October 30, 2006
Aaargh!
To anybody who still checks out this blog:
No further waste shall be deposited here until we can figure out what to do about the REAL trash -- unwanted comment spam. We've attempted just about every measure possible to keep out the junk comments, but none seems to function properly with the version of Nucleus that we're using.
Expect yet *another* revamp of the blog -- most likely on a different content management system. No change in URL this time, but all the archives (i.e. the blog you're reading, at the moment) will probably be moved to separate location, with its own unique site address.
Hopefully, it will be sooner rather than later (but no promises). Peace out!
No further waste shall be deposited here until we can figure out what to do about the REAL trash -- unwanted comment spam. We've attempted just about every measure possible to keep out the junk comments, but none seems to function properly with the version of Nucleus that we're using.
Expect yet *another* revamp of the blog -- most likely on a different content management system. No change in URL this time, but all the archives (i.e. the blog you're reading, at the moment) will probably be moved to separate location, with its own unique site address.
Hopefully, it will be sooner rather than later (but no promises). Peace out!
August 15, 2006
Fowl Behavior
Is it just me, or are mutant fowl becoming a recurring trope in local pop fiction lately?
First, it was Paco, a talking duck that hyper-evolved in response to the H5N1 bird flu in Luis Katigbak's short story, "Anas Luzonica", in the Quickie Fiction section of MANUAL (June 2006; Phoemela Baranda cover).
Then, a few weeks later, I became acquainted with Jake, an intelligent chicken, who serves as the protagonist of the first issue of Gerry Alanguilan's intriguing new mini-series, Elmer. (In case you're wondering, Elmer himself is Jake's father, and I presume we'll be getting more of his story, as the mini-series goes on.) In this strange new reality, an as-yet-unexplained biological singularity has allowed chickens to reach human levels of intelligence and dexterity. Cue much subtle discord among the population.
Paco takes a few cues from his more well-known predecessors: Howard's eye-rolling attitude, Daffy's bluntness... But the situation in which he gets to display these qualities brings to mind the kind of characters usually played by Owen Wilson or Jason Lee: quasi-supportive best pals, spewing bitter-pill rhetoric at a lovestruck buddy.
Katigbak even makes some cursory attempts to explain Paco's behavior, in terms of duck physiology -- it might be a "species thing".
But Alanguilan -- thus far -- makes no such excuses for the downright sociopathic behavior Jake exhibits. He beats off to a child-star-turned-bold-actress with guiltless impunity. He blows his top at fellow commuters. He causes a stir during a job interview, raging against (presumed) anti-chicken bias.
If Jake were a man, he *might* seem like a watered-down rehash of the anti-hero from Alanguilan's earlier WASTED. But as a chicken, watching his breakdown is fascinating like a proverbial trainwreck, and it nicely sets up (what I presume to be) Jake's forthcoming change of heart.
Even if this whole talking bird concept proves to be a short-lived fad, i'm enjoying all the fowl acts, while they last.
First, it was Paco, a talking duck that hyper-evolved in response to the H5N1 bird flu in Luis Katigbak's short story, "Anas Luzonica", in the Quickie Fiction section of MANUAL (June 2006; Phoemela Baranda cover).
Then, a few weeks later, I became acquainted with Jake, an intelligent chicken, who serves as the protagonist of the first issue of Gerry Alanguilan's intriguing new mini-series, Elmer. (In case you're wondering, Elmer himself is Jake's father, and I presume we'll be getting more of his story, as the mini-series goes on.) In this strange new reality, an as-yet-unexplained biological singularity has allowed chickens to reach human levels of intelligence and dexterity. Cue much subtle discord among the population.Paco takes a few cues from his more well-known predecessors: Howard's eye-rolling attitude, Daffy's bluntness... But the situation in which he gets to display these qualities brings to mind the kind of characters usually played by Owen Wilson or Jason Lee: quasi-supportive best pals, spewing bitter-pill rhetoric at a lovestruck buddy.
Katigbak even makes some cursory attempts to explain Paco's behavior, in terms of duck physiology -- it might be a "species thing".
But Alanguilan -- thus far -- makes no such excuses for the downright sociopathic behavior Jake exhibits. He beats off to a child-star-turned-bold-actress with guiltless impunity. He blows his top at fellow commuters. He causes a stir during a job interview, raging against (presumed) anti-chicken bias.
If Jake were a man, he *might* seem like a watered-down rehash of the anti-hero from Alanguilan's earlier WASTED. But as a chicken, watching his breakdown is fascinating like a proverbial trainwreck, and it nicely sets up (what I presume to be) Jake's forthcoming change of heart.
Even if this whole talking bird concept proves to be a short-lived fad, i'm enjoying all the fowl acts, while they last.
August 12, 2006
WARNING: Shameless Plugging ahead!
Go me! MANUAL published my short story, "Original Sigbin"*, as part of its Quickie Fiction section in the current issue (August 2006; Iya Villania on the cover).The remit is to write a story that mentions aswangs, the Kama Sutra, and bird flu. (Yes, very random. But that's the point.) I managed to incorporate the first two into the main story, but I admittedly cheated with the latter.
My contribution deals with an investigator of quasi-Fortean/paranormal happenings, as he tracks down a rapist (and would-be vampire) in the burgeoning "aswang rock" scene. He briskly discovers that this fringe culture isn't quite what he expected it to be...
The protagonist is never named explicitly, but he's meant to be Itim Francisco, one of my pet creations. I'd like to point out that he's meant to be a nod to the whole tradition of cranky, seen-it-all pulp investigators with magickal over-tones (which includes John Constantine, Kolchak the Night Stalker, et al). So please forgive me if some of the elements feel a bit over-familiar.
But hey, it's one more piece of Spec Fic in a major glossy "men's" magazine, so that's gotta be a step in the right direction, yes?
Incidentally, the editors picked the awesome Nelz Yumul to do the illustration accompanying my piece. I have no idea what kind of a deadline he was given, but I must say that I'm quite satisfied with his artwork. It's not exactly what I had in mind, visually -- I pictured something more Ashley Wood-esque, which is actually right up Nelz' alley. But it's a faithful enough interpretation of a key moment in the story. And I feel lucky to have "collaborated" with him, even if only by accident.
MANUAL is available from any newsstand or bookseller that carries MMPI mags.
* title lifted from a Jr. Kilat song
July 23, 2006
Holy Terror, Batman!
While fartiste and I have nothing against Christian Bale as the Caped Crusder, we totally believe that Clancy Brown would be the perfect Batman. (Especially the older, more cynical Dark Knight Returns style Batman.)
Just look at him act! He's got the deep, piercing gaze. The fearsome, commanding voice. The menacing snarl. Plus, anybody who's seen Carnivale can attest that his face looks hella intimidating in shadows.
Besides, the man has prior experience with comic book properties, anyway. He voiced Lex Luthor in the "Diniverse" DC cartoons (Superman: TAS, JLU). He also voices Mr. Krabs on Spongebob Squarepants, but I guess that's neither here nor there, really.
Oh, and he's more than capable of putting on the fake smile and plastic diplomacy necessary to pull of his Bruce Wayne persona, too. See...
Face it, people -- Clancy Brown is the Goddamn Batman!
tags: Batman, Clancy Brown
July 21, 2006
ARRRRRguing Ethics with Jack Sparrow: Pirate Lore and Tribalism, Post-9/11 Style
Every now and then, I have one of those nice little fortuitous coinky-dinks, when two seemingly unrelated pieces of information lead to a deeper understanding of the matter at hand -- in this case, pop culture's messy, touch-and-go fixation with pirate tropes.
The first one is a too-cute anecdote from Millie Fairhall's journal, documenting a chance meeting with a rather spunky little girl:
The second observation comes from Heidi MacDonald -- a self-identified fan of buccaneer aesthetics -- in her unfavorable review of Pirates of the Caribbean 2: Dead Man's Chest:
Once you get past the wooden-leg and parrot cliches, pirate tropes offer a rich iconographic shorthand for personal liberation, in a time of ever-growing inter-dependency on the rest of the world. It's precisely the kind of base-level recess-hour freedom that appeals to the (k)id in us all, just as Millie identified with the rambunctious moppet's un-self-conscious role-play.
In fact, old-school piracy seems like a tempting fantasy of rugged individualism, when faced with the dehumanizing feeling of being just another node in the global supply chain. The ethical system of the Pirate is not much different from the Tribesman -- one is beholden to themselves, first and foremost; then to their crew; then to their allies. No worries about the interests of share-holders, or board members, or the vagaries of market forces -- just take what you want, by force if need be, and make sure to divvy up the booty with your shipmates.
At the level of ideal, it's pretty fucking awesome, really. Plus it comes with a ready-made, easy-to-appropriate wardrobe of ambiguously gendered styles.
However, it becomes a lot more difficult to transform that sense of limitless freedom -- of disavowing total responsibility for one's actions -- into a compelling (meta-)narrative with a solid human core. Especially when REAL-LIFE pirates are a rather unsavory lot -- just ask the 20 Filipino sailors recently freed from sea-faring bandits in Somalia.* I hardly doubt those guys will be entertaining Jack Sparrow fantasies anytime soon.
Incidentally, Fartiste pointed out that this disconnect -- between rebel-cool surface trappings and vague ideals of freedom -- most likely explains the easy affilinity between Pirate culture and Punk Rock. (Which makes sense, really, because Punk movies usually suck even more than Pirate films.)
* Please, I beg you, no more corny jokes about "releasing seamen".
tags: pirates, ethics, ideals, tribalism
The first one is a too-cute anecdote from Millie Fairhall's journal, documenting a chance meeting with a rather spunky little girl:
She read the words printed on my hoodie “MY PIRATE AD…. ADVENTURE”. Once again, her eyes popped out of her head and she almost yelled at me “I LOVE PIRATES!! DO YOU LOVE PIRATES TOOOO??” and I said, “I think Pirates are the best people on earth!!” and she replied “I LIKE HOW PIRATES GO ARRRRR ME MATEYS!”
I stood there listening to her continued Pirate-accent speech and thinking to myself “If only abducting a child wasn’t illegal….”.
The second observation comes from Heidi MacDonald -- a self-identified fan of buccaneer aesthetics -- in her unfavorable review of Pirates of the Caribbean 2: Dead Man's Chest:
Why do people like dressing up like pirates and marching around anyway? Because it means freedom. Why do 99% of all pirate movies suck? Because it’s more fun to dress up like a pirate and march around than construct a movie that captures such a vague ideal. Because freedom is double edged.
Once you get past the wooden-leg and parrot cliches, pirate tropes offer a rich iconographic shorthand for personal liberation, in a time of ever-growing inter-dependency on the rest of the world. It's precisely the kind of base-level recess-hour freedom that appeals to the (k)id in us all, just as Millie identified with the rambunctious moppet's un-self-conscious role-play.
In fact, old-school piracy seems like a tempting fantasy of rugged individualism, when faced with the dehumanizing feeling of being just another node in the global supply chain. The ethical system of the Pirate is not much different from the Tribesman -- one is beholden to themselves, first and foremost; then to their crew; then to their allies. No worries about the interests of share-holders, or board members, or the vagaries of market forces -- just take what you want, by force if need be, and make sure to divvy up the booty with your shipmates.
At the level of ideal, it's pretty fucking awesome, really. Plus it comes with a ready-made, easy-to-appropriate wardrobe of ambiguously gendered styles.
However, it becomes a lot more difficult to transform that sense of limitless freedom -- of disavowing total responsibility for one's actions -- into a compelling (meta-)narrative with a solid human core. Especially when REAL-LIFE pirates are a rather unsavory lot -- just ask the 20 Filipino sailors recently freed from sea-faring bandits in Somalia.* I hardly doubt those guys will be entertaining Jack Sparrow fantasies anytime soon.
Incidentally, Fartiste pointed out that this disconnect -- between rebel-cool surface trappings and vague ideals of freedom -- most likely explains the easy affilinity between Pirate culture and Punk Rock. (Which makes sense, really, because Punk movies usually suck even more than Pirate films.)
* Please, I beg you, no more corny jokes about "releasing seamen".
tags: pirates, ethics, ideals, tribalism
July 13, 2006
Leaping Lizards!
I used to toast my Pop Tarts. Then one day, the toaster started eating them. The Pop Tarts would get all crumbly at the bottom. At worst, I'd lose a quarter of the pastry to the hungry kitchen appliance. Later on, I realized the toaster probably wasn't the one with the ravenous appetite. When I looked through the toaster slots, I saw the culprit: a dead lizard.
Ewww.
The autopsy results would have shown that a high sugar diet had killed it. Sucrose overdose! Try "frosted" to death.
So it was no surprise to encounter a trecherous lounge lizard in Pop Tartlandia. I now eat Pop Tarts straight from the bag. Or, with a little more effort, fresh from the oven toaster.
July 01, 2006
The RaveMan's Valentine
"Isn't that where all the expat kids hook up at night?" Ipis Dei asked when the conversation steered towards convenience stores, of all topics, particularly the not-so-new 7 Eleven at Rockwell.
I would've taken on another direcion had I thought about it then and there - a bunch of young, privileged white or biracial kids terrorizing the colored store clerk, only this time, the person of color in this picture is not a minority. Still, it's telling of how locals can feel around foreigners on the brash side. But Richard Linklater's SurbUrbia was far from my mind. Okay, maybe it was lingering there just a wee bit, but I decided to pursue a related topic that was even dumber:
"Do they, like, bring eggs and trade them in for maps that would lead them straight to the location of a rave party?"
And we crack more jokes about Brandon Walsh and his astonishingly memorable ex-girlfriend Emily Valentine and how, at the rave itself, she tried to get him to take some E, or rather, 90210's equivalent of Ecstacy ("U4EA!" Ipis Dei pipes up. "Wait, I mean, no, I never watched 90210!"), which led to their inevitable break-up. Now there's the moral of the story, but I think the real lesson is that tough girls don't make for good long term relationships because they let their wilder side get the best (or worst) of them. Whatever. She was memorable because of her spiked blond hair and black leather jacket, kinda reminiscent of "Papa Don't Preach" Madonna minus the cone-shaped titties and razzle tassles (I think this was more "Open Your Heart". But whatever). And frighteningly so, because I remember this as vividly as Sweet Valley High trivia, considering I wasn't that much of a diehard 90210 fan. No, honest!
So whatever happened to Christine Elise a.k.a. Christine McCarthy? She still makes guest appearances on TV shows and was last seen in some TV movie. The only thing seemingly cool she's done to date is American Hardcore, Paul Rachman's documentary about, you guessed it, the history of the underground hardcore punk scene from 1980-1986. Alongside interviews with Black Flag, Bad Brains, Minor Threat, SS Decontrol and the Dead Kennedys, she gets to recount "the early '80s and her punk-rock high school years."
We wouldn't be surprised if she surfaced in one of those primetime TV drama shows playing a deadbeat mom who gave birth at a young age and ends up ditching home on a soulsearching quest to find herself, only to return years later in an ill-fated bid to reconnect with her abandoned daugther - most likely a free-spirited lass much like her younger self, only with marginally more self-control and a MySpace account full of artsy photos.
tags: Beverly Hills 90210, Christine Elise, Emily Valentine, Brandon Walsh, Rockwell, Makati, convenience store, 7 Eleven, punk, hardcore, drugs, teenybopper, Richard Linklater, SubUrbia
April 07, 2006
Degustibus Disputandem
Some of you may be aware or not of a drink out there called Potion, inspired by the life-refreshing beverage found in many a fantasy role-playing game. In this case, it's a piece of marketing conceived only by those wacky Japanese to coincide with the recent release of Final Fantasy XII in Japan and is also being promoted through a rather awesome television spot. It's even been distributed in premium sets featuring collectible cards and they have unsurprisingly sold out quick in Japan and among the hardcore gaijin who are picking them up via Ebay.
So what do these gaijin have to say about Potion? CheapyD of Cheap Ass Gamer declares,
"In comparison, Robitussin is a delicious exotic cocktail and Pepto Bismol tastes like a Root Beer Float. The FFXII Potion tastes so bad, you would think it would either get you incredibly drunk or cure Cancer. Being that it does neither makes me wonder why this drink exists."Vinnke Sensei of 4 Color Rebellion expresses a more forgiving appraisal of the beverage and excuses its less-than-desirable flavor in favor of its restorative powers:
"For the price, I would rather be drinking something else. But of course it's not about the taste is it? It's about the health restoring powers. I guess after drinking potion I do feel a bit better."On the other hand, venerable gaming culture blog Kotaku posted a rather stream-of-consciousness account, and the verdict was not good:
Hmmm, the "potion" smells like some wicked mixture of mouthwash, cough syrup and Gatorade. I'm not feeling good about this. Wow, I have no idea how to explain what this tastes like. Drinking bubble gum? Ooooh, every sip is different, that one was very tart. Flat 7-Up? Rancid lemonade? Why the hell do I keep drinking this?Of course, this is hardly the first time a mass market beverage has been described (in so many words) as execrable. I myself think that Sprite Ice tastes like citrus-flavored jet coolant. Even Kotaku likens it to the bizarrely marketed OK Soda of yesterdecade.
But can we really trust these Yankees? These are the same people who have shown no mercy in critiquing Jollibee Yum Burgers*:
"It's like Wendy's took all the goo that comes out of their burgers when they're done cooking them, pressed that down into a mold, froze it in a patty shape, and exported it to the Philippines, where they put it between some bread, put pink sauce on it and sent it back here."
Which leads me to ask, what social or genetic markers are ingrained into the very fabric of the American taste bud makes them so alienated by the Asian palate? I'm hardly the first person to ponder this matter, to be sure, but if Potion is described as "rancid milk" in their taste vocabulary then what does Potion really taste like in ours?Until I actually have a sip of this $2.50 elixir, I may never really know, but I can speculate. My guess? Well I'd imagine that "rancid milk" would also be how the non-Asian palate would describe Yakult, lactobacilli Shirota strain and all.
Would you drink to that?
*To be fair, this blogger did describe her and her friends as, "Ugly Americans because this food was so beyond anything we could have guessed it would be. We couldn't stop. We were embarrassing ourselves and still couldn't stop. Every bite was another shock."
March 20, 2006
Steal This Idea! #2: Pistaym
1933, towards the end of the so-called Pistaym ("Peacetime").
The mysterious vigilante known as Gagamba -- or an analog thereof, if he's still under copyright -- is hot on the trail of the elusive so-called "Bodabil Killer", who is believed to be responsible for a series of greusome murders of "unclean" members of burgis elite, in and around the area of the Manila Grand Opera House.
Tapping into his vast network of contacts in both high and low places, his investigations lead him to a disused warehouse near the port, where he encounters a Japanese lady in ceremonial ninja garb, who appears to possess extranatural strength and reflexes. He barely survives the melee with her.
He decides to ease his pain at a gentlemen's club, in his civilian guise, as millionaire playboy Alejando Ma. Guerrero. There, he is approached by an unfamiliar white man...
Meanwhile, in Calamba, Laguna, feared haciendero Don Monching has just been murdered in what appears to be a ritual killing, on the night of the Feast of John the Baptist. His phallus has been dismembered, in the manner of the animistic, women-only Tatarin ("chop chop") ceremony.
Inexplicably, Don Monching's brother-in-law, Luis, has been tagged as the prime suspect. He is known in town as a "subversive" having returned from travels around Europe, particularly in Madrid, which is on the brink of Civil War. In fact, he is an intellectual dilletante, having flirted with mix of philosophies, among them Surrealism and Anarchism. He is foolishly rumored to be assisting the nascent Sakdalista mutiny, among the farm-workers, in a misguided attempt to relieve his class guilt.
With Luis under arrest, his spirited wife Melai (a dedicated advocate of women's suffrage) refuses to cooperate in the local official's investigation into her brother's murder. Instead, she has fled to Manila to get help from a one-time flame: Detective Joe Gar (or an analog thereof, once again).
Gar is a white-knuckled private dick, who has never met a bottle of gin he didn't like. Dismissed from the Philippine Constabulary following the death of his partner, under mysterious circumstances, he has set up his own failing agency. Desperate for work, and not particularly averse to the risk of defying official authority, he is the ideal choice to find Don Monching's real killer.
Braving the suspicion of the farmhands, he snoops around the hacienda in search of clues, leading him to a secret room underneath the main house, decorated with Masonic imagery, where he is unexpectedly attacked by a seemingly feral hitman. He is narrowly saved by the sudden arrival of Gagamba.
Gar reawakens in a guest room at Malacanang, and is soon introduced to Agent Edward Slaughter of the United States Bureau of Investigation. He presents Gar with an order (disguised as a deal) -- under the auspices of Uncle Sam, the detective will team up with Gagamba to stop a Japanese death cult that has connections to both the Bodabil Murders and the killing of Don Monching.
But they won't be alone in this dangerous mission.
Their next recruit is Montana (Monty) Smith, an idealistic young Archaeology professor serving tenure at the University of the Philippines. He is a rookie explorer and would-be adventurer, who is filled with a sense of wide-eyed wonder at the idea of discovery. Somewhat naive, he maintains a geniune belief in the benevolent -- and necessary -- work of museums and relic collections. Thankfully, he is naturally skilled with a bull-whip and pistol, and boasts considerable expertise about indigenous folk rituals, passed down from his late German mentor.
Finally, they are presented with a bunch of tricked-out gizmos by inventor Agapito Flores, including wrist communicatiors, a crude flight-pack, and a Buick convertible equipped with a jet engine, powered by coco diesel. (This happens in a lab several miles below Kilometer Zero, in Luneta.)
And thus begins a twisted adventure, bringing our heroes to various strange locales, as they face Millennarian fanatics, undead Japanese thugs, and duplicitous Freemasons.
Along the way, they encounter a cast of supporting players (both "real" and fictionalized) who may be embroiled in a vast cosmic plot: famed torch-singer Katy De La Cruz, promdi girl and aspiring writer Estrella Alfon (and the other "literary radicals" of the Veronicans writers group), take-charge suffragist Pepa Escoda, self-interested technocrat Manuel Samson (a nod to the protagonists of F. Sionil Jose's Rosales saga), and intrepid lady reporter Sylvia Alcazaren.
But amidst this web of unstable loyalties and outright deceit among men of all races, perhaps no faction may be great enough to stop the most overwhelming power of all -- the resurfacing of the Sacred Feminine as a force in Philippine History.
It will all come to a head, when Virgin, Mother, and Crone unite in a secret meeting hall beneath the Manila Grand Opera House, and the destiny of man will never be the same!
* The premise of Pistaym is Narrative Freeware. You may write non-commerical fiction or develop plot ideas based on this concept, with a nominal acknowledgement to Paolo Jose O. Cruz as its creator.
tags: 1930s, Philippines, komiks, pulp, Manila, adventure, historical+fiction
The mysterious vigilante known as Gagamba -- or an analog thereof, if he's still under copyright -- is hot on the trail of the elusive so-called "Bodabil Killer", who is believed to be responsible for a series of greusome murders of "unclean" members of burgis elite, in and around the area of the Manila Grand Opera House.
Tapping into his vast network of contacts in both high and low places, his investigations lead him to a disused warehouse near the port, where he encounters a Japanese lady in ceremonial ninja garb, who appears to possess extranatural strength and reflexes. He barely survives the melee with her.
He decides to ease his pain at a gentlemen's club, in his civilian guise, as millionaire playboy Alejando Ma. Guerrero. There, he is approached by an unfamiliar white man...
Meanwhile, in Calamba, Laguna, feared haciendero Don Monching has just been murdered in what appears to be a ritual killing, on the night of the Feast of John the Baptist. His phallus has been dismembered, in the manner of the animistic, women-only Tatarin ("chop chop") ceremony.
Inexplicably, Don Monching's brother-in-law, Luis, has been tagged as the prime suspect. He is known in town as a "subversive" having returned from travels around Europe, particularly in Madrid, which is on the brink of Civil War. In fact, he is an intellectual dilletante, having flirted with mix of philosophies, among them Surrealism and Anarchism. He is foolishly rumored to be assisting the nascent Sakdalista mutiny, among the farm-workers, in a misguided attempt to relieve his class guilt.
With Luis under arrest, his spirited wife Melai (a dedicated advocate of women's suffrage) refuses to cooperate in the local official's investigation into her brother's murder. Instead, she has fled to Manila to get help from a one-time flame: Detective Joe Gar (or an analog thereof, once again).
Gar is a white-knuckled private dick, who has never met a bottle of gin he didn't like. Dismissed from the Philippine Constabulary following the death of his partner, under mysterious circumstances, he has set up his own failing agency. Desperate for work, and not particularly averse to the risk of defying official authority, he is the ideal choice to find Don Monching's real killer.
Braving the suspicion of the farmhands, he snoops around the hacienda in search of clues, leading him to a secret room underneath the main house, decorated with Masonic imagery, where he is unexpectedly attacked by a seemingly feral hitman. He is narrowly saved by the sudden arrival of Gagamba.
Gar reawakens in a guest room at Malacanang, and is soon introduced to Agent Edward Slaughter of the United States Bureau of Investigation. He presents Gar with an order (disguised as a deal) -- under the auspices of Uncle Sam, the detective will team up with Gagamba to stop a Japanese death cult that has connections to both the Bodabil Murders and the killing of Don Monching.
But they won't be alone in this dangerous mission.
Their next recruit is Montana (Monty) Smith, an idealistic young Archaeology professor serving tenure at the University of the Philippines. He is a rookie explorer and would-be adventurer, who is filled with a sense of wide-eyed wonder at the idea of discovery. Somewhat naive, he maintains a geniune belief in the benevolent -- and necessary -- work of museums and relic collections. Thankfully, he is naturally skilled with a bull-whip and pistol, and boasts considerable expertise about indigenous folk rituals, passed down from his late German mentor.
Finally, they are presented with a bunch of tricked-out gizmos by inventor Agapito Flores, including wrist communicatiors, a crude flight-pack, and a Buick convertible equipped with a jet engine, powered by coco diesel. (This happens in a lab several miles below Kilometer Zero, in Luneta.)
And thus begins a twisted adventure, bringing our heroes to various strange locales, as they face Millennarian fanatics, undead Japanese thugs, and duplicitous Freemasons.
Along the way, they encounter a cast of supporting players (both "real" and fictionalized) who may be embroiled in a vast cosmic plot: famed torch-singer Katy De La Cruz, promdi girl and aspiring writer Estrella Alfon (and the other "literary radicals" of the Veronicans writers group), take-charge suffragist Pepa Escoda, self-interested technocrat Manuel Samson (a nod to the protagonists of F. Sionil Jose's Rosales saga), and intrepid lady reporter Sylvia Alcazaren.
But amidst this web of unstable loyalties and outright deceit among men of all races, perhaps no faction may be great enough to stop the most overwhelming power of all -- the resurfacing of the Sacred Feminine as a force in Philippine History.
It will all come to a head, when Virgin, Mother, and Crone unite in a secret meeting hall beneath the Manila Grand Opera House, and the destiny of man will never be the same!
* The premise of Pistaym is Narrative Freeware. You may write non-commerical fiction or develop plot ideas based on this concept, with a nominal acknowledgement to Paolo Jose O. Cruz as its creator.
tags: 1930s, Philippines, komiks, pulp, Manila, adventure, historical+fiction
March 16, 2006
Rocking In The (Not So) Free World
.
Her first weeks in the country left her bored out of her skull, unable to deal with the frustrating mix of large-scale consumption (grandiose shopping malls; opulent luxury resorts) and fundamentalist Islamic cultural practices (getting the stink-eye for her discount-bin harajuku fashion, and dealing with the inconvenience of buying cheap snack food during the Ramadan fasting).
But she quickly found small comfort in a burgeoning, tight-knit punk scene, initiated by a handful of twentyomething Pinoy contract employees, who refused to allow their new situation to get in the way of their need for loud music.
Don't get the wrong idea -- there is no larger political message here. Their shows are much-needed escape from the workaday pressure of specialized labor, an unforgiving climate, and wiring remittances to cash-strapped families back home.
And yet, there's a sense of lingering threat hanging over each gig. The conservative Islamic state heavily monitors all telecommunication, so it's not exactly advisble to be coordinating a gathering of immigrant workers, singing hardcore anthems in fist-pumping unison. Thus, organizing a show usually involves military-like precision, even for low-budget, sweaty affairs held in eggshell-lined practice spaces.
This may not be capital-P Punk, as evangelized by the likes of Ian MacKaye. But for Dead Star and her pals, it goes a small way towards making life bearable amidst the drudgery of the globalized labor market.
tags: globalization, OFW, music, punk, hardcore, Filipino, Dubai, Islam, cosmopolitanism
Now that I'm living up in God knows whereA friend of mine -- let's call her Dead Star -- relocated to Dubai several months ago, to live with her dad (an engineer in the ranks of the Overseas Filipino Workforce) and his new girlfriend.
Sometimes it gets hard without a friend
But as I am lurkin' around
Hoptza! I see another immigrant punk!
There is a little punk rock mafia
Everywhere you go
She is good to me and I am good to her...
"Immigrant Punk"
by Gogol Bordello
Her first weeks in the country left her bored out of her skull, unable to deal with the frustrating mix of large-scale consumption (grandiose shopping malls; opulent luxury resorts) and fundamentalist Islamic cultural practices (getting the stink-eye for her discount-bin harajuku fashion, and dealing with the inconvenience of buying cheap snack food during the Ramadan fasting).
But she quickly found small comfort in a burgeoning, tight-knit punk scene, initiated by a handful of twentyomething Pinoy contract employees, who refused to allow their new situation to get in the way of their need for loud music.
Don't get the wrong idea -- there is no larger political message here. Their shows are much-needed escape from the workaday pressure of specialized labor, an unforgiving climate, and wiring remittances to cash-strapped families back home.
And yet, there's a sense of lingering threat hanging over each gig. The conservative Islamic state heavily monitors all telecommunication, so it's not exactly advisble to be coordinating a gathering of immigrant workers, singing hardcore anthems in fist-pumping unison. Thus, organizing a show usually involves military-like precision, even for low-budget, sweaty affairs held in eggshell-lined practice spaces.
This may not be capital-P Punk, as evangelized by the likes of Ian MacKaye. But for Dead Star and her pals, it goes a small way towards making life bearable amidst the drudgery of the globalized labor market.
tags: globalization, OFW, music, punk, hardcore, Filipino, Dubai, Islam, cosmopolitanism