finally, if you strongly suspect there’s a hayden camera but can’t locate it, relax, lie down and make sure you look really good.  Check that your make up is flawless and that your undies are billboard-worthy.  The whole world may be watching.

By Eric S. Caruncho The smell of frying bananas (or hearing the Beatles’ “I Should Have Known Better”) always takes me back to a specific time and place: that summer when I was nine and I discovered the comic book rental place just a short hop from our old house. In those days, there were parlors where you could rent comics for five centavos a read, and the one I frequented was right next to a banana cue stand and a jukebox blaring the hits of the day (hence the smell and sound associations). The place was usually packed, with students goofing off and catching up on the latest issues of “Aliwan” or “Pilipino” comics, but the wizened old man who ran the place also had a pile of English-language comic books.  This was where I discovered Batman (still making the transition from “Detective” comics to his own title) and Superman (ditto from “Action”), as well as the Justice League of America and the Legion of Superheroes. Actually, I only kept up with the DC titles to fit in with my peers.  Marvel was always more my speed: the Mighty Thor, Spiderman, Namor the Submariner, the Incredible Hulk and my favorite, Doctor Strange, then being drawn by the immortal Steve Ditko. After they had made enough for him, the old man was willing to part with certain titles for ten centavos each, and this was how I came into possession of “The Incredible Hulk” No. 1 (doubtless worth something on eBay today if only  I still had it). Anyway, I soon began amassing my own collection, mainly titles acquired by harassing my grandfather into taking me with him on his daily run to the dental laboratories on Florentino Torres (he was a dentist) so we could pass by the magazine stands on Avenida Rizal and I could wheedle him into buying me one or two new comic books. One day, however, I struck gold.  While playing in the attic of my grandfather’s house, I stumbled upon treasure: a hidden stash of EC comics dating back to the 1950s—before the Comics Code Authority enforced its stamp of approval (i.e., censored) all comic books finding their way into young hands. It was a revelation.  Not only was the artwork in “The Vault of Horror”, “Tales from the Crypt” and “The Haunt of Fear” distinctively graphic and grisly, but the pre-code stories were dark and cynical in a way that I had never encountered in the sanitized offerings for normal boys and girls. I had always been a fan of the Universal horror films, which were afternoon matinee staples on TV then (“Frankenstein meets the Wolfman”), but the EC stories went much further. Case in point: “The Basket”, featuring a village hunchback who always carried a basket on his shoulder.  He has violent mood swings, however: sometimes gentle and playful, other times insanely violent.  The villagers soon notice than when he’s in a good mood, he carries the basket on his right shoulder, and when he’s bad, the basket is on his left shoulder.  Inevitably, they discover the reason: the man has two heads, and two personalities—the basket merely hid one or the other. “Good Lord! (Choke!)” was the horrified reaction on the final panel of nearly every EC story. Another story put a new twist in the classic horror story “The Monkey’s Paw”: a woman loses her fiancée in an accident.  She makes a wish on a magical object to bring him back from the dead, and it works.  But her fiancée continues to decompose, until she can’t take it anymore.  She takes a kitchen knife to him, and in the final panel, the neighbors break into her apartment to find her frenziedly hacking her fiancée into tiny pieces, each still writhing with life! “Good Lord! (Choke!)” Many many years later, I found myself working in the same newspaper as Nonoy Marcelo.  He had a side project going at the time, producing two titles for a venerable local comic book publishing house which he managed to convince to try something new. The idea was to produce two “wakasan” titles—one horror and one romance. I recognized a fellow EC aficionado in Nonoy when, apropos of nothing, he happened to utter the immortal line “Good Lord! (Choke!)”, and “Argh!” Comics, the horror title he conceived, had a distinct EC flavour to it, but with a modern twist. The idea behind “Argh!” was to employ the talents of some of the artists who gravitated around Marcelo’s peculiar genius, among them Jose Tence Ruiz, Ludwig Ilio, Dante Perez and Roxlee—distinctive illustrators all. I was press-ganged into producing a couple of scripts for “Argh!”.  I was of course thrilled to be working in comics—a childhood dream fulfilled—but apprehensive about never actually done it before. How hard could it be? Drawing on my recollections of the EC stories (which I soon discovered had been indelibly stamped in my brain), I managed to assemble a cast of putrid protagonists in two twisted tales of revenge from beyond the grave! In the first one, “Salvage”, a pair of rogue cops make a habit of dumping their salvage victims in the same garbage heap.  One night when they’re disposing of a fresh kill, a grisly decayed hand suddenly breaks out of the muck.  The dead are rising to wreak their terrible vengeance on their killers. “Good Lord! (Choke!)” In the second one, whose title escapes me now, the lead singer in a struggling punk rock band makes the classic deal with the devil for fame and wealth, and his band soon rises to the top, with the attendant sex, drugs and rock’n’roll.   But soon, the devil wants his due, and our hero soon finds himself being dragged into the flaming pits of hell. “Good Lord! (Choke!)” I was paid the princely sum of fifty pesos per page for my literary efforts, but the thrill of finally seeing my name in a title panel was the real reward. Sadly, “Argh!” was either 30 years too late, or perhaps 30 years ahead of its time.  It ceased publication after only two issues, both of which are doubtless worth something on eBay today—if only I had a copy.

By Ruel S. De Vera, Associate Editor Sunday Inquirer Magazine WHEN my father was a child growing up in the province of Bicol, he devised a way of making some money by buying komiks and renting them out at the neighborhood general store in the post-war years. This is a particularly cool fact considering how much I love comic books today. Most children, at one point or another, become interested in comic books—and then are expected to leave them behind as they grow up. Thus it has become a bit of a stigma to still like comic books once you enter and exit the teen years. Many people would be surprised when it turns out that their favorite athletes or artists profess a serious devotion to comic books, as if implying that their idols are too cool to like something as kiddie as comic books. I consider myself lucky never to have had that problem. Funny Comics (Superkat! Nik-nok!) was weekly ritual. Classics Illustrated was an awesome way to read legendary stories. I remember trading for my first comic book ever in grade school, trading away a soundtrack cassette of “E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial” for a giant-size “The Legion of Super-heroes,” an issue that featured Grimbor the Chainsman on the cover. The very fact I can identify that guy on the cover speaks to my utter geekiness. I remember that comic book in particular—everything about it. I even remember the full-page ad at the back of the issue, touting what wonderful things you get for free if you sold issues of a newspaper called Grit. I know of other ads as well, speaking of Sea Monkeys and X-Ray Specs. When I began reading Marvel Comics, I noticed the comics-style ads for Hostess Twinkies. I read a lot of comics during those years, even enjoying the intersection of comics and toys by reading “Transformers” and “G.I. Joe.” But my favorite comic title back then was unusual. It was“All-Star Squadron,” a DC Comics title written by Roy Thomas that featured authentic (and not-so-authentic) superheroes from World War II. It utterly fascinated me, all these obscure heroes and villains, something that has become a trademark of my reading. I fell behind in my reading a bit as I entered college, though I was peripherally aware that Superman had died and Batman had his back broken. I wasn’t ashamed of my comics habit—quite the contrary—I was just too busy with other things to keep it up. I was already working when I picked up my comics habit. It began innocuously enough, with me picking up a few issues then subscribing through Filbars to the Abnett and Lanning Legion of Super-heroes. It was my first time reading the work of the duo and I was hooked. Gravitating to a store called Comic Quest, I made good friends and picked up more titles. Aside from a renewed interest in the Transformers, I really got into the fantastic DC title “JSA,” which, no surprise here, featured WWII heroes. It was an amazing title, full of heroes both familiar and new. The writers, James Robinson, Geoff Johns and David Goyer, were perfect fits. I had the opportunity years later to see Goyer in the flesh, telling him that “JSA” was the greatest comic title ever, meaning every single word. In the process, I have also savored the work of comic books from other parts of the world, particularly Europe where Goscinny and Uderzo’s Asterix The Gaul provide entertainment like no other. I myself have always identified with poor Cacofonix the Bard, who ends every adventure bound and gagged because he wants to sing. And the comic books from the Philippines took me by surprise, and are now beloved. Gerry Alanguilan’s “Wasted” really disturbed me, making an indelible mark. Arnold Arre’s “The Mythology Class” charmed me. I consider comic books and komiks to be iterations of the same substance in different styles, and so I revel in the legacy of Mars Ravelo’s Captain Barbell as much as I do in the spooky seeking of Budjette Tan’s Alexandra Trese. Comic books have a different vibe now, partly because of the success of so many comic book-based movies. When even a challenging series like “Watchmen” can be made into a movie, you know you’re living in a new world. It is a time with its transcendent adaptations (“The Dark Knight”) and its crash and-burn attempts (“Steel”). And I try to catch each one. The monthly periodicals (affectionately referred to as “floppies”) are an endangered species, while the graphic novel and the collected trade paperback ensure a longer lifespan for the stories. Even collecting is different now, with comics suddenly expensive collector’s items and some people sliding the mint edition issues into Mylar sleeves, never to be read. That’s anathema to me, because comic books are almost as pure an incarnation of storytelling as you’ll ever find, a melding of the visual and literary narratives. Comics are meant to be read, to be shared, not stashed away far from the eyes of would-be readers. Today, I read a lot of comic books and love it. I remain unabashed about my love for the medium because there is simply no other like it. From my father’s rental stock to my bedside table, we continue to read—and we are legion. Read all about the joy of comic books in the May 17, 2009 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.

By Ruel S. De Vera, Associate Editor Sunday Inquirer Magazine WHEN I returned from a vacation abroad with my bag full of new books I had bought years ago, a customs person at the airport examined my bags and looked at me quizzically. What did I do abroad, she asked. I was on vacation, I answered. She scratched her head and then said irritably: If you were on vacation, why did you bring books with you? This anecdote comes to mind with something that really bothers the book lover in me. Several people much smarter than me have commented on this issue recently, with my personal favorite being Manolo Quezon’s May 4 column in the Inquirer. He said it perfectly, so I’ll quote him:

“The policy of our government seems to be the exact opposite: to put the squeeze on citizens in order to add to government coffers depleted by electioneering expenses. Over at McSweeney’s is an entry by Robin Hemley, the director of the University of Iowa’s Nonfiction Writing Program who’s in the Philippines on a Guggenheim Fellowship. In ‘The Great Book Blockade of 2009,” he details the creativity of Filipino bureaucrats like Customs Undersecretary Espele Sales. According to Hemley, the situation developed this way. Stephenie Meyer’s novel ‘Twilight’ apparently did so well in the bookstores that the number of copies being imported attracted the attention of a Customs official. Examiner Rene Agulan decreed that duties be paid. It seems that the importer of the book reacted in a manner familiar to most book lovers in the country: to eliminate the hassle, the importer complied with the Customs levy on the title. Hemley says surrendering to the authorities was a mistake because the Philippines, back in 1952, became a signatory to the Florence Agreement, a United Nations treaty that mandates the tax-free importation of books in order to facilitate the free flow of “educational, scientific, and cultural materials.” The importer’s submission to the whims of Customs whetted the Bureau’s appetite; they put a squeeze on all book importations by air. The result? For two months virtually no imported books entered the country. Not least because it seems book sellers had the gumption to challenge the government. Enter Undersecretary Espele Sales whose PowerPoint presentation to booksellers Hemley describes as ‘Orwellian,’ because of an essay in which Orwell examined how officials twist words to suit their purposes. Take the official’s interpretation of the following sentence in RA 8047 (the Book Publishing Industry Development Act): ‘the tax and duty-free importation of books or raw materials to be used in book publishing.’ According to Sales, this lacked a comma after the word ‘books,’ which meant that what was tax and duty-free was only books used for book publishing. People in the book industry were left scratching their heads, wondering what a ‘book used in book publishing’ is. Customs went further and said it interpreted the Florence Agreement to mean only educational books are tax-free, with Customs deciding whether a title qualifies as being educational or not. Booksellers responded that this went against half a century’s common understanding of the treaty; did this mean everyone had been wrong and Customs suddenly right? Sales replied, ‘Yes.’”

Succinct and sad. There’s no other way to say this: It is disgraceful of the Bureau of Customs to apply this ridiculous reasoning to taxing books. Now, I’m vehemently against the taxing of any books regardless of the reason. I have a long list of complaints about the Post Office’s delight at taxing books. But this reason, and the way it’s been applied and justified, is embarrassing. It taints the entire government. Taking advantage because people want to read books? Reading is a bad thing? Just because you can’t properly collect customs and duties due to incompetence or bad policy doesn’t mean you should make it up by milking the honest people who do pay their taxes. And this woman who decided to reinterpret the Florence Agreement to suit the government’s purpose? She needs to read more. Or maybe that’s exactly the problem.

By Pennie Azarcon dela Cruz, Executive Editor Sunday Inquirer Magazine THEY’VE always been known as a gracious people, so gracious in fact that the Thais can accurately boast that they’ve never been conquered by any alien nation. Yup, and that’s because they welcome invaders like farang tourists and proceed to tamp down the enemy’s inner Bonaparte with huge servings of tom yum and phad thai. So imagine my surprise and amusement when the hubby, in preparation for our long overdue family vacation in Bangkok, fed the car’s DVD player with assorted “Speak Thai” tapes, and the translations turned out to be less than gracious. Well hey, they were downright vulgar! Okay, so the tapes were supposed to be Thai expressions, slang and idioms, but just where did the author get the impression we were going to stay in Pat Pong, Bangkok’s red light district? (We didn’t; too many night markets and too little self control). Still, how do you explain the following Thai phrases in the tapes with such English translations as: 1. Her face looks very common. 2. As stupid as an ass 3. She is single but not a virgin. 4. She is good at faking it. 5. I guarantee you will like it. 6. Money in advance 7. He is a pimp guarding the brothel. 8. I will take the money to cure my mother. 9. The condition inspires it (sexual contact). 10. How do you want me to do it? 11. Can you turn towards me a little bit? 12. I’m having my period. 13. It’s not as difficult as you think. 14. Liar! 15. Good look, bad performance. 16. I have to punish you. 17. You expect too much. 18. He cheated on his wife. 19. They already had sex. 20. There is something in exchange for this. 21. Are you pretending or are you really stupid? 22. Give me all you have! 23. I have been double-crossed. 24. She is three months pregnant. 25. Who is responsible? 26. You have no shame at all. 27. The bad karma is coming back. 28. I want revenge. And finally, “ He is as big as a water buffalo.” This gets a rise out of the hubby who is not exactly emaciated. “Aha! That’s one phrase I have to memorize,” he says, vowing to throw his weight around if he ever hears somebody tell him that in Thai. Already, I can imagine the headlines in “24 Oras,” with Mike Enriquez booming out, “Turistang Pinoy, nambugbog sa Bangkok; sampung katao, PA-THAY!” So did the language lessons help? You betcha. When the hubby and son went off to Northanburi to watch a muay thai match, the homegrown linguist knew enough Thai characters to queue up at the counter with signs charging locals only 220 baht for the show, while farangs were being charged as much as 2000 baht for the same tickets. Alas for my son, it turns out you have to know body language as well. Feeling parched inside Bangkok’s sweltering coliseum, he waved to signal a passing vendor hawking bottled water. He was immediately dunned 100 baht by a local man nearby. Turns out muay thai matches in Thailand are the equivalent of our cockfights, with hand gestures symbolizing bets. As Mike E would have lamented, “PA-THAI!!”