Big White & Hairy v2.0

Of Being (and Speaking) Filipino (2)

2011-11-20T01:00:00.000+01:00

Part 2: The Anecdote

I suppose I should write this down eventually.

Context: As mentioned previously, my parents were born and raised outside of Manila. They went to college there, but moved on to Cebu where their respective careers took them. They married in Cebu, and eventually settled back in Manila much later on (where we, the kids, grew up).

On my father's side: My grandfather was born in Vizcaya region of Spain (up north by the Coast, in the Basque territories). He lived several years in Cuba before migrating to the Philippines, where he met my grandmother, a Bicolana.

Apparently they moved around a bit, because my dad was born in Sorsogon. They eventually settled in Jolo, which is pretty much the very last island on the Southern Philippine Archipelago. I imagine it was similar to the Frontier Territories of the Old West.

Fast forward some 50 odd years. From my grandfather, my father picked up Spanish as his default language. From growing up in Jolo, he picked up Tausug. From his schooling (and work), he picked up English. He claimed to speak some Bicolano, although he never proved it per se. From his years living in Cebu he picked up Cebuano. And because he knew Spanish, he claimed that he was a hop-skip away from learning Tsabakano (is that how you spell it?). I would imagine that in his travels (and in integrating with my mother's family), he picked up a little Ilonggo as well.

And at the very end of that list, he picked up Tagalog when he settled in Manila. A Tagalog he learned from (a) the people in his office, (b) his surroundings in Binondo where he had his office, and (c) mostly non-Tagalog folk. It was the stuff of legend.

Which is a (very) roundabout way to get to The Anecdote. There is some artistic license here (why not?) as well as probably some exaggeration, but the spirit is intact.

My father worked in shipping. Which now and again put him in contact with Public Servants of all shapes and sizes. I forget if the Antagonist in the story was a Customs Oficial, or from the Port Authority... it doesn't matter. He was a Functionary. In Manila. And there was a Problem that my father was trying to sort out. As he told it, he was speaking to the Gentleman mostly in English.

At one point, the Functionary smugly interrupted him and said something to the effect of "Pa-ingles-ingles pa kayo, ser. Magtagalog na lang tayo, total pareho tayong Pilipino. Pilipino kayo, di ba ser?"

(that's a god-awful transcription of the story. my tagalog is not what it used to be. Do I need to subtitle it? Are there actual foreign readers of this blog? oh, and back then "Pilipino" was the people, not the language)

And my father, not one to tolerate a SmartAss, replied in best Binondo Tagalog - "Aber..." (which was typical of the Spanish-Filipino generation)

"...ako marunong magsalita ng Ilonggo, Cebuano, Bicolano, at Tausug. Ikaw, marunong ka mag-Ilonggo? Sige, mag-Ilonggo na lang tayo. O gusto mo Tausug? Mas Pilipino ako kesa 'yo. Sige, mag-Cebuano na lang tayo, tutal nasa Pilipinas din ang Cebu, di ba?"

This said with a dead serious face (because I imagine he was quite annoyed), counting dialects in one hand, and I imagine him using shaking his eyeglasses (or their case) menacingly at the Functionary, as he was wont to do when making a point or Showing His Authority. The reply?

"Ok lang, ser. Ingles na lang."

End Scene. Roll Credits.

Remain Calm. Trust In Science.

2011-11-18T22:21:00.001+01:00

A couple of years ago, through a convoluted scheme which involved trumping corporate asshattery, international pseudo-espionage, mistaken credit card fraud and the wonders of the internet, I acquired for myself an iPhone 3GS.

That's not what this post is about. However, like most episodes of the Simpsons, the improbable train of thought begins there.

I did what any first time iPhoner does. I downloaded way too many apps (the free ones anyway), goofing off, deleting, then downloading more. Eventually, like any fanboy worth his salt, I found my way to Comixology, one of the first and (I think) currently the most successful digital-comics-for-mobile-devices distributor in the game. Their iPhone app made pretty good use of the limited space, and they only got better as they evolved into the iPad app.

Back then, the Comixology offer was still a bit limited. And not all free. I forget now if the issue I sampled was a free issue, or I actually spent the 0.79€ to download the first issue... in any case, through Comixology I discovered Atomic Robo.

(Roll Credits: Writer - Brian Clevinger. Artist - Scott Wegener. Colorist - Ronda Patterson. Letterer - Jeff Powell. Editor - Lee Black. Publisher - Red 5 Comics. Psycopath - Dr. Dinosaur)

Atomic Robo stars a... well... an atomic robot invented by Nikola Tesla (in a slightly sideways version of reality where Tesla had a more lasting scientific influence on the world, and Thomas Edison is... well, that would be telling) in the 1920's, and follows his Science Adventures as the leader of a team of Action Scientists as they travel the world in search of... SCIENCE! and ADVENTURE! and ACTION!

with lots of EXPLOSIONS! and LIGHTNING GUNS! did I say EXPLOSIONS?!?

Ah, I'm crap at this high-concept stuff. As per Brian Clevinger, writer and co-creator:

We’ve got a robot who’s also a scientist. He fights monsters, sometimes Nazis, a mobile pyramid once, the planet Mars kinda, and also Stephen Hawking (though that was more of a metaphorical battle). His arch enemies include a brain in a jar, a time traveling dinosaur who probably isn’t, and the spirit of Thomas Edison.

The eponymous Robo is a wisecracking, no-nonsense quasi-indestructible automaton built of nigh-magical technology with a phobia of bugs, several degrees in Physics and Higher Dimensional Maths (some of which he had to invent in order to battle an other-dimensional monster intersecting with our universe at different points in time), a mean temper and a penchant for resolving most problems by blowing them up. His face consists of two oversized glowing blue eyes and Rocketeer-style decor, but he is as human a character as you will ever see. He gets frustrated, he tries to do the right thing, he's been alive for more than 80 years and has grown wiser without ever losing his edge.

And, as the introduction of volume 2 states, he puts his pants on one leg at a time.
(Yes, for some reason he's a fully clothed Atomic Robot. Not just fully-clothed, but he has quite the hip fashion sense)

He's equal parts Spider-Man, Indiana Jones, Albert Einstein, and Bugs Bunny.

There have been 5 completed series so far (the current series, volume 6's "Atomic Robo & the Ghost of Station X" is currently underway, with number 3 just recently released). Each volume is a standalone story, extremely accessible with no required knowledge of "continuity". However, each succeeding volume rewards the readers who have read the previous stories with nods to the past (or future, as is possible). The main "trope", as it were, is high science fiction. Mad science fiction. Briefly running through the books:

Vol 1 - Atomic Robo and the Fighting Scientist of Tesladyne
Introduces us to Atomic Robo, with a combination of "done in one" stories that showcase Atomic Robo through the years. His main antagonist is Helsingard, a mad scientist bent on world domination that keeps a near-limitless supply of backup brains to survive through the years. Robo and his team of "Action Scientists" investigate Giant Ants (which is really just the framing sequence for a flashback to the Korean War), Ancient Mobile Pyramids with mounted Death Rays, Mars... He finds a nemesis in Stephen Hawking, of all people. This book contain one of the greatest pieces of dialogue I have ever read:

Reporter: So, Robo, how did you manage to stop them? (Giant ants)
Atomic Robo: I used my violence on 'em.

We also meet Jenkins. What's a "Jenkins"? As Robo explains it in vol 4... "Jenkins... is on our side. You'll come to appreciate that in time."

Vol 2 - Atomic Robo and the Dogs of War
Atomic Robo's World War II story, as he joins in the Allied Invasion of Europe (but starting in Italy - which was an interesting narrative choice. There was more to WWII than the invasion of Normandy, after all). Robo fights Laufpanzers (mechanized walking tanks), Monster Men, and Atomic Weather Cannons alongside British Secret Agent The Sparrow.

Vol 3 - Atomic Robo and the Shadow From Beyond Time
By far my favorite series of the five, just for it's sheer inventiveness and structure. It's a time travel story that isn't, because as Robo says "No such thing as Time Travel". Atomic Robo fights an Entity that exists outside of time and space, that intersects with our universe at different points in time... at the same time. So we see Robo fighting the beast in the 1920's (with special appearances by Charles Fort and HP Lovecraft), in the 1950's (in a nod to zombie movies of old), the 1970's (featuring Carl Sagan), in 2009 (featuring an actual Evil Computer), simultaneously.

It makes no sense when you summarize it. To explain it would give away half the story. But they make it work. Messrs. Clevinger & Wegener make the crazyheadedness of time travel work and and sense and be entertaining at the same time.

Vol 4 - Atomic Robo and Other Strangeness
Not so much the "weakest" of the 5 series, more like the least "coherent". A series of one-shot stories, each tackling a day in the what is probably the worst week in Robo's life (Alternate Dimension Vampires! Giant Mutant Monsters Invading Japan! A Time Travelling Sentient-but-Psychotic Dinosaur! Undead Edison!). The ending leaves you hanging, and doesn't get added context until the next volume.

There's a throwaway gag in the first chapter, which is where the title of this post comes from. As dimensional fiends overrun the Tesladyne headquarters, Robo orders the building to be put into lockdown. Blast shields cover the windows, with the words "Remain Calm. Trust in Science." in bright yellow letters.

Vol 5 - Atomic Robo and the Deadly Art of Science
"Robo Year One". Well, technically year 7. A period piece going back to the roaring 1930's, as a restless Atomic Robo struggles to find his lot in life while embroiled in a dastardly plot of science crimes, crystal skulls, masked vigilantes (and their attractive genius daughters), and what really happened during "The War of the Currents".

It's also the 1st series to feature Nikola Tesla in an extended capacity, and he does not disappoint. The overbearing and demanding scientist hides all the trademark sentiments of a father who worries about his son, even though his son is a sentient artificial life form (he also gets a kick ass Hero Moment at the end which puts most Action Scientists to shame).

I can't fully express why I dig this series so much. The sense of humor speaks to me, with it's sarcasm, irony, and sporadic absurdism. The general madness of the ideas never seems too far out of the grasp of my puny brain. The banter is snappy, the protagonist generally charming and charismatic.

The art could be considered "cartoony". Open lines, not too much rendering. Exaggerated actions and facial expressions in simplified strokes. But cartoony or simplified is by no means an indicator of inferior quality. The art fits the subject matter perfectly, balancing out the whimsy, the absurd, the humor, the SCALE of things. A little more cartoony and the art loses weight. A little more rendered, and it runs the risk of being taken too seriously.

To wit: Atomic Robo is the only series that I have bought more than once. I bought all the collections/issues on the iPhone app, and eventually bought all the paperback collections. It's that good, as far as I'm concerned. If ever they release a deluxe hardcover thingamabob, I would seriously consider buying THAT too. Because independent comics as good as these need as much support as they can so that the creators keep making more of it.

Ultimately, what brings me back every time to this book? It's fun to read. It's entertaining. It doesn't go for the cheap gags or the gratuitous violence (although I have to admit, there are a lot of explosions), or the shock tactics. It's not dumbed down or pretentiously trying to be too smart.

I cannot recommend this series enough. So go on. Trust in Science. Read Atomic Robo.

Or he may just use his violence on you.

Travelogue: Culinary Interlude

2011-11-07T22:34:00.001+01:00

It started with Djong, asking me a couple of questions about the various and sundry culinary delights of my recent trip. Which was interesting, considering that (a) for the first time I made it a point to take down the names of the places I ate at and (b) the whole point of the Travel posts was to share the food. Everything else was (overwrought and overwritten) window-dressing.

(Okay, "interesting" to me. My blog, my interest. Nyaaaah.)

I put together an annotated list for djong, and realized that it was pretty much a blog post in and of itself. So here it is (most of it, anyway). Facebook was being a real bitch about copying and pasting my email to make a "Note" (might be my browser, but that's not an excuse. It's bad enough that Blogger no longer speaks FB-ese, but I can't copy/paste TEXT?!? Bad Zuckerberg. Baaaaaad Zucky.)

So eventually, in 2013 or thereabouts, if the world has not ended as predicted by the Mayans, I may just finish the travelogue. In the meantime, here are the important bits (i.e., the food!)

Can't really comment too much on prices, as I vaguely remember some of them, and I had the good fortune of having generous hosts who wouldn't let me pay for most of my meals.

ASIAN

OSHA Thai http://oshathai.com/

Thai fusiony place, seems to be unique to San Francisco (discussed in previous post). Several of them in the city, and the website doesn't seem to mention other places. I am no expert on Thai food, so all I can say is that the spicy noodles were excellent and the sweet Thai iced tea was quite good.

Gourmet Peking Inn http://www.pekinggourmet.com/

This one's also local (Falls Church, Virginia). Excellent Chinese food (the Peking Duck was just awesome). I assume it's not on the cheap side (seemed like a classy enough place without overdoing it), and it seems like this place is pretty popular. Both Bushes eat/ate here regularly, as does most of the Pentagon (when we ate there, there was an actual four star general a few tables away)

The walls are covered with pictures of famous figures (above mentioned Bushes, I recognized Colin Powell too) and one wall is particularly spectacular, covered with photos of military men & women. All of whom I assume liked the place enough to contribute their 8x10 glossies and an autograph.

(oh, and it was the first time I saw a waiter - a kindly old chines gentleman - actually take our order in chinese. It was an interesting time deciphering the bill, as his notes were in characters. Except for the word "duck".)

Good Bites http://www.yelp.com/biz/good-bites-cafe-belmont-2

This one's a funny one (they don't have their own website, so the link up there will have to do). Good Bites is a Filipino breakfast joint, with all the Silogs and garlic rice and everything. Mebbe not the thing you first look for in the US (coming from the phils), but for exiles like me it was a godsend (tapsilog on garlic rice for the win!).

Plus, the place used to be a Mediterranean deli, and apparently the previous owners taught all the recipes to the current owner, so right up there with the bangsilog is falafel and gyros and other greek stuff. This one's local (Belmont, CA)

Golden Unicorn http://www.goldenunicornrestaurant.com/

NYC (Chinatown), a few blocks (okay, quite a few blocks) from Ground Zero. Old school Cantonese style Chinese restaurant, where the personnel barely speak any english (just to make the experience more authentic). We went for Dimsum (at 11am it was crowded!) where waiters cruise around with dimsum carts and you just start picking and choosing. Turo-turo, kung-fu style.

Matsuri http://www.matsurinyc.com/

Japanese resto out in NYC. Nice ambiance, trendy, modernish, yet undeniably Japanese. I had sushi (which was excellent), but apparently they have all sorts of stuff. Not on the cheap side, not extremely expensive, either.

I'm told the eel is all sorts of excellent, but I couldn't really tell. The eel and I, we are not friends. I do not trust the eel.

THAT'S NICE BUT WHERE ARE THE BURGERS?!?

Godfather's Burgers http://www.godfathersburgerlounge.com/home.html

"Gourmet Burgers", apparently, there is only one in and it's in Belmont, CA. Awesome, awesome burgers. A little on the pricy side, but they're daaaaaayumn good burgers. Also, they have french fries cooked in truffle oil, which are deadly.

In & Out Burger http://www.in-n-out.com/

West Coast based fast-food chain. But the burgers are actually, you know, good. MIlkshakes are also awesome. And apparently they have this whole different vocabulary

"double double" means two patties, two cheese

"triple triple" means three patties, three cheese

and so on and so forth.

plus they have this thing called "animal style", which apparently means the grill the bun and onions or something. i dunno, too many damn choices, I just said "yes" to everything. and man, it was omnomnomnom.

The Counter Burger http://www.thecounterburger.com/

Burger chain which is a slight step up from Fast Food, but not quite "gourmet". The menu is a checklist, which you have to fill out. It's basically "build your own burger". You give the checklist to the waitress and voila! Your burger. I went to the Reston, VA branch, but it looks like they're all over the place.

Shake Shack http://shakeshack.com/

Awesome burgers, even awesomer milkshakes. there are a bunch of them in NYC. Plus, your order number is a beeper, so you can wait downstairs and not really worry about missing your turn (coz when that beeper goes off, you know it's your turn).

Bill's Bar & Burger http://www.billsbarandburger.com/

Found this place purely by accident. We were in the "Meat Packing District" (apparently, it was once exactly what its name implies. Old Butcher's Quarter), trying to eat at trendier places which were all full up. We settled on this one, an old-school Sports Bar/Burger Joint (Major League Baseball AND College Football on opposing screens). Sit-down dining away from the maddening sportsbar crowd, and the burgers were actually quite good (and the chilli-cheese fries too). Plus they have a shockingly varied assortment of beers. Not very expensive. Very Americana

MISCELLANEOUS

Potbelly http://www.potbelly.com/Home/Default.aspx

Gourmet sandwich chain, a few steps up from Subway, but generally the same idea. Well, a few steps up is actually a lot of steps up. But it's not too "gourmet" that it's wallet-deathy. Again, awesome milkshakes.

One thing that fascinated (and annoyed) me was that no matter how detailed the menus were (pretty much anywhere), there was this endless barrage of questions and options for something that you picked off a menu. Type of bread? Toasted? Type of cheese? Grilled sandwich? Kosher? Meat sliced lengthwise or clockwise? Animals killed humanely or through needlessly violent slaughter?

It took me ages to learn "medium-well". Don't complicate me, man.

(Also, you can see a pattern forming with the milkshakes. After more than ten years since McDo La Salle stopped serving milkshakes, I have been deprived, deprived I tell you! I'm just makin' up for lost time)

John's Pizzeria http://www.johnspizzerianyc.com/index2.htm

Classic, New York Pizzeria, set up in a renovated Church. How bizarre is that? And they have the ovens pretty much in the dining area (check out the pictures on the website, it's clearer than I could ever explain it). Go hungry, since they don't serve slices. And it's pretty much "design your own pizza". And the desert menu looks deadly.

(But I wouldn't recommend the "brewed ice tea". It's actual gardammet unsweetened tea, with ice cubes. Bwak!)

Smitten ice cream http://smittenicecream.com/home/Home.html

This one's local to downtown SFO (near Isotope). It's basically a converted freight container turned into an ice cream shop. They only have three, maybe four flavors every day, and they make ice cream on the spot as you order it, with fresh ingredients and mad scientist machines and liquid nitrogen.

It's heart-stoppingly creamy goodness, made better with SCIENCE!

(I had peanut butter and honey ice cream, and I swear I almost **CENSORED**. TMI, I know. But it was THAT good.)

Westway Diner

http://westwaydinernyc.com/food-delivery-TW/Westway-Diner-New-York-City.3988.r?QueryStringValue=IKJGIgLSAAJI8exWLkU0sA==

This is the classic, stereotypical American Diner (cleaned up and with good food, and unlimited coffee refills). It's pretty much every diner from every movie you've seen, where the menu is a blood-pressue victim's nightmare (eggs, bacon, eggs & bacon, ham, eggs & Bacon & ham, bagels, pancakes, the works). But the food was pretty good, and apparently it won awards and stuff as the best diner in new york (we found it completely by accident).

Keen's Steakhouse http://www.keens.com/

This is the only real aaaaaahmywallet! restaurant here (that I know of). But it's a proper garddemet steakhouse that's been running since 1885. And they served us the biggest damn Porterhouse steak I have ever seen (I'm pretty sure it was a couple of inches thick) which fed 3 people (we had some side dishes, but still). And apparently there are bigger ones, since the steak we ordered was clearly marked "for two", and there was a "for three" option in the menu.

Nice historical ambiance, excellent waiting staff. If you are setting aside one "special credit card be damned" meal in the trip, this is definitely recommended.

It's a hundred-year old restaurant with a huge collection of clay pipes hanging from the ceiling. I mean, it just reeks of history.

Standard Hotel - not a place to eat. Overpriced Cocktails in a swanky hotel. But the views of the Hudson River at night/sunset are es-pec-tac-ular. Added to the list as a curiosity, more than anything else. It's an interesting enough hotel, with a penthouse lounge. The views almost make the prices of the cocktails worth it. Across the street from Bill's Burger & Grill (or was it a block down? I ferget).

Travelogue (2)

2011-11-01T11:30:00.000+01:00

and so, without further ado, we continue...

Day 2: San Francisco
So after the previous day's solo adventure, Mr. Experienced Traveller is now accompanied by both of his lovely hosts. There is nothing major on the plate today, primarily the Museum of Cartoon Art (or was it the Cartoon Museum of Art?).

Ah, it's neither.

Cartoon Art Museum

Before we get to the Museum, it is time for lunch. At 11:15 in the morning. Once again, Higher Powers have determined the food schedule, and us mere mortals can naught but follow Divine Pregnant Will. In the Mission District, we stop for some Thai Food.

Osha Thai

One of my missions on this trip, odd as it may sound, is to sample as much Oriental cuisine as I can, to compensate for the severe lack of Asian Cuisine in my life.

Bellies full, we part ways. Hubby has some important Business to take care of (which later turns out to be Something Good After All), while the Divine Pregnant One and I head off to the Cartoon Art Museum.

There's a retrospective on Archie Comics' 70 years (talk about eternal youth), a Green Lantern retrospective, some Animation displays (with Looney Tunes playing on an endless loop on a flatscreen), a small, poignant display of different newspaper strips commemorating the 10th Anniversary of 9/11, a history of the newspaper strip, and an indie-ish thing that I have absolutely no idea about.

and that was that.

Okay, I'm being a little unfair. But the museum was a little on the small side. The Archie comics display was especially interesting as Pat (Divine Pregnant One) and I have something of a history with Archie comics. Back in the day, when our families would get together for those eternal lunch parties, we would go hunting for a big box of Archie comics that Pat's mom had. Single issues from the 60s (or was it 70s?) which we would devour until the party was over. We actually recognized a lot of the art boards they had on display from the comics we read all those years ago.

Personally, I love seeing original art boards in their black and white glory. It's easy to take Archie's art for granted as simplistic, but don't be fooled by the simplicity. The original art is wonderful to behold - the clean lines, the broad strokes, the "purity" of black and white art that hasn't had a limited color palette applied to it. Hardly any erasures, any pencil lines.

The Green Lantern display appealed a little more to the geek in me, although there wasn't as much art on display as the Archie exhibit.

Afterwards, with Anton's Good News out of the way and my Museum urge sated, the Hosts bring me to Isotope Comics Lounge.

Isotope - The Comic Book Lounge

Once upon a time, in the early 2000's, I became a fan of comics writer Warren Ellis. In those days, he ran an online forum that was equal parts fan interaction, likeminded individuals, and sheer lunacy. It was quite entertaining. I hardly participated (didn't seem like I had much to add), except for the time Mr Ellis himself gave me the equivalent of "You're Doing It Wrong" when I asked a newbie question about Planetary, a series he was writing at the time.

In those days of the WEF, I found out about Isotope, and it's owner James Sime. Isotope was, from the get go, called "The Comic Book Lounge", which made no mistake about it's intended clientele. This was not a "comics are for kids store" (not entirely), but a "comics for older kids" store. Events were organized that were more akin to actual parties (with booze even!) and were adults could get together, have fun, and generally enjoy their nerdiness in a more "sophisticated" atmosphere.

It helped, of course, that Mr. Sime operated his store dressed impeccably in a three piece suit (always), a manicured goatee, and what could easily be an eight-inch hairdo (straight up). He's a Comic Retailer by way of PT Barnum, with a manic energy (online - you have to remember that I'm basing all of this from an online forum). After years of imagining the store, I figured it was only fair that I get to see it with my own eyes.

And he has a collection of personalized toilet seat covers as mementos from all of his store events (more on this later).

Friday early afternoon, the store was empty, except for Mr. Sime. I immediately recognized the hair. He was charming, helpful, the way a store owner should be (except dressed in a snazzy suit). As we were making our purchases, I started to have my fanboy moment, pointing out stuff in the store that I had seen online. The toilet seat covers, the Dr. Strange costume (hand-made!), and we got to talking. I mentioned the WEF, and that I was visiting from waaay out of town.

Maybe it was because the store was empty. Or he was bored. Or he just wanted to put on a show. Well, put on a show he did. He began to regale us with stories of the events, and took us on a full tour of the Toilet Seat Gallery (I guess there were maybe 25-30 up on the wall, which is a fraction of his collection). Each toilet seat was a story, and to this Geek's ears it was the equivalent of sitting in on the Ocean's Eleven Poker game.

(So the legend goes, the very first toilet seat was "customized" by Brian Wood after a store signing. He had had a little too much to drink, and vandalized the bathroom. "The bathroom was a mess, but the toilet seat looked pretty cool. So I hung it up on the wall." Then artist/writer Rick Remender saw it and insisted he wanted to do one up as well. And thus, an Isotope exclusive was born. Apparently he literally has an entire back room filled with autographed, personalized, and decorated toilet seat covers. These are not just signed - the artists go to town with these things, one of them even bringing it home with him to Italy and mailing it back once it was done, because he wanted to take his time with the portrait)

Okay, I think I've lost most of the people who don't read this blog. Some might consider it "odd" how a highlight of my trip is a visit to a comic store, but either you get it or you don't. No amount of my explaining will convince you either way.

Once done with the Isotope, we popped the question - "Anywhere nearby we can get some Ice Cream?"

For one final time, Mr. Sime to the rescue.

Smitten Ice Cream

Down the block, around the corner. In an area where ocean containers are converted and put to use for small businesses, under the shadow of an enormous iron statue of a dancing woman (built during Burning Man).

Smitten Ice Cream puts up 3 or 4 flavors each day. Those are the only flavors they'll serve that day. And the make the Ice Cream fresh, as you order it, with their mad-scientist gadgets and liquid nitrogen.

And, God as My Witness, that was some of the awesomest ice cream evar (Peanut Butter and Honey).

Geeked Out. Ice Cream induced coma pending. Time to get a move on.

After being taken on a driven tour of San Francisco, the Hosts deposited me at home. Apparently that evening I was to be outsourced to the Host's Brother (who, once upon a time, was my teammate in High School Baseball) and cousin, as the Host's needed to attend Birth Class.

It was not for me to reason why, rather go and eat some burgers. But not just any burgers, no no no...

Godfather's Burger Lounge

There are only two things I can say about Godfather's burgers.

"Haaauuuurggghrrgggghhh" (Imagine Homer Simpspon imagining a Donut)

or

Omnomnomnom.

Anything else would do the Burgers a great disservice.

Things My Father Taught Me

2011-11-01T01:03:00.003+01:00

Most people who know me would probably agree that I have a tendency to put my father (June 5 1936 - July 14, 1998) on a pedestal, to wax poetic about the man he was, the example that he set.

I think a lot about my father. What he would say if he could see me now, so far from where he left me? What he would think of the decisions I've made, the things I've done, the ways I haven't quite lived up to what he tried to teach me? The conversations we could be having in Spanish, now that I actually can. It's all wishful thinking of course, and to a certain extent unhealthy, I would imagine.

We will never live up to the expectations of Old Ghosts. Especially since they aren't around to let us know. You either make your peace with that, or you don't.

Before this degenerates into a never-ending spiral of haves and have-nots, I better get back on track. Sure, it's a bit corny - writing about my father on November 1. Well, I'm too far away to lay flowers at his niche, and the only candles I have at home smell like vanilla. This will have to do, I suppose.

Things My Father Taught Me

Alcohol 101: "Never challenge the bottle. The bottle always wins."
It's a common thing - counting your drinks. Or in many cases, "let's finish the bottle". My father enjoyed his drink, but always in the company of others. At home he had a beer (at most two) on Sundays after whatever "project" had kept us busy during the morning.

Socially, he was an active drinker - beer was his poison of choice, though he was known to favor the Whiskey now and again. So he was (fortunately) not a hypocrite about alcohol. He never flat out forbade us to drink, so long as, in the beginning, we were under his watchful eye.

(the beginning being in our teens. he wasn't a hypocrite, but he wasn't idiot, either)

His lesson here was simple - drink what you like because you like it. Drink because you enjoy it, don't drink for the sake of drinking. Don't count how many drinks you've had or are going to have, listen to your body. Don't drink because "the bottle is already half empty" (because the bottle is really half full, and there's always another bottle lying in wait).

And he was surprisingly faithful to that lesson. Sure, his "no counting" rule got the better of him a few times (but mostly it just made him talkative, and prone to breaking out into song). As far as I know there have only been two instances where he was too drunk to be useful (I was there for one of them), and to be fair it was because he was having so much fun with the people he was with, it's hard to fault him for it.

He drank and enjoyed his drinks. And when it was time to stop drinking he stopped drinking and went home, singing.

Manhood 101: Don't Talk, Do.
This is kinda the "mother of all lessons", which begat so many other little ones. But the rule was simple - time spent talking about something was better served doing that thing. It didn't matter how complicated you make the repair job sound, or what a hassle it would be to crawl into the ceiling to re-wire the sound-system.

You just go and do it. And the reviews write themselves.

It applied to everything. Sports? Don't talk about how good you are, just play the damn game. Don't make excuses about how they're better than you (or how much you suck). Get better. Don't wait to be told to carry your mom's suitcase, go carry it immediately. Stop talking about how hard (or easy) school is, put your money where your mouth is and get good grades.

It sounds like he was something of a drill sergeant. Well, he was, but not in the way I make it sound. A little more Yoda (grammatically correct, though), a little less Sgt. Slaughter.

Plus, as a vicarious-parenting-thrill, it's so much easier bragging about what your kids have actually done.
(Not that we were wunderkinds growing up, but I suppose we did ok)

Life 101: Listen
True Story: From the very first day that we began proper schooling all the way until we graduated high school (1986 - 1997, PAREF Southridge School for Boys), my father would tell us to "Listen" just before we'd leave the house. No extraneous chatter, no instructions or sermons or do's/do-nots. Just one word.

"Listen".

Every Day.

For Eleven Years.

Sometimes I think that is the most important thing he ever taught me. Definitely the most useful.

Parenting 101: Repetition is a Highly Effective Educational Tool
See: Life 101

I was (am) by all accounts, very hard-headed growing up. So I make no exaggeration when I say that was on the receiving end of a lot of my father's... "educational wisdom". So much so that I have an internal commentary track of Prudencio's Greatest Hits on demand inside my head.

And if nothing else, as I get older I realize that every single one of his pearls of wisdom was right.

Dammit. heh.

Manhood 102: Being a Man = Being Useful
This one might be a little archaic, and possibly frowned upon in this Modern Age.

You know what? Bite me.

Men do the heavy lifting as much as possible. Men help when there is help to be given. Men try to fix stuff, even when they're not entirely sure what it is they're doing. Men solve problems, when there are problems to be solved.

Men take care of business, when such is required. Men are there when you need them, or at the very least are there as soon as they can.

Is this chauvinistic? I don't think so. Mind you, it says nothing of a woman's role. Or of a woman's "place" in the scheme of things. Is it terribly one sided? Maybe. I think it all goes back to "Don't Talk. Do." To be ready for what the situation demands.

I never felt like my mother was put on some sort of pedestal. Or hindered to do or live how she felt she should. But my father (and by extension, his "lackeys") were there whenever she needed them to be. He knew when he had to get involved, or when he simply had to step aside and let my mother take care of business.

Parenting 102: Be there.
This one, this one still impresses me when I think about it. My father filled his weekends attending baseball games, basketball games, doomed debating/oratory careers, plays, concerts.

The first time my brother got the chance to play in an international baseball tournament, he turned it into a mini-vacation to see him play (and took us all along for the ride, of course).

He missed maybe a handful of my own baseball games, because sometimes Life just got in the way. (funnily enough, two of those games were memorable in that I had been playing exceptionally well, and he would arrive just as all was said and done to hear everyone else talk about how great the game was. I think that bugged him a little bit).

To wit: A fledgling highschool baseball league was organized. Badly organized. Half of our games (on Sundays at the ass-crack of the morning out in Alabang or Greenhills) ended in defaults, because the other schools just wouldn't show up. My dad was there for every single game day, picking up other players and acting as un unofficial chaperone, in his collared shirt, old school short pants and topsiders.

At which point my coach (who was also one of my high school professors), sheepishly comes up to me and says: "Jon, I feel like I should apologize to your dad".

Me: Eyng?

Coach: He's here every Sunday, even when there are no games! He has better attendance than some teams! I feel a little embarrassed, like we're wasting his time.

To further wit: He rarely said "no" to us when we reached the "go to parties" age. He didn't even really give us a curfew. His only unwavering condition was that he would be the one to pick us up from wherever it was we were partying.

If he got there and we weren't quite done, he'd say "ok, go ahead. just let me know when you want to go.", lean back his chair and sleep in the car. He wouldn't make a scene, or put his foot down and insist on going home. He'd even park a little further down the street so that our friends wouldn't see that we were making our dad wait for us, sleeping in the car.

It was psychological warfare at its finest. And yet it was ironclad, airtight, impregnable tactics. The battle was over before it had even begun.

Or as my brother once said (allegedly): "Somehow after that, the beer didn't taste quite as good."

Social Graces 101: A Good Sense of Humor and a Quick Wit are Essential. But don't Overdo It.
This one is a little self-explanatory, I guess.

Never the life of the party (not even his own "parties"). Never the loudest, the funniest, or the craziest. Just the right amount of comedy and and charm to keep things going, but always a couple of steps behind the real firecrackers, showboats, and blowhards.

And you know what? It got him invited to a lot of parties.

Manhood 103: Be Your Own Man
I think this is the phrase that got repeated most often after "Listen".

Belonging is a good thing. It's necessary, to grow as a person. While my father always made it a point to get along with everyone he was with, he rarely ever allowed himself to be swayed to "what everyone else was doing".

It could be that when I got to know him he had left his mistakes behind him and thus was wise enough to row his own canoe. It's hard to describe - he was just...him. With his own opinions, his views, his nigh-infinite patience that held back a fierce temper and a devastating tongue. He didn't seem judgmental, or abrasive, or condescending (at least in public). He just stuck to his guns and did what he thought was best, whether you liked it or not.

Social Graces 102: Good Manners does not make you less of a Man
There's an old Spanish saying - "Lo cortes no quita lo valiente". Very literally translated, it could mean "Courtesy does not remove Bravery", or very loosely translated as the subheading of this section.

I think I can count on the fingers of one hand (maybe two, if I push myself) the number of times my father outright swore in front of us. He had an inhuman control over his vocabulary (multilingual that he was), and had his choice phrases which were at most PG-7. Very rarely PG-13, and a hard R was almost unheard of (literally).

And so my being a bilingual potty mouth is completely on me, I'm afraid.

Social Graces 103: Always make a good impression on your (girl)friends' parents
It gets you invited to a lot of parties.

And your friends eventually appreciate it too (although at first it can be a drag for them), because the reasoning "Oh so ____ is going to be there? Well, if he's going to be there, then you can go." begins to appear.

Quid pro quo, Clarice. Quid pro quo.

Philosophy 101: If you have a problem, and there is a solution, don't worry - after all there's a solution. If you have a problem and there's no solution, don't worry. There's nothing you can do about it anyway.

This one... this one I'm still struggling with. Ask me again in a few years how I'm doing with this particular gem, and hopefully my answer won't be a mumbling bilingual invective.

Manhood 104: Remember who you are talking to - your Mother is not one of your High School Friends

Oooh, this one I got a lot of.

I sincerely meant no disrespect, although I'm told the tone of my voice and facial expressions get away from me from time to time.

Scout's Honor.

Economics 101: If you can, why not? If you can't, then obviously you can't.

As applied to basic money management, budgeting, savings, and the occasional thrill-spending. Painfully simple and pragmatic (as most of his views were), but surprisingly difficult to stick to.

Manhood 105: Real Men are not afraid to Dance. Nor are they afraid to show that they are Enjoying it.
My father was from a different generation, where dancing was less freestyle and more ballroom. And while I am unqualified to judge, general consensus was that he was quite good at it. And he enjoyed it. The occasions were few, but under the right circumstances he would suffer Dance Instructor Syndrome: being one of the few dancing men at the party, there would a modest waiting list of ladies waiting to dance with him.

(all polite and clean fun, of course)

I seem to have inherited a passable sense of rhythm from him, but alas, I am no dancer (I can sorta fake it convincingly). I have never actually seen him do it, but I am convinced that my brother dresses in a tux and domino mask come nightfall and tears up the parquet as Danceman! (nananananana...)

One of us had to have gotten it.

Social Graces 104: Family Matters are Private Matters
As applied not only to his marriage, but also to how he dealt with us. I can't recall him actually arguing with my mother in front of us (the kids), or even in public. But there were arguments, and discussions, and differences of opinion. And apparently it all got hashed out away from our prying ears.

Even with us children, we rarely got scolded or made an example of in public (although there would be a stern lesson or sermon waiting when we got home, even hours after the transgression had occurred when we were at our most defenseless, and he had had all the time in the world to reflect and craft a brief missive that would wilt the soul).

Even when I did get reprimanded in public (which, I have to say, happened fairly often), he had the discretion to do it in Spanish, so that no one else knew that I was being called out on my less-than-exemplary behavior, but the aforementioned soul-wilting was in full effect.

I pushed his boundaries (and buttons) on this like a blind monkey in a room full of live electric wires. It goes without saying that I got shocked quite often (to my credit, they were usually quite comedic for everyone else, not so much for me. But at least everyone got a good laugh.)

Thinking back, I am amazed at how stupidly clueless a child I was for some things.

Life 102: The People that show up at your Wake really is an indication of the life you've led.
I wrote about this once, a few years back. The family (extended and very extended), friends (his, ours, friends of friends), acquaintances, associates, that showed up for the Wake. The group of people from his office, still in their uniforms, from drivers to secretaries to supervisors at the wake right after work. The sheer volume of flowers and wreaths apparently impressed some people, but for me it will always be the people.

I don't think he could qualify as a Great Man. Or even an Exceptional Man (arguable). He had his imperfections and his weaknesses, and he made his mistakes (I'm sure, although I'm not aware of too many of them).

He was a Good Man, and sometimes that's all you need to be to live a good life.

Travelogue

2011-10-29T03:40:00.000+02:00

(or, less pretentiously: "Slapping away at the keyboard at 2am on a Saturday morning, waiting for the NyQuill to kick in")

So it's 2:07am, and I'm wide awake. There are many possible explanations for this: Jetlag. The trauma of returning to work in the middle of grade-A shitstorm ricocheting needlessly around my head. Watching The Untouchables and reading volume 2 of Scalped right before bed. The nigh-binge-level amount of dark chocolates I had for "desert" (while watching The Untouchables). A possible addiction to NyQuill which prevents me from sleeping without.

Or in short, at the age of 31 I have either turned into a addicted stress-worrier, or have reverted to a 4-year old who cannot sleep because he's been "over-stimulated".

(for now I'm favoring the "overstimulated" theory. Admitting an addiction is for another day).

Currently on TV are assorted phone-in psychics, uninteresting soft-core porn, a documentary on the life of Spanish Transexuals, and will.i.am's goddamn auto-tune on the music channel.

So here I sit, to bore the two of you with stories of my recent travels. I have an overabundance of pictures clogging up iPhoto, with a selection on The Book of Faces, but I suppose it's a marginally good idea to write this shit down (if for nothing else, to note down the Good Eatin'). Memory is a fickle thing, after all. Plus, who knows, we might get a laugh or two out of it.

Day 0: Madrid to San Francisco (via Washington Dulles International Airport)
The "Experienced Traveller" decides to be smart and take advantage of the digital age. Online check-in assures me of an Exit Seat, with glorious legroom (aka, the Economy way to fly Business Class). All goes without a hitch, and it's off to the races.

Except Mr. Experienced Traveller does not know how to read a damn airplane schematic, and has so oh-so-smarty-pantsly selected the seat right behind the Exit Row. Completely boxed in, with just enough room to breathe and wiggle his toes, he has a glorious view of the two short Spaniards in front of him enjoying all that glorious legroom. For 9 hours.

Winning all the way, I am.

In-flight entertainment is forgettable, except for yet another NFL documentary spotlighting a Superbowl Team (the '84 Bears). Inspite of the fact that I know next to nothing of American Football, I enjoy the pomp and grandeur of these documentaries (I've seen a few of them on assorted long haul flights). There was also an episode of Top Gear, which is always good for a laugh or two.

By some weird coincidence, the two Spaniards in front of me seem to be following the same itinerary as I am, and are chatting up the Flight Attendant, who happens to live in Washington DC. So I eavesdrop a bit and take notes.

Switchover at Dulles International, which is, in itself, a strange experience. First is the customary uncurling, unclenching, and uncoiling of my spine. I have regained a couple of inches and am almost back to my regular height of 6'. The kindly gentleman at Immigrations asks me the requisite terrorist-screening questions, and I take my bag off a conveyor belt, only to place in on another conveyor belt a couple of meters away.

Another gentleman swabs my hands with an unknown substance before declaring me fit to pass through Security. Whatever germs, pathogens, or other viral agents I have are not considered in any way threatening to the United States of America.

Connecting flight to San Francisco is full, not even a remote chance to get an Exit Row. However, the middle seat seems to be the only one unoccupied, so some judicious contortionist allows me to only lose 2 inches of spine length (instead of the average 4 or 5) on this flight. Teeny tiny common video monitors let's me watch most of Captain America. I think I manage something that resembles sleep.

Finally, SFO International Airport. Pat rescues me from the airport, and decides that it is Time for Ramen. It is not in my best interests to argue with the pregnant lady with a functioning lightsaber, therefore Ramen it is.

Santa Ramen, San Mateo CA

First good decision I've made so far in this trip, not arguing with the pregnant lady. The Ramen is excellent. It may be the first time I've had proper Ramen that doesn't come in a stryrofoam cup with dehydrated ingredients, and I'm already not regretting this trip.

(I'm a Simple Man who enjoys Simple Pleasures. I find life more enjoyable that way)

Finally we get home, and I find that my suitcased has been TSA'd. The lock and lock-ring are gone, and I find a polite card inside saying that my clothes have been rummaged through for my own security. At least they had the decency to put everything back the way it was, and they didn't take the bottles of liquor I had brought for my hosts.

Day 1: Redwood City, San Mateo, and dark parking lots with a Barrio Fiesta.
The next day there seems to be a minor disturbance in the Force. Apparently force majeur has reared its head, and both Pat and Anton are unavailable for the whole day. Okay, I suppose I can fend for myself in a foreign country where the principal language is English. Hell, I did it in a foreign country where the language was Spanish... what could go wrong?

Quick orientation and objectives: A local SIM card for my phone and, being in the same general vicinity, a Comic Store. An actual American Comic Store. Mr. Experienced Traveller spends the next 30 minutes studying maps, bus routes, schedules, more maps, more schedules, and sets off into the wilds of El Camino Real in San Mateo.

El Camino Real is a main avenue/highway that runs all the way from San Mateo (and beyond) to Los Angeles. The Phone Store was on 29th Avenue. The Comic Store on 22nd Avenue.

Where does Mr. Experienced Traveller get off the bus? On 9th Avenue, having passed all of his objectives by a good 20 American Blocks.

Ah, he thinks, this Experienced Traveller, it's a beautiful day here in San Mateo. Might as well take a leisurely stroll. This leisurely stroll lasted the better part of an hour, and a little under 2 miles (3 kilometers and change)

Mr. Experienced Traveller is a bit of a pain in the ass, he is.

Lee's Comics

Finally, an American Comic book store. I impulse-buy my credit card into weeping submission, and chat up the retailer on call (Andrew). I get this soft tingle down the side of my spine, being able to nonchalantly geek out about comics, formats, why trade paperbacks are the best format ever, just... nerding out.

Or that tingly feeling could be low blood-sugar. It is around lunch time, after all.

I hit the Phone Store and secure my SIM, witnessing the quintessential clueless and entitled American just refuse to understand basic phone service concepts, and the heroic efforts of a too-cheerful customer rep try every tactic under the sun (short of opening the woman's skull and shouting at her brain) to try and get her to see the light. Never raising his voice. Never losing his patience. And I complain about MY customers...

I decide to keep lunch simple and familiar, and hit up a Subway next door (you don't need the link to Subway, do you?). Alas, even something so simple as a "sandwich" is an endless barrage of questions regarding bread, cheese, sauces... in the end I'm not sure anymore what it was I actually ordered. I think it had chicken. And bacon. I definitely remember Bacon.

Mr. Experienced Traveller manages the commute home without unnecessary treks through the wilderness, and passes out. This is followed by a trek out into the darkness that is Milipitas (or "Pinoytown", apparently. One of many in the bay area), to stand in an empty parking lot waiting for some sort of transaction to be completed (legal and aboveboard, so I'm told), before the Pregnant Lady demands food.

And if I know well enough not to argue with the Pregnant Lady, her husband is the bona fide Master of this art.

Pepper Lunch

Pepper Lunch is sizzling plate teppanyaki place, which brings back all sorts of college memories. But more importantly - RICE!

and I think we'll stop there. there should be more of this (without turning this into a navel-gazing egorama), but the last time I promised a Part 2, there was the resoundingly disappointing silence of me not following up.

It's 3:38am, and the NyQuill does not seem to have kicked in, and i am minorly sleepier than I was an hour ago. I may just get a headstart on the rest of this...

Ho?

2011-09-14T22:02:00.001+02:00

After the monumental brain-ache the first "real" post gave me, let's switch gears. I painted myself into a corner nonchalantly promising a part 2, and I expect I'm going to pay dearly for that bit of hubris.

So they've revived the Nth 80's cartoon franchise with Thundercats. 8 episodes in, I have to say it is quite good. Very good, actually, nostalgia biases aside.

Which makes me wonder who the intended audience for this cartoon is. The '80s kids who have grown up, or are today's kids really that much more sophisticated? Or is it becoming easier to hit that sweetspot of animated storytelling where you entertain the young and old kids in equal measure?

The history of the Thundercats franchise, according to Wikipedia

I'll get that link out of the way, so as not to have to recap the whole thing all over again. I never imagined that the original Thundercats ran almost 100 episodes in total (spotty programming back then, I guess).

The original show was (in hindsight) a gloriously mad mix of high concept sci-fi (Cats! From Outer Space! Fighting a Demonic Mummy!), high fantasy ("Sword of Omens", spiritual mentors, an earth filled with exotic races) stuffed kicking and screaming into something resembling a "children's show" (every episode should have a lesson to be learned! the protagonist is really a little boy trapped in a manlyman's body! Look, they're naked but they're cats, so it's okay! Nagging comic relief sidekick pet who whines at inappropriate moments!)

The 2011 version takes that schizophrenic smorgasbord and hammers it into a coherent narrative. Just a long form story, life lessons and morals welcome but optional. With just the right nods to the lore of old, and just enough updates to and fan-service to say "hey, that's a lot cooler than I remember". Recent episodes even tossed in throwaway references to other '80s franchises promising some good old nostalgic crossover action.

(Episode 7, the historical flashback episode, shows a race of "Tigersharks", and a blink-it-and-you'll-miss-it cameo from Mon-Star, of Silverhawks fame. Even the power armor that shows up has some slight connection to the aforementioned space-faring cyborgs)

Snarf is still too cute to live. But at least he doesn't speak. Thank the Book of Omens for that. Panthro has faux-70's-anime sideburns (why?!?). The Thunderkittens are wisely played (more organically) as comic-relief and as added cuteness factor. Lion-O being a headstrong teenager trying to fill his father's shoes plays a lot better in the coming-of-age sense than the man-boy from the original series. Tigra actually has character, even if he is a bit of a dick. And the voice actors aren't running ragged trying to disguise their voices and accents (according the Wikipedia, they were only four or five actors providing ALL the voices), so they can actually ACT this time around.

And the storyline is "darker", in that there is war, death, struggle. The world is a proper fantasy world, populated with cultures, races, and not just the creature of the week of the goddamn-robear-berbils-or-whatever-they-were. And they're actually using the Sword of Omens as a, you know, sword.

That's the problem with pinning your series on a Sword. It's all cool and fantasy and romantic and shit, but it's a sword. Side-effects include dismemberment, disembowelment, stabby-stabby-death, and blood. Fair amounts of blood. All the other characters get blunt-force trauma weapons, but the Ultimate Weapon is a sword that couldn't shed blood on screen.

(it's actually pretty laughable in the original series how they go out of their way to give the Sword superpowers so that it's not actually used for fighting. It can fly! It can extend into a pole vault! It's an early warning device! It alternately makes forcefields or savage gusts of wind! It's basically Harry Potter's wand, with a cool logo on the hilt.)

Anyway. Enough about the sword. This iteration of the Thundercats is an excellent piece of storytelling so far. The fantasy elements don't get TOO overblown and heavy-handed. The characters have... well... character. The villain is sufficiently creepy (to be fair, he was always creepy in red hood mode).

Did I mention how great it was that Snarf doesn't talk?

And there is an additional depth of storytelling which, again, makes me wonder about the intended audience. Not that I believe kids are intellectually inferior or anything, just that there are certain layers to the storytelling that seem exceptionally... heavy. In this day and age of frenzied animated series filled with neurotic characters who go for the cheap laugh, a moving and heartfelt exploration of life's meaning and relative merit of the length of one's life as measured against the quality of that life ("it's not about living long, it's about living well) is a welcome surprise.

all that wrapped inside touching fable starring a race of plant creatures with the lifespan of a day. and cat-persons dressed in fantasy armor.

Or an almost philosophical treatise on weapon vs wielder, clearly inspired by Japanese history and mythology, featuring a disillusioned weapon smith-turned-drifter who, so heartbroken and lost, literally drifts on the wind, going where the wind takes him. Oh, the kung-fu sword fighting cats, too.

Or a re-telling of Moby Dick, but the sailors are all Fishmen! Sailing an electric powered ship across a Desert Ocean! Where the sands wax and wane like tides! And the white whale is an obscenely gargantuan plant monster that has sucked all the water from the Desert! All to teach the title character about the importance of Leadership!

(one gets the impression that the producers have these mad stories they want to tell, and halfway through the writing process somebody looks up and says "hey, aren't there supposed to be Cat-Men in here?")

There's action of course - I suspect that the creative team has a formula that evenly distributes the kick!splode! and the philosophizing in equal measure. It IS supposed to be an action adventure cartoon, after all. But the cleverness of the stories (whether "trying too hard to be sophisticated" or just simple "let's do something more with the story" is up to personal tastes) puts this easily as one of the better (best?) cartoon series produced in the last few years. Something that (if it really mattered) an adult could sit through and be entertained, even have a thought or two provoked.

I hope they keep it up, and the series is successful enough to have a long and proper run. The producers seem to know what they're doing and it would be a shame for them not to have the chance to finish their story.

Of Being (and Speaking) Filipino (1)

2011-08-31T22:33:00.000+02:00

There seems to have been a tempest-in-a-teapot (ah, the internet) regarding the Filipino language, cultural identity, and something or other about "Filipino not being the language of the learned". In the time between the first draft of this post and the edit, there seems to have been something of a too-cool-for-school rejoinder which, this being the internet, walks the thin line between "sincere but misguided" and "you can see the Sarcasm from the Moon.")

He kind of has a point, but it's buried under so much ivory tower rhetoric and simplistic generalization that it's so much easier to ignore him.

But the discussion has dislodged a couple of braincells, and it's a subject I've always struggled with as far as I can remember.

Full disclosure (or rather, writer's context): Both of my grandfathers were full-blooded Spaniards who migrated to the Philippines in the early 20th century. My paternal grandmother was a full-blooded Bicolana, while my maternal grandmother belonged to a fairly large Spanish-rooted family from Negros Occidental. My father grew up in Jolo, studied in Manila, lived in Cebu (where he met my mother), and eventually settled back in Manila. My mother grew up in Kabankalan, a small town somewhere between Bacolod and Dumaguete, earned her degree in Manila, and lived in Cebu afterwards (where she met my dad etc.).

I was born in Makati, and lived in Manila until I moved to Spain 7 years ago (I was 23). I hold Spanish and Philippine passports (both by birthright), and have none of the physical markers that may lead someone to consider me as a "Filipino".

Those are my qualifications to speak on Cultural Identity and Language. This being the Internet, I am literally just as valid a pundit on this topic as "the next guy".

Language is always tricky. Especially when you hit the slippery-slope of language being equated to cultural identity.

I grew up in a predominantly English-speaking household. As my parents tell it, they had little choice in the matter. My mother speaks flawless Ilonggo and pretty good Cebuano (or so I hear). My father spoke Cebuano, could defend himself in Ilonggo, supposedly could speak a little Bicolano, and grew up speaking Tausug when out of the house (more on that later).

Both of my parents spoke Spanish fluently, because of my grandfathers. They both spoke English fluently, products of the American-influenced school system of the post-war era.

You'll note that nowhere in that list does Tagalog appear (which, as far I know, is still the bedrock foundation for what is considered the "Filipino" language). My father (in)famously spoke horrible Tagalog, with broken diction and grammar akin to a bad parody of the Binondo Chinese merchant.

Familial obligations led them to try and educate us siblings in Spanish (aforementioned grandparents). While theoretically a sound idea, it was something of a failure. A crying traumatized boy-sized failure, who couldn't communicate in pre-school because no one spoke or understood his language.

In that laundry list of dialects and languages, none were particularly useful for children growing up in Manila, except for English. They obviously couldn't teach us Tagalog, because they didn't quite know the language themselves.

So yeah, my mother tongue is English. Being taught in that language, my formative years were spent absorbing information in that language (because I couldn't understand anything else). I frequently miss out on nostalgia references my friends make - komiks, a lot of Batibot (although I did watch some of that, in spite of my handicap), assorted gag shows and bad movies - simply because I didn't bother with those things growing up. There are few 8-14 year olds who will watch and read things they don't understand "just because" or "this way I can learn", right? Or was I the only one?

Learning in English was a matter of practicality, not... whatever other reason you can think of and ascribe to "us whitefolk". :-)

(Oh, and one more thing. I have little to no family that is "native" to Manila, or the Tagalog speaking provinces. Visayas and below, the lot of them.)

At which point, someone may point out that either (a) I am totally splitting hairs by trying use my very specific background as a justification for not learning Filipino or (b) I am actually supporting the idea that the Philippines is more than anything else an English speaking country.

Neither. That whole spiel about my upbringing being "unfavorable to Filipino" was something I (and my parents) had to repeat ad nauseam to professors and teachers over the years, who took it upon themselves to make an example of the "english spokening coño kids who were "too good" for Filipino". Which, in and of itself, is just as simplistic a worldview as "the Philippines is mainly and English speaking country".

I've got nothing against Filipino. My parents obviously had no qualms about speaking a local dialect. They just didn't speak the right dialect. The dialect which sort of arbitrarily was turned into the National Language.

There are infinite angles to this argument. The American Occupation left deep and lasting impressions (scars?) on Philippine culture as a whole, just as the Spaniards managed to get half their vocabulary adapted into Tagalog. Given the vast diaspora of dialects/languages within the Political Territory known as the Philippines, English is a de facto unifier, but it should not be confused with Cultural Identity.

But isn't the greatest thing about Filipino Culture its "policulturality"? (we're talking about language. I can make up a word or two). The wonderfully chaotic and volatile mixture of languages, customs, and beliefs from near-infinite sources that in the end are undeniably our own.

It is sloppy and narrow-minded to even start a comparative discussion about languages - they are impossible to resolve, liable to offend someone, and generally pointless. An language does not define a culture, or a country, or a people. Not entirely.

there's more to this, of course. I'm running long and I haven't even begun to talk about bilingualism, my dad's Greatest Anecdote Ever (about language), what the Cebuano's really think about us ("Manileños"), and the problem with a "monolingual" mindset (see: Spain).

abangan...

Relearning the Wheel...

2011-08-26T21:54:00.001+02:00

After nearly two years of inactivity, I have been possessed by the mad idea to take up blogging again.

I fear that no, this will not end well.

Not end well at all.