I went to see the new Richard Gomez-Regine Velasquez flick (“Hanggang Ngayon Ikaw Pa Rin" ) the other day. I had to see it alone **sniff** as my hubby would not be caught dead watching a Pinoy film. The trailer had great shots of the old Manila area (Intramuros, the Central Post Office, Mehan Gardens: beautiful!) – to me, the film’s prime appeal (really!). The cinematography did not disappoint.
Richard Gomez' character was perpetually falling in love, eventually ending his relationships right after asking the poor women to marry him. In the scene where he sought his father's advice, Richard asked how he would know if he has met ”the One".
The wise father likened women to footwear. He compared the pretty, flashy, gorgeous, flavor-of-the-month types to shoes for different ocassions, desired for various attributes -- nice color, good leather, comfortable soles etcetera. But "the One", he said, would be your favorite tsinelas. At the end of the day, his rationale went, the house slippers is your most comfortable pair and is what you would look forward to, inspite your numerous options.
Is it just me or does the screenplay reek of antiquated Pinoy male thinking?
Okay, granting I'm one guy's tsinelas, does that mean that when he wants to go places, he wouldn't put his extremeties into his comfortable, fun-loving Nike's? Or his well-kept, elegant Bally's? God forbid, his baduy-but-ready Spartan's? Somehow, I am not consoled by the fact that I would be “what he would go home to.”
Why is womanizing portrayed as something a man cannot help? Why is cheating on one’s fiancé portrayed as a weakness of a man who just loves too much? Why is the two-timing cheat still the lovable, irresistible guy for whom otherwise intelligent females fall?
This is really a new concept to many Pinoy males, so if you are one, please read carefully: When you find “the One” and decide to buy it, you lose the entire shoe collection. Get used to the fact that you will be wearing slippers for a while.
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2.26.2002
WEB DESIGNER LIMBO
The personal computer became commercially successful when I was in college. Once upon a time, I raved over the capabilities of my 286KB PC. Computer education in the 80s meant I had to learn to code in Basic and Pascal. My sister, who is only 4 years older and was a Math major, had to do computations on mainframes and carry scads of “IBM cards”.
My peers missed the whole Internet bruhaha. Still recovering from the uselessness of learning Pascal, they have resolved to breathe “computer independent” lives. When I first started publishing stuff on the net, my friends never got to see my amateur creations as they didn’t have web access -- those who did, couldn’t figure out how to make Microsoft Internet Explorer work (“So I have to dial-up every time? This thing is really stupid, ha.”). When I announced I now had a web log -- just this week -- my husband thought it was a new let’s-not-let-the-kids-know-we’re-horny term (“Sure, dear, I want to see your blog; but can I touch it too?”). I am learning new java scripts from kids who were born the year I started high school (“So, you were actually at EDSA One?”).
The Philippines has a telephone density index of about twelve percent. Of the twelve percent, I would guess only ten percent have PCs and are wired to the net. Of the ten percent of twelve percent, about five percent publish or blog or contribute in some shape, way or form to Internet content. Of that number, it is optimistic of me to speculate three percent is in my age group. Removing those who run sites on politics, organized religion and Erap jokes, only I am left.
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CORPORATE SLAVE LOG 001: FREEDOM FOR TWO
I had to do it. I didn’t want to, but I did because my Master told me to. I fired two lower-level slaves because “their job functions no longer supported core business objectives.” Threw them out into the cold (20°C – best we can do in Manila), I did.
One was 8 months pregnant. One was the family bread winner. I am a spineless maggot.
Here’s why:
Grovelling Slave: But Master, I actually still need them. If I let them go, then my plan for …
Mighty Master: Lower ambitions. It will be a slow year.
Grovelling Slave: But Master, they really need their jobs…
Mighty Master: No but’s, we all need to take the pinch. You are dismissed.
Grovelling Slave: Thank you, Master. (Sub-Title: Their combined salaries are about the cost of your friggin' electricity bill, O Expatriated-One-Whose-Every-Whim-Is-Company-Paid. We can save their jobs if you give up the 24-hour air conditioning for your furry European dogs and your wine cellar, Asiong!)
The freed slaves got 2 months per year of servitude + a separation bonus. Wallowing in my ulcers, I continue to dream of escape.
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2.23.2002
ANY OTHER NAME -- PLEASE!
My name has always been a sore topic.
Mona is not short for a romantic nomme like Ramona or Desdamona. As luck would have it, my father was traveling through Europe for the first time the month I was born and -- yep, you guessed it -- he was in France. My name is Mona Liza.
Cute, huh? That is if you like to have your name on jeepney windshields and taxi hoods. Or if you’re a big fan of the 1960s character actress who earned the notoriety of having – I’m not sure which -- either the first screen kiss or the first nude scene on Philippine cinema.
My family calls me by my official nickname, Monette. My sisters are Suzzette (her real name is Excelsis) and Nanette (her real name is Catherine Bernadette) – flawless logic at work there. We have the matching shirts, key chains and door hangs to prove it. It still stumps me how so many Filipino parents think it's sooo cool to have a theme for their children’s names. My brother was lucky – my father foresaw he couldn’t possibly have an “-ette” name and live through school without getting roughed up.
At 13, I knew this creepy kid who wanted in on my clique and thought it endearing to call me ”Monay”. She accompanied her salutations with renditions of "monay na di mabili, may amag sa tabi".
At 15, I had this nasty Filipino (my worst subject) teacher who called me ”Bona”. ‘Didn’t have the guts to correct her until mid-way through the school year.
When I was entering U.P., I realized that the name on my birth certificate was “Mona Liza” and on my baptismal certificate and school records, “Maria Mona Liza.” It seemed that "Mona Liza" was not Catholic enough so the parish priest who baptized me did me the favor of adding a soul-saving name. My parents then thought it best to wait till I was in college to fix the paper work -- so I could deal with the legal red tape myself. Aaargh!
I studied French at Alliance Francaise de Manille in Makati for two years. At the first session of my intermediate class, my teacher -- the first French national who taught me -- laughed in my face when I told him what my full name was.
Mona: Je mapelle Mona Liza Magno et…
Stupid loser with bad skin: Mwah-hah-hah-hah-hah… (He laughed for a really looong time.)
In the mid 90s, co-slaves in the company I now work for found “Mona” too long and abbreviated it to "Mons" (pronounced “moans”). You can imagine the ribbing I got for that little nickname.
Now, I go by the acceptable "Mona" (pronounced ‘mow-na’) or "Ma’m Mona" (when people start to call you "Ma’m”, you know you can’t get away with ponytails anymore). I’ve made peace with my parents’ attempt at being creative back in 1967. It occurred to me that what I'm called is neither all that bad nor all that important. You could call me by any other name and I'de still be the same lovable "me".
Of course, I was ultimately convinced of my simple blessing when I met Epictetus Patalinhug and Grace Bagonggahasa. Mwah-hah-hah-hah-hah!
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