My Analysis of Class Distinction in the Filipino perspective, which, for obvious reasons, doesn't describe other cultures in other countries.
PLU - (Filipino People Like Us) - Our families are in many ways parallels and have been for generations: went to the same schools, may even be related to each other somehow. More often than not our grandparents are people like us. A lot of us are relatively Nouveau Pauvre, since the heyday of our families happened in prior generations. Many of us are heirs of nothing but a "good" last name and a sense of superiority. If there were an equivalent elsewhere it would be the impoverished English aristocracy. Multiple generations have had college educations or their equivalent. PLU don't try very hard to impress and tend to be quite blasé about things. So blasé that we are generally quite a boring and undynamic kind. We are bunch of repressed, decadent, negligent, neglectful, complacent, double-standard, corrupt, corruptible, spoiled, have a hard-to-tame sense of entitlement, don't think the rules apply to us, facetious, out-of-shape, quick-aging, and way too Same-Old-Same-Old....
MCPINOY (Middle Class Filipino)
a. Upper McPinoy (Upper Middle-class Filipino) - these are the New People. Essentially middle class people with money. As with most nouveau riche, they will be noticeably wealthier than PLU. They have probably gone to school with PLU and might even hang out with PLU but if their parents and grandparents know ours it hasn't been for long and probably nothing beyond casual acquaintance. If they carry on the same path their children might be PLU, and their grandkids will most likely be. They are the parvenus, culture vultures, eager red wine beavers, Louis Vuitton toting, Instituto Cervantes attending, Embassy-going. From seemingly
out-of-nowhere, these people come into the radar when they marry into or date PLU, and/or become nouveaux connoisseurs of some socio-cultural phenomenon like red wine, art collections, mainstream fashion design/publishing. Their grandparents likely to be the first with college education.
Upper McPinoy are the most interesting class of Filipinos to watch. They are definitely the most dynamic; this upward mobility is a very powerful force and has an economic impact because for a variety of reasons, among which a desire to prove, these guys spend quite a bit of money. Their drive is quite a force to be reckoned with. The transition from McPinoy to Upper McPinoy is a monumental feat in that it entails a hyper-conscious and extremely dedicated restructuring and redefining of one's behavior and mannerisms, tastes in food, movies, music, clothing, company and art. The Marcos couple, particularly Imelda, is my model for this. Or, if you wish, an American equivalent would be Martha Kostyra of Jersey City, NJ. Most of you know her as Martha Stewart of NYC and CT.
b. McPinoy (Middle Class Filipino) - Think Upper McPinoy without the lofty cultural aspirations. These guys are middle-class, hard-working, relatively educated, simple people who find no practical reason to speak perfect English or learn another language unless it is part of their job. They may have been put through school with OFW money. If they do not impose simplistic middle class values at home their kids
may very easily aspire to be Upper McPinoy. This class will not be able to see above & beyond Upper McPinoy because their untrained eye cannot see the nuances that distinguish one from the other. Their parents may have gone to college.
This is the Starbucks crowd, they are Mall Rats, and the target market you want if you wanna make a buck by franchising a chain this country. Special occasions merit dinner at Italianni's; for them the cliché pasta with Carbonara and Pesto sauces are novelty eats.
Lines are very blurred between McPinoy and Lower McPinoy. They may just as well be one class. Both these kinds of people tend to misuse the term Coño and apply it to everybody whom they percieve to be in a class above them.
With this class and all below it there is an affinity for Korean telenovelas, Megastar Ate Shawie, Kafoso vs. Kapuso, etc.
c. Lower McPinoy (Lower Middle Class Filipino) - Probably the first generation to go to college. These are the legion who may sit next to you at a cubicle farm and you can't help but notice that they might as well be the siblings of your household help since they have similar tastes and behave very similarly.
LOWER CLASS
a. Employed as - household help, security guards, market vendors. No college education.
b. Unemployed
These guys may or may not be squatting.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Freedom Is A State of Mind
I used to love going to Narcotics Anonymous meetings when I was in recovery in San Francisco. Every single day I went to at least one meeting and when I had the whole day to myself I'd go to three, even five.
One thing that weighed most importantly in what made a meeting worth attending was whether it was frequented by the people with whom I shared quarters in the rehab.
Naturally, if they went, I didn't. Out of the maybe 60 people at the rehab there were only about two I could tolerate running into at a meeting. It was understood that I had my own thing going, which piqued curiosity somewhat. When asked what meeting I was going to I would lie; I wanted to keep the useless hordes away from a good meeting the way environmentalists attempt to keep tourists away from virgin beaches.
There was something for every flavor of sobriety. If I wanted to hear a tranny's life story, there was a meeting for it. A couple hours later there would be a choice of language. There was also a location option - you want to go to the foggy part of town, or the sunny part of town? There were meetings where the coffee was good and there was Coffee-Mate....and in others were there was good coffee, Splenda, half & half and Coffee-Mate. Some meetings served cookies and cakes. Some even had beef jerky and Caramel Diet Pepsi.
You could opt to go WASP male alcoholic on Nob Hill, Black recovering crack head South of Market , Latino in the Mission District, Haight Street Hippy, Castro Queen. You could even go to a No Scents Allowed meeting if your sinuses weren't doing too good.
It was like having 2 or 3 parties going on at a given time. The freedom of choice was like a high in itself.
And then in Makati I got squeezed into four meetings a week, seeing the same people, as it were, week-to-week. The same people who were either useless ornaments or annoying individuals. People whose stories didn't inspire me and who didn't deserve to know details of my story.
These people must have taken it personally that I wouldn't share much of myself with them. If they thought I was one of those assholes who thinks he's better than everybody else, they were right.
Rather than finding a maintenance plan for what had been a successful program in San Francisco, I found a group of chain-smoking, sugar-addicted, big-fish-in-little-pond with unhealthy habits and cloying personalities. Aloofness, for its absence in that group, would have been a virtue.
There was no possibility for my own brand of sobriety here unless I would wing it and do my own thing.
Understanding that micro-culture and juxtaposing it the macro has helped me see what exactly has been choking me in this country. It is the lack of options.
One may argue that anything is possible, even in this country. However true that may be, the fact that there is usually only one road for everyone to take to get to a certain destination limits the sense of personal freedom immeasurably. The road less travelled, if I may indulge myself a cliché, is depressingly rare.
And for a picky mothafucka like me, having only one way to do something is just as much of a prison as having no way to do it.
One thing that weighed most importantly in what made a meeting worth attending was whether it was frequented by the people with whom I shared quarters in the rehab.
Naturally, if they went, I didn't. Out of the maybe 60 people at the rehab there were only about two I could tolerate running into at a meeting. It was understood that I had my own thing going, which piqued curiosity somewhat. When asked what meeting I was going to I would lie; I wanted to keep the useless hordes away from a good meeting the way environmentalists attempt to keep tourists away from virgin beaches.
There was something for every flavor of sobriety. If I wanted to hear a tranny's life story, there was a meeting for it. A couple hours later there would be a choice of language. There was also a location option - you want to go to the foggy part of town, or the sunny part of town? There were meetings where the coffee was good and there was Coffee-Mate....and in others were there was good coffee, Splenda, half & half and Coffee-Mate. Some meetings served cookies and cakes. Some even had beef jerky and Caramel Diet Pepsi.
You could opt to go WASP male alcoholic on Nob Hill, Black recovering crack head South of Market , Latino in the Mission District, Haight Street Hippy, Castro Queen. You could even go to a No Scents Allowed meeting if your sinuses weren't doing too good.
It was like having 2 or 3 parties going on at a given time. The freedom of choice was like a high in itself.
And then in Makati I got squeezed into four meetings a week, seeing the same people, as it were, week-to-week. The same people who were either useless ornaments or annoying individuals. People whose stories didn't inspire me and who didn't deserve to know details of my story.
These people must have taken it personally that I wouldn't share much of myself with them. If they thought I was one of those assholes who thinks he's better than everybody else, they were right.
Rather than finding a maintenance plan for what had been a successful program in San Francisco, I found a group of chain-smoking, sugar-addicted, big-fish-in-little-pond with unhealthy habits and cloying personalities. Aloofness, for its absence in that group, would have been a virtue.
There was no possibility for my own brand of sobriety here unless I would wing it and do my own thing.
Understanding that micro-culture and juxtaposing it the macro has helped me see what exactly has been choking me in this country. It is the lack of options.
One may argue that anything is possible, even in this country. However true that may be, the fact that there is usually only one road for everyone to take to get to a certain destination limits the sense of personal freedom immeasurably. The road less travelled, if I may indulge myself a cliché, is depressingly rare.
And for a picky mothafucka like me, having only one way to do something is just as much of a prison as having no way to do it.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Pre Greyhound
One blazingly hot New England summer day I jumped on the first of several Greyhounds that would take me from Boston to San Francisco. The trip took four uncomfortable, dirty, inconvenient, and chaotic days and I will never forget how fascinated I was with the differences in landscape, climate, and people that I observed throughout the journey.
I really have nothing say when asked (by myself in self-reflection and by others in curiosity) why I did it.
Here is something I wrote a day before I got on that bus. It still doesn't answer the question, but it is a vivid reminder of how excruciatingly abstract my motivations could be.
I got no needle & thread.
I got no magic wand.
But I do weave webs.
The only way that I am content is to be floating dead center in a web of reality whose structure I had intricately and obsessively personalized. Such has been so in every city or community I've dwelled in. I've always had a VIP pass to my reality; no it didn't come for free-it was and is a result of my web-weaving. Some may call it schemes and manipulations, but towards what? Schemes and manipulations produce money, sex, and power. The three things I am most intimidated by.
I need to weave my own little ShitShow, where I enjoy the benefits and privileges of Those Who Call The Shots without having to bear with the pain of Calling The Shots, Aiming The Shots, And Shooting The Shots.
I aim to personify the term "extra-hierarchical", where I can and do exist alongside the hierarchy/ies, past and present.
You see, I can't quite be King Arthur, anyone on his Round Table, nor any of his subjects. I must be Merlin, subject of none and ruler of only his own little reality.
And when does this end?
When my web of reality is patched up, deformed, and groaning with the weight , it must be put to sleep while it's still whole.
I refuse to watch it get dessicated and fed to the vultures. It must quit before it gets fired. Like I did. No looking back, no visiting the gravesite even.
Only the memories I bring to the new venue; it's really the only way to preserve the most valuable parts of the exiting reality, the only method of keeping the volume crisp.
Chasing an impossible dream? Bullshit. It's possible because I've built a couple....and boy, what a dream THAT was. I lived it.
Destination SFO.
I really have nothing say when asked (by myself in self-reflection and by others in curiosity) why I did it.
Here is something I wrote a day before I got on that bus. It still doesn't answer the question, but it is a vivid reminder of how excruciatingly abstract my motivations could be.
I got no needle & thread.
I got no magic wand.
But I do weave webs.
The only way that I am content is to be floating dead center in a web of reality whose structure I had intricately and obsessively personalized. Such has been so in every city or community I've dwelled in. I've always had a VIP pass to my reality; no it didn't come for free-it was and is a result of my web-weaving. Some may call it schemes and manipulations, but towards what? Schemes and manipulations produce money, sex, and power. The three things I am most intimidated by.
I need to weave my own little ShitShow, where I enjoy the benefits and privileges of Those Who Call The Shots without having to bear with the pain of Calling The Shots, Aiming The Shots, And Shooting The Shots.
I aim to personify the term "extra-hierarchical", where I can and do exist alongside the hierarchy/ies, past and present.
You see, I can't quite be King Arthur, anyone on his Round Table, nor any of his subjects. I must be Merlin, subject of none and ruler of only his own little reality.
And when does this end?
When my web of reality is patched up, deformed, and groaning with the weight , it must be put to sleep while it's still whole.
I refuse to watch it get dessicated and fed to the vultures. It must quit before it gets fired. Like I did. No looking back, no visiting the gravesite even.
Only the memories I bring to the new venue; it's really the only way to preserve the most valuable parts of the exiting reality, the only method of keeping the volume crisp.
Chasing an impossible dream? Bullshit. It's possible because I've built a couple....and boy, what a dream THAT was. I lived it.
Destination SFO.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Must I climb her ladder???
Late last night I got a message on facebook from Warehouse 135 inviting me to a night of tech-house, house, micro-house, and techno care of Science of Sounds.
Skeptical as usual of Warehouse 135's (and Manila's) interpretation of electronic music, I did some research online until I found a couple audio samples posted on the S.O.S. website. There wasn't much, but it was enough to convince me that my idea of tech-house and their idea of tech-house were similiar: a Terry Francis sound.
I got there around midnight, went straight to the bar to exchange my P400 ticket for a bottle of water. At the door they'd told me, "sir, one free drink", so I was annoyed at being denied a bottle of water by the bargirl. She agreed to give me some really flat Coke Zero. It didn't bother me too much at this because I saw it as a compromise; they had probably been instructed to pour out Jägermeister. It did annoy me when I came back a couple hours later and was sold a P100 glass of Coke Zero from the same assed out bottle. They no longer sold cans of Coke Zero and they'd raised the price from P90 to P100.
Since Manila is a hotbed for remarkably crappy electronic music, the 2 Science of Sounds DJ's, Impulse & Lupen, were relatively good. Track selection and mixing were decent.
In principle tech-house is a tasteful genre: it is understated, smooth, neither too dark nor too cheerful, very "safe" sounding. However, 3 hours of the same flavor of tech-house can get really, really monotonous. The switch in DJ from Lupen to Impulse should have given some variation, but it didn't.
I danced for all the 3 hours I was there, and for the first time at Warehouse was approached by a couple of people who commented on it. One was the DJ, Lupen. He was appreciative of my being the only one dancing for hours. This, of course, was entirely appropriate for him to have appreciated.
Sometime during the the 2nd DJ's set (Impulse), a bunch of maybe 25 of 20-somethings decided to form a breakdancing circle. Hmm. Tech-house isn't exactly b-boy material..and lo and behold their moves were entirely out of sync with the beat. These kids were a cheesy mix: wannabe-Bench-billboard-model-looking-Olongapo-mestizos, uber-flaming hip-hop homos (who merged female stripper moves with..trying-hard breakdancer...and some Rihanna & Beyoncé), and random white tourist dudes with their National Geographic dates.
From the time I got there there was this chick who had parked herself beside the DJ booth. Because she was hanging with a random white dude, had on a short dress, heels, and was dancing a certain way, I had assumed her to be a G.R.O. Apparently she didn't think she was, because she was the second person who came up to me and tried to be friendly.
This is what she said (and no, it's not a pseudo memory because it's quite recent):
"You're cool! You dance cool! Where are you from?" she punctuated this by giving me a 2-stage handshake. Sooo, maybe she wasn't a G.R.O. Her english was decent.
"Makati," I grunted, not quite reciprocating the friendliness.
"Oh my God, I'm sooo high on ecstasy!!!"
"Uh, okay...."
"What are these kids doing? They can't dance!" ....and you can?
"In case you haven't noticed, all of Manila can't dance. Embassy's no better than this place for dancers."
"Ooooh, Embassy! My BEST friend, you know Tim Yap, he owns it!" she gushed. "I should show these kids how to really move....I've danced all my life....ballet, plus I'm from Long Beach, California so I know what I'm doing! I'm actually gonna have my own club, focussed on dancing, with a 'no VIP' theme! At the Fort!!"
"So show them!!" I urged her. "Show them your stuff!
At this point I was really hoping she'd get in there and make a spectacle of herself, a fool among fools. But she wouldn't, despite my urging.
"So, do you wanna see a REAL party? After this you should come to my house for a REAL party. My place is at the Fort."
Hmm. So she lives in the Fort, where she's gonna have her own club, and her BEST friend is Tim Yap, plus she's from Long Beach, California. Impressive. I was so unworthy of her gracious attention. What had I done to deserve to bask in this parvenu's presence?
"No," I said. "I'm going home."
Skeptical as usual of Warehouse 135's (and Manila's) interpretation of electronic music, I did some research online until I found a couple audio samples posted on the S.O.S. website. There wasn't much, but it was enough to convince me that my idea of tech-house and their idea of tech-house were similiar: a Terry Francis sound.
I got there around midnight, went straight to the bar to exchange my P400 ticket for a bottle of water. At the door they'd told me, "sir, one free drink", so I was annoyed at being denied a bottle of water by the bargirl. She agreed to give me some really flat Coke Zero. It didn't bother me too much at this because I saw it as a compromise; they had probably been instructed to pour out Jägermeister. It did annoy me when I came back a couple hours later and was sold a P100 glass of Coke Zero from the same assed out bottle. They no longer sold cans of Coke Zero and they'd raised the price from P90 to P100.
Since Manila is a hotbed for remarkably crappy electronic music, the 2 Science of Sounds DJ's, Impulse & Lupen, were relatively good. Track selection and mixing were decent.
In principle tech-house is a tasteful genre: it is understated, smooth, neither too dark nor too cheerful, very "safe" sounding. However, 3 hours of the same flavor of tech-house can get really, really monotonous. The switch in DJ from Lupen to Impulse should have given some variation, but it didn't.
I danced for all the 3 hours I was there, and for the first time at Warehouse was approached by a couple of people who commented on it. One was the DJ, Lupen. He was appreciative of my being the only one dancing for hours. This, of course, was entirely appropriate for him to have appreciated.
Sometime during the the 2nd DJ's set (Impulse), a bunch of maybe 25 of 20-somethings decided to form a breakdancing circle. Hmm. Tech-house isn't exactly b-boy material..and lo and behold their moves were entirely out of sync with the beat. These kids were a cheesy mix: wannabe-Bench-billboard-model-looking-Olongapo-mestizos, uber-flaming hip-hop homos (who merged female stripper moves with..trying-hard breakdancer...and some Rihanna & Beyoncé), and random white tourist dudes with their National Geographic dates.
From the time I got there there was this chick who had parked herself beside the DJ booth. Because she was hanging with a random white dude, had on a short dress, heels, and was dancing a certain way, I had assumed her to be a G.R.O. Apparently she didn't think she was, because she was the second person who came up to me and tried to be friendly.
This is what she said (and no, it's not a pseudo memory because it's quite recent):
"You're cool! You dance cool! Where are you from?" she punctuated this by giving me a 2-stage handshake. Sooo, maybe she wasn't a G.R.O. Her english was decent.
"Makati," I grunted, not quite reciprocating the friendliness.
"Oh my God, I'm sooo high on ecstasy!!!"
"Uh, okay...."
"What are these kids doing? They can't dance!" ....and you can?
"In case you haven't noticed, all of Manila can't dance. Embassy's no better than this place for dancers."
"Ooooh, Embassy! My BEST friend, you know Tim Yap, he owns it!" she gushed. "I should show these kids how to really move....I've danced all my life....ballet, plus I'm from Long Beach, California so I know what I'm doing! I'm actually gonna have my own club, focussed on dancing, with a 'no VIP' theme! At the Fort!!"
"So show them!!" I urged her. "Show them your stuff!
At this point I was really hoping she'd get in there and make a spectacle of herself, a fool among fools. But she wouldn't, despite my urging.
"So, do you wanna see a REAL party? After this you should come to my house for a REAL party. My place is at the Fort."
Hmm. So she lives in the Fort, where she's gonna have her own club, and her BEST friend is Tim Yap, plus she's from Long Beach, California. Impressive. I was so unworthy of her gracious attention. What had I done to deserve to bask in this parvenu's presence?
"No," I said. "I'm going home."
Sunday, November 2, 2008
"Get With The Fuckin Program"
I admit, I have this fear of being a lemming. Living a prescribed life is like going to another country on a package tour.
Rebellious behavior is no longer part of my character. It still, however, dictates my day-to-day decisions, and consequently, my actions. Most of the time this desire to be different, to go against the grain, appeals to me still. It is mainly uncontrived nowadays, unplanned and often only evident in retrospect at times when I allow myself random bursts of thought. Like when exercising.
I think it is part of the reason why I haven't done the career thing and have only had jobs. I find myself resisting workplace culture. It is one thing I cannot embrace. I can be the star of achievement at my place of employment, but I would hardly find myself spouting the jargon, or planning extra-curricular activities with co-workers. If for some reason I find myself not on the clock with some colleague/s I avoid shop talk. The very thought of the Japanese workplace terrifies me: regular after-office drinks with colleagues; socializing with the boss after hours, inviting him to your home, or being invited to his? Socializing with the boss, period, isn't too appealing. The same guy who sits beside you at work doing the treadmill beside you at the gym, discussing the same people, places, & things? God forbid. Of course, your wives are social with each other. Of course, you share very similar tastes in clothes & shoes, even like the same music, see the same bands. Doesn't everybody at the office?
Of course. The prescribed life.
Naturally, this turns me off to potentially rewarding "careers" in which I may excel, like law, or hotel/restaurant management. My perception of those fields is that in order to get professional satisfaction one must embrace the workplace culture.
This tendency of mine to sidestep the mainstream also comes out in how I have refused to get colloquial anywhere I have lived. In Genève everybody said "ça va ou bien?" all the time, and it irritated the fuck out of me. Especially when said with a dissonant accent. Imagine a thick Chinese/Vietnamese/Thai accent trumpeting "ça va ou bien" as frequently as I say "fuck". I mean, I really can't blame them for trying to assimilate, right? It's what you're supposed to do.
In Boston I refused to use the word wicked as an adverb. Everybody there says shit like, "that's wicked cool". It particularly irritated me to hear it contrived in someone's speech, like when a black guy from the Hood or an F.O.B. Asian used it. You gotta know that this particular usage is really just Masshole (Massachusetts Asshole, which is a really white demographic). It probably also signifies something for me to not have worn any Boston Reds Sox gear then, but I might now.
In California the use of "hella" as an adverb I kinda resisted, but not as much as I resisted wicked. All sorts of people used hella: black, white, Latino, asian, gay, not gay. I may use it occasionally now, but I never used it in California, where everybody used it.
Here in Manila I refuse to use words like jologs, or phrases like "in fairness lang". I think it's jologs to say jologs. The word baduy works just fine. Another thing that doesn't sit well with me is how at the workplace part of the culture is to sling po or "poh" in all directions, whether superior or subordinate, colleague or outside contractor. I also refuse to speak Taglish. I think being able to speak both Tagalog and English fluently is admirable, but it's just really common to do Taglish.
The local contemporaries with whom I share a socio-cultural background and like electronic music are supposed to get hard-ons for names like Tiësto, Paul Van Dyk & Armin Van Buuren. If they think they're really cutting edge, their panties get wet for "Sexy House". They all have Hedkandi, or Ministry of Sound CD's. They don't dance, or if they pretend to, they don't really groove. You can't really groove to trance anyway.
My iPod is full of shit none of these people have heard, with none of the shit they have on CD or in their iPods.
I don't stop dancing, and I keep the groove all throughout. You gotta keep your feet moving or else they're gonna get caught in that sticky mainstream. I won't go where everybody goes, like Embassy, because there they play shit that everybody is supposed to like.
When someone ends an almost 2 decade long relationship with crystal meth he's supposed to turn to sugar, coffee, cigarettes and get really fat and look like he smoked crack for 40 years. That's the system.
Someone asked me, "so why do you speak Spanish so well?"
"Because I look like a chink", I said.
"So you took Spanish lessons because you look......Chinese?"
"I never took Spanish lessons".
"Um, so why do you speak Spanish?"
"Because I don't look like I do".
"Neither do I, how come I don't speak it?"
"Yeah, well, I'm special".
I don't even know if that conversation really happened or if it's a pseudo memory. Fuck, I don't keep track. At least I wouldn't be lying if I say something because I really believe it happened....
Rebellious behavior is no longer part of my character. It still, however, dictates my day-to-day decisions, and consequently, my actions. Most of the time this desire to be different, to go against the grain, appeals to me still. It is mainly uncontrived nowadays, unplanned and often only evident in retrospect at times when I allow myself random bursts of thought. Like when exercising.
I think it is part of the reason why I haven't done the career thing and have only had jobs. I find myself resisting workplace culture. It is one thing I cannot embrace. I can be the star of achievement at my place of employment, but I would hardly find myself spouting the jargon, or planning extra-curricular activities with co-workers. If for some reason I find myself not on the clock with some colleague/s I avoid shop talk. The very thought of the Japanese workplace terrifies me: regular after-office drinks with colleagues; socializing with the boss after hours, inviting him to your home, or being invited to his? Socializing with the boss, period, isn't too appealing. The same guy who sits beside you at work doing the treadmill beside you at the gym, discussing the same people, places, & things? God forbid. Of course, your wives are social with each other. Of course, you share very similar tastes in clothes & shoes, even like the same music, see the same bands. Doesn't everybody at the office?
Of course. The prescribed life.
Naturally, this turns me off to potentially rewarding "careers" in which I may excel, like law, or hotel/restaurant management. My perception of those fields is that in order to get professional satisfaction one must embrace the workplace culture.
This tendency of mine to sidestep the mainstream also comes out in how I have refused to get colloquial anywhere I have lived. In Genève everybody said "ça va ou bien?" all the time, and it irritated the fuck out of me. Especially when said with a dissonant accent. Imagine a thick Chinese/Vietnamese/Thai accent trumpeting "ça va ou bien" as frequently as I say "fuck". I mean, I really can't blame them for trying to assimilate, right? It's what you're supposed to do.
In Boston I refused to use the word wicked as an adverb. Everybody there says shit like, "that's wicked cool". It particularly irritated me to hear it contrived in someone's speech, like when a black guy from the Hood or an F.O.B. Asian used it. You gotta know that this particular usage is really just Masshole (Massachusetts Asshole, which is a really white demographic). It probably also signifies something for me to not have worn any Boston Reds Sox gear then, but I might now.
In California the use of "hella" as an adverb I kinda resisted, but not as much as I resisted wicked. All sorts of people used hella: black, white, Latino, asian, gay, not gay. I may use it occasionally now, but I never used it in California, where everybody used it.
Here in Manila I refuse to use words like jologs, or phrases like "in fairness lang". I think it's jologs to say jologs. The word baduy works just fine. Another thing that doesn't sit well with me is how at the workplace part of the culture is to sling po or "poh" in all directions, whether superior or subordinate, colleague or outside contractor. I also refuse to speak Taglish. I think being able to speak both Tagalog and English fluently is admirable, but it's just really common to do Taglish.
The local contemporaries with whom I share a socio-cultural background and like electronic music are supposed to get hard-ons for names like Tiësto, Paul Van Dyk & Armin Van Buuren. If they think they're really cutting edge, their panties get wet for "Sexy House". They all have Hedkandi, or Ministry of Sound CD's. They don't dance, or if they pretend to, they don't really groove. You can't really groove to trance anyway.
My iPod is full of shit none of these people have heard, with none of the shit they have on CD or in their iPods.
I don't stop dancing, and I keep the groove all throughout. You gotta keep your feet moving or else they're gonna get caught in that sticky mainstream. I won't go where everybody goes, like Embassy, because there they play shit that everybody is supposed to like.
When someone ends an almost 2 decade long relationship with crystal meth he's supposed to turn to sugar, coffee, cigarettes and get really fat and look like he smoked crack for 40 years. That's the system.
Someone asked me, "so why do you speak Spanish so well?"
"Because I look like a chink", I said.
"So you took Spanish lessons because you look......Chinese?"
"I never took Spanish lessons".
"Um, so why do you speak Spanish?"
"Because I don't look like I do".
"Neither do I, how come I don't speak it?"
"Yeah, well, I'm special".
I don't even know if that conversation really happened or if it's a pseudo memory. Fuck, I don't keep track. At least I wouldn't be lying if I say something because I really believe it happened....
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Salcedo Market and Market Market
Dara took me to the Salcedo Market Saturday morning.
We did a lot of tasting and looking. She was taking a lot of pictures that might end up in T&C. I was looking at people and thinking I recognized them....and knowing I wasn't being recognized. Even my own first-degree cousin who had been at my house a couple weeks prior, a regular Salcedo Saturday merchant selling paper-thin lavash bread alongside her Woodrose co-alumnus who sold rice milk, did not recognize me. I walked up to her in my bandanna & aviators - yeah, I know, feeling incognito - and hit her on the arm. She had stared at me, a Who The Hell Is This Creep? look on her face.
Some people looked vaguely familiar and even had familiar-sounding voices but were caricatures of the reasons for which I found them familiar. Caricatures in the sense that they seemed to have plumped up and aged at staggering pace. Then again, there's a whole lot of aging and fattening that can be accomplished in the 10 years I've been away.
I think the heat got to me at some point. We were standing at the coffee table talking about the dude selling Spanish food. I thought I had done drugs with him almost a couple decades ago and actually looked younger than he should, despite being at least 80lbs. heavier. I remember being impressed by the rich, thick milk froth on our lattes when were handed them; I remember picking up up the non-dairy creamer container and recognizing it for what it was; I remember the vendor saying, "that's Coffee-Mate, not Splenda".
Who in his right mind is gonna put Coffee-Mate in a beautifully latted latte? The vendor must have thought I was on one, because I mixed some in after he told me what it was. I didn't even realize what I'd done until I crunched on a nodule of undissolved creamer. Okay.
Only thing I bought to eat was Php100 worth of langka, which was unspectacular. I really wanted some Durián; nothing ripe available. I didn't wanna spend on stuff we d0 better at home: in one booth there was Callos alongside Bacalao in chafing dishes, each indistinguishable from the other, tomato-paste-&-animal-flesh-mash floating in reddish-orange oil. The Callos didn't taste too bad, still, ours is better. I was looking for Kilawin, but when we did find the one booth that had it, the fish cubes had that opaque, grainy appearance I associate with boiled fish. It looked like Paksiw na Isda. I had been looking for translucent, delicate, Pinoy ceviche.
Didn't see too many McPinoys (that's Middle Class Pinoys) at the Salcedo Market; that was later at Market! Market!
Whatever it was I had been expecting, it didn't prepare me for the airport-looking monstrosity. Or for the low-end version of Glorietta it seemed to be. People walking around in Mindanao scarves and tattoo-type patterns on their deconstructed clothes. Bangketa wannabe-Kanye West-shutter-shades. Bleached, feathered Korean-style haircuts and imitation Gucci white loafers or Lacoste sneakers on guys. Glutathione publicity all over the place, and women rocking the dark neck, white foundation, rouged cheek look. Stares from people as if Dara and I were celebrities.
They did not have the Tofu & Century Egg special at Mann Hann as advertised. The Sautéed Pork & Eggplant I had was slightly too oily though it tasted good. The whole thing was cheap - I think Php365 for a soda, a large bowl of Beef Ramen, and the eggplant dish.
We did a lot of tasting and looking. She was taking a lot of pictures that might end up in T&C. I was looking at people and thinking I recognized them....and knowing I wasn't being recognized. Even my own first-degree cousin who had been at my house a couple weeks prior, a regular Salcedo Saturday merchant selling paper-thin lavash bread alongside her Woodrose co-alumnus who sold rice milk, did not recognize me. I walked up to her in my bandanna & aviators - yeah, I know, feeling incognito - and hit her on the arm. She had stared at me, a Who The Hell Is This Creep? look on her face.
Some people looked vaguely familiar and even had familiar-sounding voices but were caricatures of the reasons for which I found them familiar. Caricatures in the sense that they seemed to have plumped up and aged at staggering pace. Then again, there's a whole lot of aging and fattening that can be accomplished in the 10 years I've been away.
I think the heat got to me at some point. We were standing at the coffee table talking about the dude selling Spanish food. I thought I had done drugs with him almost a couple decades ago and actually looked younger than he should, despite being at least 80lbs. heavier. I remember being impressed by the rich, thick milk froth on our lattes when were handed them; I remember picking up up the non-dairy creamer container and recognizing it for what it was; I remember the vendor saying, "that's Coffee-Mate, not Splenda".
Who in his right mind is gonna put Coffee-Mate in a beautifully latted latte? The vendor must have thought I was on one, because I mixed some in after he told me what it was. I didn't even realize what I'd done until I crunched on a nodule of undissolved creamer. Okay.
Only thing I bought to eat was Php100 worth of langka, which was unspectacular. I really wanted some Durián; nothing ripe available. I didn't wanna spend on stuff we d0 better at home: in one booth there was Callos alongside Bacalao in chafing dishes, each indistinguishable from the other, tomato-paste-&-animal-flesh-mash floating in reddish-orange oil. The Callos didn't taste too bad, still, ours is better. I was looking for Kilawin, but when we did find the one booth that had it, the fish cubes had that opaque, grainy appearance I associate with boiled fish. It looked like Paksiw na Isda. I had been looking for translucent, delicate, Pinoy ceviche.
Didn't see too many McPinoys (that's Middle Class Pinoys) at the Salcedo Market; that was later at Market! Market!
Whatever it was I had been expecting, it didn't prepare me for the airport-looking monstrosity. Or for the low-end version of Glorietta it seemed to be. People walking around in Mindanao scarves and tattoo-type patterns on their deconstructed clothes. Bangketa wannabe-Kanye West-shutter-shades. Bleached, feathered Korean-style haircuts and imitation Gucci white loafers or Lacoste sneakers on guys. Glutathione publicity all over the place, and women rocking the dark neck, white foundation, rouged cheek look. Stares from people as if Dara and I were celebrities.
They did not have the Tofu & Century Egg special at Mann Hann as advertised. The Sautéed Pork & Eggplant I had was slightly too oily though it tasted good. The whole thing was cheap - I think Php365 for a soda, a large bowl of Beef Ramen, and the eggplant dish.
Disclaimer
Warning: This blog may be offensive. Some of you will be offended by my interpretation of the things I experience and observe. Unlike you, I won't pretend to be politically correct.
You are welcome to comment. Just know that if you do find yourself reacting it may be that the arrows of my words have found their marks.
Reading past this disclaimer you waive all right to seek legal action.
I am compelled to remain anonymous as employer has recently had me sign a contract that explicitly bans me from online expressions of discrimination, disparaging remarks about co-workers, inflammatory opinions, and all such crap.
You are welcome to comment. Just know that if you do find yourself reacting it may be that the arrows of my words have found their marks.
Reading past this disclaimer you waive all right to seek legal action.
I am compelled to remain anonymous as employer has recently had me sign a contract that explicitly bans me from online expressions of discrimination, disparaging remarks about co-workers, inflammatory opinions, and all such crap.
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