Slave Screams

My uncle put it simply: We Filipinos do not know how to handle power.

You give a little authority to someone and the person undergoes a bizarre metamorphosis that turns him into a rampaging megalomaniac with a twisted case of messianic complex to boot.

I do not have any empirical or statistical evidence to prove this but basing from my own observations I have to say that the statement is not entirely dubious. I don't think I need to use the all-time favorite corrupt politicians to get to the point; everyone knows that. I just would like to focus on the day to day activities that features this dismal reality whether one is aware of it or not.



Happiness In Slavery, NINE INCH NAILS


I work for a company. and being a business organization, it naturally has the hierarchy of command from the owner down to us lowly wage-slaves. In my own team, we have a team leader who monitors her members to achieve the level of work expected from us. She gives the due recognition to good performers, and the occasional spanking of those who failed in some ways (we're just human). But a team leader can only do so much. So she proposed a system that would deter any incidence of errors by utilizing money as a form of punishment. The gist of the punishment is: if you don't want to shelf out money, then be careful with what you're doing. Practical and effective, right? It reduces the occurrence of errors and spares the boss from any time-consuming lectures. Money can sure straight things out a lot.

Pretty reasonable. And effective, too. If i were the boss I'd resort to that kind of strategy myself. It effectively cuts down the activities thereby increasing her output in more pressing issues concerning the team.

The problem with this, however, is assigning the person(s) to do the monitoring.

Let us assume that the people assigned to do this are group mates with the same job level as yours. At first when they call your attention regarding an error and demanded for your payment, it was okay. But then you'd notice that the person(s) in charge of it seems to have very little dues or none at all; while you and another teammate are in a perpetual contest as to who among the two of you will have the biggest bill to pay for the week.

Of course one can argue that it is my own fault for not paying attention to the work I'm supposed to do, but don't you just hate that tinge of doubt that maybe, in some way, you were being cuckolded? Of course not. One just needs to have faith in the innate goodness and honesty of man. Maybe I'm just being paranoid because if i were the monitoring officer and found that i incurred an error, i will simply fix it and act as if nothing happened. But that's me.

But the thing that gets to me is not the fact that i may be fooled into paying every week, but the arrogance that the OIC assigned to the task displays every time I or someone else had incurred and error. If you're not familiar with our team, you'd probably assume that that person is the leader. Exactly like my uncle said. Give someone a little authority and it goes over their heads. There is also a condescending tone every time someone is caught. They have the file, so they have the power to manipulate it as they wish. Hearing them talk and nag people you'd think they can do a better job than the boss who, in fact, is the only person that has the god-given right to reprimand his subordinates.

That responsibility creates an illusion of control thereby giving the simulated feeling that you are somehow better than your group mates. Of course the person can deny this. But that's the beauty of nonverbal communication.

Your actions are the best proof against the bullshit that comes out of your mouth.

Relic

I was rummaging through the old hard drive of this old PC that I have been using since college and found the write-up below. I have been meaning to submit it for the college paper just for the heck of it but never got to. Good thing too; it's one of those rare instances when you find some half buried relics of your past and have a blast reading it and laughing your guts out because it's so funny (unintentionally of course.) and pretentious and knowing full well that you were dead-serious about it being a contender for the Pulitzer while you were writing it. This is so hilarious. For me, though. Can't speak for whoever's reading this.

The following was written on Monday, February 28, 2000 8:49:59 PM. I was even into Megadeth  back then; Victor Rattlehead as a pseudonym? Not very subtle. But you have to admit, I was unto the whole zombie thing long before any interest of reviving the genre or George Romero's comeback feature became household names again...

Brain stew/Jaded
(with apologies to Green Day)

by Victor Rattlehead

I awoke with a start. The image was so real I can remember how the entire place smelled: it stank. It didn’t smell of the usual stink like sewage and garbage though, it smelled of corpses. A whole army of corpses and they were hungry.

The place was a huge military installation like those foreboding fortresses they show in the movies (it had a striking resemblance to the Harkonnen palace of David Lynch’s adaptation of Frank Herbert’s Dune). It had a major gas leak and all those working within an entire section of the plant was exposed to it. The whole compound was then systematically sealed off to prevent any leakage of potentially dangerous chemicals to the outside community and everyone inside was a virtual prisoner until the problem had been dealt with and corrected. Around this time, those who were dining in the cafeteria within that complex got the scare of their lives when a sudden blackout occurred. I was there, and that scared the piss out of me too. It was a nightmare straight out of a Grade-Z horror movie. It was one of those dreams where you feel like you’re only watching a movie yet in one bizarre way, also felt like you were in that movie. This version can put any home entertainment system to shame. The experience was more than just the 3D picture and the 3D surround sound THX or whatever you may want to call it. It was quality sound and picture plus the risk. Not to mention the picture quality was outstanding you’ll wish you were only using an 8-inch black and white TV.

So there was a blackout. And everyone in that cafeteria was a little jumpy thinking that some sort of radioactive fallout might occur(why the dream suddenly shifted to the cafeteria, I don’t know). A few minutes later, power came back and the place was again covered with the bluish-green light that is a staple for many horror films. One of the people, a fat woman in her late 40s gave a sigh of relief as she was standing by the glass-door entrance. She rested her head by the glass and closed her eyes in contentment. The glass beside her head exploded and bloody, powerful arms clasped her neck pulling her outside towards the vaguely-seen attacker. She screamed long and hard before the zombie that was a former scientist silenced her by burying his teeth at the top of her skull. The lady fell, half her head obliterated from the savagery of the attack. While the monster was having a meal, several people lost theirs. The place’s smell was soon the mixture of blood, corpse, puke, and the smelly burger patties they serve in the counter. Then all hell broke loose. A blitzkrieg of walking corpses stormed through the diner with the intensity of a tidal wave. What followed was a cacophony of scream and the guttural grunts that were the zombies’ sorry excuse for speech. “BRAIN!” demanded the cannibalistic horde, as they randomly eviscerated, tore, and ate everyone they could lay their hands on. A victim, driven into shock, watched with amazement as his stomach became a gory pile of intestines and innards. It practically became the dining table of three starved corpses, one of them was his friend and constant billiard companion. Someone fought back by throwing cream pies. I let out a small, uncomfortable chuckle. At least in this scene of gory carnage and graphic “portrayal” of cannibalism, my sense of humor was intact.

When you’re dreaming, it’s either you know it or you don’t. Unfortunately for me, I didn’t. I was just as terrified as the rest of the victims were, and I swear I think I scrapped my throat raw from screaming. I was there. And I think anybody with a similar experience (the dream pattern I mean) can empathize with what I went through. What made the experience a perfect candidate for the Twilight Zone was that I felt everything with my senses. I smelled the stink(worse than our septic tank), saw the carnage, heard the screams and splats, felt the unusual humidity and stumbled on a newly “ressurected” corpse. I even remember the taste of those godawful burgers there. The only difference with me is that I was ignored by the monsters. It’s insulting if you think about it. A three year old zombie kid I saw gnawing at her mother’s arm even offered me a bite. I graciously declined. Human meat is not something I’m crazy about and the entire place was not that conducive for eating, although the man-eating corpses everywhere seemed to have a great time chewing the night away. I walked out of that place in time to see the fat lady with the obliterated head was just getting up. She had the stance of someone who woke up from a coma and disoriented. She grabbed a hysterical woman by the hair and ate.

George Romero's Night Of The Living Dead, 1968

When I was a kid I thought the zombie was an idiot. It was a first class moron: slow movement, blank gaze, and almost harmless if you consider its capacity. Next to a vampire, the zombie was a joke. That perception changed when I watched the “Return Of The Living Dead” series. I was in the third grade and thought it was a one of those cheesy B-movie zombie flicks. I finished the movie and had to stop myself from wetting my pants. I had this terrible urge to get out of the house and live in the mountains; lest the residents of the nearby cemetery waken after some kind of exposure to a strange chemical. In the movie, a US Army-owned drum containing a special gas that seems to reanimate the dead was accidentally opened by two morons and, of all places to open it, let the gas loose inside a morgue. A corpse was exposed to it, and ran amok inside the place. The two morons somehow subdued the walking corpse and chopped it to pieces, then threw all of it to the incinerator. The smoke went up the atmosphere and joined in with some rain clouds. It rained in a nearby cemetery where some unfortunate group of biker punks were spending the night. Contaminated rain water then seeped into the graveyard soil and awakened the small community of the dead and everything else followed.

What scared me while watching the movie was that it shattered my every perception of the zombie as a moron. In the movie, not only can a zombie move fast, it can also talk and think, as opposed to the earlier movie-versions where they looked more like sleepwalking dolts than monsters. And anyone wounded by a zombie would eventually die of infection and become zombies themselves. Even if there’s only one zombie to start with, their population would geometrically increase with the number of their victims until an entire place is contaminated. Another thing that’s bothersome is their method of killing: sloppy, messy, gory, and savage. Vampires have class and style, with werewolves you die painlessly, but with zombies you’re in for a lot of pain (arms pulled out of their sockets, blood fountains, etc.). The zombies don’t mind whether it’s night or day, and there’s no central weakness for them too (burning them and damaging their heads seemed to work); try flashing a cross in front of its face and chances are it’ll bite it along with your arm. Silver bullets. Save it for yourself when you’ve nowhere else to run. In the movie, it took a nuclear weapon to clear the area. The scariest part of it is that the military developed the chemical for it. You may not realize it, but it seems very possible.

Imagine this scenario: The US Army wants to test whether they perfected the dead reanimating chemical for their supersoldier project. But they’re wary about glitches they might encounter and wouldn’t want the problem to happen in their own backyard so they pick a third world country with very weak diplomatic ties so they can bully it easily when the time comes. And by some cruel twist of fate, the Philippines landed on top of their list. An outpost is set-up in a remote barrio in Luzon and several scary-looking equipment are unloaded along with some new tenants for the undertakers. The test was about to commence when a mischievous boy accidentally opened three tanks and let the gas loose on the unsuspecting barrio. All the people got sick, died, and lived again (Resident Evil?). And while all of this was happening, a group of bakasyonistas bound for that place just looking for some peace and quiet unwittingly became the agents of doom. They stumble into the barrio, all except one were killed as the neighboring barangays were also invaded. The bakasyonista who got away was bitten in the arm. A small bite, but a few days after that he was confined to a hospital and eventually died. He lived in Manila. In case you didn’t know, it’s one of the densest hellhole this side of the country that has the greatest possibility of sinking because of too much people.

For what better reason do we cremate the dead if not for this?

Diagnosis

When I was a kid my mother took me to the doctor back in the medical unit of SEAFDEC because of a pesky fever that's threatening the family's holiday plans (we were due to depart for Manila for our annual Christmas vacation). I remember that my impression of the guy was of someone who checks on patients and goes home at the end of the day and looks at his medical books to see if most his diagnoses were right; not unlike the kind of guy who'd also look at a dating manual or an FHM magazine after a first date to see if picking his front teeth with his finger during dinner was acceptable or not. 

The guy went at it like most GP does and gave the go signal for 'safe' travel even though I was chattering so bad I feared splintering all my front teeth. I was in the airplane and most of the passengers mistakenly assumed I was horrified of air travel because I was shivering so badly during the entire flight. When we arrived at the house in Quezon City they had to give me an ice bath because the fever was so high. According to my uncle I was so delirious I told them Batman was sitting in the far chair looking at me sympathetically. The next morning I was admitted to the UST hospital and was diagnosed with h-fever.

The Saturday before the last one, my wife and I took our son to the doctor for his vaccine. I was uncomfortable at the clinic due to the unusual low temperature of the airconditioning system. I didn't mind it that much considering i really have a low tolerance for cool temperatures, but the discomfort was there. going home inside the cab, I realized i was suffering from a fever---a little funny considering my son got the shots and showed no signs of imminent fever or malaise.

The fever. That's the worst part. Not only was it so high that the chills were excruciating, but the headache and lack of appetite that came with it were pure torture. You'd get hungry you'd think you can eat an entire cow, but lose appetite after one or two spoonfuls. I thought it was one of those new strains of flu that probably came from an elephant and mutated to pummel humans into oblivion with their new, superpowered mutant potency. My fever only fluctuated between 38-40 C, and that was when I took paracetamol every four hours. I'd probably burn a hole straight into my pillow if I didn't take any medication. 

Not only until the third day of the fever, when I was in the hospital insisting that they admit me that I realized I was again suffering from dengue--my platelets they, said, were decreasing in an alarming rate.

Not that i was entirely depressed by the news. It was the Medical City, and one of the high-end hospitals and I had my HMO to take care of it. I was looking forward to a week (or more) of no work and being treated like a king. That's one of the advantages of being a patient, you basically have people treating you like a fine China during the duration of the disease.

The joke was on me though; the damned card only covered the 'ward' section and not any of private rooms I was fantasizing of occupying. Talk about being suckered.

Welcome to the club

THIS IS FOR MY FRIEND ANDRE WHO'S ABOUT TO GET HITCHED:

GAGO KA PART!

CONGRATS!!!!! HEHEHE!

Goodbye horses

i recently watched a defective pirated dvd of clerks 2 and basing from what i have seen, it sucked. yes, that's just as direct and bullshit-free as i can make it. i don't think a richard corliss, roger ebert or peter travers crappy impression would give it the respect it deserves so i might as well just get to the point and drop the pretentious movie critic bit and say that yes, it sucked. for me, anyway. aside from the occasional pixelating of the picture (it was a pirated copy after all), the story failed to keep me interested like it did the first. not that it was totally crap; maybe i exepected too much from kevin smith -- beause i really enjoyed jay and silent bob strikes back ---but this sequel to his 94 masterpiece fell flat for me. i especially liked that jay impression of silence of the lambs's jame gumb; complete with the q lazzarus hit 'goodbye horses. i don't know. maybe it's old age or i'm starting to evolve into someone with a questionable taste in movies.
=========
by the way --- q lazzarus. now that's cult music.
cool.

The town

Small towns have an undeniable charm that makes anyone feel at home no matter where they are. Especially when it's just a few hours after dawn's first light; the part where the heat isn't at oppressive levels yet, and the last traces of last night's dew and mist are dissipating. 

Good thing that even if I'm living in Metro Manila, the town I live in has a quiet, laid-back atmosphere that is characteristically un-city like that reminded me of towns in Naga City, Olongapo, and Iloilo. It's only a pity that the crime rate has all the characteristics of those big, industrial wasteland city zones. But other than that, it has its upsides as well.

Earlier, my wife and I made a small trip to the bakery after we consumed every last morsel of bread in the house, unmindful that there were at least three more people who has to take their breakfast. We took a tricycle ride, and saw the surroundings in a very familiar and comforting light.

It's one of those little things that you're glad you have noticed.

Trains

Unfortunately it rained today and my supposed fill of beerhouse hits while contemplating inside a jeep has to take a backseat in favor of the relative comfort of the MRT and FX. While yesterday's pleasant travel was due largely to the heavy dose of nostalgic sentiments I had during the ride, the one I've had a few hours ago in the MRT was for the humor books. I've been meaning to write about it for sometime but never really got down to it. Apparently the MRT management upgraded its services for the relative comfort of its commuters. No, they didn't fix the perpetual escalator problem in the North Avenue station nor improved the airconditioning system of most of the trains in operation; nothing outlandish like that. Time travel will be invented before those things are fixed for good. They just launched the MRT FM radio.


When the doors opened as I was getting ready to board a blast of latin music spewed forth along with the disembarking passengers. The first thing that came to mind was Tita Luz. Now that was enough to make me laugh out loud but I bit my lip as hard as I can. I didn't want the other passengers thinking they had a dope addict in their midst. Tita Luz, bless her soul, has a penchant for old 50s latin-flavored pinoy music and Filipiniana selections whose cassette tapes I suspect she bought at Nayong Pilipino. The kind with an Amorsolo-type painting in the cover, depicting the pastoral way of life in some barrio complete with bahay kubos and baro't sayas. She used to play those nonstop in the car everytime we came to visit her. For the life of me I couldn't understand how she and my father could have polar opposite tastes when it came to music or any other art forms for that matter.

I can vividly remember the "WAN! TU! TRI! POR!" of some (probably) middle-aged male band member before seguing to a crazy polyrhythmic assault of an undeniably pinoy version of latin dance music. My parents, sister and I always have a good laugh everytime we remember that. We weren't ridiculing her taste in music, but the fact that we already heard the same songs more than fifty times since we were in her car (a cab actually, with MUY BIEN plastred at the sides of both doors) and the ridiculousness of the "WAN! TU! TRI! POR!" did it. Professional comedians say things in threes are funny. Try listening to something ridiculous more than 20 times with people who have a healthy sense of humor and you'll have a riot.

That was what I was thinking when I entered the train. And even if the humidity inside was oppressive I couldn't help but let a little chuckle out every now and then. The music, coupled with the irritated and blank expressions of the passengers created a weird sort of music video.

Crazy.