The UP Fair: a dying tradition

Don't come any closer!

Don't come any closer!

This weekend marked the one of our State University’s grandest annual traditions, the U.P. Fair (the other tradition, beating the fuck out of neophytes happens year-round,) and as expected, it was again marred by violence and chaos.

Last Friday, fair organizers sold too many tickets and had turn away ticket holders who promptly rioted and tore down the barricades enclosing the fair grounds (another UP Fair tradition.)

Text messages spread soon after warning against “hooligans” (also known as Jumping Jologs, also known as Orcs) who might cause trouble due to their nature of being hooligans.

There was a time when the UP Fair was a venue for students to let loose and discreetly get drunk on school grounds, but each year, it has become more about the outsiders who crash the party or hang around in fucking hordes outside threatening to do same.

Past fairs have featured stabbings, impromptu calls for fraternity members to beef up the anemic U.P. Police keeping out ruffians, and the walls being pulled down by an army of black-clad mayhem-causing punks whose number seems to increase exponentially each year.

Increasingly, the U.P. Fair is becoming less U.P. and less fair.

Manny Pacquiao, Ph.D?

The Southwestern University in Cebu is set to give Manny “Pacman” Pacquiao an honorary doctorate in Human Kinetics for being one of the country’s most bad-ass bad asses.

Apparently, there is currently no doctorate in Kickassery, so they’re going to give him in an advanced degree in sports science.

"That's DOCTORPacquiao to you!"

"That's DOCTOR Pacquiao to you!"

Not to sour grape or anything, but sports science is serious business, and getting a Ph.D in it for being good at sports is not a good idea.

True, doctorates probably don’t amount to much in this country considering that THE Ateneo gave former president Joseph Ejercito Estrada a doctorate in something or other when he was president.

To be fair, THE Ateneo also mobilized its predominantly upper and middle-class studentry to oust him years later, so I guess that sort of makes up for it. Also, never mentioning the doctorate thing ever again.

Still, giving the Pacman a doctorate in sports science for being a good boxer would be like giving that special child in Mercury Rising a doctorate in cryptology. Sure, they’re good at it, but that doesn’t mean that they actually understand the science behind the thing.

This guy

This guy

And really, Southwestern U., how much more of an honor would a Ph.D be for Pacquiao? He’s already the champ, the Pambansang Kamao, the country’s ambassador for peace (or whatever), a GMA Kapuso star, and a winnable congressional candidate. The only thing that could possibly trump all that is to be declared a god. Maybe by one of the the Banahaw Rizalista sects. I mean, he already sort of looks like Jose Rizal.

Attention: Winston smokers

You are about to quit cold turkey.

A reliable source (of cigarettes, at any rate,) told us that the packs of Winston cigarettes you see being sold now are the last packs on the market.

Our source  said that it has something to do with taxes and licensing. Not being savvy on the supply side of cigarettes, she did not bother to elaborate. But the bottom line is, Winston distributors have ceased doing so, causing them to vanish in a puff of smoke and existential angst.

As any serious smoker will tell you, the brand you smoke is like your first love. Chemically hard-wired into your brain, and losing it will pretty much fuck you up.

You can go on living, sure, but you’re left with two basic options: you can try to be nonchalant about it and find a replacement, or you can embrace your loss and eventually end up the sort of person who bores people with stories about what you cooked for the lunch that you eat alone (and is also probably fat.)

Either option involves long hours of crippling melancholy, and sudden breakdowns over the realization that the universe is an absurd and uncaring place. It’s the same with not being able to smoke your brand, except you have the bonus of cottonmouth and the  overwhelming desire to kill.

Fortune Tobacco is planning to replace Winstons with the repackaged Fortune brand. Beloved by farmers and construction workers (and leftists, by extension) for its cheapness, but generally hated for tasting like crap, the new Fortunes are no different, except for the bit about being cheap. Which is, to stretch a metaphor, like replacing your lost love with a cheap druggy slut who dresses well. Except without the sex.

fu

Facebook is now officially broken

Facebook used to be the thinking man’s answer to the retardedness  of Friendster and Myspace. But as we have learned (if only vaguely) from high school science class, the universe tends towards entropy.

We all knew that Facebook was bound to fail eventually. But just like a nicotine junkie slowly filling his lungs with tar, we ignored it and pinned our hopes on science finding a cure for lung cancer in the very near future.

But this is it. This is the high-water mark, this is where the wave will finally crash. We thought it would be the inane applications that would do it, or the Filipino translation that you can’t figure out how to turn off. But in the end, it was Man. Because Man destroys everything he touches, even,  eventually, himself.

fbook

Being Poor 2: More lessons from the ’80s

It has been said that a hungry man is an angry man, and if an SWS survey conducted last year is to be believed, there are about 4.3 million households that are pretty pissed right now.

The government has admitted that the current global financial crisis has affected food security, but says that it has programs and plans to address the problem.

Given how the government can take a P1-billion grant to curb corruption and still end up with worse corruption, we’re better off fending for ourselves.

Said fending for ourselves primarily limited to foraging at the supermarket, here are some god-sends from the ’80s that will keep you and your wallet relatively full (if not necessarily happy.)

Mang Tomas

If Perla is the jack-of-all-trades in the world of soap, Mang Tomas is the Jack (Bauer) and MacGyver of food in general. Not that it will fashion a helicopter out of spare parts or bust you out of a Vietnames POW camp, but it comes pretty damned close for something made of chopped liver.

Originally marketed as lechon sauce, it needed to rethink its strategy once lechon became a once-a-year delicacy so it soon became a sauce-for-all-seasons. Lechon manok, porkchops, crispy pata, sundry pork products. Pretty much anything would taste better with Mang Tomas. It was like edible weed if weed weren’t already edible in itself.

For the really poor (or high,) Mang Tomas was good as a substitute for meat. Poured on rice, it was not so cruel as not being fed. Mang Tomas was arrogant enough to advertise that it was good on bread, much like, say peanut butter, jam, and other bread spreads not made of chopped liver. And it does make sense, after a fashion. It was like duck liver pate, only made of pork, runny, and was the final undeniable sign that your parents just weren’t making enough.

Pic Related: Poverty Sandwich

Pic Related: Poverty Sandwich

Colored Bread

There was a time when an afternoon snack consisted of some random bread from the sari-sari store and some soda. If you were a bit more middle class than most, you got pan de coco or spanish bread. This was basically bread filled with margarine or coco jam, good for that extra burst of sugar to tide you over until dinner.

For those on a tighter budget, it was colored bread. Essentially, this was just plain bread, likea dinner roll, made festive with food coloring. The coloring didn’t really add anything to the bread, but one must keep up appearances.

So, you had random chocolate-colored bread, ube-colored bread and the sickly-pink-red pan de regla (bread of menstruation. If nothing else, the color helped distract you from the fact that you were hungry.

And then, of course, there was the rarely-seen but forever-remembered mutation called rainbow bread.

100% RDA of Vitamins FD&C

100% RDA of Vitamins FD&C

If you’re not at a birthday party and are made to eat rainbow bread, your mother probably resented you for being born.

Healthy Snacks

Most kids hate vegetables. Most kids love snacks. So, someone came up with the most insidious plot to deceive children since a wolf pretended to be someone’s granny: they made Snacku! vegetable flavored snacks.

Made of healthy rice crackers and fortified with iron, it would have been the golden mean between what kids want and what parents want their children to eat, finally bridging the gap between generations while keeping kids healthy.

Like most utopian ideas, it failed horribly. Snacku! tasted worse than okra (universally hated by children) and had a suspiciously green tinge, like someone had gotten too creative with their watercolouring project (or had no talent.) The ultimate test to find out if your parents secretly hated you was if they gave you Snacku! in the afternoons.

snacku1

In time, children were practically begging to be fed actual vegetables instead of this mutated munchy. They even offered to do extra chores and eat soap just to get away from this stuff.

Sadly, with a more health-conscious consumer in mind, many other “healthy snacks” are being offered on the market now.

And we’re not talking about peanuts or sunflower seeds, either. We mean vitamin-fortified corn-based snacks that are little more than updated Snacku!. Even sadder, not even twenty years of technological advancements have succeeded in making them not taste like ass.

Being poor: lessons from the ’80s

Now that the false nostalgia for the ’80s has been supplanted by false nostalgia for the ’90s, we can now focus on something that, unlike your affected fondness for neon, is actually something quite familiar: being poor.

Despite what the government says, our economy being in the shitter is nothing new. We faced it in the late ’80s and got through it alright, bangles and big hair aside. Here are some of the ways our parents got by and gave us the middling-middle-class childhood we so richly deserved. [Note: if you grew up rich, then this will be a nice look into how the rest of us lived. Also, my nine-year-old self hates you.]

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The Internet Comes to the Philippines (to die)

gmameh

We Filipinos have been pretty slow when it comes to trends, but we do compensate for our tardiness with vigor and enthusiasm.

The emo look/lifestyle/philosophy, for example, took several years from the release of the first Dashboard Confessional single to take root in our tropical shores. Anyone who has been out this Christmas season knows,however, that 90% of the country’s youth now wears skinny jeans, large belts and scarves. It has gotten so bad that it has driven the original hipster middle-class emo kids to hard drink for being alienated once again.

The Filipino zeitgeist is the world’s social barometer, and once we pick something up, then a shark is about to be jumped, and a fridge is about set to be nuked.

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Last year’s most dangerous firecracker

With firecrackers with names like Judas’ Belt, Super Lolo Thunder (Super Grandfather Thunder,) Whistle Bomb and Crying Cow, one can’t be blamed for thinking that Filipinos have a hard on for explosives (or a penchant for random word combinations.)

Which might explain the 346 firecracker-related injuries recorded by the Department of Health during the New Year revelry last night. Except most of those injuries were caused by a firecracker that was about as loud as a capgun. Gunpowder came into it, sure, but as with many things, it’s not the the size of the payload, but how you use it.

Initially imported or smuggled from Europe, Piccolos are now being made by the Bulacan firecracker industry, with as much quality control and safety-firstness as that implies.
The DOH reports that most firecracker-related injuries during the holiday season involved Piccolos.

Basically, they’re self-lighting (with your help and encouragement) firecrackers. You strike them against the box and the phosphorus (I guess) ignites to light the fuse. Piccolos are marketed as toys, much like giving a monkey a loaded gun, but on a smaller, less-cute scale.

They’re not very loud, and are more a novelty item than an actual effort to ward off bad luck. And they were safe, back when they were shipped in from Europe. The local versions, though, have shown a tendency to explode  (pop, anyway) in your hand and shoot out your eye. A fact that is proudly proclaimed by their one-armed, one-eyed mascot in a rare case of truth in advertising.

At least they're honest about it

At least they're honest about it

When they don’t explode in your hand, they’re fun little toys to throw at random things like  unsuspecting pedestrians and stalls selling firecrackers.

Logic, the government and you, Part One

An Inquiry Into Values

Despite numerous scandals our Fearless Leader (fearless of God, anyway,) the Arroyo administration (and sundry family members, which is sort of the same thing) has survived scandal after scandal.

The recent impeachment complaint was not the first time that charges of corruption and general assholery have been thrown at the president, and she has survived each one virtually unscathed because she has mastered the tactics of rhetoric and reprisal. (Also, possibly, a Mephistophelian deal of some sort.)

Here are some defenses that she and her lackeys have used so the next time that the government basically tells us to go fuck ourselves, we’ll at least be aware of it. Remember, knowing is half the battle. The other half mostly involves violence and pointy objects.

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Monico Puentevella’s Shining Moment

The day the impeachment complaint filed by Joey De Venecia was killed

on the House floor, Rep. Monico Puentevella called a press conference to

expose the truth behind anomalous China deals included in the complaint.

Monico Puentevella

Monico Puentevella

He then produced documents to prove that the China deals were hatched in De Venecia’s own house and that the former House Speaker had lobbied for his son, Joey’s, company to get the contract for the National Broadband Network. Puentevella said that the entire impeachment  complaint was based on De Venecia sourgraping and wanting political payback.

That ousted house speaker (and Star Wars mainstay) Rep. Jose De Venecia, Jr. was in on the deal, and that he had tried to wrangle the NBN contract for his son is no surprise. In the Shakespearean tragedy that is Philippine politics, De Venecia is Hamlet’s mom: dirty, bloody, protests too much, and, ultimately, is someone’s bitch.

What was shocking was how Puentevella handled what he saw as his “shining moment.”  In a classic example of Philippine politicking, Puentevella showed that he was not exposing De Venecia because the guy was corrupt and, as he said, “should be charged with violations of the Ant-Graft and Corrupt Practices Act,” but because he had dared attack the president.

Asked why only came out with his revelation the day of plenary voting on the impeachment complaint, he replied that he had had to attend some thing or other with the Philippine Sports Commission and wasn’t able to attend the committee hearings on the impeachment.

Which is fine, I guess, if, for some reason goddamned sports is somehow more important than the accountability of the president. Which is, again, fine if the anomalous ZTE-NBN deal hadn’t been exposed years ago with public debates and Senate hearings focused on getting to the bottom of the deal.

But Puentevella only came out then because “he had had enough” of De Venecia blaming the bad deals that he had negotiated on the president, and not because it’s illegal. Which, really, in no uncertain terms, is fucked up by all standards of decency, integrity and justice.

When asked whether his expose of De Venecia’s influence-peddling and general holier-than-thou attitude would lead to an investigation by the House ethics committee, Puentevella said that he would still have to consult with members of his party because he was, as he said, “a team player.” He told teporters that he “want to judge anyone because I don’t want to be judged,” prompting at least two simultaneous and totally spontaneous snorts of derision in the press conference room of the House.

He added that he did not come out with his revelation immediately because he wanted to wait for De Venecia to make a move against the president. Perhaps Puentevella has some sort of selective clairvoyance, being able to foresee De Venecia’s betrayal of the president, but not the trouncing that our Olympic team received in Beijing this year.

More probably, however, Puentevella is representative of the kind of politics and sense of civic duty that our politicians have been exercising since we became a nation.

In perhaps the most painful to watch, and the hammiest performance by a sitting member of Philippine Congress, Puentevella repeated  the whole charade on the House floor, hysterically shouting “You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth!” while waving his documents in the air.

Conveniently, or aptly, forgetting, Jack Nicholson’s overly-quoted character in that movie was the bad guy.

Not Monico Puentevella

Not Monico Puentevella