Jobarhor

Novena to the NOVENA TO THE HOLY CHILD (SANTO NINO)

2012-01-25T23:50:00.000-08:00

NOVENA TO THE HOLY CHILD (SANTO NINO)

Sign of the Cross: In the name of The Father…

Act of Contrition:

O my Lord, Jesus Christ, true God and true man, our creator and Redeemer, we repent with severe pain in our hearts for having offended three, because Thou art our God, our Lord, and our Father, whom we love above all things. We resolve firmly not to offend Thee again. We also resolve to confess to all our sins. We trust in Thy bountiful mercy that Thou will grant us pardon, in consideration of Thy Beloved Passion and Death on the Cross. Amen.

Daily Prayer of Offering:

O Sweet Jesus!

I offer my soul to Thee because for God’s love for humanity. Thou was made a man by virtue of Thy Incarnation: and to give an example of humanity. Thou did prefer to be born in a cave used as shelter for animals and Thou was laid in a manger.

For the sake of thy love and sacrifice, I firmly resolve never more to commit sins against Thee.

Would that thou grant me thy precious grace which I will carefully keep in order that at my death I may be worthy of the glory of heaven. Amen.

Act of Faith:

O pitiful Jesus!

I absolutely believe that Thou art true God, the only begotten Son of God, and the legitimate Son of the Virgin Mary.

In acknowledging Thy goodness and charity, I praise and adore three.

And I humbly ask Thy most Holy name to grant me thy grace and favorably consider my petition for the good of my soul. Amen.

Chaplet:

Divine Infant Jesus, we adore your cross and we accept all the crosses You will be pleased to send us. Adorable Trinity, we offer you for the glory of the Holy Name of God, all the adoration of the Sacred Heart of the Holy Infant Jesus.
L: And Word was made flesh.
A: And dwelt among us.
L: Our father…(3x)
L: And Word was made flesh.
A: And dwelt among us.
L: Hail Mary…(12x)
A: Holy Infant Jesus, Bless, Protect, and Heal Us. Amen.

Prayer for the First Day

O admirable Jesus!

I know that thy beauty attracts the hearts of people who have the privilege to see thee.

For this reason, I adore Thee with fervent devotion and sing in Thy honor the Divine Praises with the chorus of Angels that take care of men.

And I ask Thee to inflame my heart in order to love Thee with love unchangeable and ever burning, and thus I may be worthy of the glory of Heaven. Amen.

Thanksgiving Prayer:

Divine Infant Jesus, I know You love us and would never leave us. Thank you for Your close presence in my life and my loved ones. Miraculous Infant Jesus, I believe and claim in your promises of life, health, protection, peace, blessings, and freedom from wants. I now place needs and my cares in Your Almighty and Providential hands. Lord Jesus, may I always trust in your generosity, mercy, and love. I promise to honor, praise, and thank you now and forever. Amen.

Prayer to the Divine Infant:

O Child Jesus, I have recourse to Thee by Thy Holy Mother. I implore Thee to assist me in this need, for I firmly believe Thy Divinity can assist me. I confidently hope to obtain Thy grace. I love Thee with my whole heart and My whole soul. I am heartily sorry for my sins and beg of Thee, good Jesus, to give me strength to overcome them.

I firmly resolve never to offend Thee again and I am ready to suffer everything rather than displease Thee. Henceforth, I wish to serve Thee faithfully. For the love of Thee, Divine Child, I will love my neighbor as myself.

Jesus, most powerful child, I implore Thee again to help me: (mention your request).

Divine Child, great omnipotent God, I implore through Thy most Holy Mother’s most powerful intercession, and through the boundless mercy of Thy omnipotence as God, for a favorable answer to my prayer during this novena.

Grant me the grace of possessing Thee eternally with Mary and Joseph and of adoring Thee with the holy angels and saints. Amen. (Sing Bunying Santo Nino).

Prayer for the Second Day:

O merciful Jesus!

I know that Thou was born to protect and save humankind.

For this reason, I adore Thee with fervent devotion, and sing in Thy honor the Divine Praises with the chorus of Archangels that defend God’s honor and the people’s wellbeing.

And I ask Thee to protect my soul and give me courage with which to fight and overcome temptations; and thus, I may be worthy of the glory of heaven. Amen.

Prayer for the Third Day:

O helpful Jesus!

I know that because Thy love for humanity, Thou dost not deny help to everyone approaching Thee.

For that reason, I adore Thee with fervent devotion and sing in Thy honor Divine Praises with the chorus of Principalities that are solicitous about the human welfare in regard to instruction, enlightenment, and compliance with God’s commandments.

And I ask Thee to give me aid with the end in view of getting the habit of doing good and praying to thee; and thus I may be worthy of the glory of Heaven. Amen.

Prayer for the Fourth Day:

O omniscient Jesus!

I know that Thy light drives away the darkness of ignorance and illuminate human hearts and spirit.

For that reason, I adore Thee with fervent devotion, and sing in Thy honor the Divine Praises with chorus of the Powers that have control over the devils which fear such Powers.

And I ask Thee to illumine my mind and all my actions with Thy light so that I may not go astray from the straight path, and thus I may be worthy of the glory of heaven. Amen.

Prayer for the Fifth Day:

O miraculous Jesus!

I know that Thy grandeur sparkles with miracles which Thou did demonstrate while on Earth.

For that reason, I adore Thee with fervent devotion, and sing in Thy honor the Divine Praises with the chorus of Virtues permitted by God to make miracles.

And I ask Thee to grant me virtues like purity, goodness, and piety which will constitute as my shield against temptations, and thus I may be worthy of the glory of heaven. Amen.

Prayer for the Sixth Day:

O omnipotent Jesus!

I know that Thy omnipotence prevails over the hearts of men, in as much as it is moved by love and greatness.

For that reason, I adore Thee with fervent devotion, and sing in Thy honor the Divine Praises with the chorus of Dominions that lead all the angels, God’s ministers.

And I ask Thee to grant my desire to comply always with all Thy commandments and thus I may be worthy of the glory of heaven. Amen.

Prayer for the Seventh Day:

O supreme Jesus!

I know that Thy supremacy made it possible for Thee as the Son of God to sit on the right hand of power.

For that reason, I adore Thee with fervent devotion, and sing in Thy honor the Divine Praises with the chorus of the Thrones where God sits.

And I ask Thee to allow Thy greatness to reside in my heart and thus I may be worthy of the glory of heaven. Amen.

Prayer for the Eight Day:

O affectionate Jesus!

I know that Thy love for humankind is without comparison, and this is proven by Thy help and protection to those who have faith in Thee.

For that reason, I adore Thee with fervent devotion, and sing in Thy honor the Divine Praises with the chorus of Seraphims that ardently love God.

And I ask Thee to will it that my love for Thee may not diminish a bit so that I may never forget God, and thus I may be worthy of the glory of heaven. Amen.

Prayer for the Ninth Day:

O wisest Jesus!

I know that Thy wisdom was already admired when as a child Thou was lost and then found sitting among and discussing with the wise men in the temple.

For that reason, I adore Thee with fervent devotion, and sing in Thy honor the Divine Praises with the chorus of Cherubs that are well-endowed with the highest wisdom.

And I ask Thee to grant me wisdom so that I may not be deceived by the tricks of the devil, and thus I may be worthy of the glory of heaven. Amen.

BUNYING SANTO NINO (SONG)

BUNYING SANTO NINO, KAMI’S NAGSASAYA
DAHILAN SA IYO KAMI’S MALIGAYA
UMA-AWIT KAMI NAGAGALAK SA TUWI-NA
SA ‘YONG ALINDOG AY NAKIKI-ISA.

BUNYING SANTO NINO, DIYOS KANG DAKI-LA
SA LANGIT AT LUPA, IKAW ANG MAY LIKHA
SUMASAMBA KAMI’T ANG HINGI AY ‘YONG AWA
IGAWAD SA AMIN ANG IYONG KALINGA.

BUNYING SANTO NINO, ANG MATANDA’T BATA
DUMUDULONG SA ‘YO LUBHANG KATUTUWA
II: MABUHAY MABUHAY! ANG SIGAW NG MADLA
SENOR SANTO NINO, DIYOS NA DAKI-LA.

A Pilgrim’s Courage

2012-01-09T08:20:00.000-08:00

A Pilgrim’s Courage

Robbery. Slavery. Death by natural and foul causes. Medieval Europeans visiting the Holy Land faced these risks and more often than not died for taking these risks. Even with the fall of Jerusalem to Crusader hands in 1099 and the establishment of Christian outposts along the pilgrims’ well-travelled routes, bandits still waylaid pilgrims travelling by land. Going by sea was not entirely safe as storms wrecked the boats and ships and pirates – the bandits’ seaborne cousins – prowled the Mediterranean and adjacent waters. Such was the faith of the medieval pilgrims in God’s protection that they persisted despite the glaring risks.

Robbery. Terrorist bombing. No less than President Aquino came on national television with a warning about a plot to bomb the 2012 Black Nazarene in procession. Pickpockets are a nuisance to Black Nazarene devotees. Terrorists, beasts who find fulfillment and joy in slaughtering the innocent, are entirely different animals. Still, the devotees poured into Rizal Park, Quiapo, and all roads in between in numbers that would not disappointment the seers who predicted eight million participants, a figure that dwarfs Singapore’s 2010 population of five million. Such was the faith of the devotees in the Black Nazarene’s protection that they rushed to the procession despite the President’s dire terror alert.

Robbery. Slavery. Death. Rather than deterring the faithful from their religious journeys, these dark things have made pilgrimages more meaningful and rewarding. Perhaps, it is in the pilgrims' belief that when you are holding a shield called faith, all threats of bodily harm will slam into your shield like feathers hurled at metal breastplates.

-By Prospero Pulma Jr.

When Christmas Silenced War

2012-01-03T07:05:00.000-08:00

When Christmas Silenced War

By Prospero Pulma Jr.

Movies about Santa, reindeers, elves, and children - naughty and nice - entangled in cheerful plots inflame the yuletide spirit while war films douse the warm fires enkindled by Christmas, making Christmas films that have soldiers for protagonists rare and war movies with peace on Christmas as its theme rarer. Joyeux Noel, Silent Night, and A Midnight Clear are among the handful of films that have Christmas and war playing tug of war. One pulls the protagonists to the path of peace on Christmas and the other calls them to bear arms again.

“Joyeux Noel” dramatizes the Christmas Truce of 1914 when soldiers locked in trench warfare in the European Western Front unofficially declared a ceasefire. Hearing Christmas carols sang in different languages, seeing candlelit Christmas trees enlivening the ramparts of trenches and watching men, who have been trading shots and bayonet thrusts before the ceasefire, swapping gifts, sharing food and wine, playing football, and tipping one another about impending artillery bombardments can elevate a pacifist to nirvana. Then, the ruined houses, fields pockmarked by cannon fire, and the unburied dead will dump the same pacifist into bloody reality. The ethereal ceasefire amidst one of history’s bloodiest battles almost earns “Joyeux Noel” the tag of a fantasy film, an escapist flick even, for people weary of war.

Fritz Vincken shares his own Christmas truce experience in “Silent Night.” Fleeing from the war, young Fritz and his mother had war crashing into their lives when three American and three German soldiers wandered to their Ardennes Forest cottage on Christmas 1944. The combatants grudgingly accepted Elisabeth’s demand that they leave their weapons outside the cabin. It was warm and bright inside, made warmer by the soldiers’ pooling of their rations to augment the Vickens’ potato-based Christmas dinner and brighter by a German treating a wounded American and the construction of a Christmas tree crowned by a dog tag intertwined with a crucifix. Even with everyone trying to live with the Christmas spirit, the winds of war occasionally blew into the cottage, nearly shattering the ceasefire.

“A Midnight Clear” is an adaptation of William Wharton’s semiautobiographical novel. It tells the story of six American soldiers setting up an outpost at a forlorn chateau in the Ardennes in December 1944. Seven German soldiers from the Eastern Front soon start sending the Americans cryptic messages. The GIs eventually learn of the Germans’ wish to survive the war by surrendering to them but not after staging a mock battle to spare their families from Nazi reprisals. Prior to the surrender, the soldiers have a snowball fight and celebrate Christmas on a snowfield. Bottles of wine pass from the Americans to the Germans and sausages from the Germans to the Americans. The soldiers sing carols in German and English before a Christmas tree ornamented by a hand grenade.

The football game and snowball fight between combatants, the dog tag and hand grenade embellishing Christmas trees, and enemies singing Christmas carols together and sharing Christmas meals give viewers an eerie dream of Christmas silencing war. The celebration of brotherhood and peace, pillars of Christmas, by war’s captive participants makes the vision eerier.

The Most Silent Night

2011-12-25T18:52:00.000-08:00

Philippine Panorama
Manila Bulletin
Volume 40, Number 52
25 December 2011
Page 17

The Most Silent Night

By Prospero Pulma Jr.

Children singing carols, Christmas greetings exchanged so generously, the tearing of festive wrappers hiding Christmas presents, and squeals of delight upon discovering the concealed gifts will fill the ears of some people this Christmas. In most of the world’s continents, the cacophony of gunfire and exploding bombs will rent people’s hearing on Christmas, making one wonder if wishing for peace even for just the most silent of nights is more derisory than wanting to meet the real Santa. Peace however did reign amidst war and in the unlikeliest of places.

On December 24, 1914, “Stille Nacht” and other carols supplanted gunfire and cannon fire at Europe’s World War I Western Front. Men deeply engaged in the business of war left their trenches and weapons to freely step into land that nobody would have yielded without bloodletting hours before. Land that shuddered from the rapid footfalls of thousands of soldiers rushing their enemies’ positions relaxed from the footsteps of the same men advancing to greet their foes a Merry Christmas. The combatants swapped gifts and home addresses, posed for photographs, buried their dead, and played football.

Kurt Zehmisch, a German participant in the Christmas Truce of 1914, wrote in his journal, “How marvelously wonderful, yet how strange it was. The English officers felt the same way about it. Thus Christmas, the celebration of Love, managed to bring mortal enemies together as friends for a time.” The ceasefire ended tragically the same way that all wars begin – with violence.

At the height of the Battle of the Bulge, Fritz Vincken and his mother experienced a silent night on December 24, 1944. Foul weather forced three Americans, one wounded, and four Germans to take refuge in their cabin. His mother sheltered the soldiers, provided all would lay down their weapons. They complied and shared a Christmas dinner, turning the cottage into a little dot of peace in a continent burning with the fires of World War II. The next morning, the Germans built a stretcher for the wounded American and guided the Americans to their camp before returning to German lines. Former President Reagan remarked that it “needs to be told and retold because none of us can ever hear too much about building peace and reconciliation.”

Endless news of war at home or abroad makes wishing for a visit by the real Santa less ludicrous than dreaming of peace on Christmas. However, if combatants in two world wars could forget about killing on the most silent and holiest of nights, then wanting to hear nothing but peace on Christmas may not be a mad romantic’s dream after all.

END

TO GOD BE THE GLORY!!!

Roses for Therese By Prospero Pulma Jr.

2011-10-28T08:25:00.000-07:00

Philippines Graphic
October 10, 2011
Vol. 22, No. 19.

Roses for Therese

By Prospero Pulma Jr.

Except for his white coat and stethoscope, Therese saw the doctor as Grandpa Jose. Even his countenance mirrored her grandfather’s sorrow when he told her that he would be leaving on a journey, one that would never bring him home again. Her grandfather did return but inside a glass-topped bed ringed by candles and wreaths. He slumbered through her intermittent bawling and pleas for him to play with her. He did not stir even when they were lowering him to the ground and piling dirt on him.
“Therese,” said Dr. Luis San Gabriel, forcing himself to smile when he noticed Therese studying him. He abandoned the laboratory reports he was reading for his new patient, instantly noticing shimmering stars on her left hand. “Oh, three stars!” Therese arrived at seven-thirty for her eight o’clock kindergarten class, stayed in her seat while her classmates were wrecking the room, and answered all of Teacher Nancy’s questions about Cinderella that she read to them. For that, Teacher Nancy stamped the three stars on her hand. Finished with admiring the stars, he inspected her head, visualizing the insidious entity that brought her to his clinic.
Therese’s path to Dr. San Gabriel started at the village health center. Her mother complained to the general practitioner that headaches had become her daughter’s alarm clock, adding that she would have missed her kindergarten class were it not for acetaminophen. Just headaches, he concluded after a few queries. Nothing that acetaminophen could handle. He scribbled acetaminophen on the prescription pad while looking over Marianne’s shoulder and counting fifteen more patients behind them. Before the queue could grow to sixteen indigents, he dug out a handful of acetaminophen tablets from a box and handed the samples together with the prescription.
Marianne eagerly pocketed the samples, asking why her daughter’s seizures continued even with acetaminophen. He shot up in alarm and asked her about the seizures. Twice last week alone, she said. He yelled at Therese to get on the examination table. Using his eyes, hands, and instruments, he probed for any gross evidence of disease in her, devoting more minutes examining her neck and head than the rest of her body, leaving the eye untouched for lack of an ophthalmoscope. In the end, he saw an apparently healthy young girl.
The general practitioner glanced furtively at Marianne. By his gross examination, her daughter was healthy. But they were from Pag-Asa, a small city of shacks, where most of his patients sink back after consulting him and stuffing their pockets with prescriptions and drug samples. Some had resurfaced on the appointment lists stricken by new maladies and vanishing again from followup with a fresh prescription and free medicines. After weighing their chances of returning for a followup with the diagnostic test results as low to nil, he added phenytoin to the acetaminophen, just a prescription and no laboratory slip.
Days later, Marianne and her husband barged into a public pediatrician’s clinic. Therese, fatigued from a seizure episode and cradled by her father, listened as her mother tremulously described the headaches, seizures, and the phenytoin. The doctor asked about fevers. Marianne shook her head. He queried further, gradually moving the discussion away from the headaches and seizures to their administration of phenytoin. The girl’s neck and head drew most of his attention when he put her on the exam table, nodding somberly as he scrutinized her eyes with an ophthalmoscope. He nudged Mike to take her off the table. The doctor read his notes before grimly penning a referral to Dr. San Gabriel.
“Dr. San Gabriel,” Mike said urgently, remembering the wall clock in the hallway read 10:00 when the secretary called them inside. Half of the day off for Therese’s hospital appointment was all that his foreman gave him. Arriving even a minute late for the second half of his shift would mean losing the whole shift.
Luis rose and shook her father’s hand, feeling the calluses thriving on the young man’s hands. A construction worker, he remembered the young man confiding his profession to him as if he was confessing to marital infidelity. “Mike. Ma’am,” he smiled at Marianne, calculating how many ferrous sulfate samples he would give her to erase the pallor on her lips. “I have the results.” Therese saw his parents tense when the doctor’s tone shifted from cherry to somber.
The doctor laid the CT scan and MRI reports on the table, piled more laboratory papers, and topped it with a detailed illustration of the brain. That they performed the basic laboratory tests a week after the consultation did not tax his patience even a bit. Letting another week pass for the Healing Samaritans Foundation to shoulder the cost of the CT and MRI of her head did not send his blood pressure soaring. Waiting for patients and their kin to forage for funds for healthcare or pray for Samaritans to tend to them was his price for picking service over profit.
Aided by technology, he and his peers scrutinized the neoplasm thriving beneath the skin, hair, muscles, and bones that encased Therese’s brain. If her parents were receiving six-figure salaries, they would have prescribed surgery, chemotherapy, and radiotherapy for her condition. Her father’s humble occupation and her mother’s convenience store dictated the adoption of their well-used triad of basic medicines, faith, and burying hope with the patient. Luis would discuss all options with her parents, offering the cheapest treatment last - their most likely choice. Mike and Marianne could pray for a philanthropist and pray more fervently that another indigent patient would not partake of their little alms box.
“Tere, play outside.” Marianne followed her request by presenting potbellied and cottony Chubby to her. Therese grabbed the toy and looked up at her mother. Concern clouded her joy and a query replaced the saccharine thank you that was about to leave her lips. “Your eyes are red, ma.”
“Something’s gotten into her eyes,” Mike said, pressing Chubby closer to Therese when she stood on her toes to see why her mother suddenly became teary. Young voices, some in pain, mingled with the occasional chirping of the PA system and the hubbub of adults. “There are kids outside. Take Chubby. Play with them.”
Chubby was with her and there were children outside. She did not wait for another order from her parents. She had not gone far from the door when a sharp cry rose from the clinic. The voice was familiar. She tiptoed back, stopping at the door when she saw her mother weeping on her father’s shoulders while he was sniffling and wiping his eyes. She searched the room for the culprit and found the medical secretary updating the patients’ database, tapping the keyboard as gently as she could. Her gaze returned to Dr. San Gabriel, wondering if he could hurt them with the drawing of the brain and laboratory reports in his hands. No, she said to herself, puzzled why the doctor had become as gloomy as when they arrived for the followup.
Therese fell back to the hallway, her parents’ tearfulness erasing Chubby and playtime erased from her plans. A woman and a boy occupied half of the bench outside the clinic. She clambered on the free spot and slept with Chubby as her bedmate. A man from the adjacent clinic called the woman and the boy and they followed him, leaving the bench entirely to Therese.
“Tere, Tere,” her mother whispered.
Therese opened her eyes and shrieked. Staring at her was her mother, her eyes red and eyelids puffy.
“We’re going home,” Marianne spoke with a slight quiver, taking Chubby from Therese and stepping back for her husband to lift her from the hospital bench. She squirmed and jumped from his arms when she saw his bloodshot eyes.
“The thing that got into mama’s eyes jumped into my eyes,” said her father. Mike plucked her from the bench and carried her, absentmindedly listening to her story of a woman who reeked of roses and promised her that she would return when all had turned to night for Therese.

xxxxx

Challenged merely by steroids and phenytoin, the neoplasm encroached into healthy tissue. From headaches and seizures, the tumor fouled Therese’s sight and flayed her strength and sense of balance, humbling a girl twice as spirited as most girls into a feeble doll with dead eyesight. That doll had been listening to rumbling vehicles, counting them by the noise of their engines, and their neighbors’ fevered conversations. Daytime, she thought. As to what day, she could not tell even if telling dates for her meant distinguishing Sunday from Monday.
Her mother was in her little store and her father at work, embracing the double-shift that his equally penurious friends spurned. What he earned from the first shift went to their sustenance and the money from the second shift for Therese’s medicines bought in numbers so pitiful that he could work all day and all night and still not buy the prescribed quantity. Trapped in her blindness, she settled to telling stories to Chubby, the only game that would not end with her calling her mother to pick her toy from the floor. A breeze suddenly blew from the door, flooding the house with the scent of roses as if someone had spilled a jug of perfume near her.
“Therese.”
Therese, her nose twitching from the powerful scent, dropped Chubby when she heard the voice. Her mother did not advice her of any visitors. Scream and run, her mind told her. Stay was her heart’s command.
A fairy, she thought. She regularly garnered most of Teacher Nancy’s stars and made her mother feel grateful that she had her as a daughter. For that, Nancy told her that she deserved a visit by a fairy.
“Greg beseeched me to help you and others like you,” she paused to eavesdrop to the girl’s thoughts. “I am not a fairy, child.” Reveling in the overwhelming fragrance, Therese missed her visitor’s disappointing answer to her thoughts about fairies.
“I visited you before. Do you remember me at the clinic?” She sensed Therese vacillating between answering no and yes. Wishing not to tax her young memory any further, she touched the girl’s temple.
“Fairy!” Therese squealed.
Her visitor giggled. Even she as a girl had heard of fairies. “Remember my promise to return when all has turned to night for you?”
Therese, certain that it was daytime from the cacophony in the streets, looked at her, puzzled.
“Day for most people but sadly night for you.” She clasped the girl’s hands and touched her temple again.
“Wow!” In Therese’s mind, she was holding a white rose about the length of her forearm. She brought it close to her nose, inhaling the becalming scent it exuded, and touched its stem, feeling her skin brush by a thorn.
Sometime after Therese stopped attending kindergarten, Nancy knocked on their store and had Marianne usher her inside. Sitting on a chair was Therese, staring at the door. She snapped rigidly when Nancy called her as if her mentor was calling the roll. The teacher pulled out the first of many tissues to wipe her eyes when the girl started walking like a drunk towards her, extending her arms forward like someone treading in darkness.
Fearing that she would fall, Nancy dropped her bag on the plastic bench by the door and carried Therese to the seat. She pulled a book from her bag and gently pressed Therese’s fingers on the embossed letters. Fairies, princesses, she heard the girl giggle with delight. Then, the Teacher Nancy who could bend her voice into the unearthly voices of villains and ethereal voices of heroes emerged when she opened The Book of Fairies and Princesses and started sharing the tale of an orphaned girl from a distant kingdom. With her box of tissues emptied and the last word in the book read, Nancy hugged and peppered the girl’s forehead with kisses before thrusting the book into her arms.
The Book of Fairies and Princesses was atop the rolled mat, its lively cover calling all to open it again after its contents last came to life at Nancy’s visit months before. Marianne could read, but she stumbled over difficult words and her tone stayed straight from beginning to end. Therese’s frustration from missing her fairytales came like a low, steady keening to her visitor. “Do you want to hear a story?”
“Cinderella!” Therese chirped.
“David and Goliath.”
Her excitement sagged when she heard the title. “A prince?
“David became king.”
“King? I want to hear it.”
“I know you would.” The woman touched her temple again and sunlight surged into Therese’s eyes, forcibly shutting her eyelids. A thousand voices speaking an unfamiliar tongue jolted her ears. Curious to see where her new friend had taken her, she opened her eyes and gasped. Men loaded with armor, swords, spears and shields were all around her, but none noticed the ponytailed girl in red shorts, pink shirt, and slippers. Her visitor was speaking, and Therese glanced to her front, sides, and back and saw no sign of her, yet she could hear her guiding her through the story, telling her to follow a boy.
A man and a boy with a sling shortly appeared. She followed them through the assemblage of warriors and into a field. His escort advanced a few steps before halting, letting the youth advance alone. She pushed past the man and realized why he stopped. Standing on the other side was a man built like a giant and dressed in metal. He was screaming, brandishing a sword that was taller than his diminutive foe. Treading calmly and reciting verses, the boy loaded his sling and started swinging it. She closed her eyes when he flung the projectile in his sling. The shepherd had grown into a king when she opened her eyes again. Her visitor lifted her hand and Therese was back in their house.
Therese slumped on the chair, facing the door, wondering if Teacher Nancy with a magical wand could bring damsels, princes, and witches to speak and move as if they were breathing right beside her. Teacher Nancy fled her thoughts when a shaft of light appeared on where she believed was the fully-opened door. More light poured from the small beam, consuming the surrounding darkness until the ray became an upright rectangular block channeling sunlight into the house. She glanced sideways and saw floating luminous boxes, confidently guessing that they were the wide-open windows. She dropped her sight and sighed. A pink box was all that she could see of her pink cabinet splattered with stickers of princesses and fairies and with little doors that she used to playfully open and shut. At her foot, she saw purple Chubby. She ran her eyes throughout the house. Their red table was a bright disk standing on slender metal legs. Cabinets resembled drab boxes, and the unlighted kitchen was a dim world.
“My eyes…”
“Are healing. For now, you can only see in the stories. Have faith that they will soon be a child’s eyes again.”
“Tere.” Her mother yelled from the store.
“I am Marie Frances,” her visitor declared before the scent of roses left the house and the rose that she was mentally clasping vanished.
“Stop playing. You might get hurt.” Marianne yelled from the store, instantly flogging herself for admonishing her daughter against seeking life’s little joys. A little scratch and a slight bruise would never weigh heavier than the tumor.
“Tere, would you like a lollipop? Orange? Mango?”
“Orange and mango,” Therese replied excitedly.
“Okay.” She picked the last of the orange lollipops and one of three of the mango-flavored variety. “Stay there. I’ll bring it to you.”
Therese was on the floor, retrieving Chubby, when Marianne entered.
“Mama.” Therese, with arms on her sides, sluggishly ambled towards her mother. Her mother was clinching the lollipops. Marianne, unsure if her daughter really walked without extending her arms forward, easily yielded the sweets in her fist.
The next morning, Therese saw the threshold glow briefly before returning to its normal daytime luminosity. Her hair rippled from a sudden gust of air before a thick roseate smell invaded the room.
“Therese,” Marie Frances greeted her. She took Therese’s hands, and a white rose burst in the girl’s mind. Therese held the flower beside her forearm, admiring its petals were fuller than its predecessor.
“It is a different rose from the same garden. They are growing because Greg believes.”
“I can see mama.” Therese put down the rose and looked up at where she thought her visitor was, unperturbed when she did not see the hazy figure of a woman. “But…”
“You wish that you would see her completely again,” she paused, feeling the thoughts pulsating in the girl’s mind and her desires whispering from her heart. “Believe that that day will come very soon, my child. Are you interested in lions?”
Tere nodded vigorously. “L for lion. Big cats that roar.” Therese crawled on all fours, roaring and prowling the spot where Marie’s voice emanated.
Marie Frances laughed. “They are big and they roar but not all the time and to everyone. Have you heard of Daniel and the Lions?”
“A king like David?”
“He was a powerful king’s counselor.”
Therese climbed the chair, shutting her eyes and covering her ears as a smiling Marie gently touched her temple. No din startled her and the air was cool. Her feet shifted and coarse soil grated under her slippers. A new story had begun, and Marie had spirited her into a cave.
Sunlight floated through gaps in the boulder blocking the entrance, giving Therese a patchy view of the cave. She thought that several men could stand shoulder to shoulder at the entrance without stooping. The ceiling gradually dropped, leaving a short void between her fingertips and the roof when she stretched her arms overhead, and the walls slowly funneled that several full strides could bring her to the opposite wall.
Occupying the mouth of the cavern was a man kneeling in prayer. Three lionesses were sprawled beside him. Roar, roar, she silently egged them, sighing when one yawned and growled softly. Therese’s heart leapt when a deeper growl came from the den’s dark recesses. The beast emerged from the darkness, and she held her breathe. Hearing Marie ordering her to yield, she stepped back to the rock wall, evading its wide mane by inches. When she saw the lion’s thick limbs, she wished that she would merge with the rock wall. The predator circled Daniel twice before plopping down between two lionesses, playfully snapping at a female.
Marie flashed the days preceding Daniel’s banishment into the den in Therese’s mind. A man anxiously shouted outside, breaking Marie’s narration of Daniel’s life. Daniel replied, and the man shouted in great relief. The man spoke tersely, but not to Daniel. Therese heard more voices and men grunting as the earth began grinding against stone. She blinked against the increasing brightness as a gang of servants and warriors started rolling the rock away. When they have freed ample space, a man in regal finery jumped inside, embracing Daniel like a brother. Then, Marie pulled her back into their house.
Therese’s lazy posture straightened the second she opened her eyes. The upright block of light that was the open door was more radiant. On turning her head, she discerned the faint outlines of curtains crossing windows, and the blotches on her pink cabinet as stickers of damsels and fairies.
“See what faith can do,” Marie said softly. “You will be in the sea tomorrow.” With that, the rose in Therese’s hands vanished and their house regained its familiar odor.
Jonah and the leviathan were still swirling in Therese’s mind that she simply stared at the rose from Marie. It was dark inside the creature, but through some celestial gift, Marie let Therese see Jonah’s prostrate body racked with remorse. While Marie had barred seawater from touching the tips of Therese’s toes and turned the odor of the sea and the monster’s meals of krill and fish into perfume for her nose, she could not completely mask the beast’s movements that Therese shortly adapted the color of a landsman facing her first sea storm. Marie abruptly stopped her narration and lifted her from the leviathan.
“Tere.”
“You will have a milder journey tomorrow,” Marie said apologetically. She fell silent and the rose vanished along with the scent of roses. Marie was gone.
“Lunch will be in a minute.”
Marianne appeared at the threshold, wiping her hands on her shorts. Therese identified the black crown on her mother’s head as hair and the dark, thick lines on her forehead as her eyebrows when Marianne entered. From a few feet away, she assumed the buttons below her mother’s brows to be her eyes, the line in the middle of her face her nose, and the pale line above her chin her lips. Marianne had never looked so beautiful to Therese.
“Mama,” Therese jumped from the chair, took two quick steps, and stopped. Mother and daughter stared at Therese’s legs, perplexed that her limbs really carried her in that short sprint.
The stem was as thick as her middle finger and extended from her fingertips to her elbow when she put it beside her forearm. Crowning the stem were petals of an immaculate white shade. By far, it was the most exquisite of Marie’s floral gifts. The rose was competing with the story of the father and his worldly son for her attention. The story of the prodigal son had no shepherd boy fighting a gigantic warrior, a man praying amidst lions, or a prophet in a leviathan’s belly. Marie was true to her promise.
“The son was bad, very bad. Father was good like papa,” said Therese, her eyes still on the rose.
“Like the father,” Marie replied, her heart aflutter from hearing the comment. Therese was at her calmest in the fourth tale, giving Marie little forewarning of an impending breakthrough. In the first story, David and his crown claimed her interest, the docile lions in the second, and the leviathan’s innards in the third.
“My eyes are good today and will be better tomorrow.”
“Because you believe, it will come true. Tomorrow, Therese. Tomorrow.”
When the rose vanished and the stench of litter in the streets drifted inside, Therese knew that Marie had left. She was thirsty but her mother was in the store and her eyes could pick out the kerosene stove on the sink and the red dish tray and pitcher on the table. She towed her chair to the table, climbed on top, and reached for a glass in the tray. An image of broken plates and glasses littering their tiny kitchen because Therese fended for herself poked Marianne the second she heard the clatter of utensils. Catching Therese standing erect on the chair, securely holding a glass, and gulping water took more of Marianne’s breath away than her expected vision of collecting their shattered utensils.
Two roses, their stems stretching from the tip of her middle finger to her upper, were the latest of Marie’s gifts. One had petals the color of her blood that syringes and lancets pried from her body for testing. The other had white petals as immaculate as the wool of the lost sheep that the shepherd sought in Marie’s last story.
“Shepherd left many sheep for one sheep,” said Therese, her bewilderment clear even to mortals.
“Because he loves all his sheep, even the lost ones.”
“You think so?”
“Your heart is whispering the answer, Therese.”
Therese playfully pressed her left chest. “I hear it,” she said earnestly after a moment, addressing the void that she believed Marie occupied. Her sight had enabled her to spot cockroaches playing on the floor but Marie was still beyond her eyes’ power of perception.
“You do not see me, yet you believe that I am in this house. That is faith, Therese. The doctors said you would never see again. You believed you would and your sight has healed. Your body has healed. That, again, is faith.”
A fresh wave of roseate fragrance flooded the house, but the roses in Therese’s hands dissolved into oblivion. “Why grasp something when you can carry it in your heart? The roses are in you, Therese, so I do not have to come this way again. Now, go to your mother. Let her see how faith has brought you home again.”
Therese leapt from the chair and rushed to the store, her footfalls sure and the path so clear to her eyes. Marie heard Marianne shout in utter surprise. The fragrance ebbed and Marie vanished.

xxxxx

“We…do not know what happened. Dr. Paterno did not see anything on CT and MRI,” Dr. San Gabriel flashed two sets of images of Therese’s brain that could have been mistaken to be that of a very ill girl and a healthy one. “The other doctors and the laboratory did not pick up anything on your daughter now. I have read the results,” he shrugged in resignation. “I agree a hundred percent with them.”
Healthy tissue had retaken the patch of brain where malignant cells once flourished, producing CT scan and MRI results that clashed with the previous results, sending the radiologist to recheck her earlier CT and MRI images. The team ran other laboratory tests and examined her physically. All revealed a robust girl.
Therese’s father whispered to Marianne who nodded. “We’ve seen Tere play like she used to, Doc San Gabriel. Just tell us if she’s really healed,” said Marianne, looking like someone who had just dreamed that she had won the lottery and begging everyone to tell her that it was true.
“We call it spontaneous remission. One day, a tumor is there. Weeks, months, years later, the patient returns healthy.” Luis hoped that they would not ask him to expound the inexplicable. “Your child is healed, by what or by whom, we will never know.” He reclined on his chair, expecting the couple to breathe out their anxiety and murmur prayers of thanksgiving.
Marianne and Mike, instantly tearful, took Therese her into their arms so tightly that Luis feared they would break her bones. Behind them was his secretary, standing like a witness to a tearful homecoming. He indulged her for salvation rarely bloomed for those brought at death’s door by cancer.
Spontaneous remission, Luis said to himself, spontaneous remission. Therese spoke of roses and her visitor, Marie Frances. He asked her again. Roses and Marie Frances was her steady reply. He thought of asking her that she probably smelled her neighbor’s broken perfume bottles, but stopped when the fragrance of roses filled every inch of his clinic, creating the impression that someone had dumped a truckload of roses in the room. The overwhelming fragrance did not break the family’s revelry and his secretary was not sneezing. When their ecstasy ebbed, he shook the couple’s hands, congratulating them on their extremely good fortune, and gave Therese a pat on the head and a wish to see more stars on her hands.
From the door, he observed patients and healthcare staff turn to the jovial racket the family was creating, stirring the floor more as they waited for the elevator. The lift opened. Before jumping inside, Therese turned and waved vigorously at him, smiling as if Teacher Nancy had stamped a dozen stars on her hands. He waved back, strangely confident that should he see her again, it would not be to put her on the exam table and run tests on her body.
When the elevator shut, he retreated inside, shadowed by his secretary’s curious stare as he roamed the clinic, sniffing the furniture, cabinets, and the air con vent. Any fragrance stronger than the air freshener’s pine scent would send his secretary into a frenzy of sneezing and blowing her nose. Roses and Marie Frances, he thought. Only one person could clear his bewilderment. He went to his laptop and logged into his email, picking his brother’s email from the contact list. Midway through asking him about his life as a missionary in Africa, he pressed the delete button. He picked his mobile and selected his sibling’s number.
Luis saw the hour hand hovering near eleven on his wristwatch. He counted back several hours, concluding that it was about dawn in Africa. His story of a tumor vanishing as if excised by a magical scalpel and the overwhelming scent of roses that accompanied Marie Frances’s visits could not wait for the brothers to communicate at a mutually ideal time.
“Hi, Greg!” He hollered into the phone, snickering as he imagined Greg jumping out of his blankets from his greeting.
Greg grunted.
“Tell me again about a saintly nun and her roses.”

- END -

NOVENA TO THE OUR MOTHER OF PERPETUAL HELP

2011-10-17T19:46:00.000-07:00

NOVENA TO THE OUR MOTHER OF PERPETUAL HELP

How to Make the Perpetual Novena:
1. Attend the Perpetual Novena devotions to Our Mother of Perpetual Help for nine consecutive Wednesdays. If possible, assist at Mass on Novena days. Those unable to go to Church because of sickness or the like may pray the novena at home before the picture of Our Mother of Perpetual Help.
2. At the conclusion of the Novena, there may be a Benediction or Holy Mass. “That practice in a special manner is to the highly recommended by which many exercises of piety, customary among the faithful, end with Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament.” (Litt. Encycl Mediator Dei. Part II Ch. 4).
3. Bring this booklet with you and join in the prayers and hymns.
4. Write your petitions to Our Mother of Perpetual Help and place it in the box marked, “Petitions.”
5. During the Novena, make a good confession.
6. Receive Holy Communion as often as possible.
7. When your petition has been answered, write a letter of thanksgiving to our Blessed Mother and place it in the box marked, “Thanksgivings,” so that others may also may be inspired to see the Novena as a means of going to God.

Opening Hymn

Immaculate Mother

Immaculate Mother
To you do we plead
To ask God our Father
For help in our need.
Ave, Ave, Ave Maria
Ave, Ave, Ave Maria.
We pray for our country
The land of our birth
We pray for all nations
That peace on earth.
Ave, Ave, Ave Maria
Ave, Ave, Ave Maria.
Amen.

Opening Prayer
Priest: Brothers and sisters, as children of our Blessed Mother, we are gathered before her miraculous picture to honor her and to pray for our needs. Unworthy children that we are, let us first of all ask God’s mercy and pardon.
All: Merciful Father you sent your Divine Son to redeem us by his death and resurrection and to give us new life. By this, you make us your children to love one another in Christ. How many times in the past, we have forgotten this sublime dignity. We have sinned against our brothers and sisters; we have offended you. Merciful Father, forgive us. Repenting sincerely of our sins, we ask your mercy; may we always live as your truly devoted children.

Mary Immaculate Star of the Morning

Mary Immaculate, star of the morning.
Chosen before the creation began,
Destined to bring through the light of your dawning
Conquest of Satan and rescue to man.
Bend from your throne at the voice of our crying.
Look to this earth, where your footsteps have trod.
Stretch out your arms to us, living and dying.
Mary Immaculate, Mother of God.
Grant us the shield of your mighty protection.
Measure your aid by the depth of our need.
Bend from your throne at the voice of our crying.
Look to this earth, where your footsteps have trod.
Stretch out your arms to us, living and dying.
Mary Immaculate, Mother of God.

Novena Prayer
Dear Mother of Perpetual Help from the cross Jesus gave you to us for our Mother. You are the kindness, the most loving of all mothers. Look tenderly on us your children as we now ask you to help us in all our needs especially this one…
(Pause to recall your petitions)
While you were on earth, dear Mother you willing shared in the sufferings of your Son. Strengthened by your faith and confidence in the fatherly love of God you accepted the mysterious designs of His Will. We too have our crosses and trials. Sometimes they almost crush us to the ground. Dearest Mother, share with us your abundant faith and confidence in God. Make us aware that God never ceases to love us; that He answers all our prayers in the way that is best for us. Strengthen our hearts to carry the cross in the footsteps of your Divine Son. Help us to realize that he who shares the cross of Christ will certainly share His resurrection.
Dearest Mother, as we worry about our own problems let us not forget the needs of others. You always love others so much; help us to do the same. While praying for our own intentions and for all the intentions of all here present at this Novena we earnestly ask you, our Mother, to help us comfort the sick and the dying give hope to the poor and unemployed, heal the broken-hearted lighten the burden of the oppressed, teach justice to their oppressors and bring back to God all those who have offended Him.
Dearest Mother, help us to avoid sin which separates us from our heavenly Father and from one another. Full of trust in you, we place ourselves under the mantle of your maternal protection and confidently hope for your powerful help.
Amen.

Prayer for the Home
Mother of Perpetual Help, we choose you as Queen of our homes. We ask you to bless all our families with your tender motherly love. May the Sacrament of Marriage bind husbands and wives so closely together that they will always be faithful to each other and love one another as Christ love His Church.
We ask you to bless all parents, may they love and cherish their children whom God has entrusted to them. May they always give them the example of a truly Christian life. Help them to bring up their children in the love and fear of God. Bless all children that they may love, honor, and obey their fathers and mothers. To your loving care we especially entrust the youth of today.
Give us all a sense of responsibility that we may do our part in making our home, a haven of peace like your own home at Nazareth. We take you as our model. Help us to grow daily in genuine love of God and neighbor so that justice and peace may happily reign in the entire family of mankind.
Amen.

Petitions to Our Mother of Perpetual Help
Holy Mary
PRAY FOR US
Holy Virgin conceived without sin
PRAY FOR US
Our Mother of Perpetual Help
PRAY FOR US
We sinners call to you
LOVING MOTHER HELP US
That we may be filled with the Holy Spirit and become courageous witnesses of Christ’s love for men.
LOVING MOTHER HELP US
That we may be more and more like our Divine Lord, as you were.
LOVING MOTHER HELP US
That we may be meek and humble of heart like your son, Jesus.
LOVING MOTHER HELP US
That we may fear losing God’s friendship forever by unrepented sin.
LOVING MOTHER HELP US
That we may seek Christ’s mercy and forgiveness constantly in the sacrament of Penance.
LOVING MOTHER HELP US
That we may be aware of God speaking to us in the events of daily life.
LOVING MOTHER HELP US
That we may pray daily with love and trust, especially in moments of temptation.
LOVING MOTHER HELP US
That we may realize the value of worshipping God together in the Eucharist.
LOVING MOTHER HELP US
That we may grow in the love of Christ and neighbor by frequent Communion.
LOVING MOTHER HELP US
That we may reverence our bodies as temples of the Holy Spirit.
LOVING MOTHER HELP US
That we may strive to be true Christian by our loving concern for others.
LOVING MOTHER HELP US
That we may proclaim the dignity of work by doing our own work conscientiously.
LOVING MOTHER HELP US
That we may forgive from our heart those who have wronged us.
LOVING MOTHER HELP US
That we may see the evil of seeking our own interest at the expense of others.
LOVING MOTHER HELP US
That we may work for the just distribution of this world's goods.
LOVING MOTHER HELP US
That we may share our talents with others for the good of the community.
LOVING MOTHER HELP US
That we may accept our responsibility in the community in the spirit of genuine service.
LOVING MOTHER HELP US
To pray that the Holy Spirit may guide and strengthen Pope Benedict XVI, the Bishops, and the clergy.
LOVING MOTHER HELP US
That we may be blessed with an increase of priestly and religious vocations.
LOVING MOTHER HELP US
That we may bring the knowledge of Christ to those who do not know Him.
LOVING MOTHER HELP US
That we may be aware of our dependence on God in the midst of human achievements.
LOVING MOTHER HELP US
That we may be ready at death to enter the home of our heavenly Father.
LOVING MOTHER HELP US
That we may die at peace with Christ and our fellowmen.
LOVING MOTHER HELP US
That we may comforted at the death of our dear ones by our hope in the risen Lord.
LOVING MOTHER HELP US
To pray that our departed brothers and sisters quickly share in your Son’s resurrection.
LOVING MOTHER HELP US

Let us pray in silence for our own intentions (Pause)
ALL: Holy Mary, help us in our needs pray for all the people of God; may all experience your perpetual help.
Priest: Lord, you gave us Mary to be our mother ever ready to help us; grant us the grace to have recourse to her in all our needs.
ALL: Amen.

Consecration to Our Mother of Perpetual Help (First Wednesdays only)
Immaculate Virgin Mary, Mother of God and Mother of the Church you are also our Mother of Perpetual Help. With hearts full of love for you we consecrate ourselves to your Immaculate Heart so that we may be your devoted children. Obtain for us true sorrow for our sins and fidelity to the promises of our Baptism.
We consecrate our minds and hearts to you that we always do the Will of our heavenly Father. We consecrate our lives to you that we may love God better and live not for ourselves but for Christ, your Son and that we may see Him and serve Him in others.
By this humble act of consecration dear Mother of Perpetual Help we pledge to model our lives on you, the perfect Christian. So that, consecrated to you in life and in death we may belong to your Divine Son for all eternity.
Amen.

Mother of Christ
Mother of Christ, Mother of Christ
What shall I ask of thee?
I do not sigh for the wealth of earth.
For the joys that fade and flee.
But, Mother of Christ, Mother of Christ,
This do I long to see.
The bliss untold which your arms enfold.
The treasure upon your knee.
Mother of Christ, Mother of Christ,
I toss on a stormy sea.
Oh, lift your Child as a beacon light
To the port where I fain would be
And, Mother of Christ, Mother of Christ
This do I ask of thee
When the voyage is over
O, stand on the shore
And show Him at last to me.

O Saving Victim
O saving Victim opening wide
The gate of heaven to men below!
Our foes press on from every side,
Your aid supply, Your strength bestow.
To your great name be endless praise.
Immortal God-head, one in three
Oh, grant us endless length of days
In our true native land with thee.
Amen.

Thanksgiving Prayer
Lord Jesus Christ, truly present in the Most Blessed Eucharist we adore You. It has pleased the Father that in you all his fullness should dwell. And that through You He should reconcile all things to Himself. Grant us the grace to be truly grateful for all that our Father has done for us. Grant that we may be truly sorry for our sins and do penance for them.
Through you, we thank the Eternal Father for the gift of life. He has created all the wonderful things of this world for us. May we learn to use them well so that through them we may grow in love for Him.
Above all, we thank our Father for sending You to us as the greatest expression of His love to save us and all creation by Your death and resurrection.
We thank you Lord, for giving us your own Mother, to be our Mother of Perpetual Help. May the countless favors we have received through her intercession, and especially through the Novena inspire us to greater confidence in God’s loving mercy and her perpetual help. Grant us that we may always do the holy Will of God and persevere in His love.
To the most Holy Trinity Father, Son, and Holy Spirit be honor, glory and thanksgiving forever and ever.
Amen.

Prayer for the Sick
Lord Jesus Christ, you bore our sufferings and carried our sorrows in order to show us clearly the value of human weakness and patience; graciously hear our prayers for the sick. Grant that those who are weighed down with pain and other affliction of illness, may realize that they are among the chosen ones whom you call Blessed. Help them to understand that they are united with You in your sufferings. For the salvation of the world.
Amen.

Let us Raise our Voice
Let us raise our voice
To proclaim our faith
Christ the Lord for us has died.
Dying, He destroyed our death.
Rising, He restored our life.
O Lord Jesus, we await
Your last return in glory
When we eat the bread
And we drink the cup in the blessed Eucharist
We meet You, our Risen Savior giving life to us anew.
Through life’s journey, be with us, to strengthen us forever.
Amen.
V:
You have given them bread from heaven (Alleluia)
R:
The source of all happiness (Alleluia)

LET US PRAY:
Lord God, by the paschal mystery of the death and resurrection of Your only Son, You accomplish the work of man’s redemption. Full of trust, we proclaim the paschal mystery in the sacramental signs of the Eucharist. Help us to see ever growing in us the fruits of Your saving work through Christ Our Lord.
Amen.

The Divine Praises
Blessed be God.
Blessed be His Holy Name.
Blessed be Jesus Christ, true God and true Man.
Blessed be the Name of Jesus.
Blessed be His Most Sacred Heart.
Blessed be His Most Precious Blood.
Blessed be Jesus in the Most Holy Sacrament of the Altar.
Blessed be the Holy Spirit, the Paraclete.
Blessed be the great Mother of God, Mary most holy.
Blessed be her holy and Immaculate Conception.
Blessed be the name of Mary, Virgin and Mother.
Blessed be St. Joseph, her most chaste Spouse.
Blessed be God in his angels and in his saints.

O Sacrament Most Holy
O Sacrament Most Holy,
O Sacrament Divine,
All praise and all thanksgiving,
Be every moment thine,
Be every moment thine.

Hail Mary
Hail Mary, full of grace.
The Lord is with you.
Blessed are you among women,
And blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God.
Pray for us sinners now
And at the hour of our death.
Amen.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PRAYERS FOR PRIVATE DEVOTIONS

Memorare
Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to your protection, implored your help and sought your intercession was left unaided. Inspired with this confidence, I hasten to you, O Virgin of Virgins, my Mother. To you come, before you I stand, sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word Incarnate, do not despise my petition, but in your mercy hear and answer me. Amen.

Prayer for Financial Aid
Realizing, dear Mother, that you are our perpetual help, not only in spiritual but also in temporal necessities, we ask you to help us in our present financial worry. Because of unavoidable circumstances, which have arisen in our lives, we are in great want and financial embarrassment, since we are unable to meet our honest debts. We are not asking, dearest Mother of Perpetual Help, for wealth if the possession of it is not in accordance with the will of God; we merely ask you for that assistance which will help us in our present obligations. We believe, dear Mother of God, that you are extremely kind and generous to all your loving and devoted children. We plead with you, therefore, dear Mother, to obtain us the help we so urgently need. We are trying to earnestly to solve our problem but we believe in your powerful intercession with Our Lord Jesus Christ, your son and redeemer. Amen.

Prayer against Temptation
Mary, my mother, your love for us could not be greater or more powerful. You are rich in love and your power brings us relief. You want everyone to be saved. I beg you, therefore, protect me in temptation and strengthen me when I weaken. I struggle daily to be faithful to Jesus your son. Help me my mother at every moment. But above all take me by the hand when you see that I am weakening and about to fall. I will have to battle with temptation till the day I die. My lady, you are my hope, my refuge, my strength; never let me lose the grace of God. In every temptation, I resolve to turn to you at once and pray Mary help me (St. Alphonsus).

Prayer for Company Keepers
Eternal Father, through the powerful intercession of our Mother of Perpetual Help, I come to beg your guidance and strength during the important time of courtship.
Help us to realize that genuine love, deep and lasting, is Your own gift to those who respect and reverence one another. Take from our hearts all trace of selfishness, so that in all things, we may help each other to grow in true friendship. Convince us that true love will not hurt…use…or abuse the one loved.
To this end, Keep ever growing in us an ardent love of Your Son and our Savior Jesus Christ, by means of constant prayer and frequent Holy Communion.
May the bright hope of a happy marriage make us determined to prepare well by avoiding sin, and the dangers that can so easily lead us into sin.
We thank you for our love and we desire to consecrate it to You. Keep it always pure so that we may continue to live as worthy children of Mary, our Mother and You, our Heavenly Father. We ask you this through the spirit of Jesus, the Holy Spirit of perfect love.
Amen.

Novena to Saint Therese of the Child Jesus

2011-10-03T22:19:00.000-07:00

Prayer to Saint Anthony of Padua

2011-10-03T20:06:00.000-07:00

2011-10-03T08:11:00.000-07:00

2011-10-02T21:41:00.001-07:00

NOVENA TO THE HOLY SPIRIT

Begin by reciting the following prayer...

O Holy Spirit, Divine Consoler!
I adore you as my True God.
I bless You by uniting myself to the praises
You receive from the angel and saints.
I offer You my whole heart,
and I render You heartfelt thanks
for all the benefits You have bestowed
and do unceasingly bestow upon the world.
You are the author of all supernatural gifts
and who did enrich with immense favors the soul
of the Blessed Virgin Mary,
the Mother of God,
I beseech you to visit me by Your grace and Your love,
and grant me the favor
I so earnestly seek in this novena...

State your request here...

O Holy Spirit,
spirit of truth,
come into our hearts:
shed the brightness of your light on all nations,
that they may be of one faith and pleasing to You.

Amen.

Come, O Holy Spirit,
fill the hearts of your faithful,
and kindle in them the fire of Your love.

Recite the prayer of the appropriate day...

DAY ONE

O Holy Spirit,
bestow upon us Your seven holy gifts.
Enlighten our understanding that we may know You.
Give us wisdom that Your will may be clear to us
and that we may accept it.
Grant us the gift of counsel
that we may always perceive what is right.
Fortify us that we may always be capable
of fulfilling Your Divine Will.
Inspire us with the spirit of learning
that we may be able to penetrate more deeply
into the truths that You have revealed.
Let our hearts be steeped in the spirit of childlikeness
that we may bring You joy.
Let us have proper fear of God
that we may never grieve You
or wander from the path of goodness.
Give us the fulness of Your gifts
that we may glorify You.

Amen.

Look with compassion upon us,
O Holy Spirit,
and grant us the favor we seek in this novena...

State your request here...

if it be in accordance with Your Holy Will.

DAY TWO

O Holy Spirit,
make me faithful in every thought,
and grant that I may always listen to your voice,
and watch for Your light,
and follow Your gracious inspirations.
I cling to You,
and give myself to You,
and ask You by Your compassion
to watch over me in my weakness.
Holding the pierced feet of Jesus,
looking at His Five Wounds,
trusting in His Precious Blood,
adoring His opened side and stricken heart,
I implore You adorable Spirit,
helper of my infirmity,
to keep me in Your grace,
now and always,
and grant us the favor we ask in this novena...

State your request here...

Amen.

Come, O Holy Spirit,
fill the hearts of Your faithful,
and kindle in them the fire of Your love.

DAY THREE

Heavenly Father,
You have called me to be a member
of the mystical body of Your Son, Jesus Christ,
and to be a temple of the Holy Spirit.
I ask You to give me these gifts of the Holy Spirit:
wisdom, that I may understand the follies of this world;
understanding, that I may grasp more fully
the meaning of my existence
and the purpose of all things in the world;
counsel, that I may always choose the proper way;
fortitude, that I may remain faithful to You
under the pressure of temptation.;
piety, that I may revere You in all I do, think or say;
fear of the Lord, that should the motive of love fail me,
I may quickly be awakened to the eternal consequences of my deeds.
Visit me by Your grace
and Your love
and grant me the favor I so earnestly seek in this novena...

State your request here...

Amen.

Come, O Holy Spirit,
fill the hearts of Your faithful,
and kindle in them the fire of Your love.

DAY FOUR

O God, Who today by the light of the Holy Spirit
did instruct the hearts of the faithful,
give us, by the light of the same Holy Spirit,
a love for what is right and just
and a constant enjoyment of His comforts.
Pray Holy Spirit,
that I may strive to learn more of my faith;
that I may ever be conscious that reason in all
its human magnificence is capable of grasping
but a glimpse of the reality that is God.
Pray that I may accept as the motto of my life:
"All for the greater glory of God"
and grant me the favor I so earnestly seek in this novena...

State your request here...

Amen.

Come, O Holy Spirit,
fill the hearts of Your faithful,
and kindle in them the fire of Your love.

DAY FIVE

Come, O Spirit of sanctity,
from the glory of heaven
and send forth the radiance of Your light.
Father of all the poor,
light and peace of all hearts,
come with Your countless gifts.
Consoler in desolation;
refreshment full of loveliness,
come dear friend of my soul.
In weariness send repose;
breath gently cool refreshing breeze;
console the desolate who weep alone.
Light of Beatitude,
make our hearts ready;
come enter our souls.
Without Your grace,
man stands alone;
he cannot be good or sure.
Cleanse what is soiled;
heal what is wounded;
moisten what is arid.
Bend the stubborn will;
warm the cold heart;
guide the wandering footstep.
O Holy Spirit,
we beg You to give us grace through Your sevenfold power
and grant me the favor I so earnestly seek in this novena...

State your request here...

Give us merit for the present,
and one day beatitude when we have finished our earthly journey.

Amen.

Come, O Holy Spirit,
fill the hearts of Your faithful,
and kindle in them the fire of Your love.

DAY SIX

O Father in Heaven,
I beg You to send the Holy Spirit.
May Your Holy Spirit remind me
when I am apt to forget Your law.
Your love, Your promises.
May Your Holy Spirit strengthen my memory
to recall frequently Your sanctity,
omniscience, wisdom, and goodness,
faithfulness, and love.
May Your Holy Spirit encourage me when I am slothful;
strengthen me when I am weak;
enlighten me when I no longer can help myself.
Breathe into me, O Holy Spirit,
that I may do what is holy.
Stir me, that I may love what is holy.
Strengthen me, that I may preserve what is holy.
Protect me, Holy Spirit,
that I may never lose what is holy
and grant me the favor I so earnestly seek in this novena...

State your request here...

Amen.

Come, O Holy Spirit,
fill the hearts of Your faithful,
and kindle in them the fire of Your love.

DAY SEVEN

Come, Holy Spirit,
creator of all things:
come visit our hearts with Your power.
Fill with grace, friendly guest,
the hearts which You have created.
You are called the Consoler,
gift from the hand of God,
source of life, light, love,
and flame, highest good.
You are the pledge of sevenfold grace,
finger of the Father’s hand,
promised us by Him,
and You make our tongues speak the truth.
Cast light on our senses,
pour love into our hearts.
Grant our weak bodies strength
that they may never grow weary of doing good
and grant me the favor I so earnestly seek in this novena...

State your request here...

Keep the enemy far from us,
give us peace always,
let us willingly follow in Your footsteps
that we may be far removed from sin.
Grant that through You
we may grow in knowledge of the Father and of the Son,
and that we may ever strongly believe in You,
the Spirit of both.
Praise and honor be forever to the Father on the highest throne,
in the risen Son of God,
in the Consoler.

Amen.

Come, O Holy Spirit,
fill the hearts of Your faithful,
and kindle in them the fire of Your love.

DAY EIGHT

O Holy Spirit,
life and light of the Church,
give us thoughts higher than our own thoughts,
and prayers better than our own prayers,
and powers beyond our own powers,
that we may love and live,
imitating Jesus Christ,
our Lord and Savior.
Come to us, Holy Spirit,
come with the Father
and the Son
and grant me the favor I so earnestly request in this novena...

State your request here...

Vouchsafe to dwell within our souls
and quickly make our hearts Your own.
Quench in us the fires of hate and strife,
the wasting fever of the heart.
From perils guard our feeble life
and to our souls Your peace impart.
Let voice and mind and heart
and strength confess
and glorify Your name
and let the fire of charity burn bright
and other hearts inflame.

Amen.

Come, O Holy Spirit,
fill the hearts of Your faithful,
and kindle in them the fire of Your love.

DAY NINE

O Lord, Holy Spirit,
grant me sight to see the wondrous promise of divine love;
insight to see my own weakness;
delight in Your divine presence in my soul
which You have made Your temple through sanctifying grace.
I pray, O Holy Spirit,
that I may be not doubting;
that I be spared the pain of being alone
without trust or hope in Christ;
that my prayer may always be "My Lord and my God!"
I pray that I may acquire a sense of retreat
to prayer and recollection at various times in my daily life;
for prayer is the bond that joins us to Christ.
I pray that I may be aware of the physical needs of the poor
and that I may share what I can with them
in the charitable works of the Church.
I pray, O Holy Spirit,
that You will in Your mercy
grant me the favor I have sought in this novena...

State your request here...

Amen.

Come, O Holy Spirit,
fill the hearts of Your faithful,
and kindle in them the fire of Your love.

Novena of Confidence to the Sacred Heart of Jesus

2011-09-27T19:56:00.000-07:00

Novena Prayer through the Intercession of St. Therese of the Child Jesus

2011-09-25T09:29:00.000-07:00

Why Milk is Better than Alcohol

2011-08-22T19:24:00.000-07:00

Why Milk is Better than Alcohol

1. You don’t wake up with a hangover after a late night out drinking jugs of milk.
2. You can twist, dunk an Oreo cookie into a glass of milk, and then lick the cookie. Try pairing an Oreo with alcohol.
3. Dads are more likely to entrust their daughters to heavy milk drinkers than alcohol guzzlers.
4. There is no legal limit for milk consumption. There is BAC for alcohol.
5. You can openly drink milk in front of a traffic cop. Try doing that with alcohol.
6. There is no such thing as Lactic Anonymous for milk addicts. There is Alcoholics Anonymous for alcoholics.
7. You’ll be praised as a health buff if you regularly drink milk and pitied as someone in need of rehab if you always have too much to drink.
8. You can still drive after drinking a gallon of milk. You can still drive after consuming a keg of beer but…
9. Milk rarely has warning labels on its containers. Warning labels add color to alcoholic drinks’ vessels.
10. You can buy milk even if you’re under 18. You can only buy alcohol if you’re over 18 or a teenager with a fake ID.

- Prospero Pulma Jr.

Black Ribbons for Baclaran

2011-08-17T21:45:00.000-07:00

Black Ribbons for Baclaran

A black ribbon denotes death and seeing black ribbons festooned on walls and pillars of the National Shrine of our Mother of Perpetual Help - Baclaran to its multitude of devotees - whispered that the Catholic Church is one priest less. It could not have come at a worse time when the Church is begging parents to offer one son for the priesthood and tugging at charitable hearts to support poor seminarians to boost the dwindling ranks of priests. The tents erected beside the church only heightened one’s anxiety. That was on Tuesday, the 16th.

Wednesday the 17th passed with me again visiting Baclaran, expecting an announcement that a member of the Redemptorist family had rejoined our Creator. The banner by the altar had a fresh slogan, “Linisin ang Baclaran, panatilihin ang kabanalan.” I read it halfheartedly as my mind was with the black ribbons. For the homily, the priest read an open letter, and that solved the mystery of the black ribbons.

The Redemptorist family has not lost one of its own. It is as strong as ever and in a fighting mood, charging into battle behind Article III Section 5 of the 1987 Philippine Constitution and the signatures, mine included, of the hordes that flock to Baclaran on Wednesdays. The contentious issue is Paranaque City’s Ordinance Number 025 series of 2011. On paper, the decree seeks to alleviate the plight of vendors outside the shrine by relocating them to stalls and off the pavement where they lay their wares. The regulation is commendable except for one detail: the local government will apparently erect the stalls right on the streets, worsening an already festering problem.

Anybody who has been to Baclaran would have noticed the vendors who have turned Redemptorist Road, Taft Avenue Extension, and the other adjoining streets into a sprawling flea market. Whether on foot or aboard a vehicle, a devotee would have felt encumbered by those stalls and vendors encroaching on the streets, reducing two-lane roads into alleys where pedestrians have to fight with vehicles for space. A good day of trading for venders means a bad day of travel for devotees, pedestrians and motorists. On those days, traffic nearly halts and the five-minute walk from the LRT Baclaran Station, approximately 200 meters away from the church, turns into a 10-minute stroll or a 20-minute procession.

There is also the issue of crime. Packing a multitude immersed in deep prayer into a small space will give the Artful Dodger and Fagin a field day. Lady devotees are favorite targets, according to reports, but the fiends do not exclusively prey on women. The reminders over the PA system only reinforce the notion that nobody is safe even in the house of God.

Violence is another issue, having witnessed a Waray and a Maranao arguing heatedly near the statue of St. Therese no less. I hastily said my prayers when the Maranao started boasting that his cavalry is coming, but the Waray and his buddy, another Waray, calmly took the threat. Two Warays bloodying each other is bad enough. Warays and Maranaos brawling is Ultimate Fight Club meets World Wrestling Entertainment Raw.

Do not get me wrong. The vendors are as needy as most Baclaran devotees, and if I were them, I would be in the shrine begging for the Blessed Virgin’s intercession. I would rather have them force me to buy their bootleg DVDs and other goods than have them force my cell phone and money out of my pockets at knifepoint. When I can, I buy from them, but Baclaran devotees have their rights, too, as what the priest emphasized, and the vendors’ right to earn has long stepped on our right to worship at the National Shrine of our Mother of Perpetual Help without having to go through a gauntlet of venders and fiends.

Prospero Pulma Jr. -

The Ninth Legion Marches Again

2011-04-02T10:21:00.000-07:00

The Ninth Legion Marches Again

Of all of Rome’s legions, none has captured the imagination of writers and historians than the legendary Ninth Legion, and The Eagle joins Centurion and The Last Legion in tackling the ultimate fate of the Legio IX Hispana. All three films pick annihilation in battle over simple disbandment as the legion’s end. However, The Last Legion is suffuse with Arthurian elements, Centurion is about Roman legionnaires evading capture and death after the Ninth was massacred in battle, and The Eagle tells the story of a Roman officer who will not rest until his family’s honor is redeemed.

In The Eagle, Flavuis Aquila leads the Ninth Legion to unconquered Scotland and vanishes with his army. Twenty years later, his son, Marcus (Channing Tatum), takes command of a garrison in Britain. Marcus soon sets out on a quest to restore his family’s honor. Guided by his slave, Esca (Jamie Bell), he ventures beyond Hadrian’s Wall and journeys to the Scottish highlands to retrieve the eagle, the legion’s emblem, and cleanse his family’s name tarnished by his father’s defeat and the eagle’s loss.

Marcus is idealistic, pious, honorable, valiant, and even naïve for trusting a slave from a hostile tribe. He is every bit a Roman officer and a gentleman. With these traits, it is easy to hope for his success in recovering the eagle. It is Esca, a Briton bounded by honor, who thickens the plot with his suspicious behavior in the highlands. He is not entirely a slave as he is not a meek shadow that only steps where his master steps. Sometimes he leads Marcus, too far at times that his motives provide some of the tension in the film. The men are not wooden representatives of civilization and barbarism because Marcus, the civilized among the two, displays a killer’s heart while Esca, the savage, exhibits humanity in combat.

The breathtaking shots of thousands of warriors that have characterized the genre are absent in The Eagle as the battles are skirmishes rather than full-scale war. Here, Rome’s vaunted legions do not march on the field. Even the Ninth’s last stand is revisited only through Guern’s (Mark Strong) account. However, the pitiful numbers of legionnaires fight with the ferocity of Leonidas and his Spartans. Because the camera does not sweep across a vast field of fighting men but focuses on a few desperate men, each slash of the gladius becomes as important as a pivotal cavalry charge.

Even if Marcus is not the cartoonish Captain Duke Hauser of G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra, Tatum is clearly overshadowed by Bell’s portrayal of Esca who displays a slave’s meekness, a freeman’s dignity, derision for his master’s obsession with the eagle, and contempt for Rome. His Esca is the image of a man forced into bondage by honor.

For pushing a young Roman on a perilous quest of redemption and forcing a slave to serve a man who is remotely stained with the blood of his people, the Ninth Legion’s emblem can represent something grander than the Eternal City, something that can only soar like an eagle.

- Prospero Pulma Jr.

Grace and Integrity Amidst Cataclysm

2011-03-15T00:07:00.000-07:00

Grace and Integrity Amidst Cataclysm

Briefly, the camera of a foreign news crew settles on a slightly muddied vending machine, its glass panel intact, the potato chips behind it still neatly stacked. All around it were cars, twisted and resting in odd and sometimes surreal angles, heaps of wood that were once doors, floors, and walls of homes, and puddles of seawater left behind by the tsunami’s retreat to the sea. It was a resting place for material possessions, and, given the enormity of the tragedy, even for their human owners.

The world has seen the thousands of anguished faces, the dead laid in rows, the shallow lakes of seawater that have settled on streets and farms, and the mountains of debris. These apocalyptic images are too common in places where Nature reminds man of its power or man inflicts utmost cruelty to his brethren. It was the orderly lines of Japanese, people recently rendered homeless and even orphaned and widowed by the 8.9 tremor, queuing in almost straight lines, waiting to be attended to, that have struck many. In another place, the world will be watching medieval scenes of fighting over what can pass for food and shelter under circumstances where one can rightly envy the dead.

Now, we can add that image of the vendo, its wares unmolested despite the great want for food and money, to the collage of images that will be the human face of the March 11 earthquake. Many have long looked up at the Japanese for their passion for work. Now, more will admire them for not abandoning grace and integrity when they cannot be blamed for clawing and elbowing their way to get the first packets of food and plucking what can still be sold from their dead neighbor’s house.

- Prospero Pulma Jr. -

2012

2010-10-20T09:21:00.000-07:00

2012

In a cave set in mountains unforgiving to most but not to the most zealous law enforcer and scoop-hungry journalist, a scraggly man’s satellite phone rings. After he hangs up, he beacons to a band of adults congregated at the cave’s mouth.

Doomsday Prophet: Brethren, I have terrible news! The world won’t end in 2012.

Doomsday Cult Female Member 1: Why? We have nothing waiting for us in the world. We endowed you with all that we had.

Doomsday Prophet: Well, I can give them back to you. (Points to the woman) I’ll return your yacht. (Points to another woman) You can have your mansion back. (Looks directly at a chubby man) Your wife stays with me but I’m returning her mother to you. Everything that you had and now mine will be returned!

Doomsday Cult Lean Male Member 1: The tanker of pesticide, Master. What shall we do with it?

Doomsday Prophet: (Frowns in concentration) Ah, yes. We cannot let good pesticide go to waste. Get the crystal wine glasses and get that damn poison. (When everything is set, the prophet puts aside his wine glass, colored because of his rank, and fills each member’s glass to the brim with the pesticide). Now, let us drink to 2012!

Cult Members: To 2012! (They drink the pesticide in one swig and wait. The chubby man drops first, followed by the yacht owner, and more until the lean man keels over.)

Doomsday Prophet: (Empties his glass of Perrier water and watches the bodies writhing and frothing on the limestone floor) To fools who believe in 2012! (He dials his satellite phone). Hello. It’s me. I have a yacht and mansion for 50 million. Find me a buyer this week. What? Alright, you can have her but screw this deal and I'll give you her mother instead. Yeah. Fifty million.

-Prospero Pulma Jr. -

Coming Soon: The Taking of Tourist Bus 2 and Manila Pen Siege II by Prospero Pulma Jr.

2010-10-14T08:55:00.000-07:00

Coming Soon: The Taking of Tourist Bus 2 and Manila Pen Siege II.

The Filipino paid a very heavy price for the Quirino Grandstand Hostage Crisis. First, the Filipino image got a Tyson Dynamite Punch courtesy of Rolando Mendoza. After the lights out, the poor Filipino was soaked in the cesspool of world opinion over the madness of several Filipinos and not just Mendoza, but the MMDA SWAT, the scoop-hungry press, and an absent President Aquino who, as commander-in-chief, could have ordered the vaunted Light Reaction Company or even the rumored Alpha Two-Zero to storm the bus. Second, Philippine tourism got a Pacquiao left hook from adverse travel advisories cautioning tourists that their chances of ending up as a cast in “The Taking of Tourist Bus 2” are as high as playing a role in Mark Bowden’s “Stalking Jihad.”

As if that worldwide scourging was not enough for the Filipino, President Aquino, in Solomonic wisdom, ascertained that the weight of one’s guilt is directly proportional to his proximity to Malacanang, and so he stayed the sword of Lady Justice from falling where it should have fallen. A scrutiny of the list will reveal that the pardoned personalities had the power to dam the gates of hell from opening up and pulling the Filipino into the Quirino quagmire had they exercised their power at that vital moment instead of exercising their authority in navigating through EDSA during an SM Megamall sale.

And in keeping with his pledge that there will be “true and complete justice for all,” he pardoned men in uniform who developed this habit of checking into ritzy hotels to air their grievances against the decomposing Arroyo Administration. Oh, yes. The Filipino has seen this before: pardoned mutineers relapsing into their messianic addiction.

The next time the Filipino sees an armored personnel carrier ramming the front door of the Pen, he will not cower in fear. His friendly neighborhood man in uniform has just checked in to air his beef against the brass and the politicos. And, if he stumbles upon a tourist bus commandeered by a gunman, he should just brace himself for the opening credits of a much anticipated sequel - a Tyson Dynamite Punch.

-Prospero Pulma Jr. -

A Land of Happy Feet

2010-10-01T09:31:00.000-07:00

A Land of Happy Feet

It all started with an online video of men in prison suits, dancing to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” Because dancing inmates are more charming than rioting convicts or the damned in death row, the clip’s first fans told their family and friends about it, who then passed the word to their tenth-degree relatives and friends. And then CNN et.al learned about the dance class at the CPDRC and turned the inmates into bigger YouTube stars. As of today, the original clip has 44,749,112 hits. Not bad when your other option of passing time is drawing a fresh line on the wall at each sunset until it is full of lines.

After that, dancing traffic enforcers and a cosmetic surgeon and a starlet cavorting to “Careless Whisper” reminded Filipinos of their dancing heritage.

Cebu Pacific came up with the bright idea, after observing that airline passengers are at their drowsiest during the in-flight safety demonstration, of tweaking a lifeless but vital flight procedure. No, it’s not about fighting off a bunch of religious zealots who want to turn a harmless sky bus into a missile. It’s about learning what to do in the event of an emergency such as strapping your bulging tummy securely to your seat and reciting every prayer that you know and did not care to learn until that moment of clarity when your plane is dropping from 30,000 feet to 20,000, then to 10,000, and lower still until you can clearl see trees. So, Cebu Pacific taught its prettiest flight attendants to dance to Lady Gaga and Kate Perry and sent them out to the aisle to dance while teaching the passengers about the life vests, exits, and yes, a few dancing moves. The exercise was fun. Too bad there was not a pole in the aisle.

What did we learn aside from discovering that when you are female, 5 feet 6 inches tall, and weighing about 120 pounds, you can dance in the aisle of an airplane? We, Filipinos, have happy feet. Now, if we can only break our obsession with beauty pageants and vocal cord-busting singing contests, maybe we can beat the Cebu Dancing Inmates. Not in the length of prison terms I hope, but in synchronized dancing of close to a hundred million Filipinos - flight attendants, traffice enforcers, randy cosmetic surgeon, movie vixen, everyone.

- Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

A Flash Fiction Piece on Everyday Fiction

2010-09-25T21:23:00.000-07:00

I just had a flash fiction piece published on Everyday Fiction. Hay salamat!

The Rambo Squad by Prospero Pulma Jr.

2010-09-12T01:26:00.000-07:00

The Rambo Squad

How many men does it take to crush a drug cartel and topple the dictator of an island nation? A reinforced U.S. Marine division, exactly what a general will deploy since the target is an island. Or five men if Sylvester Stallone will have his way – Jason Statham, Jet Li, Terry Crews, Randy Coutere, and Rocky/Rambo himself.

Calm down. Calm down. I know that you have seen those posters of “Expendables” that has an A-list of other tough guys – Arnold Schwarzenegger, Bruce Willis, Dolph Lungren, Mickey Rourke, Steve Austin – but in Hollywood, you can conquer a bigger country, say the Philippines, if all of them take part in the action. But I can promise you several things. The cast is 95% male (not your average Joes but gun-toting beefcakes with anger management issues) and 5% female who are cover girl material (as to which magazine, you are free to speculate on). And the story is 40% dialogue (the characters have to rest between battles and talk, you know) and 60% bang, bang, boom, boom.

Now, let’s tackle the movie and it will be a short talk as there is little to talk about. “Expendables” is a film about, well, mercenaries or soldiers of fortune if you will. Sly Stallone is Barney Ross, the leader of a squad of mercenaries. Serving under his muscular wings are Lee Christmas (Jason Statham), Ying Yang (Li), Gunner Jensen (Lungren), Hale Caesar (Crews), and Toll Road (Coutere). Oh, please. Stop snickering over their names, especially Barney!

Barney (the purple dinosaur is starting to play and sing nursery rhymes in my head) and his crew’s adrenaline-filled lives are injected with more barrels of adrenaline when Bruce Willis, as the enigmatic Mr. Church, offers them a fat contract to neutralize James Munroe (Eric Roberts) and General Garza (David Zayas). Fronting for the CIA, Mr. Church wants the pair dead because of their agricultural joint venture project, i.e., cultivating coca on the island. Arnold Schwarzenegger, as Trench and Barney’s former teammate, waltzes in, recites a page of the script about letting Barney do the job, and exits. The church scene was one of film’s calmest, no single shot fired and no limb broken, considering the megawatts of action star power present in it. By the way, Mickey Rourke (Tool) has more speaking lines than Arnie and Bruce combined but he does not fire a gun.

What could have been an infiltrate-and-kill-Munroe-and-Garza plan becomes complicated because their local contact, Sandra (Giselle Itie), turns out to be the dictator’s daughter, Barney and Lee’s scouting mission goes badly, and Jensen briefly turns to the dark side when he attacks Barney and Ying at the behest of Munroe. Now, Jensen is the most dangerous man in the film for the simple reason that guns, attitude, and drugs form a very lethal cocktail and Jensen has all of them.

Barney goes back with his team and does what a U.S. Marine Division can do. After getting their thumbs sore from firing thousands of rounds and having ringing in their ears from multiple explosions, Barney and Friends save the day. Did I tell you that “Expendables” is 60% bang, bang, boom, boom? Right. I did.

-Prospero E. Pulma Jr.-

Man as the Space Invader

2010-09-06T20:52:00.000-07:00

Man as the Space Invader

By Prospero Pulma Jr.

The horrific death toll and cities turned to rubble in “War of the Worlds” and “Independence Day” are strong reasons for not wishing to share the universe with another intelligent, albeit, warlike race. That Steven Spielberg and Roland Emmerich’s fertile minds and not NASA or other organizations with cryptic acronyms spawned apocalyptic scenarios of man barely surviving an alien invasion is not comforting. Scientists sometimes confirm science fictionists’ fantasies such as the existence of alien worlds with the discovery of the first extrasolar planet in 1995.

Fantasy predictably broke away from reality soon after their brief union as science fictionists powered up their word processors and resumed sending man routinely to the depths of the cosmos while scientists have yet to launch another manned lunar mission, so it will be probably be a long time before humanity has a real close encounter of the third kind. In the meantime, writers and filmmakers will entertain and remind people of the possibilities that await man as he leaves earth for the stars with films that range in theme from exploring the solar system to sailing a few light years away and finally achieving the Holy Grail of space exploration: making contact with intelligent extraterrestrials.

Like Ferdinand Magellan and other intrepid sailors of yore, space explorers face many risks, a fact that “Apollo 13” vividly demonstrates. Helmed by Ron Howard, the 1995 film captures the desperate race to save the astronauts of Apollo 13 after an oxygen tank explodes in the spacecraft, endangering everyone onboard as other systems fail after the explosion. Tom Hanks, Kevin Bacon, and Bill Paxton portray the real-life crew of the follow-up mission to the historic Apollo 11. Praised for being highly realistic, Apollo 13 pulls the perils of space travel from the realm of science fiction into reality.

Man’s infatuation with Mars is boundless, and the “Red Planet,” is just one of several movies about humanity’s love-hate relationship with the fourth planet as films sometimes depict it as humanity’s future home and often as a base for an invasion of earth. In “Red Planet,” Val Kilmer is a member of a mission that investigates the disappearance of algae seeded earlier to terraform Mars. The life form that consumes the algae becomes their minor concern as they battle one another, the Martian weather, and their malfunctioning robot to survive. Aside from its honest serving of science fiction, “Red Planet” delivers interplay of factors that make the cosmos more forbidding.

Traveling farther than Mars, scientists head to Jupiter in “2001: A Space Odyssey” to investigate the destination of a transmission from a monolith excavated on the moon. The expedition turns tragic when HAL 9000, the artificial intelligence running their spacecraft, malfunctions and kills all but one member, Dave Bowman (Keir Dullea), who discovers another monolith on the giant planet. The monoliths point to the existence of intelligent extraterrestrials that influenced human evolution as the first monolith taught early man the use of tools. A product of Stanley Kubrick and Arthur Clarke’s collaboration, the film’s sparse dialogue and extensive use of imagery convey the vastness of space and the smallness of man in the cosmos.

Set in the near future when man’s search for extraterrestrials ends with the discovery and colonization of Pandora, a moon inhabited by primitive humanoids, “Avatar” tells the story of Jake Sully (Sam Worthington) who develops a deep attraction to the Na’vi, which he is supposed to help subjugate, and finds love in the unlikeliest of places. These newfound emotions eventually overwhelm his loyalty to humanity that he leads the natives in their fight against the encroaching humans and trades his body for that a Na’vi. Beneath the apparent freshness of “Avatar’s” story are familiar tales of exploration of new land and the brutal conquest of natives that follows and the hackneyed story of love blossoming in the most hateful environment.

In these films, man evolves from an explorer trailblazing a path in the cosmos for future generations to follow while waging battles with himself, his technology, and the universe to a conqueror in a spaceship lustily eyeing an extraterrestrial world’s riches. Even though creative minds painted these scenarios, we only need to look back into history to remember that ignoble intentions can subvert the noble thirst for knowledge that drives man to sail seas of water and infinite oceans of stars.

The Negotiator and Amistad at the Quirino Grandstand

2010-08-24T21:18:00.001-07:00

The Negotiator and Amistad at the Quirino Grandstand

Samuel Jackson plays Danny Roman, a police hostage negotiator driven to take hostages to clear his name, in “The Negotiator.” He battles the SWAT team sent to neutralize him and engages in a battle of wits with another hostage negotiator, Chris Sabian (Kevin Spacey). After several narrow escapes when Danny appeared to be on the edge of pulling the trigger or on the receiving end of a bullet, the film closes with Danny’s exoneration.

Set during the slave trade in the 1800s, “Amistad” chronicles the journey of African slaves to America aboard the Amistad and their mutiny that placed them close to the gallows for executing their captors. The film tugs heavily at the heart with scenes of the white man’s abhorrent treatment of the slaves, but it ends with the slaves’ acquittal and subsequent voyage home.

August 23, 2010, Quirino Grandstand: A cop dismissed on corruption charges tried to do a Danny Roman. He hijacked a tour bus carrying Hong Kong tourists and demanded the clearing of his name. The authorities did send negotiators and the SWAT team, but they were not Chris Sabian and the ex-cop was not Danny Roman, and the situation spiraled into a bloodbath.
A day later, the smell of cordite had cleared the crime scene, replaced by the stench of dishonor. Dishonor to the Philippine police for bungling a crucial operation. Dishonor to the Philippine media for meddling in police matters for the umpteenth time. Dishonor to the national leadership for not equipping properly security forces.

In Hong Kong, chests were bursting in fury over the tragedy. “Bumbling fools!” many cried in rage. With heads heavy with shame and hands trembling from fear, Filipino domestic helpers faithfully did their tasks. Wash the laundry, do the dishes, feed and bathe the children, lift things around, mop the spotless floor, polish the toilet bowl, dust the dustless furniture. They knew their tasks well and they would do it better that day. After all, eight of their masters’ compatriots died at the Quirino Grandstand. And at 2 a.m., their day would end. To their ragged cots they would lay, sleeping on stomachs filled with scraps from the table, aching from sore muscles and bruises. In rare calm moments, they would stare at the concrete walls and the bars on their windows.

What delivered them to their current misery was certainly not Amistad, and a freedom ship would not bring the luckless ones to the Philippines. The most unfortunate among them would have a coffin for her last journey home, and the local police, for all their shiny gadgets and First World training, would see that she was a Filipina and conclude that her death was suicide.

My Dreams Gone Wicked

2010-06-29T17:25:00.000-07:00

My Dreams Gone Wicked

First, I dreamed of being a farmer until I learned that farming weeds is illegal…and deadly. Just reading on the current Mexican drug war gave me the shivers, so I watched a marathon of Japanese and Korean horror films to relax.

And then, Donald Trump inspired me to go into the hospitality business, so I wanted to build a brothel. I did my research and discovered that a brothel is the sleazy cousin of the Trump Hotel. I would be called Big Daddy and not Mr. Trump. But I would be surrounded by a bevy of babes. Still, it’s definitely an abhorrent business, even for nominal Catholics like me.

Finally, I hit pay dirt when I have found a job that sets the barest qualifications and rewards its practitioners with superhuman power, truckloads of moolah, and a harem as icing on the cake. I have been turned down in the Bureau of Customs as I look like a cross between a dirty minister and an honest pickpocket, so I swallowed my pride and slid to a lower position. I ran for election and lost.

Like what I’ve said, I look like a cross between a dirty minister and an honest pickpocket. Maybe, they want someone who is half frank buffoon and half pious crook.

Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

Ele

2010-06-05T17:22:00.001-07:00

My second story published on www.short-story.net.

http://www.short-story.net/story.php?s=1535

Why Jose Velarde and Jose Pidal are VIP Depositors

2010-04-30T00:19:00.000-07:00

Why Jose Velarde and Jose Pidal are VIP Depositors

If you’re Juan de la Cruz, struggling with a measly pay but still parsimonious that you have saved enough to tide you over the next retrenchment or until you bag another contractual job, better think twice about approaching Philippine banks for help in keeping your money.

You see, you’ll be asked to produce two or more valid IDs. Two or three IDs and that’s it. Piece of cake, you might say. Well, try giving them your school ID with your chubby, stress-free face plastered on it, and they’ll turn it down. Worse, they might call security because they don’t appreciate jokers. Company IDs are not honored everywhere unless you’re opening a payroll account. Besides, some companies do not religiously issue IDs and some Recto “duplicating experts” can produce them. PhilHealth IDs are not good either, leaving you with the driver’s license, passport, SSS, Pag-Ibig, etc. After you’ve presented valid IDs, they’ll run a cross check, just to make sure you’re no low life opening an account with a fistful of pesos – money that will balloon into a million in a week’s time. After suffering under the very discriminating eyes of bank employees, you might console yourself with the thought that other wannabe depositors had it worse than you. Think again.

Remember Jose? No, not the hero immortalized in the coin, but Jose Velarde and Jose Pidal. You see these two dudes had issues with their bank accounts, issues big enough to be printed by broadsheets and tabloids and be broadcasted by Korina, Mike, Mel, and Ted in their patented vocal cord busting fashion (if only Michael Buffer knew that he had worthy competitors here). You might wonder. These men are public figures. How in the name of heaven did they slip through the very discriminating eyes of bank employees? You fall silent for a moment before a joke starts playing in your mind, but the punch line is not from Bitoy and the clowns from Bubble Gang. The joke is this: Bankers welcome honest, small-time depositors, but moneyed crooks are VIPs because they’ll only have to tell the financial whiz kids their preferred aliases, but Jose would be fine.

Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

Blinded by the Awesomeness of Th…The Chu…Chuck…Nor…Norris

2010-04-14T19:55:00.000-07:00

Blinded by the Awesomeness of Th…The Chu…Chuck…Nor…Norris

There’s more to the Net than Facebook and Youtube. There’s Chuck Norris…and the lethal jokes inspired by his blinding awesomeness.

When a blogger posts Chuck Norris jokes on his blog, he’s either scraping the Web for material (porn is hot but a no-no when you’re a legit blogger) to resuscitate his dormant blog or he’s suicidal.

As for me, I can’t tell because I’m deadbeat from the night shift and only the plummeting levels of caffeine in my system are propping up my fatigued eyelids. Shit, here are the jokes I’ve collected from the Net.

While compiling this list, I was nervously watching the computer monitor, ready to duck in case Chuck Norris’ feet come through the monitor and do what work had failed to do to me: kick me into sleep.

When you are reading this list, pray, pray that you’ve never prayed before, that Chuck Norris does not hunt you down for enjoying the light side of his immeasurable awesomeness.

1. The First rule of Chuck Norris is: you do not talk about Chuck Norris.

2. The chief export of Chuck Norris is pain.

3. Chuck Norris doesn’t use steroids. Steroids use Chuck Norris.

4. If you can see Chuck Norris, he can see you. If you can't see Chuck Norris, may God help you.

5. To be or not to be? That is the question. The answer? Chuck Norris.

6. You don’t find chuck Norris, Chuck Norris finds you!

7. Chuck Norris kicked Neo out of Zion , now Neo is "The Two"

8. Chuck Norris does not wear a condom, because there is no such thing as protection from Chuck Norris.

9. Devil didn't go down to Georgia looking for a soul to steal. Chuck Norris came down to hell and told him to get the fuck out.

10. Chuck Norris once visited the Virgin Islands. Now there just the Islands.

11. Police label anyone attacking Chuck Norris as a Code 45-11.... a suicide.

12. When people die, they go to hell. When hell dies, it goes to Chuck Norris.

13. When the boogeyman goes to sleep, he checks his closet for Chuck Norris.

14. Darth Vader dresses up as Chuck Norris for Halloween.

15. Chuck Norris's dog picks up its own shit because Chuck Norris doesn't take shit from anybody

16. There is no Life or Death, only Chuck Norris roundhouse-kicking you in the face.

17. Chuck Norris will never have a heart attack. His heart isn't nearly foolish enough to attack him.

18. Chuck Norris has already been to Mars; that's why there are no signs of life.

19. Chuck Norris does not own a house. He walks into random houses and people move.

20. Chuck Norris originally wrote the first dictionary. The definition for each word is as follows - A swift roundhouse kick to the face.

21. Chuck Norris does not follow fashion trends, they follow him. But then he turns around and kicks their ass. Nobody follows Chuck Norris.

22. When Bruce Banner gets mad, he turns into the Hulk. When the Hulk gets mad, he turns into Chuck Norris.

A Waray Poem

2010-03-20T19:06:00.000-07:00

A Waray Poem

kaupay magpa-huway kun gu-ol ka na
kaupay magpa-huway kun it imo dalan haliput la.

kaupay kun makakapili ka it imo oras
it pagpa-huway pero diri…
diri ka makaka-pagbuot it imo oras it pagpa-huway
og it imo dalan.

-Prospero Pulma Jr.

A Horror Story

2010-03-15T20:01:00.000-07:00

Flashes in the Dark has published my horror story. Conceptualized for a company 2008 Halloween Party (that's how long it has been gathering electronic dust), the polished version of "Rosalie's Cake" has finally found a home.

Here's the link: http://flashesinthedark.com/2010/03/13/rosalies-cake-by-prospero-e-pulma-jr/.

If it doesn't work, just click this post's title and it will lead you into it. Or you can simply copy and paste the link on your browser.

By the way, fellow aspiring writers take note. Ms. Lori Titus has the fastest keyboard in the West. She replied within a week. Normally, the response time in this business is a month to months or sometimes none at all, even if an editor has published your contribution.

DWU Memories - I

2010-03-01T19:45:00.000-08:00

It was another day in the mid 1990s, warm and cloudless. In Janssen Building, the prefect prowled for truants, faculty rushed to their next classes, and students played cat and mouse with the prefect and nuns. Inside this edifice of learning a veil of silence pervaded, broken by the bell calling for recess.

Gangs of boys, neat in their pressed khaki pants and white shirt jacks and hair sleekly styled with gel, bolted from their classrooms, growing more boisterous as they walked farther from their glaring teachers, martinet nuns, and the growling prefect. Their stomachs were rumbling, ordering them to follow the mob to the canteen but they purposely strode toward the Quonset hut, away from the tide of starving students and free from the blackboard and books.

At the hut, they revealed their weapons - guitars glistening with varnish and song hits magazines breaking from a thousand informal gigs. Some thumbed through the paperbacks’ pages, others armed themselves with guitar tabs, a few fidgeted, waiting for the moment. A minute passed with voices rising and falling until a consensus was born. Guitars were readied and vocal cords were flexed. Then, Mr. Big’s “To Be With You” broke from the group. Several times, they sang until the bell called them back. They dispersed and sluggishly walked back to their classrooms, back to their books and pens.

Tomorrow, they would pick Nirvana. Maybe Guns N’ Roses. Perhaps Bon Jovi or even Pearl Jam. Better yet, play “More than Words” or “Hotel California” with no chord bastardized and be crowned as the Guitar Hero

Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

Something Alien Yet So Familiar

2010-01-09T22:57:00.000-08:00

Something Alien Yet So Familiar

By Prospero Pulma Jr.

Marrying cutting-edge CGI technology with an engaging plot populated by likable characters is tall order in filmmaking. The current rule is for blockbusters to dazzle the audiences with over-the-top special effects that will distract them from flimsy plots and one-dimensional characters and for art films to bust their patrons' intellect when they ponder on their plots and the protagonists' motives such that watching a Cannes winner is comparable to studying a semester of Plato and Aristotle.

An exception to the parade of lowbrow CGI-heavy films and highbrow low-tech philosophical film fest winners (definitely not the Metro Manila Film Festival) is James Cameron's Avatar because it initially overwhelms the senses, well at least the eyes and ears, by taking moviegoers on the wildest safari adventure on the silver or IMAX screen, complete with very, very exotic flora, fauna, and natives, before it leaves the audience with questions about man’s insatiable greed.

Avatar begins with Jake Sully (Sam Worthington) heading to Pandora, an extrasolar moon that is largely habitable except for its toxic air, as a last-minute replacement for his twin brother who killed himself before embarking on a vital and expensive exploration project. A wheelchair-bound Marine who has few prospects outside of the military, he bites the offer of taking his brother's place, hoping that the end of one life will be the beginning of another.

On Pandora, Grace Augustine (Sigourney Weaver) reluctantly accepts Jake into her team that is studying the moon's flora and fauna, as well as forging cordial relations between the Na'vi and the Sky People, the Na'vi's name for humans, upon the orders of Parker Selfridge (Giovanni Ribissi), the local honcho of Resources Development Administration that is mining for Unobtanium. Jake links up with his Avatar, a human-Na'vi hybrid controlled by an operator, and he thoroughly enjoys the freedom of moving independently again.

On his first trip with the researchers, he is separated from the group when a herbivorous Titanotheres and a carnivorous Thanator attack him. Jake escapes from the Thanator but battles Viperwolves in the forest. Neytiri (Zoe Saldana), a Na'vi hunter princess, rescues him and rebukes him for being a baby, but takes him to her clan, the Omaticayan, after she receives omens from their diety, Eyra.

The Na'vi are naturally hostile to Jake but Mo'at (CCH Pounder), Neytiri's mother and apparently a priestess, charges Neytiri with teaching Jake the Na'vi's life. As Jake learns more of the Na'vi's culture, particularly their immense respect for nature, he begins to wonder if Unobtanium was worth destroying Pandora's ecosystem, especially the Omaticayan's Hometree that sits on the moon’s largest Unobtanium deposit.

Back in the base, Grace envies him for going further than she had been, and Col. Quatrich (Stephene Lang , the security chief who recruited Jake into a covert recon operation in exchange for sponsoring his spine surgery, presses Jake for new information. Jakes, battered inside by his budding love for Neytiri and her home, wavers in his mission, expressing his growing affinity to Pandora by stating in his video log, “Out here is the real world...in here is the dream.”

Jake finally casts his fate with the Na’vi when he attacks a mining vehicle. Col. Quatrich arrests Jake and launches an operation to drive the natives out of their home. With Parker Selfridge’s permission, Jake and Grace last attempt to convince the Na’vi to leave the Hometree fails. Many Na’vi die when they fight back, and this time, Grace and Norm Spellman (Joel Moore) join Jake in the stockade. Trudy Chacon (Michelle Rodriguez) breaks them out of prison but Grace is fatally wounded in their escape.

Jake, in Avatar form, returns to the Na’vi mounted on a tamed Toruk, a feared and revered flying predator. Neytiri accepts him back and Tsu’ tey (Laz Alonso) allows him to speak. Jake rallies the Omaticayan and inspires other Na’vi tribes to join him for the final battle.

In the battle, the RDA forces nearly rout the Na’vi until Eyra, whom Jake pleaded to help them, unleashes the Titanotheres, Thanator, Viperwolves, and banshee on them and annihilates Col. Quaritch’s army. After a savage fight, Col. Quaritch, in an AMP suit, kills Neytiri’s Thanator and pins her underneath the animal. Jake arrives and fights the Colonel but it is Neytiri who kills him with arrows.

With the exception of Jake and a few others who volunteered to remain, Parker Selfridge and the other survivors are sent back to Earth. Jake finally decides to remain in his Avatar form permanently through a ritual that will transfer his consciousness to his Avatar body, the same ceremony that failed to save Grace.
Running approximately three hours, Avatar may feel like an overly stretched science fiction flick, but the passage of time is barely noticed as one watches Jake evolve from a Marine who signed in to earn money for his rehab, very much like the mercenaries he despised in the beginning of the film, to someone who truly cares for people, not people, but aliens to the point that he is willing to abandon his earthly body and become a Na’vi.

Jake’s physical helplessness against the RDA thugs contrasts with his task of carrying the weight of two worlds on his shoulders, one world stripped of its natural beauty but still hungry for resources and the other still virginal because of the Na’vi’s immense respect for their home. Given with the nearly impossible task of preventing war from erupting between man and the Na’vi as the former lusts for Unobtanium as a Thanator lusts for its prey and the latter determined to fight war machines with arrows in defense of their home, Jake must choose between his loyalty to his race and its boundless greed or follow his human nature that dictates compassion for the weak.

For all the Titanotheres, Thanators, Viperwolves, banshees, Toruk, and a host of exotic flora paraded by James Cameroon that elevated Avatar to the Mt. Olympus of science fiction filmmaking, the film is strangely familiar. Just imagine Pandora to be some still pristine but resource-rich spot on Earth, the Na’vi as the locals, the RDA as a soulless corporate entity, and Jake Sully as the corporate henchman who switches sides, and you will see that Avatar feels more like a documentary than a sci-fi flick.

The Dangers of Medical Home Care in the Internet Age by Prospero Pulma Jr.

2009-12-05T19:57:00.000-08:00

Philippine Panorama, Sunday November 29, 2009

The Dangers of Medical Home Care in the Internet Age

By Prospero Pulma Jr.

Before computers and the internet became common, families had medical encyclopedias that taught them in easy-to-understand language the nature of diseases and home remedies for common ailments. Access to detailed medical literature written in plain terms was limited then, so there was little risk of people treating themselves for complicated health conditions. However, the World Wide Web has made medical home care just a few keystrokes and clicks of the mouse away.

In this age of Google and Yahoo, the internet savvy patient might complement his visit to the doctor with browsing online resources since consultation time is limited and cannot cover everything. Someone with a laptop can research on his condition while waiting for his clinic appointment. Today’s patient can now double-check the information that his physician had told him through the internet.

Searching the internet for medical information is healthy when used only as a learning tool because online sources can give a layperson an advanced knowledge of medicine. It becomes hazardous when an ill person decides not to visit his physician at all and just rely on his research skills to find possible clues, or worse a cure, for his malady. This is where the real danger lies as not all illnesses are textbook perfect and some diseases behave similarly, fooling even competent healthcare professionals. Even physicians, after thoroughly examining a patient, running several tests, and making a couple of referrals, can still err in their diagnosis.

The millions of healthcare-related websites published in different languages will not disappoint someone who turns to the internet for medical information. Some are simply the online edition of renowned medical journals such as the New England Journal of Medicine. Others offer a long list of pharmaceutical products and medical and surgical instruments. However, the sites that contain medical care information are the most tempting for the layman to browse. The ones established by prestigious medical institutions or organizations are usually filled with medical gobbledygook for healthcare professionals and they are less popular than the patient-friendly websites that painstakingly translate doctors’ jargon into lay language.

Regardless of these websites’ contents, most emphasize that a proper consultation is still important, advice that its nonprofessional users should take seriously. The information on their sites is only for educational purposes and patients should only use their content for guidance. There is still no substitute for a clinic visit. Playing doctor by trawling the internet for a cure can be worse than not seeking medical help.

Yellow Stars, Blue Stars, Dead Stars by Prospero Pulma Jr.

2009-11-26T21:32:00.000-08:00

Yellow Stars, Blue Stars, Dead Stars by Prospero Pulma Jr.

First, Pacquiao painted a blood-splattered mosaic of busted blood vessels and flesh beaten to a pulp on Miguel Cotto’s face and we, Filipinos, glowed like little yellow stars for the pugilist was the first to win boxing’s Holy Grail. Then, CNN picks Efren Penaflorida as its Hero of the Year, and we, Filipinos, burned like little blue stars for the Philippines has again recognized the teacher as a hero. Then, some Maguindanao warlord did a Slodoban Milosevic, and we Filipinos imploded into dead stars, devouring all hope that Philippine politics is crawling away from its old haunts, the cesspool of intrigues and slaughterhouse of broken limbs.

Then, Malacanang sees the butchers only as boys who pelted glass windows with rocks and nothing else, so a mad scramble ensues to call on men neck deep in the blood of tingi-tingi drug dealers and rugby boys/cellphone snatchers. Though as devilish as the warlords, they hunt vermin who prey on the law abiding, small but vermin still. The challenge comes to the men, mad from seeing Justice repeatedly defiled by due process and technicalities, to come to Maguindanao and remind the local Slodobans that Justice is not always the blindfolded lady holding the scales, that sometimes it turns into a witch who buries those who cross her in graves that she herself would not remember, that its enforcers are not always judges in clean robes but butchers too.

Metal for Wood by Prospero Pulma Jr.

2009-11-04T00:19:00.000-08:00

Note: My first story published on www.short-story.net.

Metal for Wood

by Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

“Nature colors the earth while time polishes nature’s works. Together, they are the world’s unsurpassable artists.”

“Sir?” Angelo Perez, the hulking driver, fleetingly swung his eyes to Armand Sarol. For him, death hijacking their journey was the lesser danger than superiors who blather.

“Years ago, this place was becoming barren. Look at it now. It’s like a huge green painting.” Armand continued, oblivious to his driver’s heightened wariness. “Those AeroGreen bastards did not lie when they said that they can green this land again from the air.” From dull brown tainted with verdant patches of mostly grassland, the land partly regained its health in two years of AeroGreen’s aerial reforestation project of the Sierra San Ignacio that rimmed the small valley covered by grass and scarce trees that they were traversing. The novel program enticed Armand to adopt a hectare of defiled forest, projected to host at least a hundred mature trees in a decade, threatening to raze the firm’s office if it duped him. He dismantled his firebomb when the satellite photos that he downloaded from the internet showed saplings thriving on once denuded ground.

“Yeah, I remember that time when this place was cleared of cover,” Angelo replied, catching only bastards and reforestation in the officer’s speech and letting the rest flow through his ears. “I felt a lot safer crossing it than today.” Angelo refocused on the Humvee, mounted with a heavy machinegun, bobbing a hundred meters to their front, and steering the truck over the cratered road. A second lorry, loaded with more supplies and men, formed the convoy’s last element. Passing through the sierra was comparable to driving on the moon, with pits gouged by rains on the 40-kilometer highway lengthening travel time to two hours in summer and hours longer in wet season and riding through the valley of death for Angelo, Armand, and their comrades.

“Joyce Kilmer was right. Trees are lovelier than poems,” said Armand, admiring the foliage with moist eyes.

Angelo restrained his laugh muscles. Lord, he’s cracking up, must be the price to pay for getting the Medal of Valor. Why did the Colonel dump this bemedaled nutcase in my truck? So glad the cab is too tight for another soldier.

“Do you know Joyce Kilmer?”

“Only Joyce Jimenez, Captain, who’s much sexier than trees.”

“You are correct about the carnal aspect, Sergeant, but trees are shapelier than any silicone enhanced starlet.” Armand’s emphasis on Angelo’s rank was not lost on the Sergeant who wanted to flog himself for the slip–a punishment heavier than what Armand usually levied on his erring subordinates–if what he had heard about the officer approximated the truth. He talks too much, reads too much, mingles with the men, shoots like a sniper but merciful like a nun. His cousin, Chris, a Sergeant in the First Infantry Battalion, described Captain Sarol with these attributes, embellishing his description uttered in a highly inebriated state with a pledge to follow the officer to hell and back. If he saved me and my buddies and me by guarding our retreat, like what he did for you, I’ll gladly live with the captain in hell, he countered.

Armand removed a Saint Ignatius rosary from his neck and presented it to Angelo. “Do you know what this is?” The Sergeant had to bite his lips to keep a smile from breaking. “It’s a rosary, sir, but I’m not familiar with the image.” From lovely trees to rosaries, the Captain sure knows how to pick topics, he thought. I hope he won’t talk like this to the troops.

“If you’re a Catholic, you should have Saint Ignatius looking after you because you won’t need Kevlar when you have a backer in heaven. He’s kept me alive after all those battles.” And soft and weird, Angelo wanted to add, if what Chris said of the Captain sparing their unarmed or wounded enemies, keeping a stack of books beside his bunk, and planting seeds in the forest during patrols were true.

Angelo mentally made the sign of the cross before uttering, “Sir, please don’t shoot me if I ask why you’re…like this?” He looked heavenward when no shower of copper and lead ensued from his passenger's M4 Carbine and 9mm sidearm.

“Chris told you?”

“You know my cousin, sir?”

“My company’s headquarters’ platoon Sergeant and the best in the Battalion, that’s what he is.”

“Last week, I visited him on my way back from leave. We got together, drank gin, and he started talking about you and your transfer, but nothing negative, Captain.” Except for the part where he saw you enter Oriental Beauties Spa twice.

“Don’t worry because he also ratted on you, Sarge, like how he learned to impersonate bumbling officers from his crazy cousin in Third Battalion. When he learned that I’ll be transferred to Third, he said, ‘Captain, act dumbly in front of my cousin and you’ll be a good source of jokes for him.’”

“It entertains the men, sir. Please don’t take it wrongly.”

“So long as you don’t faint in a firefight or dessert, I won’t cite you for violating Article 64. War wrecks lives and minds. If we dwell in battle all the time, we’ll be wearing straitjackets soon. Humor pulls you of the battlefield while books and nature draw me away from guns.” For someone accustomed to the clipped speech of superiors, the profoundly verbose Armand was an aberration to the Sergeant. The convoy’s primary task for that day was a logistics run, with ferrying the captain to his new unit added as its secondary mission. Providing recipient ears to his passenger’s exposition became Angelo’s unwanted and added duty as Armand’s driver. From monosyllable replies, which he frequently utilized in conversations with other officers, his intellect, untrained in profound discourses, was gasping for sensible answers.

Angelo hoped the safety catches of the Captain’s firearms were still on. “Captain, Chris saw you burying seeds many times. He never told anybody about it but me.”

“What's wrong with planting trees?”

“They provide cover for the enemy, sir.” His farming village viewed trees as generous providers of shade, fruits, medicines, and wood, and not revered for their beauty.

“Cover for both sides, Sergeant. But we should look beyond our need for camouflage to appreciate trees, like their serving as a part of ourselves that will live on after we get KIA.” The convoy neared the end of the valley where the road gradually crawled up through the sierra. Angelo, anticipating the Humvee’s adjustment to the more rugged terrain, shifted gears to maintain the prescribed distance between them.

A promotion or a bullet in the head? Angelo pondered on the possible repercussions of him proving that the Captain had loose screws in his head, abused drugs, or both. Better shut my mouth before we shift from trees to flower gardening. Both men saw the Humvee began to labor over the heavily pockmarked and inclining path. Angelo’s peripheral vision picked the Captain readying his rifle. He diverted one hand from the steering wheel to his weapon. “Be ready, Sarge. If I were a rebel, I’ll hit this convoy at this…”

A hand, invisible to the convoy's observers, casually pressed a button to unleash the power of a land mine packed under the Humvee's path. The detonation first heaved the layer of dirt over the device before shredding the vehicle and its occupants and raining their remains on the surrounding field. The explosion dampened the initial fusillade of the gunmen entrenched on the scout vehicle’s right flank. Only the impact of slugs on the trailing vehicles heralded the second stage of the ambush. In the truck, Angelo and Armand heard the characteristic clank of metal striking metal as the projectiles hit the grille, the hood, and the windshield; the staccato was noticeably heavier on the Captain’s side. Both threw the doors open a second after a lethal barrage of splintered glass and missiles commenced. Searing pain shot through Armand’s chest as he egressed. “Cap…” Angelo screamed then pressed his free hand on his neck where slugs tunneled through vessels; the plot of land where the Sergeant landed would be the last that he would occupy in his life.

Racked by intense pain, bleeding, and laboring to breathe, Armand crawled to an embankment occupied by some of the truck’s passengers, a few of whom saw the spreading blotch on his chest. Raising his head slightly, he picked the escort platoon’s lieutenant lying beside the limp radioman and screaming on the radio. A soldier crashed by his side. It was the medic. The Captain promptly redirected him to the two walking wounded casualties in the group. He spotted more soldiers huddling on the opposite roadside but Angelo was not one of them. You should have taken the rosary, Sarge.

The initially heavy volley that the rebels poured on the trucks slackened. Spread on a frontline inadequate to cover the length of the convoy, the guerillas began shifting from the Humvee to the trucks. Armand saw this in their pattern of gunfire that was initially concentrated on the front before spreading to their right flank as their enemies adjusted their position. The maneuver could potentially isolate them from the bulk of the platoon. Cutting the advancing element and regrouping at the second truck was the first tactic that popped in his mind. He grabbed the nearest man, a corporal, and whispered, “Shoot where my point my gun. One magazine only, then fall back to the LT’s truck. The walking wounded will go first. Do you understand?” The soldier nodded apprehensively. Having said this, the Captain kneeled on one knee, picked a spot where the undergrowth undulated from passing men, and raked the field. A thunderous chorus of rifles ruptured behind him, followed by the rising of a haze of cordite. To their front, the vegetation ceased swaying and no gunfire countered their barrage. As ordered, the men began retreating as they emptied one ammunition clip.

Armand’s front position and the troops’ response to his firing betrayed his role as the conductor of the lethal orchestra that crosshairs was centered on his torso. Metal again punctured his chest, keeling over a body weakened by the rapid depletion of blood. “Sir, stay down!” The corporal began tugging at his uniform. “Go…” His subordinate wavered. Armand expectorated blood before he spoke, “Run!” The soldier replied by reloading and firing at the foliage. “Yes, sir.” He shook the officer’s hand before rallying to the second truck.

Blood and air continued to fill Armand’s chest cavity, compressing his lungs further and hindering their expansion. Releasing his grip on life became a better alternative than respiring for a few more minutes. He shut off the carnage from his mind and inundated it with time spent with kith and kin and the fate of Sierra San Ignacio. Retribution would dye the sierra a fiery red from the falling bombs and howitzer shells, flying bullets and rockets, and the agony of the wounded and dying. He embraced this truth with the last shutting of his eyes, content to let his trees live in his stead.

END

Ghost Hunting Trashy Finds and Almost Real Gems by Prospero Pulma Jr.

2009-10-31T19:34:00.000-07:00

Ghost Hunting Trashy Finds and Almost Real Gems

I’ve just watched my 20th (or 30th?) ghost video on Youtube. The playlist was a good combination of punks in white sheets and bed sheets (definitely ruined a cyber ghost hunter’s day), ghouls made up like the characters in Asian horror flicks (freaking copycats), victims of poltergeists trying hard to look scared out of their pants (potential B movie talents), and yes, the real deal, or the real dead.

Out of the paranormal trash that I’ve wasted precious bandwidth on, one thing stood out. It wasn’t even a video but a picture taken of three nurses of Tacloban City’s Bethany Hospital (that’s what the caption claims). The nurses looked like they still had pulses and beating hearts, that’s for sure, but the real code status of the apparition behind them was doubtful. It could be a white lady (maybe she’s the first lady of the kapre that why she’s called the white lady) of Philippine ghost folklore or the fourth nurse who was tardy for the photo shoot (why the different scrub suit then?) or their supervisor, but with a getup like that, a super wouldn't need to issue memos. But if you know the place well, like many Warays, you’ll know that there can be an iota of truth in the image.

I’m from Tacloban, our school was Bethany’s neighbor, and I’ve been to the hospital a number of times (not as a patient, thank you, and definitely not as a ghost hunter). There was something about the hospital, maybe it’s the gloomy ambience (but it’s a hospital not Disneyland) or the fact that it’s older than most of today’s senior citizens (meaning more people have lived and died in it), or both that goosebumps easily erupt when things start bumping at night.

Now, on to my 40th video. Hope it’s not punks again.

Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

Philippine Boxing Association by Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

2009-10-19T17:40:00.000-07:00

Philippine Boxing Association

The future of Philippine boxing is bright, very bright. And we’re not even talking about Manny, Nonito, Bryan, Z., Marvin, and all those champion pugilists with boyish and harmless names. No, sir. We’re talking big time here.

If the current trend continues, the Philippines will soon have light heavyweight and heavyweight champions both in the amateur and pro circuits so powerful that their opponents would wish Filipino cagers never discovered the hidden power of their fists. Cagers? Yes, sir. You’ve read it right because the Philippine Basketball Association has a new sideshow. And it’s not the old and boring cheerdance number. For the price of a courtside ticket, a fan can discover who among the local basketball heroes can dance like a butterfly like Muhammad Ali and sting like Mike Tyson.

All that the fan has to do is pick a target, heckle him to death like yelling that his sisters are better basketball players, and pray that he grabs the bait. And voila! The fan has discovered Philippine boxing’s latest hero who will have lots of time to call Freddie Roach after he is sent to the naughty corner for a year or a lifetime perhaps. Of course, the “talent scout” must remember to bring painkillers, lots of it, because the tryout is going to make Fight Club look like a matchup between Spongebob and Barney. And the scout should not forget the waiver.

Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

The Chicken and the Bee on a Concrete Dance Floor

2009-10-03T22:45:00.000-07:00

The Chicken and the Bee on a Concrete Dance Floor

You’ve seen Cebu inmates dance to the Wonder Girls’ infectious single, “Nobody”. Now, be blown away by mascots dancing to the South Korean group’s hit song. And they’re not just ordinary mascots squaring off on the street for a dance showdown but Kentucky Fried Chicken’s Chuckie and Jollibee’s main mascot, Jollibee.

For a few minutes, peace reigned on the frontlines of the fastfood wars. For a few minutes, your faith in humanity’s fun-loving side will be reaffirmed. For a few minutes, you will forget the never-ending debate about which fried chicken is better. And, if you have two left feet, for a few minutes, envy will color you a deep, dark green.

Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

Aid for Ondoy's Victims

2009-09-29T21:17:00.000-07:00

Aid for Ondoy’s Victims

Globe and Smart subscribers can now reach out to the thousands victimized by Ondoy’s rampage across Luzon’s major population centers by availing of their venture with the Philippine National Red Cross. The process is simple and so convenient because it only involves keying some characters on your mobile. Just type RED (amount Globe (2899)/Smart(4483). Example: RED 100 and send to 4483 for Smart or RED 100 and send to 2289 for Globe.

Since I use Globe’s services, I know that the lowest amount that can be donated is PhP5.00 and the highest is PhP300.00. For the price of 5 inane text jokes, one can help some sick or hungry child out there. Or if one is a designer cappuccino, frap, or cafe latte junkie, donating one’ daily caffeine allowance to all those needy people and going without expensive coffee just for one day won’t probably ruin his stature in society.

Think of it as our way of thanking the heavens that Ondoy left us with life, limb, family, and hearth intact.

A Bigger, Badder Transformation by Prospero Pulma Jr.

2009-08-23T01:29:00.000-07:00

Bigger, Badder Transformation
By Prospero Pulma Jr.

In filmdom, sequels have to be better such as The Godfather’s succeeding chapters or grander like what they did with The Lord of the Rings, so the crew behind the Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen had their work cut for them. After all, the 2007 The Transformers did not only please old fans (people in their 20s and 30s who followed the animated TV series…in the ‘80s) and won new followers (the old fans’ kids, nephews, and nieces), but also made the producers, Hasbro executives, theater owners, and taxmen very, very happy. Faced with topping a box-office Mt. Everest, they made things bigger by reinforcing the initial cast of puny humans, big good robots, and big bad robots with, well, more puny humans, big good robots, and big bad robots.

The plot reveals that long before Optimus Prime and Megatron brought their clan war to our planet, Transformers shed their “blood” to stop a Prime named Fallen from harvesting the sun’s energy. Any preschooler knows that the sun is vital to life. The early Autobots also knew this, so they stopped Fallen, the Deciptons’ granddaddy, and hid the Matrix that would power up the solar energy device. Thousands of years later and a few years after Megatron was dropped into the abyssal ocean, the Autobots, working with humans in a covert unit called the Nest, are occupied with hunting down Megatron’s surviving minions, Sam (Shia LaBeouf) is entering college, and Mikaela (Megan Fox) is still the franchise’s resident hottie.
An encounter with Decepticons in Shanghai (the city not the lumpia) that ends with a warning of the fallen’s rise unravels the human protagonists’ lives again. Cracks form in the Autobot-human (or is Autobot-American) alliance as Optimus brings the ominous intel to the government, but he is rebuffed by the politicians and bureaucrats who want more from their partnership. The Autobots turn to their first friend, Sam, who has forgotten that Decepticons can change into cellphones, jets, chopper, a police cruiser, and yes, hotbabes like his blonde schoolmate, Alice (Isabel Lucas) and is more focused on college than helping his extraterrestrial buddies. His initial disinterest in getting entangled in the Autobots’ affairs changes as a small piece of the Cube downloads information crucial in finding the Matrix and sun-harvesting device to his brain. At that time, the quietly regrouping Decepticons launch their counterattack first by resurrecting Megatron, then abducting Sam to extract information literally from him, and, as a bonus, killing Optimus who charges to the young man’s rescue.

With Prime dead, the Decepticons’ offensive turns deadlier with Fallen taking command. Standing on their way are the remaining Autobots and just a handful of faithful human allies - small humps that can do little to stop Fallen. Their chances of success increase when the small party of Sam, Mikaela, Leo (Ramon Rodriguez), Bumblebee, Skids, and Mudflap, is beefed up by Agent Simmons (John Turturro) and two Decepticon defectors, Jetfire and Wheelie.

From America, the action turns to the Middle East (as if the place has not seen enough war in the last 50 years) where Sam and company find the Matrix in the Tomb of the Primes. They relay the coordinates to the Nest for an airborne drop and proceed on their way to find the sun-harvesting machine. The remaining Autobots, the Nest’s infantry unit, lead by Major Lennox (Josh Duhamel), and Optimus Prime’s dead body are dropped on the desert on a rogue mission. What followed was a pitched battle as the outgunned and outnumbered Nest commandos and the few Autobots stood against the Decepticons. The tide only turned in their favor with Prime’s revival and Jetfire’s sacrifice that tremendously boosted his power. And yes, a veritable parade of American military hardware occurred as America sent its top-of-the-line war toys to the front. In short order, Fallen is felled by Prime, Megatron is heavily damaged, and Starcream, true to form, runs away.

Since it was not made for the Oscars, except for the special effects category, but to fans who want to be tremendously entertained by a sci-fi flick, Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen’s plot loopholes should be forgiven. And the acting? The real “stars” here are not Shia and Megan but the never-ending war between Autobots and Decepticons that provides most if not all of the story’s fire. Speaking of Shia and Megan, their onscreen petting is getting tiresome that they are upstaged by the antics of Leo, Ron (Kevin Dunn), Judy (Julie White), and Agent Simmons. My, even Mudflap, Skids, and Wheelie steal the scene from them. And Jetfire? In his few minutes on the screen, he displayed more humanity than Optimus and the Autobots. After all, a Decepticon changing sides because of so much hatred in his group and sacrificing himself to boost Prime’s power is as rare as a sci-fi film worthy of a Best Picture Oscar.

In Tita Cory's Duyan by Prospero Pulma Jr.

2009-08-05T01:17:00.000-07:00

Since President (not ex-President in recognition of her service to her people and country) Aquino's death, you could say that it was not only the wet weather that has been flooding Metro Manila's streets but grief as well. Tributes poured in from all over, mouthed and penned by people from all social classes, religion, and ideologies, all expressing great sorrow over her early departure through song, simple words, or whatever media they could think of. But if there is one song that captures the Filipino's immense sense of loss, his immeasurable sorrow over the death of the lady Don Quixote who charged at the windmills of the conjugal dictatorship, the woman in yellow who stood steadfast against Marcos and Ver and later against Gringo and his RAM cohorts, his favorite Tita, and yes, the mother of Kris and mother-in-law of James Yap, then it would be Christian Bautista's rendition of Lucio San Pedro and Levi Celerio's "Sa Ugoy ng Duyan" at President Aquino's necrological services. The crooner, who raised a storm over his mangled singing of the Lupang Hinirang in one of Manny Pacquiao's bouts, did a fine job at her necrological services. The song, when rendered with intense yearning for a mother's love like what Bautista did, can move everyone except the insensitive. After all, we all have mothers. But not all peoples have national mothers. Perhaps, only the Filipino has.

-Prospero Pulma Jr.

Salvation for a Machine by Prospero Pulma Jr.

2009-06-21T01:34:00.000-07:00

Salvation for a Machine
By Prospero Pulma Jr.

Terminator Salvation, the latest chapter in the saga about autonomous, intelligent, and well, killer machines and post-Armageddon humans furiously resisting annihilation, begins with a John Connor showing that he is not the same person who barely fought off the machines sent to kill him in the three earlier installments of the Terminator franchise. He jumps from a chopper and promptly dispatches a disabled machine with several shots to the head. Yes, the boy is fully grownup, armed to the teeth meaning he can shot back at Skynet’s high-tech foot soldiers, and, for the first time, can send other people to do the killing, er, destroying machines, for himself. But he is not yet the heavily hyped future leader of humans who survived Skynet’s opening salvos in its war to exterminate humanity. He is somewhere in the middle of the organizational chart and his command covers an area conveniently located south of Skynet Central.

A few minutes into the film, the attention is on Christian Bale, who plays the adult John Connor. His order to his A-10 Thunderbolts to protect civilians from Hunter-Killer Terminators hunting a teenage Kyle Reese (Anton Yelchin) brings him close to a mysterious figure who changes his view of his expected future, not to mention add excitement to the plot. Marcus Wright (Sam Worthington) only remembers being in a lethal injection chamber and donating his body to Cyberdyne for research. Marcus tags along with Blair Williams (Moon Bloodgood), one of the Thunderbolt pilots, back to John’s base. The first clue about his real nature comes when a magnetic landmine, designed against anything metallic like Terminators, maims him. John becomes baffled about their unexpected discovery that Marcus has functioning organs, including a wildly beating heart, infused in his Terminator’s body, something that he did not pick from listening to his mother’s tapes.

John, naturally, is extremely hateful and suspicious of Terminators so he decides to cut up Marcus to study him. Unlike in death row where he had no trump card, Marcus’ knowledge of Kyle Reese’s whereabouts saves his hide, and he offers to assist John in rescuing Kyle before a major offensive by the Resistance levels the Skynet complex that houses the young Kyle and other captives. In Skynet, Marcus discovers that, despite his sincere intention to help John, he is merely obeying his programming to lure John and Kyle into a trap. His human nature overrides Skynet’s commands. He defects to the Resistance and rescues John and Kyle but at a high cost as John sustained a mortal wound inflicted by the original Terminator, the T-800. Marcus offers to donate his heart to John, redeeming himself for the crime that sent him to death row.

Terminator Salvation fits neatly with the three earlier Terminator chapters. As a prequel, it depicts the future after the nuclear holocaust initiated by Skynet, before Kyle Reese was sent back to protect a young Sarah Connor and a still-to-be-conceived John Connor. Proof of it is its retention of a pregnant Kate Connor (Bryce Dallas Howard), a character played by Claire Danes in Terminator: Rise of the Machines. However, it veered away from the three earlier installments over its choice of a thinking and feeling Terminator. Marcus Wright, a death row inmate turned by Cyberdyne into an advanced model of a deep-penetration Terminator, displays a wide range of emotions, from great shock from awakening to a world in shambles, confusion about the gap in his memory, and enormous disbelief over the discovery of his true nature. Sam Worthington handles his acting task well up to the point that the audience believes that the story is about a convict seeking redemption and not about humans fighting a war for self-preservation. Had the script given him a more complex role, Christian Bale would have brought his renowned thespic skills to the screen. However, his talent still shone through like in his solo radio broadcast and his John Connor character would have become completely forgettable if it was given to an average actor.

In Terminator Salvation, John Connor did not expect to encounter Terminators as advanced as Marcus Wright, with a metal endoskeleton and a very human heart that sought redemption, a killer who grabbed his only chance of self-cleansing by sacrificing himself.

I'm back! I'm back!

2009-05-19T15:46:00.000-07:00

After a year of absence, I’m back on the Philippine Graphic’s literary pages. It was potent combination of an exhausting work sked, procrastination, and yes, good old-fashioned writer’s block that caused the longest dry spell in my, uhm, “writing career,” if you can call writing a career. Enough with the crap. Here’s the link:

http://philippinegraphic.com.ph/v19n49d052009/fiction01.html

Mortality and Other Lessons from Sports by Prospero Pulma Jr.

2009-05-12T15:38:00.001-07:00

Mortality and Other Lessons from Sports

Yesterday’s champions are today’s whipping boys or worse…doormats. That is one additional lesson that can be picked from sports and be added to the usual lessons on teamwork, sportsmanship, professionalism, etc. The current NBA Playoffs is one good classroom where the value of mortality even among sports supermen can be picked up.
In the early half of the decade, the Pistons and Spurs were feared clubs. Woe to the team that faced them early in the playoffs for they would surely be taken to school, the school of no-nonsense basketball defense that is. Back then, it was much accepted that they were some of the biggest humps that an ambitious team had to hurdle, the Mr. Everests of the world’s basketball premier league. And where are they now? The Cavaliers routed the Motown boys in four games while it took the Mavs, another fading team, five games to kick the Spurs out of the playoffs.
On examination of the rosters of Detroit and San Antonio, one thing is evident: it is populated by old warhorses like Duncan, Parker, Wallace, and Hamilton. Billups, one of the anchors of the Piston franchise that won Detroit its third title and an old man by NBA standards, was spared from spending the last years of his career in an aging team by his timely shipment to the much younger and more dynamic Denver Nuggets. Sure, they are veterans that could still a kick a cocky young player’s ass but against well-oiled machines like the Cavs, they huff and they puff and still could not blow the opposition away. Even the Boston Celtics, itself staffed by geriatric cagers, had to endure a drawn-out hardcourt brawl with the rising Chicago Bulls before winning their series and advancing only to face another young club, the Orlando Magic.
Aside from the dropping statistics and more frequent injuries, the NBA’s aging champions have to swallow the bitter truth that their feared day when another team would easily sweep them away has arrived. But looking back at their careers, maybe they will not be so saddened by their current state because when they were young and strong, they too beat their fading sports heroes. Perhaps, they could share this with the youth who worship them.

- Prospero Pulma Jr. -

FRANCIS MAGALONA (1964-2009)

2009-03-08T05:54:00.000-07:00

FRANCIS MAGALONA (1964-2009)

The graphic lyrics and the scrapes of local and foreign rappers with the law have made rap music controversial, earning it a spot on the watch list of parents and censors. But Francis Magalona’s music was different. Yes, he was acknowledged as the King of Philippine Rap but he did not promote promiscuity or delinquency in his music. Yes, he had tattoos on his body, but he was not a gang lord. Rather, he was the proud head of a large family, so conservative and very Filipino in his appreciation of life.

His rapping did not make him rich but he enriched the youth who listened to Mga Kababayan Ko, Ito ang Gusto Ko, and Kaleidoscope World with lessons about their heritage and reminding them of age-old values threatened by modernity. He expressed his patriotism through his songs, teaching the youth again that there are a million ways to serve the country. His music revealed his pride in the Filipino and love of country and made nationalism look cool. He accomplished this through rap music, a medium that has been tainted by violence and censorship.

Francis Magalona’s talent made him a legend in the local music scene, but it was the messages in his songs that made him a bigger person, the reason why his loss is deeply felt.

- Prospero E. Pulma Jr. -

Human Super Soldiers by Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

2009-02-28T21:02:00.000-08:00

Human Super Soldiers

By Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

A bare-chested Sylvester Stallone in Rambo, an extremely brawny Arnold Schwarzenegger in Predator and Commando, or masked commandos storming terrorists’ lairs are the popular images of the super soldier. But the soldiers of The Unit can pass off as regular army guys even in uniform and not operatives of a clandestine U.S. Army counterterrorism unit. Even their official name, 303rdLogistical Studies Group, conjure images of military clerks laboring to bring supplies to the frontline grunts and not warriors who fight deep in enemy territory. The keen observer might notice that the men of the Unit are unusually buff for logistics troops, and they disappear frequently from their camp, travel abroad a lot, and operate in small groups.

The Unit has a full-fledged colonel as commander, Tom Ryan (Robert Patrick), a clue that the logistics group title is bogus because colonels are supposed to command at least battalions or small but vital units. Sergeant Major Jonas Blaine (Dennis Haysbert) runs the group in the field. Blaine’s team is composed of Sergeants Bob Brown (Scott Foley), Mack Gerhardt (Max Martini), Charles Grey (Michael Irby), and Hector Williams (Demore Barnes). Lumping sergeants in one logistics squad is another indication that the 303rd is not a regular unit.

Following army tradition, Blaine’s wife, Molly (Regina Taylor), is the doyenne of the tightly knit group of army wives who mutually support one another in facing domestic battles. Tiffy (Abby Brammel), Mack’s wife, is entangled in affairs, unknowingly reciprocating her husband’s fling with Crystal Burns (Summer Glau). Kim Brown (Audrey Marie Anderson) is the youngest wife in the unit and Tiffy’s confidant. Charlotte (Rebecca Pidgeon) is the colonel’s aloof wife. Like all married couples, the husbands also share their wives’ troubles.

Formatted as an action-drama series, The Unit’s episodes are equally divided between the battlefield and the home. Even the segments on the men rely on a dose of gunshots, explosions, some display of high-tech weaponry and special operations tactics, and drama, which could disappoint viewers who expect a story that is 90% violence and 10% plot. In The Unit, the men are super soldiers - human super soldiers, not cold fighting machines.

Published Poems in the Philippine Graphic

2009-01-24T18:22:00.000-08:00

Below is the link to three of my poems that were published in the Philippine Graphic.

http://www.philippinegraphic.com.ph/v19n03d062008/literary01.html

A Friend for Dinner by Prospero Pulma Jr.

2008-10-31T22:26:00.002-07:00

A Friend for Dinner

By Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

Bits of flesh stained the squirrel’s new sabertooth-like teeth and thick drool ran from the corners of her mouth. Oblivious of the mess, she attacked her plate again for another chunk of the pink meat, swallowing it with little chewing. Her eyes furtively watched the other four who were sharing the feast with her.

The tiny green one beside her had the smallest share, owing to his size, but she had no doubt that his appetite was as insatiable as his greed.

Armed with pincers that had become sharp as knives, the red-skinned diner easily tore through his first serving and was going through his second. Although his lust for food and wealth was comparable to his tiny tablemate’s, he was still the bigger monster due to his size.

The fourth diner had multiple limbs, using one pair to dump food into his gaping maw and another to prepare it. Unlike the squirrel who watched everyone with suspicion, he was eyeing his bawling, yellow-colored tablemate with growing vexation. The tentacled one took another bite and spat it out a second later.

“Spongebob! Your tears have ruined my food.” He freed his tentacles to simultaneously slap and shake Spongebob like a rag doll. “Quit crying!”

“Friends don’t betray friends, Squidward,” Spongebob replied. Pink flesh dotted his newly grown canine teeth like the squirrel.

“Bah! Don’t be a hypocrite!” Squidward dumped his tear-soaked food on Spongebob’s plate and sawed off a slab of the pink meat with his serrated tentacles.

“This is your fault, Sandy! You and your experiments”

“Spongebob, I only wanted to discover why mammals turn cannibals. I never knew that it was a virus. Do you think I wanted to look like a sabertooth or eat meat?”

“Lad,” the diner with the sharp pincers finally spoke, “in this world, some feed on others to live.” He winked at Spongebob and resumed eating.

“Mr. Krabs, you don’t understand. He was my friend.”

“Not anymore.” It was a great feat for Plankton to speak over Spongebob’s keening. “Remember the hunt?”

The hunt. Spongebob could never forget the hunt. Patrick banging on his door one morning, frantically fleeing from Sandy, who first developed craving for flesh of the pure-brained, and the others who were similarly infected.

Spongebob was inside his pineapple house, shaking in hunger for meat of the uninfected. Then he smelled Patrick’s brain, fresh and immune from the virus that ravaged the thinking brains. He opened the door, not caring to conceal his new oversized canine teeth. The starfish ran inside and never saw his friend swing the club at him.

Sandy dropped her plate, which she licked clean, on the table and stared blankly before lighting up. “Patricus cannibalinses. That’s it! That should the name of the virus. Patricus cannibalinses.”

“My boy, you’re good in frying patties, but with starfish meat you were simply amazing!” Mr. Krabs finished off his second serving and reached for his third, the last on table. Everyone saw the empty food tray. Their stomach, dictated by the virus, still growled. The meat of the uninfected would not suffice.

Too Much Hoops, Too Few Medals by Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

2008-09-25T22:27:00.000-07:00

Too Much Hoops, Too Few Medals

The jam-packed venue, the blue chip sponsors, the bigwigs on the bleachers, and the multimedia coverage – all are hallmarks of professional sports teams, say basketball. You will not see them in just any pro club but the popular, i.e. perennial title contenders with an All-Star roster, so when all are present in a championship battle of top universities in a Third World country, it would certainly pique an outsider but then this is the Philippines where aberrations like a convicted plunderer railing against corruption abound.
Sitting on the couch, the intensity of the competition radiates from the boobtube but you are not blue or green or go by the name of Eagle or Archer. You are simply brown and Filipino and wondering if so much is poured into supporting one sport, why has the Philippines not gained a prestigious title from it recently? Why is it content in just beating the neighborhood toughies? Why has it not gone toe-to-toe with the fabled American Dream Team, the fierce Spanish, or the scrappy Argentines? Then it hits you. Rabeh Al-Hussaini may tower over everyone on the court but he is just a local hulk, certainly a dwarf beside Yao Ming or even Dwight Howard. You scan the court for more comparisons and reality begins snapping at you. Yes size does matter in basketball, not Kenny George’s 7-foot-6 335-pound oversized physique, but something that will allow the team to outrun the lumbering Chinese or the speeding Phoenix Suns yet is flexible enough to mount a defense that will make the Pistons and Spurs look like amateurs.
You go deeper into fantasy and begin dreaming of an alternative reality for Philippine basketball where all the professional hoops superstars on the national team are “stretched,” that is, taller by a few inches but retaining the same athletism. Like all dreams, the concocted scenario makes you smile but science drops you back down to reality with a firm reminder that genes sometimes make or break an athlete, that someone accursed with short stature cannot dominate in a sport where height is a godsend. You shut the TV in disappointment and the names Gabriel “Flash” Elorde, Paeng Nepomuceno, and Efren “Bata” Reyes begin parading in your mind. While they would never make it into a basketball tournament’s mythical selection, these men have given the country honor by lording over boxing, bowling, and billiards in their prime. But this is the Philippines where tall men squeeze into courts packed with others blinded by their dream of playing in the PBA or if possible NBA, overlooking the other disciplines where their fortune might be. Perhaps you can blame it on the jam-packed venue, the blue chip sponsors, the bigwigs on the bleachers, and the multimedia coverage.

Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

Armageddon in Small Doses by Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

2008-07-19T21:58:00.000-07:00

Armageddon in Small Doses

What is worse than seeing the future? It is realizing that you cannot completely alter it. Apparently Sarah Connor does not believe in the fatalistic belief that fate is unstoppable as she soldiers on for mankind and her child. In “Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles,” Sarah Connor (Lena Headey) continues to fight to keep her son, John Connor (Thomas Dekker), breathing until the day when he will lead mankind after Skynet reduces it to ragtag bands of survivors and resistance fighters. Hunted by Terminator assassins and the law, they are joined a diminutive machine from the future, Cameron Phillips (Summer Glau), initially to protect John before joining them in preventing Armageddon.

Set between “Terminator 2: Judgment Day” and “Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines,” the story begins in a backwater town where Sarah was almost tempted to return to normalcy by wedding her fiancée, Charley Dixon (Dean Winters). But she ditches him, unwittingly saving him, as cyborgs - Cromartie (Owain Yeoman), a Skynet Terminator, and Cameron, sent as John’s new bodyguard - crash into their lives. Escaping into the future, Sarah leads the mission to ultimately stop apocalypse after Cameron informs her that it was merely set back by a few years. Along the way, they have to fight a resurrected Cromartie (Garrett Dillahunt) who resumes hunting John, a second cyborg stockpiling materials for Skynet, and a third assassin Vick Chamberlain (Matt McColm) who liquidates a squad of Resistance fighters, leaving only Derek Resse (Brian Austin Green), Kyle Reese's brother, as the survivor. As if fighting Skynet's death squad is not enough, the trio also have to contend with James Ellison (Richard T. Jones), an FBI agent who probes the murder of Miles Bennett Dyson and whose zealousness to throw Sarah to the calaboose for the scientist's death matches the cyborgs' enthusiasm in assassinating John. There's also a techie named Andy Goode (Brendan Hines) who programs a probable predecessor of Skynet. And when Derek hops on board the team, his intense mistrust of things linked to Skynet sparks tension between him and Cameron, especially when she destroys Vick's body except for his chip.

Stripped of the Pentagon-sized budget of its film predecessors, “Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles,” still quite delivers, even if everything seems downsized in the TV version, from Lena Headey playing a prettier and less masculine Sarah Connor to John's new guardian, Cameron Phillips, who can pass as a cheerleader, a very cold one that is, perfect for her role as Connor's close in security. She also tickles fans with her shifting mood and her cluelessness about human nature. John is still his old self, whining about the huge load on his shoulders. Together, they are as normal as any family, with Linda as the stern mother, Cameron as the responsible daughter and John as the son who has a knack for attracting killer visitors from the future, except that they are armed and dangerous. The fight scenes resemble the widely enjoyed man versus machine and machine versus machine smack downs in the “Terminator” franchise, although they are toned down a little bit, like everything else in the series. Viewers will also get to visit the future, one marked by mountains of rubbles and shifting battlegrounds between men and machines. But the “Chronicles” has one fatal flaw: it is too damn short, a victim of the writer's guild strike that aborted a promising season, leaving viewers turning in their sleep wondering if Cameron escaped the car bombing in the last episode because it would have been a waste of eye candy if she emerged as an endoskeleton from the wreckage.

What is worse than seeing the future? It's realizing that something good, enjoyable, worthy to waste your time on will abruptly cease with too many unanswered questions. That's what happened to “Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles.”

-Prospero E Pulma Jr. -

The Slingshot by Prospero Pulma Jr.

2008-07-12T20:59:00.000-07:00

“…and at the other end of the spectrum, a frail old man’s triumph over the sweet temptation of avenging a wrongful conviction for a murder he tried to stop (“The Slingshot” by Prospero Pulma)”.

- Philippine Graphic Magazine
-June 23, 2008

Philippine Graphic Magazine
January 22, 2007

The Slingshot

By Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

Sunlight bore heavily on the valley, desiccating the arid earth more. On the ground, a solitary figure trod the bare trail that ended at the foot of a hill that was shaped like an inverted bowl. At the bottom of the mound was a shady tree that beckoned to the wizened and parched trekker.
It was cool under the verdant canopy; beyond the shade, the ground sizzled from the midday sun. Rudy found an exposed root that buttressed the trunk in the rock-strewn soil. He sat on the buttress, laid down his walking stick and removed his wide-brimmed hat exposing matted gray hair. He furiously swung his hat across his face, replenishing his breath for the daunting task of climbing the hill. He may have had the vigor of men ten years younger, but his withered skin, the deep furrows on his forehead and graying mane added a decade to his real age of fifty.
There was tranquility in the air, no wind stirred in the valley. Rudy was about to be captured by the placidity when a rock struck the trunk. No shadow darted in the field. He rose, walked into the open and craned his neck to stare at the hill.
A boy appeared at the lip of the summit. The child stretched one arm and pulled a rubber band with the other. He aimed at the birds that flew overhead, tracking them until he released the elastic cord. The projectile followed a downward trajectory into the tree that he had just vacated. “Stop it!” Rudy screamed at the child.
“Ahh!” The child dropped his slingshot and fled. If the boy wandered into the hills on his own, Rudy thought, I have to bring him back to his parents before he gets lost.
The old man trudged up the slope, drawing rapid shallow breaths as he ascended. Above him, the boy reappeared with an escort; they waited for the old man at the peak.
Rudy breathed shallowly at the spectacle before him while wiping his soiled hands on his pants. Standing beside the boy was a young man; balanced on his wide shoulder was a bundle of firewood and a bolo hung from his waist. “Are you the boy’s father?” The youth nodded. Rudy smiled at the accuracy of his conclusion that the two were kinsmen. The facial features that they shared - a large nose, light-brown skin, wavy hair and thick eyebrows – gave away their blood ties. “He nearly hit me with his slingshot,” he did not lift his smile as he spoke. The man looked at the sniffling child and back at him. “He was crying when he came to me. I thought that he saw an engkantado. He said that he was shooting at birds when he heard a voice.”
Rudy laughed at the mention of engkantado, but the young man’s impassive face did not shift. He turned serious, “I am Rudy. People call me Mang Rudy. I came from the farm over that hill,” he pointed at a nearby hill. He stretched his hand but withdrew it when the young man did not shake his hand. “Are you new here?”
“Yes. I am -”the man paused, “- Berto and this is Rolando. We live in Mang Tinio’s farm hut.” Rudy fitted the description of the old man whom his uncle had warned him about. Berto noticed that he was alone and sensed his benign presence. “I am his nephew.” The mention of Tinio’s name unleashed a torrent of memories in Rudy’s mind.
Thirty years had not purged his memory of a nightmare that would occasionally recur and resist his attempts to banish it from his thoughts. The boy suddenly dashed to Rudy’s side. He yielded ground to the child who bent down and retrieved his slingshot from the ground.
“I am sorry for what my son did,” Berto pulled back his son. “I’ve always warned him not to aim his slingshot at people.” Rudy pointed at the tree at the foot of the hill, “He was not aiming at me. His aim was poor and the pebbles landed on that tree where I took a rest.”
Berto dipped into Rolando’s pocket. “Tatay, no!” Rolando whimpered. His hand emerged with the boy’s slingshot. “You can let your son keep his slingshot so long as he does not harm anyone.” Rolando’s sniffling changed into a high-pitched cry as he watched his toy sail in the air; it landed on the valley below. Berto shouldered the sack of firewood and led his son away in silence. The boy looked back at Rudy but the old man felt that the child was searching for his toy.
The boy’s cries faded as they disappeared into the woods. Perhaps I was wrong about the young man, Rudy shook his head. He might possess the same character as his uncle. He reminisced the youth that he and Tinio spent climbing and exploring the hills; the hill that he was standing on at that moment was their favorite. It offered a panorama of the fields that stretched into the distance and its inverted bowl shape was unique.
The land surrounding the hills used to be lush with vegetation; now, only a few patches of green stood out in the brown landscape and only the hills had remained verdant. Time, he noted, had changed the land in the same way that it changed him after he was scarred for life one, late night thirty years ago. The intrusion of an event that occurred decades ago into his mind disturbed him. He shook his head as if to free his mind of the thoughts that threatened his sanity.
Slowly, Rudy descended from the summit; he would plant his stick deep into the soil for support before he would take a step or shift his foothold on the rocks that protruded from the earth. On the valley, he spotted several branches that lay among the trees. He would not use the wood for kindling fire - kerosene would suffice - it was for another purpose.
He went from tree to tree, examining each fallen branch if it would be suitable. When he found several twigs that suited his needs, he stood up and was about to leave when his sight fell on the slingshot. He picked up it up; he saw that cracks had lined its frame. A plastic candy wrapper substituted for a leather pouch and its elastic band was thin. He pocketed the toy and went home. The trek back to his farm hut was not filled with excitement. There was nobody waiting for him; it has been that way for the past ten years.
A figure espied Rudy collecting the branches. He was also of advanced age, but he showed little of the signs of aging that marked Rudy’s body. He did not witness the encounter on the hilltop; he only spotted Rudy when he descended from the hill. The observer only emerged from concealment when the farmer walked down the trail. He did not climb the slope; instead, he followed a long path that meandered around the foot of the hill and gradually rose from ground level until it ended at a desolate farm hut. He panted from lugging two large plastic bags, supplies for his nephew and his family. The shack was empty. He cursed his guests for not heeding his advice not to wander around the hills, especially with Rudy foraging for wood in the area.
“What happened to Rolando?” A lithe woman blocked Berto’s path. “Nanay!” The boy bolted forward. “Did you let him climb the trees again?” She wiped the boy’s face; her hand ran over his body for wounds.
“No!” Berto shook his free hand and head in unison. The boy rubbed his eyes. “Tatay threw my slingshot away!” Sobs broke his words. “Why?” She shrieked. “He nearly hit Mang Rudy with his slingshot!” She faced her husband with wide eyes. “Rudy? Tiyo Tinio warned us to avoid him.” Her eyes were wider now. “But he looked kind and harmless!” Her alert look turned into a scowl. “You said the same thing about Fred and look what he did to you! You trust people too easily.” There was heaviness in her voice. “Maria, Fred is dead. Mang Rudy is an old man who lives by himself.” Berto’s stomach rumbled, “Can we go home now?”
“Don’t go near that old man again. Do you remember the men who took your father away?” Rolando nodded. Men with guns have taken his father away before; he saw him again when he returned home late one night. “He is also bad like them.” Rolando stopped, “But he looks like Lolo Tinio and he had no gun like the other bad men.” Maria sighed; her son probably inherited her husband’s naivety. “Some old men are bad, Rolando. Don’t let him see you because he would take your tatay away and make us cry again.”
“Can tatay make me another slingshot?” Rolando tugged at his mother’s hand. “I want to protect him when the bad man comes.” Maria suppressed a laugh when she saw her son’s face.
The slingshot in Rudy’s hands had a stouter frame, thicker rubber band, leather pouch, and its surface was smoothened with abrasive paper. Miniature figures of angels, dogs and birds - all made of wood - were cluttered on the table. He could almost see the smile on Rolando’s face; the possibility that the boy would even ask him to teach him on its proper use overwhelmed him with excitement. He took his cane and hat and set out.
A rock landed on Rudy’s right foot; he winced. “Go away!” Rolando bellowed. The boy emerged from behind a tree trunk astride the trail that led to Tinio’s hut. Rocks stretched the lower end of his shirt with their weight; his shorts sagged from the pebbles in his pockets. He picked a rocked and pitched it. The missile grazed Rudy’s left leg. “What are you doing?” The old man held his hands over his head; his feet had not yet dragged him out of range of Rolando’s crude projectiles.
“Did you come for my tatay?” The boy had a stone in his hand. “No!” The rock flew; it landed short of its target. “I want to give this to you,” Rudy dangled the slingshot. Roland glanced at the toy before he flung another projectile. “You’ll take him away!” Rudy was certain the child’s voice would be carried far and be heard by his father. He withdrew.
Rolando saw through the tears coating his eyes that the old man had retreated, but his adversary might return with his evil cohorts. He piled more rocks behind the tree where he would guard the trail.
Rudy’s hands trembled; his leg and foot ached with every step that he took on trial that led to his farm. But it was the image of Rolando hurling rocks and screaming at him that stung him more. He had become accustomed to children fleeing in terror from him, but nobody had pelted him with stones before. He wondered what evil words were whispered into the boy’s ears.
“It’s the end of the month,” a short, muscular man occupied the threshold of Rudy’s home. “Pay or you cannot go to the derby next week.” Rudy saw that his guest was alone, but he still halted several arm’s length away from the brawny man. “I’ll pay you tomorrow, Luciano. I’ll be in town. It’s market day.” Luciano tapped the ground with his foot, “This farm and the little else that your parents have left you won’t be enough to pay me in full.” He saw the slingshot and broke into snickers. “Is that for your protection?” He lifted his shirt; a gun tucked in his belt came into view.” Rudy’s countenance did not change when he saw the weapon. “Pay me tomorrow or I’ll send Miguel and Andy to collect it.” He had heard of what Miguel and Andy did to Jose who had been delinquent in his payment of debts to Luciano. The old and ailing farmer was hospitalized after the two henchmen mauled him. The mention of their names drained his strength more than the sight of Luciano’s firearm. “Practice well on your slingshot.” Luciano gently slapped Rudy’s face as he passed to leave.

“Aaaaaaaahhhhh!” The sound of rock crushing bone melded with the scream of a man. “Tinio!” A lanky young man pulled a blood-soaked rock from the hands of a portly lad who squatted over the village’s resident drunkard, but the fat youth gripped the stone firmly. The drunkard, who swung his muscular arms at the youth a minute earlier when they resisted his extortion, gasped for air like fish trapped on dry land. “Rudy, he’s still alive!” Tinio bludgeoned their fallen opponent again, but the alcoholic did not howl in retort. Rudy kneeled beside the boozer; his harsh breathing had become inaudible. “You killed him!” He pried the rock from Tinio. “He attacked us first and we only fought back.” Rudy threw Tinio’s crude club to the side of the road. “But I only punched him and he fell to the ground.” Red streaks formed on his shirt when he ran his hands over his shirt. “Someone’s coming!” The lights of hurricane lamps tore the darkness as a search party of villagers, roused from their slumber by their barking canines, which sensed the mortal battle transpiring at the outskirts of the hamlet, approached the bend in the road where the combatants clashed. Tinio rose shakily. His wobbly knees carried him a few feet away before he stumbled; he stood again and staggered away. Rudy froze beside the dead man.
“There he is!” Hurricane lamps threw the night asunder with their effervescence. Rudy did not flex a muscle when one of the men pinned him on the ground. “Diyos ko!” An old man in the group made the sign of the cross when he saw the body. Small depressions pockmarked the parts of the alcoholic’s face where he was struck the hardest, blood oozed out from his wounds and a glistening cheekbone protruded. Before a heavy blow landed on his head and his body went limp, Rudy saw that none of the men searched the road or the nearby fields. The world became hazy to his eyes; he did not feel the first drops of a heavy downpour that washed the evidence of Tinio’s presence in the crime scene away.
Rudy blinked hard several times before he sat up on his bed. The two decades of his life that he lost thirty years ago was beyond redemption. He had etched this truth in his mind. He rose to prepare for the trek to the market.
Rudy saw people huddling around posters that were recently plastered on posts and walls around the market square. “You can call me dona if I catch that criminal and get that reward money,” a woman muttered. “Yes, Dona Viring,” her companion curtseyed before her. They giggled. “One million pesos!” A man whistled. “I could buy my own farm.” The bands of kibitzers coalesced, blocking Rudy’s view of the bulletin. Rudy sought a forlorn poster printed with a captioned portrait of a man. He blinked and rubbed his eyes repeatedly, but his vision did not change, neither did the face in the picture. “Berto?” Rudy clamped his mouth as soon as he uttered the name of the man staring at him from the photograph. He swiveled his head to the crowd, but everybody seemed to have been pulled closer to the bulletin by the captions below the photo. He did the same.

Roberto Cruz: Wanted for Frustrated Robbery with Homicide. REWARD: ONE MILLION PESOS.

Below the promised bounty was information about the criminal’s physical features that fitted Berto. But it was the newspaper clippings that were printed below the caption that captured Rudy’s interest.

Police raided yesterday evening a squatter’s community in Batasan Hills and arrested a certain Roberto Cruz who is wanted for the frustrated robbery and fatal shooting of a wealthy businessman and his bodyguard. Reyes denied the charges saying that his friend, Fred Montano, who was killed by the trader’s bodyguard, tricked him into accompanying him to a prospective employer. However, witnesses identified him as the gunman who shot William Enriquez and his security escort.

Below it was another newspaper article. Rudy read on.

Five inmates took advantage of the stormy weather yesterday and escaped from the local city jail. They were identified as Nicanor Mujica, Isko Perez, Dominic Pena, Salvador Gonzales and Roberto Cruz. The jail guards on duty have been relieved pending the investigation of the jailbreak. The relatives of William Enriquez have offered a reward of one million pesos for the recapture of Roberto Cruz. Cruz is on trial for the slaying of Enriquez and his bodyguard.

Tinio descended on the market like the other kibitzers who swarmed over the posters like flies. The posting of the bulletin baffled him. If the police suspected that a local was harboring Berto and the other convicts, the law enforcers would already have stormed houses and rigged checkpoints, but no homes have been raided and the lawmen have not yet blocked vital roads.
No other soul, not even Tinio’s wife, shared his secret. As a member of the bar, he knew that the law would be unforgiving to anybody who would shelter a fugitive. But he, a renowned champion of the downtrodden who languished in jails, was only practicing charity in his own home. Exonerating Berto was already a daunting task for him; his nephew’s flight from prison only magnified the problem. Turning his desolate farm hut into a safehouse for Berto and his family was a minor chore for him, defending in court presented him with a very formidable challenge. But the bounty and Rudy’s brush with his wards two days before had altered his plans. He could foresee the police dragging him to join a freshly manacled Berto and be ridiculed by Rudy, the town’s newest hero and millionaire.
Tinio spotted his estranged friend pacing towards a police outpost in the market, manned at that moment by two policemen. He hailed a tricycle. The wad of bills that he wagged before the driver made the vehicle nearly flew to the town’s periphery.
A rookie policeman in the outpost nudged his senior companion and pointed at the approaching old man. “He is an ex-convict. But he has not been into trouble lately. ” The senior officer said. “Ignore him and watch for that wanted criminal instead. Who knows, we could be rich before the day ends!” Their laughter died when Rudy spoke.
The wind buffeted Rudy’s face as the police jeep cruised at high speed. Four policemen occupied parallel passengers behind him while another officer took the driver’s seat, leaving the front seat to him. He could see from the side view mirror the second jeep that bore the town’s police chief, Inspector George Jimenez, and other officers trailing the jeep. The vehicles’ wailing sirens and flashing flights emptied the highway and drew the curious to the roadside to watch the cavalcade. The knots of onlookers and houses soon thinned, wide fields began to dot the land. They were getting near their destination.
At Rudy’s signal, the convoy turned into a muddy road with crests of outcropping rocks and troughs of deep puddles. The jeep’s wheels rolled over a small mud-coated boulder. The vehicle bounced, tossing its passengers from their seats. “Putang ina!” A policeman muttered in the rear seat. Rudy was thrown upward and forward from the impact, his chest crashed against the dashboard. The slingshot in his breast pocket was pressed deep into his flesh. He fished the toy and stared at it.
“Did you come for my tatay?” Rolando’s words echoed in his mind. “Rudy!” The policeman behind the steering wheel yelled. “Right or left?” The convoy was facing a fork in the road. The left path crossed a vast plain, the right branch led to the hills. “Right,” his voice was barely audible. “What?”
“Right,” Rudy answered more feebly while he pointed to the right. “Do you want to become a millionaire?” Rudy did not answer. He gazed at the hill that he climbed three days before and the bowl-shaped hill that sat farther in the horizon. He foraged for wood to carve in the hills three days before. He remembered how his nose twitched from the fusion of sweat and the liter of tuba – native wine fermented from coconut sap – he spilled on his shirt. He was certain that even those who have adapted to his inebriated and disheveled appearance would shrink from his fetid state. “Stop!” The jeep jerked to a halt throwing the passengers forward; a policeman bumped his head on the driver’s seat. “Putris! Do you want to kill us all, Luis?” The policeman called from the rear. “Blame our stupid guide!” The driver slammed his fist on the steering wheel. The chief’s jeep braked close to the first jeep.
Rudy bounded out of the jeep. “Follow me!” He beckoned to the policemen, but they alighted and huddled around the police chief. After conferring with their commander, they followed Rudy in single file.
With weapons cocked, the raiders stood behind a tree line that bordered a small clearing. “Chief, I think we are in Aling Tinya’s farm.” Luis, the driver, said. “So? She can sue us for trespassing! But if we catch that criminal in that house, then, I will drag her to jail myself. Spread out and search the area!” The team dispersed at his command. The chief turned to Rudy. “Are you positive that you saw Roberto Cruz in that house?” Rudy nodded. “Three days ago. Like what I have said, he was with a small boy who looks like him, probably his son.” Inspector Jimenez pointed at the hut in the middle of the open area. “But the house looks abandoned!”
“Sir,” a policeman waved from the clearing, “the area is clear!” Inspector Jimenez and Rudy stepped into the open and trotted toward the shack. The hut, supported by wooden posts, stood five feet off the ground. It had large plywood-paneled windows and a fenestrated thatched wall. The policeman climbed the bamboo stairs. When the creaking wooden steps did not break from the cop’s weight, Rudy and the police chief followed him into the house. Sunlight, streaming from holes in the roof, created small dots on the bamboo floor. Dust had carpeted most of the house, except in one corner where banana peelings were piled. “Somebody was here, alright!” The chief swept the litter with his feet.
“Chief!” Inspector Jimenez looked out of the window. A policeman emerged from the bushes dragging a man like a prisoner. “I saw this man over there!” He pointed to a clump of trees. The police chief met them in the clearing, close behind him was Rudy. “That’s the man, chief!” Rudy tagged the man on the chest with his forefinger. “He looks like Roberto Cruz,” Inspector Jimenez pulled the mug shots of Roberto Cruz from his pocket and held it next to the man’s face, “but he is not our guy!” “But he was the one that I saw!”
“’cuse me, sir,” SPO1 Ramil Fuentes stepped forward, “but that man is Edel Areca. I recruited him to work in my mother-in-law’s farm which is on the next hill.”
“What?” Inspector Jimenez turned to his subordinate. “Are you sure?” Officer Fuentes nodded. “But Rudy said -,”he seized Edel by the nape, “Have you met this man before?” He pointed at Rudy.
“Y-yes!” Cold sweat streaked on the farmhand’s forehead. “About two, no, three days ago. He came asking for water.” Edel saw more policemen joining the loose circle that ringed them. “He-he smelled of tuba!” Inspector Jimenez released Edel from his grip and turned to Rudy. “You were drunk when you saw him?” Rudy smiled sheepishly.
The chief slapped his own forehead. “And what were you doing when you met?” The farm worker hesitated. “Harvesting camote.” “And why are you here?” “Harvesting Aling Tinya’s camote,” a cop butted in. “So, an intoxicated Rudy saw you stealing camote and mistook you for Roberto Cruz.” He aimed his pistol at the old man. The policemen in the circle ducked. “Rudy, I will count to ten before I frame you for stealing camote!” Rudy scampered before the chief could begin counting. “And don’t drink when you go bounty hunting!” Inspector Jimenez bellowed. “Chief, what about him?” He threw a handcuff at his subalterns. “Bring him in! At least we got ourselves a criminal.” The policemen sneered. “Yeah, a camote thief.”
“Berto and his family are on their way to Mindanao. We have relatives there.” The visitor’s eyes did not lock with his host’s fiery gaze. Rudy knew about Tinio’s roots. He knew where his friend fled after the village folk who captured Rudy vouched that Tinio was nowhere near the crime scene. “Berto told me that you knew about him. Why did you lead the police to the wrong place?” Silence rebuked Tinio’s query. Rudy retreated into his abode, he returned clutching the slingshot. Tinio stared blankly at the toy; he did not resist when Rudy pulled his hand and pressed the wooden contraption into his palm. “Give this to Rolando when you visit them. I’ll never forget how the boy defended his father. Nobody has ever done that to me.” Rudy replied and shuttered his house.

Kevin’s Precious, Pau’s Lost Mojo by Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

2008-06-18T19:55:00.000-07:00

Kevin’s Precious, Pau’s Lost Mojo

A ring-hungry Gollum and a mojo-less Austin Powers stood out from the hardcourt hysteria that was the 2008 NBA Finals. Just watching an extremely talented player like Kevin Garnett morph into a defensive and offensive monster on TV was so scary that I pitied the guys who were on the receiving end of his rage, the men in the gold and purple jersey I mean. He dove for loose balls, blocked shots, rebounded powerfully, and sniped at the ring even when his team was up by a comfortable margin. KG was on fire that he seemed possessed, resembling Gollum fighting for possession of the One Ring, his precious. Unlike Gollum who lost his precious in the end, KG can sleep with his, wear it, flaunt it before the world.

Austin Powers without his mojo, that was what Pau Gasol became in the Finals. What happened to the player whose defection to LA triggered similar blockbuster trades in Dallas and Phoenix? His scoring average plunged from a high of 22 early in the playoffs to 14 in their face off with Boston. His other stats also dropped, which allowed the Celtics to freely maul Kobe that it would not have been surprising if Leon Powe or even Rajon Rondo was sent to contain the Spanish superstar, a very risky move since it might have pushed his blood to the boiling point, letting him match KG’s fury. If that happened, I would not have watched a fiery Gollum and an emasculated Austin Powers but two Gollums fighting for the One Ring.

-Prospero E. Pulma Jr. -

Scrimping for Nature

2008-04-22T02:10:00.001-07:00

Scrimping for Nature

For heating my food in the microwave longer than necessary, I got a reminder that today is Earth Day. Meaning: Minimize Yeah right! Save the planet and all that very familiar slogans.

Cut down on electricity. Check. Our aircon is not on 24/7 and we settle for the electric fan when the temperature is tolerable, meaning not enough to cause heat stroke. I do not have that too many gizmos that suck kilowatts.

Fix the leaking faucet. Check. We adjust the water pressure when it is powerful enough to burst our pipes.

Walk. Check. I walk nearly a kilometer a day, giving me a trim figure, perspiring body, and aching feet.

Take mass transportation. Check. I ride in buses, trains, jeepneys….daily and not only on color coding days. It is nice really. I get to save the planet while darting speeding vehicles as I cross the street to the vehicle-loading zone.

Plant a tree. Check. Back in Tacloban, I planted a guava tree in reparation for another guava tree, axed when I off it and sustained a cut on my upper eyelid. Years ago, I also buried some mango seeds in the miniforest behind our house, but I do not know what became of them.

In short, my carbon footprint is minimal. So, next Earth Day, I hope I will not be chastised again for heating my lunch a little longer. I have been Earth friendly. Please give me a little latitude in utilizing some of man’s technological marvels. Better yet, accost that environmentalist who operates a power plant and a lumber mill, owns a fleet of cars, lives in an air-conditioned mansion, charters a jet, sails in a yacht, etc.

- Prospero E. Pulma Jr. -

Eating for the Hungry by Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

2008-04-05T22:37:00.000-07:00

Eating for the Hungry by Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

Rice in short supply! Food shortage coming! Looming famine!

Sounds familiar? Well, these were the headlines that have been splashed across broadsheets and proclaimed by hysterical news anchors recently. Since news should always be taken not only with a grain but a bucketful of salt, prudence dictated one not to jump into the hoarding bandwagon, lest he fall into the trap set by unscrupulous individuals. But a quick browse in the World Wide Web revealed that India, Vietnam, and Thailand have the problem, and it is not unique to this sad republic of ours, so there must be some truth to it.

So aside from buying the increasingly popular half-cup rice from some fastfood joints, maybe it would be wiser to eat that last morsel of food on your plate. Forget about etiquette that forbids one to empty his platter lest he is tagged as “patay gutom.” Forget about using the crisis as an excuse to go on a diet because if it becomes chronic, you will not be the only lithe person on the street. And forget about lining up the guilty on the guillotine because they are beyond redemption. For your next meal, get appropriate servings, not too much and not too little. Next time, eat for two, one for you and saving the other for that famished child foraging for food in garbage bins.

Piety by Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

2008-03-29T20:20:00.000-07:00

Philippine Graphic
May 15, 2006
Vol. 16, No. 49

PIETY
By Prospero E. Pulma Jr.
Dominic Pedrosa had a panoramic view of the dining hall from his perch on the rostrum. Circular dining tables were ranged before him, each illuminated by a lamp that magnified the effulgence of the overhead chandeliers, and occupied at that moment by bigwigs in business and social circles-mainstays of well-publicized ritzy affairs-that comprised the guess list of the benefit dinner. On the far end of the grand room were tables loaded with gourmet food, complemented by bottles of wine. But satiating the gallery's craving for ambrosia did not encumber him. Rather, he was saddled with speaking in a modulated voice, not in the uninhibited method of spreading their advocacy in the streets, in a posh hotel-shielded from tear gas, water cannon and truncheons. And he had to implore the effete personages for largesse for their programs, which would guarantee longevity to their projects, like the many occasions where he presented papers on environmental degradation before deaf ears.

He wished that his audience were dour riot policemen instead of pompous socialites. But his associates in the Animal Welfare Foundation, who embraced the presence of the well-heeled guests, had selected him as key speaker for the gala. They expected him to charm the audience in the same way that he sweet-talked his way to political and economic conferences to publicize their cause and cautioned him against drastic action if entreaties failed.

But it had become obvious to him that he was faltering. While the assemblage had attuned their ears to his rhetoric, their eyes had been darting around the room, mentally appraising their peers from their attire that bore the signature stroke of a couturier to the jewelry that embellished their perfumed bodies and comparing them to their own. He ignored their vanity and maintained his pace with the beaming of images from an LCD projector of an envisioned sanctuary and its prospective occupants - feathered, winged, finned, furry, and scaly - as he progressed in his speech.

Dominic punctuated his address with an entreaty, not with caustic words that marked his fiery speeches, and the audience rewarded him with generous applause; but he would appreciate it more if they applauded with their checkbooks drawn. He acknowledged their warm response before he descended to the presidential table at the foot of the stage.

On one table sequestered by matrons sat Elizabeth. The company that she kept betrayed her advancing age despite her utilization of surgery and cosmetics to impede the relentless advance of age. She had heard a grade school valedictorian deliver a more passionate and eloquent address, but she still joined in applauding Dominic. She then reclaimed her seat, half-absorbed in the latest gossip broached by a companion as her mind conjured the fates that would befall on the endangered creatures if the proposed sanctuary would not materialize. But the check that she had prepared even before the environmentalist began rambling would somehow make a part of the vision tangible.

Elizabeth had always craved for meat until she witnessed a butcher swipe a knife over the throat of a pig, revealing pink flesh and the first drop of blood. The swine convulsed violently, screamed in its death throes as blood gushed like a fountain, pooling in a crimson lake bounded by the brims of a basin. Later, she merely gazed at a native dish of prime cuts of the pork and vegetables, the moribund porcine still vivid in her memory. She finally yielded to her stomach's whims, but not before she segregated the meat from the garnishing with heaps of fruit salad supplementing her meager fare.

Elizabeth soon weaned her appetite from meat-based viands. She even abjured seafood, despite its promise to deliver less flab while nourishing her. She finally settled for the earth's green bounty - vapid but guilt-free.

While Elizabeth regarded Dominic's speech as a shadow of his usual rhetoric on television peppered with vitriolic words and profanity, her eyes were riveted to the slideshow presentation. An image of an eagle patrolling its domain captivated her, but the next picture that showed the bird of prey with its feathers matted in blood left her crestfallen. The ponderous silhouette of a whale shark streaking beneath the sea enthralled her, but fishermen butchering the docile giant in the next scene tore her from her enchantment. The other photographs, depicting animals in varying stages of magnificence in the wilderness and humiliation and death in captivity, that were shown stirred a mishmash of emotions in her. The stunning visuals did not only leave her breathless and elicited audible gasps from her and the other squeamish spectators at scenes of carnage, it also rekindled her loathing for man's penchant to mete gruesome ends to both untamed and domesticated creatures for necessity and leisure.

Stella, a plump woman of sixty, nudged Elizabeth and guided her sight to a regal-looking lady in the presidential table. “Look at Ynes. She is all smiles, as if the whole world does not know what she had done to those poor maids”.

The controversy that had embroiled Ynes, who owned a mansion a block away from Elizabeth's own palatial abode, stemmed from charges of physical abuse filed by her former servants. Under the guise of discarding the garbage one night, the servants, who bore fresh bruises and scars of past assaults, slipped past the village guards. They headed directly to a kinsman of one of the young women who escorted them to the police where they narrated their ordeal in the hands of Ynes, the president of the local animal rights group, a fixture in fund-raising socials and the brains of the night's gala. Elizabeth pitied the woman who exuded with warmth in their encounters, especially when she convinced her number of times to adopt some of the animals that she had found wandering in the streets.

The media predictably sensationalized the scandal for the story embodied the age-old feud between the oppressive rich and the downtrodden poor. “I am impressed with her gumption to show her face here” Aurora, a sixty-five year-old and waif-thin woman seated on Elizabeth's right flank, chimed in.

Elizabeth did not reply. The husbands of the two women, playing the role of reluctant escorts, also remained silent, their eyes roaming the room, hunting for entirely different reasons. She had seen Stella pull the hair of her maids, slander them with foul names and leave the imprint of her hand on their faces. Aurora seemed to have forgotten the scandal that erupted nearly a decade ago after she was caught in the arms of a dance instructor thirty years her junior. The sixty-five year old also shared Stella's intense disdain for bumbling servants and possessed the same fervor in meting comeuppance for what she deemed to be asinine acts by her house help.

Elizabeth's mind wandered to Luisa, her spunky Shih Tzu, after the speech ended and her friends continued with their diatribe. Her pint-sized and shaggy pet had two episodes of vomiting and diarrhea that rendered it lethargic to even nibble at its favorite dog biscuit. The malady had manifested hours before. It resembled poisoning and she already had a primary suspect. But retribution had to wait and her favorite canine had to languish while she primed herself for the soiree. In the meantime, the mutt's endearing spunk slowly slipped away as the poison raced in its bloodstream while Elizabeth was absorbed with the night's gaiety.

The assemblage dispersed past midnight in a fleet of chauffeured vehicles. Stella left with her husband while Aurora hooked up with a waiter after her spouse ensnared a comely usherette. Elizabeth departed alone; ensconced in her sedan, she nursed a throbbing pain in her head induced by spirits. Her cellular phone lay untouched in her purse, the plan to follow-up her instructions to Rosing, her chief maid, on the care of her ailing pet were shelved by inebriation. But the success of the fund-raising dinner and the promise of a columnist to plaster her photographs of the charity event on his society column were just rewards for the headache. Dominic Pedrosa also smiled at the princely amount collected.

When Elizabeth's car swerved into the driveway; a menagerie of animals had massed at the door to greet their mistress. The earnest rubbing of fur against her legs, the excited yelps and purring and the fluttering of wings from the mynahs stirred by the commotion were unrequited as she rushed to her bedroom. A litter embroidered with the name Luisa in bold letters filled a dim corner, unoccupied by the Shih Tzu. The empty basket lifted the inebriety from her mind like the wind dissipating the morning mist.

In the morning of the charity dinner, Elizabeth heard the tiny mutt barking in the master's bedroom. She sauntered out of the room's walk-in closet, where she had been preening in front of a full-sized mirror, and saw that her pet had shrunken to a corner, trembling and whimpering at the shadow of Elena, the new maid, who brandished a broom like a battleaxe. She dwarfed Lourdes, another servant, who tethered her with her arms locked around the bigger woman's waist. She advanced, dragging Lourdes who dug her feet deeper into the carpet and tilted her body at an odd angle as she pulled.
“Elena!” Elizabeth shrieked.

Lourdes and Elena jumped at her voice. Lourdes unlocked her arms, giving Elena space to hide her improvised club behind her back in a flash with its shaft protruding from her shoulder like a sword. Lourdes tiptoed to the door, gently closing it in her wake. Elizabeth ignored her; her attention was pinned on Elena.

“Ma'am, look what that devil did to me!” Blood oozed from her ankle where several shallow wounds were arrayed in a semi-lunar configuration.

“Did she bit you?”

Elena nodded, tears staining her livid face. “I was in the garden, watering the plants. I thought that that I had stepped on a snake, but it was your dog!”

“Did you step on Luisa?”

“I did not see her, ma'am. She blended with the plants.”

“Idiot! You could have killed her!” Elena's flushed face turned pallid. “You ignorant mountain girl don't know how much I treasure her.”

Elena knew that she was telling the truth. On her first week at the mansion, her jaw dropped when she saw black dogs with barrel-like bodies, called Rottweiler by the guard, feasting on meat - a rare treat in her hinterland village - while the lapdogs subsisted on expensive dog food. And the pets also had a steady supply of vitamins, soap and shampoo and were regularly seen by a veterinarian. The other animals were equally pampered as well. Sometimes, she would fantasize about switching the animal's food with the cheap canned food that was their staple in the maid's quarters. Once, she thought that she would enjoy more privileges if she were a pet in the opulent household than a servant.

Blood trickled from Elena's wounded ankle to the beige carpet beneath her feet. “You are soiling the carpet!” Elizabeth shrieked again like a banshee. “Get out!”

“Ma'am, what about rabies?” Elena had seen a mad dog bit a neighbor; both beast and man succumbed to rabies. Luisa was not frothing at the mouth when it snapped at her, but she remembered that the doctor who visited their village after the attack on the villager said that dogs harbor the disease.

“Don't worry. She had her rabies shot.” Elizabeth eyed the lass. The young woman appeared like somebody who had encountered every vermin in the boondocks, unlike her pet that had lived in a pristine environment all its life. “What about you? Did you complete your vaccination?” The young woman did not answer. “See? You are dirtier than Luisa!” The red stain had spread. “Get out now! Go to Rosing and have your wound cleaned.” Elizabeth shoved her servant out of the room.

The Shih Tzu emerged from its sanctuary wagging its curled tail. “Did she hurt you, Luisa?” She scooped it with one hand and ran the other through its thick coat. “But mommy won't let her hurt you. But I don't want to hurt Elena, even if she had been mean to you!” She tickled its underside and profuse beard. Luisa gave a delighted yelp. “Yes, my baby! I will tell Lourdes to give you another bath and brush your coat.”

“Rosing!” Elizabeth's voice blared from the intercom. “Rosing, come to my room!” A minute passed before the head servant appeared, rubbing her eyes and yawning.

“Have you seen Luisa?”

“Ma'am?” Rosing yawned again.

“Luisa is not in her litter. Where is she?”

“She's in her litter!” The head servant rubbed her eyes and brushed her tousled hair.

“Would I be screaming if she is in that litter?”

That woke Rosing. “We-we'll find her, ma'am!” She stormed out of the room and roused the other maids. She even conscripted the driver who had barely shed his uniform and the lone watchman into the search party. Except for Lourdes who was the first to spring from her bunk bed, they all left their beds grumbling; the head servant immediately quashed dissent by describing Elizabeth's very foul disposition over the disappearance of her cherished pet.
Elena egressed from her bunk hobbling from the wounds that Rosing had cleansed, swabbed with iodine and plastered with gauze. She applied crushed garlic to the bites, which her folks believed would suck the rabies out; it gave a burning sensation to her flesh, somewhat diminishing the pain. Besides, she had to wait for the dog to become mad to determine if the traditional remedy was potent. She presented herself to Rosing whose eyes wandered to her swaddled ankle before she sent her to the garage.

The party searched the garden, garage, rooms, the pool and cabinets, trailed by the resident canines and felines, sparing only the bedrooms of their masters, long vacated and sealed with the death of Elizabeth's husband and the migration of their children abroad. But the band performed its urgent task only with cursory glances and slight shifting of clutter in the crevices that it had searched, unlike Elena and Lourdes. Elena scoured the garage and maintenance shed, probed and swept the bellies of the parked cars and shelves with an intense gaze and sieve-like hands.

Elena knew that all fingers would point to her if the Shih Tzu would not turn up alive and well. Rosing had told her that Elizabeth had never manhandled a servant, but she had banished several erring maids to the streets deep in the night. It made the absence of kith and kin in the city filled the young woman more with dread than the wrath of her mistress.

“Luisa's dead!” The voice came from the backyard.

The words severed Elena's flimsy thread of hope; she stared at the gate, seeing the forbidding streets beyond, before she shuffled off to the backyard. They all converged at a thick pocket in the garden.

Estelito, the driver, emerged from the bushes with the limp body of Luisa in his arms. Froth covered its mouth, its shaggy coat was soiled and it smelled rank. He laid the Shih Tzu on the ground where the other canines were circling warily, whimpering when they sniffed the dead dog.

Rosing advanced to the front of the knot of servants and tapped the dog's dirty coat with the sole of her sandal. “It's really dead,” she spoke softy, “I'd better get ma'am!”
“Serves that pest right! It ate better food than me!” the portly cook spoke half-smiling.
“What a way to die for a small demon,” Estelito said. “I wonder what killed it.”
“Vetsin probably did it!” opined the laundrywoman.
Elena began to retreat to the periphery of the group; she had a hint where the exchange was headed.

“But Luisa was cuddly,” Lourdes sniffled. She squatted and brushed some of the earth off Luisa's shaggy coat. She was young like Elena, but she had none of her harrowing brushes with dogs. She had nurtured a number of canine mongrels, but she had always coveted the Shih Tzu and other toy dogs since childhood. “Who could have killed it?”
The question burst in Elena's ears; the collective weight of furtive glances began to bear on her.
“Where is she?” Elizabeth's shrill voice rang in the yard. The rank parted to let her pass; Lourdes melted into the group. Elena drifted farther.

Luisa lay prostrate, lifeless and filthy, ringed by servants and its mistress who hurled herself into the earth to retrieve her pet, cradled it to her bosom and keened. Rosing and her band lowered their eyes; Elizabeth needed seclusion amidst their physical presence.
With Luisa secure in her embrace, Elizabeth straightened her crumpled figure, dividing the phalanx of servants again with her passage. Only one, immobilized by trepidation, remained in her path. Their eyes met, flickered, and then Elizabeth's eyes darkened.

“Murderer!” Elizabeth hissed. The other servants flinched at the words.

“Ma'am, I did not kill her,” Elena's voice hovered near a whisper; the prospect of traversing the forbidding streets now loomed the largest. “She could have eaten the toadstools that I saw there.” She pointed at the patch in the garden where she trampled on Luisa in the morning. Heads followed her hand, but they espied no mushrooms.

Estelito knew the spot well. The garden was his secondary domain, after the garage, before its upkeep was relegated to Elena, leaving him only with the task of trimming the plants. But he uttered not a word about the mushrooms thriving on decomposing branches. After a fortnight of procrastination, he discarded the twigs before he chauffeured Elizabeth to the party. He had a family, while Elena only had herself.

“Liar! Luisa bit you and you poisoned her! Estelito, Javier, throw this criminal and her things out of my house!” The watchman was the first to seize Elena's arm; Estelito followed, pressing her flesh lightly.

“Ma'am, I did not poison her,” her tone bordered on a cry; her arms combated the grip of the two men, but their hands maintained their clasp. They tugged her, their muscles laboring from the opposing pull of her body. “Please let me stay, even until morning!”

Shielded from Elena's pleas by the servants who had massed around her, Elizabeth led the procession to the mansion, still cradling Luisa, stroking its hair, wetting its coat with her tears. Tomorrow, she would don black, and after she had Luisa cremated, she would ask Ynes for some of the puppies that she had rescued from the streets. Nursing the mutts would fill her thoughts and keep her son from sending his children to bond with their grandmother.

The gate yawned open and shut to discharge Elena. Lugging her tattered bag packed by Lourdes, she was plunged into desolation. She could see the harsh glow of the streetlights and feel the ponderous inkiness of the streets. Turning her head, she espied jagged wood protruding from black bags piled on the side of the driveway; bathed in light were the mushrooms carpeting the rooting twigs.

Purgatory on Earth by Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

2008-03-08T22:23:00.000-08:00

Purgatory on Earth

By Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

Note: I wrote this nearly two years ago. I posted it here before it is completely forgotten. Besides, it’s been months since I updated my blogs.

They say that marriage is bliss. It is a fountain of love, inspiration and joy. And it is also a good source of misery and jokes like giving a person a glimpse of heaven, purgatory or hell - if he makes the wrong choices from his mate down to his performance as a spouse. When you are in my age group, people expect you to be married or planning to settle down soon. But times have changed. If cohabitation and gay unions are becoming fashionable, I believe that bachelorhood or spinsterhood would never be out of style.

For all of its romantic notions, marriage is not all about romance, taking a spouse, living under one roof, sharing a bed and making babies. Reciting the marriage vows is probably the easiest part while remaining faithful to your oath before God and man is the hardest.

Indoctrinated in Catholic schools about the sanctity of marriage and exposed to Western and local media trumpeting scandalous celebrity divorces, I could not help but wonder if the world has gone mad. The age-old tradition of married couples sticking it out until death draws them apart has been shattered by spouses parting ways over flimsy reasons, as if our forebears lived in trouble-free unions. Domestic violence and infidelity may be valid reasons for dissolving a marriage, but the speed with which people like Britney Spears break up with their partners has made marrying such a big joke. Britney, after all, gained publicity mileage for dumping her husband in record time. As if breaking speed limits in marital breakups in not enough, it has become a bad habit among celebrities to change their spouses as often as they change their wardrobe. Since they are more likely to be emulated than the saintly Mother Teresa, more dysfunctional marriages may be in the offing.

Unlike defective goods that can be replaced, marriage is for keeps and has a “no-return-no-exchange” policy. But thanks to the wave of liberalism that has swept the world, spouses can now bail out at the slightest sign of marital discord. But for those in turbulent marriages, liberal laws are definitely godsend.

Choosing the right spouse is probably one of the hardest decisions that a person can make in his life, with some praying for divine intervention in choosing a suitable partner. There should be no room for error because it will condemn an individual to live through hell on earth.

Unless one is planning to migrate to Antarctica or flee and live incognito after the wedding reception, dealing with in-laws comes with the package. Meddlesome relatives, the mother-in-law chief of them, are sore points in a marriage. Living several time zones away from your nearest kin may be a wise move, but technology and an indomitable will to meddle in another person’s affairs can effectively bridge the distance. Choosing the right family sometimes takes precedence over marrying the right person.

As for the financial costs that marrying entails, staging a lavish wedding should be demoted to a minor concern. I do not want to strip marriage of its essence - love- but in these hard times, considering many things first before setting an altar date is prudent. Since love is not convertible to cash and is definitely inedible, is it not wise to assess the depth and health of one's pockets first before tying the knot? It maybe a once in lifetime event for most people, but emptying your coffers for grand nuptials is unwise. There will be bills to pay and more children to feed, clothe and send to school as your family grows. I am not suggesting that they should settle for fast food value meals for the reception, but a little savings can come in handy when you are starting to raise a family.

Regarding procreation, the newlyweds’ financial situation should again be assessed first before they pitch in perpetuating the species. Bearing children is a blessing, but letting them live in penury in a curse. Besides, raising small families and marrying late can effectively contain our country’s rapid population growth. I have been taught that a person can choose to be married, remain single or enter the clergy. We are all offered three entirely different, life-altering choices that cannot be made with a simple flip of a coin. I have already ruled out pursuing a religious vocation because of the rigid rules. And I do not care if I miss the last trip to the altar. If I will be made to choose between living a married but turbulent life and a lonely but peaceful existence, I will choose the latter anytime.

My Prehistoric Neverland by Prospero Pulma Jr.

2007-09-27T01:43:00.000-07:00

Note: I finished this book review on August 7, 2005, so it's as ancient as its topic - dinosaurs.

My Prehistoric Neverland

Like any normal child, I have learned to memorize the tongue-twisting names of dinosaurs – Tyrannosaurus, Stegosaurus, Brachiosaurus- even before I could spell Homo sapiens and Homo erectus. However, unlike other children who dwelled on fairy tales, my imagination was filled with dinosaurs and frequent visits to a world that vanished millions of years ago- my own Neverland. I was simply mesmerized with the gigantic creatures that I spent long hours poring over books, especially those with graphic illustrations that tackled the extinct animals and more hours glued to the television, watching dinosaurs of course! And like any normal kid with a short attention span, I outgrew my fascination with the reptiles, until Michael Crichton and his wrecking crew of ambitious, greedy humans and hyperactive, cloned dinosaurs came along in Jurassic Park.

It was comparable to a second childhood, a reawakening of my imagination that has lain dormant after my interest shifted to military history and literature. It was a revisit to a past where I would spend fleeting hours enthralled with dinosaurs. Even though I received the standard dose of doctrine that the world was created in seven days from Catholic schools and did not evolve over billions of years as claimed by scientists, I found myself drawn again to creatures that existed eras before man boldly took his first step as Adam and Eve or as Homo sapiens. Michael Crichton’s genius rekindled my interest in the extinct reptiles and in a world entirely different from the Garden of Eden that I have been taught at school. It was a classic case of science and literature contradicting religious tenets.

From the deep recesses of my mind, I unearthed what little knowledge that I had about dinosaurs. I discovered that paleontology has grown by quantum leaps ever since I consigned dinosaurs to the dustbin of my memory to join the other childhood fantasies that I discarded when puberty and reality beckoned to me. Its progress has been rapid that some paleontologists are now claiming that modern birds are the descendants of dinosaurs, the animals were warm-blooded in contrast to the original theory that the creatures were cold-blooded like reptiles, and our avian friends evolved from a different ancestor. Like their fossils that have been entombed and undisturbed for millennia, my imagination stirred to life and was populated again with the majestic creatures.

It seems that dogs are not the only mammals that have a fixation for bones. Ever since man stumbled upon the fossilized remains of dinosaurs, he has been on a quest to discover how the owners of the gigantic skeletons lived, breathed, and perished. And I am proud to have joined the quest, albeit on an inactive and armchair role, which means that I am content to let the poor paleontologists do the digging and wait for them to publish their discovery. Besides, there were no dinosaurs in our country, which would make hunting for dinosaur fossils in our backyard senseless and simply stupid.

It would be interesting to see how dinosaurs and man would behave when if they crossed paths. Both dominated their respective eras, the former through their sheer size and the latter through his superior intellect. And it seems that I am not the only one who is keen on seeing the reptiles meet humans face to face because the topic has been the stuff of many movies and animated shows that I have watched on television even before Jurassic Park became my favorite book.
One question that has been bugging me was how dinosaurs and men would interact. My interest in the subject was borne out of curiosity after reading how man tamed and domesticated wild animals. Even though scientists have already ruled out the possibility of bringing the dinosaurs back from extinction with cloning, they failed to stop me from indulging in my favorite fantasy: dinosaurs coexisting with humans! Several scenarios flashed in my mind, which only spawned more questions rather than answers. Fortunately, Michael Crichton came to my rescue with Jurassic Park.

For example, would it be possible for modern civilization to flourish if man is constantly on the run from dinosaurs? We would still be wearing animal skins and cowering in caves if we have to share this planet with the beasts. Even with the giant animals extinct, our ancestors still had to overcome incredible odds to lay the foundations of today’s world. Competing with the reptiles would be a contest that humanity would never win. Their famous descendants, the crocodiles, are already fearsome predators in their own right. Imagine what our life would be if the extinct beasts are still around to prey on us.

What are the possible consequences if man played God and breathed life into creatures that have been stricken off the list of this planet’s inhabitants millions of years ago? The answer could be found in Jurassic Park. Michael Crichton described how cloning and genetic engineering, the technologies that were used to bring the extinct dinosaurs back to life in Jurassic Park, failed to suppress an animal’s natural instincts and how formidable security systems could be crushed by several tons of dinosaur flesh and a bone - proof that contrary to what his ego is telling him, man can never master nature and his technology is as puny as his body.

Speaking of size, does it really matter? One thing that I have learned from Jurassic Park and dinosaurs is to ponder on man’s mortality. In spite of their enormous bodies and dominating the planet for eras, the dinosaurs still met the inevitable: death and extinction. Man may have conquered the earth, but it is not a guarantee that he will not share the same fate. The clues that the animals left through their fossils told a tale of annihilation not by their own hands while the relics of our existence may probably tell a tragic end for creatures who died by their own folly. Like Ian Malcolm, the cocky mathematician in the novel, I believe that, despite man's best efforts to wreck the planet, the earth will outlive our penchant for self-destruction.

And now to a very interesting question: Who would dominate the food chain? No need for research here as the answer can be gleaned by just looking at a Tyrannosaurus. I consider the parts where T-Rex and company decided to add man to their diet and proceeded to hunt him down for dinner as some of the high points in the novel. It’s not that I enjoy reading grisly accounts of animals dining on humans but the author would not be able to bring me along on a roller coaster ride if he only depicted tranquil scenes of man petting docile herbivorous dinosaurs. As for raising dinosaurs for their meat like livestock, I can’t wait to discover if they taste like chicken. Would anyone care to try a Brontosaurus steak?

Have you noticed how media depicted domesticated herbivorous dinosaurs coexisting harmoniously with humans while the carnivores are ostrasized for being, well, predators? It seems that the meat eaters are also victims of discrimination and stereotyping –standard treatment reserved for members of several religious and ethnic groups - even though they are just following their natural instincts unlike humans who have a flair for displaying aberrant behavior.

Is a dinosaur a figure of authority? According to Michael Crichton, yes. "Children liked dinosaurs because these giant creatures personified the uncontrollable force of looming authority. They were symbolic parents. Fascinating and frightening, like parents. And kids loved them, as they love their parents." Although I have a poor grasp of some of the book's technical details, I disagree with his view of dinosaurs as symbols of authority. On the contrary, I consider dinosaurs as representing nature’s awe-inspiring might, a powerful force that evokes dread generated by man’s awareness of his innate weakness – his frail body. Besides, children see things differently than adults. A child may stare in awe at a dinosaur’s ponderous bulk while a grown-up would be terrified of its oversized body.

And to satiate my childhood curiosity, would dinosaurs make great pets? If they were, then, a stegosaur and triceratops would definitely be on my wish list. But we have to find a way to retard their growth, otherwise, titanium cages have to be built and tons of food would have to be shoveled into their mouths. Just like humans, they are only cute and cuddly when they are young and little.

"Timmy’s got dinosaurs on the brain." Lex teased her elder brother in the novel. Maybe it is just the child in me, but she should needle me too, because I also have dinosaurs in my head. Let’s see - Tyrannosaurus, Stegosaurus and Brachiosaurus- they are all in my mind, roaming in the vast expanse of my own prehistoric Neverland.

- By Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

That Free Ortigas Shower by Prospero E. Pulma, Jr.

2007-08-18T22:48:00.000-07:00

That Free Ortigas Shower

Sleep was hard to come on Friday night, with all the thunder, lightning, and of, course, the rain that seemed to be sourced from an exhaustible fount. Groggy from the fitful sleep and nursing a cold, I went about the usual routine of preparing for work. Thanks to Typhoon Egay and the threat of mud splattering on one’s smart casual attire, everyone seemed to dress down for the whole week (Nobody wears a tuxedo to a mud bath, right?). So, my old jeans with a slit on the left knee became the natural choice, along with a round neck shirt. Soon, I was out in the cold, wet world. My sneakers were the first to bear nature’s tantrum. The sogginess then crept up to my pants. I knew that if I pushed ahead to Ortigas, I would arrive in the office completely soaked to my underwear. A sense of déjà vu overwhelmed me.

I once tried going head to head with nature and lost….terribly. It was one year ago at the height of Super Typhoon Milenyo when, pushed by a combination of innate stubbornness and “professional dedication” and confident of my little “exposure time,” since the distance from the Ortigas MRT Station to my office was close to only 150 meters, I decided to tempt the fates. My faith in my umbrella to keep at least my upper torso dry crumbled when the gusty winds reduced it to scrap metal minutes after I opened it, leaving me completely exposed to the rain. Trapped between the vast parking lot behind SM Megamall and ADB Avenue, I dashed to the nearest shelter, a good 100 meters away, pelted by the downpour all the way.

After logging in, I headed to the restroom where the best way for me to dry my dripping clothes was to strip and place them close to the hand dryer. But there was the threat of being charged with indecent exposure, so I literally “chilled out” for the rest of my shift, coming down with fever the next day and unable to call in sick because the phone lines were down.

To push ahead or come home? That was the question for me as I got off the jeep and walked to EDSA. My feet were cold. The sky was still blanketed by rain clouds. I had a puny umbrella in my hand. And I was not ready to take another shower. I turned back, flagged the next jeep. The next time it would rain like it did on that soggy Saturday morning, I would just leave home in my sleeping clothes, pack my office attire in my bag, trash the umbrella, and take bath soap and a shampoo sachet because nature would give me a free shower in Ortigas.

- Prospero E. Pulma Jr.-

“Anak ng Diyos” by Prospero Pulma Jr.

2007-07-15T03:51:00.000-07:00

“Anak ng Diyos” by Prospero Pulma Jr.

“Anak ng diyos.” I first heard this unflattering and very unholy adjective from a former officemate who used it to describe a colleague who, either by chance or design, managed to bag a job in a company managed but not owned by his uncle. The fellow swaggered as if owned the place, was always followed by an entourage, and raised a ruckus with his banging on the computer keyboard, making him the ultimate candidate for carpal tunnel’s syndrome. When promotion time came, nobody was surprised when he was given his own kingdom to run and slaves to oppress. It proved to be my first encounter with career inequity.

As my years in the salt mines dragged on, I encountered more and more “anak ng diyos,” and I am not even working for the government where the practice of adding the kith and kin of politicians and bureaucrats to the payroll is an open secret. It is easy to spot these “children of god”: Just pick out those who were recommended by an insider, measure the decibel level of their noise, and observe how they immediately acclimatize to the new environment, immediately form cliques with their old-timer buddy, sibling, or relative, and bully their “unconnected” peers. Presto! You have a “child of god” in your midst.

For those who are dreaming of ascending the ladder the fair and honest way, an encounter with a “child of god” will shatter their belief that a level playing field exists for all because some people believe that, if the front door is packed full of qualified job hunters, you can always open the backdoor or even the window to admit a favored applicant with dubious credentials. And that’s just the start. If the hiring system can be rigged, is there an assurance that someone’s pet will not be the first to step higher on the ladder? No! But one thing is for sure. Begetting “children of god” is very effective in promoting demoralization and mediocrity. Why would someone give his 100% when he knows that he will never win against nepotism?

2007-07-08T04:30:00.000-07:00

Adversity 101 by Prospero E. Pulma, Jr.

Note: This is my third essay that appeared in the Philippine Daily Inquirer's Youngblood
section.
http://news.inq7.net/opinion/index.php?index=2&story_id=20140
Adversity 101First posted 02:09am (Mla time) Dec 04, 2004 By Inquirer

THEY say that adversity brings out the best and the worst in men. What they fail to mention is that it is also a great teacher. When caught in any adverse situation, we tend to focus only on overcoming it. We often overlook the importance of learning from the problem. And when we are battered by another storm, we act like sailors who have never sailed on a stormy sea and not mariners hardened by countless storms.

In my 25 years of existence, I've had my share of problems, although I have not yet turned into a certified survivor and a veteran of a thousand tribulations. But in spite of my lack of experience, I've picked up a number of lessons from the School of Adversity and Tribulation.

The first lesson that I have learned is that a man is fortunate if half of the people who knew him at the zenith of his career do not desert him when he hits rock bottom. It takes a visit by the gods of misfortune to unmask fair-weathered friends and relatives and test the loyalty of those who understand the real meaning of friendship and kinship. They were right when they said that in prosperity, your friends will know you and in adversity, you will know your friends.

I have also learned that famine can render a man's tongue insensitive to the foul taste of spoiled food. When our refrigerators are bursting with provisions, we spoil our taste buds by eating only the most delicious and preferably the most expensive food. When poverty empties our cupboards and refrigerators, we are forced to eat food that would never touch our lips in better times.

Being perennially broke, I have learned to appreciate the value of a peso and save for a rainy day. But don't pity me because I am parsimonious and I know how to live within my means. Pray instead for the paupers who are already living like kings. If they will not mend their ways, bankruptcy will force them to tighten their belts with painful and sometimes permanent results.

I have also learned that adversity can effectively deflate a proud man's ego. Success, wealth and power can make a person believe that he is a demigod until he is demoted to the ranks of ordinary mortals when he fails. Then he will realize that like all men, he is bound to commit a major blunder once or twice in his life. That history is littered with the names of mighty and proud men who were brought down to their knees by a single mistake is a lesson that the more gifted among us should never forget.

Adversity, like death, is a great equalizer. The only difference between the two is that we only die once while we are buffeted by many problems while we live. Even though nobody is assured of living a trouble-free life, some of us are given a heavier burden to carry than others. This unequal allocation of misfortune can be negated by how we deal with the challenges that are hurled at us. That is why some people triumph over impossible odds while others keel over after suffering a brief bout of bad luck.

Adversity is like a double-edged sword that can bring both harm and good. Some people emerge from a turbulent chapter of their lives stronger and wiser while others become weaker and more stupid. It is unfortunate that only a few of us care to etch the lessons learned from adversity in their minds.Adversity is like a scar that reminds us of the pain that we felt when our skin was cut instead of warning us not to get wounded again.

Prospero E. Pulma Jr., 25, works as an editor of medical insurance claims at Cybersoft Data Networks Inc. He is also an undergraduate in Medicine.

Rewarding Mischief by Prospero E. Pulma, Jr.

2007-06-25T02:13:00.000-07:00

Rewarding Mischief

Are you interested in a powerful political post but too lazy to earn a law degree, too shy or homely-looking for tinsel town, or too broke to fund your own campaign? Well, read the results of this year’s elections and you won’t miss some interesting development. The rejection of some celebrities (Manny Pacquiao, Cesar Montano, and Richard Gomez as the most prominent examples) by voters probably means that the people are no longer dazzled by popularity, so a career in show business is no longer the best ticket to politics unlike in Erap’s time. Law school? But some non-lawyers, with Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo leading the list, have made inroads into the traditional domain of lawyers, so again, membership in the bar is also a questionable requisite for politics. So, that leaves you with a few choices. Wait, ask some personages from the uniformed service who made the transition from the barracks to politics. They can probably give you some tips on how to package yourself as a crusader when you are as black as the people you vilify, bellow some motherhood statements about eradicating corruption when you are part of the problem yourself, or better yet, launch a coup so that the people will see you as a martyr and not as a brazen murderer of democracy. Or if you are allergic to men in uniform, better emulate a do-nothing political mouthpiece and grant interviews every second months before the elections. I tell you, mischief pays huge dividends in real politics, but not in public service.

-Prospero E. Pulma, Jr.-

Cybercafe Hunting by Prospero E. Pulma, Jr.

2007-06-25T00:57:00.000-07:00

Cybercafe Hunting

Not all Internet cafes are the same. Some charge you at “tourist” rates, i.e., the rental fee is pegged close to the peso:dollar exchange rate but you can surf faster than you can blink, while others rent their PCs at basement rates but give you plenty of time for a coffee break between downloading files or opening sites. And some won’t let you access your blog, like what happened to me in the last couple of weeks. For some reason, I could not update my Blogger account because of some glitch in my “suki” café’s units where I usually post my blog. But I am not complaining because in my relatively short absence from the blogosphere, I was able to submit a short story to my favorite magazine (No, it’s not FHM. I’m not broke enough to dip into lit erotica), and got a positive response (meaning the editor did not delete it upon receipt of my e-mailed oeuvre). So, while waiting for my article to be published, I resumed hunting again for an upscale café and found this neat place where I rub elbows with students who are more cognizant of NBA 2007, WarCraft, Tantra, and Ragranok than with Mathematics, Science, English, Social Studies, Filipino, and, sigh, Home Economics. I guess I’m back to ranting and raving in cyberspace again until my new “suki’s” PCs develop some bugs and I move shop, literally, again.

- Prospero E. Pulma, Jr. -

The Gatekeepers of the East by Prospero Pulma Jr.

2007-05-23T01:27:00.001-07:00

The Gatekeepers of the East

For the past five seasons, any team in the NBA Eastern Conference has to add the Detroit Pistons to their playoffs plans. Michigan's Bad Boys don't only own the record of humiliating a star-studded L.A. Lakers in the 2004 NBA Finals, they also earned the distinction of making five consecutive appearances in the Eastern Conference Finals with little changes in its lineup, with Ben Wallace's defection to Chicago as the most prominent. So, if any club is dead serious in displaying the Larry O'Brien trophy in its cabinet, it must solve the Detroit puzzle first. Okay, the Miami Heat solved that one last year but the Heat got drubbed by the Chicago Bulls in this season's first round elimination. In turn, Detroit sent the Bulls packing after six games and are now facing a resurgent Cleveland Cavaliers under King James. The Pistons are battle-scarred veterans while the Cavaliers are relatively green in the playoffs department, so the Bad Boys (a misnomer because the Pistons are mild mannered, with the exception of Rasheed Wallace, compared to other teams,) are the natural favorites.

Is Detroit destined to receive a second ring after three years? Hopefully. But upsets do happen. Just remember the 2004 NBA Finals. And oh, yes, the huge kick in the butt that the Dallas Mavericks got from the Golden State Warriors and, of course, the Bull run that gored the defending champions.

By Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

The Gatekeepers of the East by Prospero Pulma Jr.

2007-05-23T01:27:00.000-07:00

The Great May Robbery by Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

2007-05-12T02:55:00.000-07:00

The Great May Robbery

No, it's not about the May 14 elections, although the title of my piece is applicable to the upcoming polls. It's something lighter, a treat for the weary of body and spirit. Yoga? No. Think again. It is the progeny of famous forebears, comes in different shapes and peddled by both adorable and despicable characters. It will tickle your funny bones, “shock and awe” your senses with special effects, pull you out of the iciness of reality and immerse you in the warmth of fantasy, and, okay, fleece you of a few days' pay. It's also stamped with “Made In Hollywood.”

Okay, Spider-Man, Shrek, and Captain Jack Sparrow are back, and they are asking you to dump your exhausting life for a few hours and wallow in make-believe worlds. After casting your vote and crossing your fingers that your single vote will suffice in booting out the buffoons and crooks in office, enter an alternate reality where the bad guys fall really hard and the good guys always win. But if you have not that much money to burn, you can settle for, well, bootleg copies that has “special features” like stray silhouettes crossing the screen, a tilted screen, snippets of conversation from the movie audience, etc.

May is the month to be robbed. The first will transpire in the voting precincts where a drop of indelible ink curses us to years of bondage. The second will occur in movie houses where a very expensive analgesic that relieves the pain of reality for only a few hours is forcibly hawked to us. But like addicts ravenous for a quick fix, we happily gulp down the drug, forgetting that just outside the theater's doors are more robbers.

By Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

The Beautiful American by Prospero Pulma Jr.

2007-04-27T03:56:00.000-07:00

The Beautiful American

A few weeks back, a global survey painted a not so positive image of Americans. But the Philippines was one of the bright areas where America scored higher. And then a few days or weeks later, Julia Campbell, a Peace Corps volunteer, met a tragic end while hiking in the Banaue rice terraces. Through her online journal, http://juliainthephilippines.blogspot.com, she shared the Filipinos' quirks with the world. I particularly liked her entry about fiestas, cockfighting, house blessing, and how she mined humor from the desolateness around her (just like Filipinos who can crack jokes at funerals). Never mind if her Tagalog would make my Filipino teachers shriek in horror. At 40, she died too young for a beautiful and merry soul. Now, tell me why Filipinos generally do not share the world's low opinion of the Americans.

by Prospero Pulma Jr.

The Giant Killers Part 3 by Prospero Pulma Jr.

2007-04-25T02:32:00.000-07:00

The Giant Killers Part 3

Puny but not helpless are the words that best describe the Chicago Bulls as they face the Miami Heat in the first round of the NBA's 2007 Eastern Conference Playoffs. The Bulls apparently don't believe in all those publicity about the Shaquille O'Neal-Dwayne Wade tandem that has brought Miami its first NBA crown as unstoppable. And they have proven that with two consecutive drubbing of the defending champions. To win one game against the Heat is good enough, but to rack up two victories is very impressive, given the relative youth of Chicago's roster. Okay, they played at home, but still they have done enough damage that the series will certainly stretch to six games at the least, if Miami is lucky enough to win four consecutive games and if Chicago is stupid enough to lose all four outings. Even if the Heat will eventually win the series, the Bulls have already softened them for their next opponent, who might last the seven-game series, until the Heat runs on a dry tank when they face the Pistons. And it will be the clash of the titans, a rematch of last year's Eastern Conference Finals that Detroit sadly lost.

-by Prospero Pulma Jr.

Jolo's Seven Martyrs by Prospero Pulma Jr.

2007-04-21T21:28:00.000-07:00

Jolo's Seven Martyrs

Jelowi Teodoro, Wilmer de los Santos, Dennis de los Reyes, Roger Francisco, and three other men, all Christians, only wanted to feed their families by working at a road project in Jolo. The Abu Sayyaf Group wanted to avenge the killing of their commander and to disprove the claim of the Philippine military and its American backers that the group has been emasculated with the deaths of Khadaffy Janjalani and Abu Solaiman. They picked the seven to deliver their message. The ASG abducted the construction workers, beheaded them, and sent their decapitated bodies and heads to Philippine security forces. The message has been sent and received, but the reaction is baffling. No massive outpouring of condemnation that accompanies every death of an activist. No effusive expression of vitriol from self-proclaimed human rights advocates. Nothing.

In a land where joining the Abu Sayyaf, which has netted millions of pesos in ransom from high-profile kidnappings, has become more lucrative than a regular job, especially construction work that taxes the body greatly, the seven chose manual labor over a life of banditry and terrorism. They were poor. Only a few people knew about them until the ASG added them to their list of victims. Now, their widows and orphans have become poorer with their deaths. The seven men have no powerful kith and kin. They have no friends in the House of Representatives who will advise Philip Alston to conduct a sham investigation and kangaroo trial of the Abu Sayyaf. But they were Juan de la Cruz like you and me.

-Prospero Pulma Jr.-

The Poor Manny Pacquiao Part 2 by Prospero Pulma Jr.

2007-04-16T03:02:00.000-07:00

The Poor Manny Pacquiao Part 2

Jason Kidd was correct when he said that victory is the best deodorant, but for Manny Pacquiao, knocking out all comers in the ring is not only a deodorant, it is also a potent pheromone that attracts all manner of political vermin.
Take for example this father and son tandem. The patriarch is the incumbent mayor of a major Philippine city who has pushed Manny to run as second fiddle to his son who is seeking to replace his old man in his mayoralty post, never mind if the Pacman hails from General Santos City, several hundred kilometers south of their turf. Fortunately (or is it unfortunately?), their brazen plot to exploit the popular pugilist’s popularity fizzled when Manny decided to aim for a bigger trophy: a seat in the House of Representatives. And they are not the only scum sticking to Manny like leeches.
The guy dreams big. Why should he settle for vice mayor when he can parlay his immense fame into a term in Congress? Why should he play lowly sidekick and mascot for a political clan when he can be lord and master of his hometown?Pacquiao’s demolition of Jorge Solis in Alamadome, San Antonio, Texas (I wonder if there were San Antonio Spurs players in the arena.) occupies the front pages of major broadsheets today. (But it's a welcome breather from fetid political news.) When he comes home, expect a heavy downpour of confetti and effusive outpouring of praises from his political “admirers”. Ah, victory, indeed, is an effective deodorant for it masks the stinking insincerity of sycophants.

-Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

The Champ's Final Bow by Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

2007-04-08T04:53:00.000-07:00

The Champ's Final Bow

It is easy to understand why Rocky Balboa ensnares viewers in a time warp. The sixth and final installment of the fictional boxing icon's life hits people not with a coma-inducing blow to the cranium but with a soft jab to the heart. The film weeps with Rocky (Sylvester Stallone) as he laments the loss of his beloved Adrian (Talia Shire), his estrangement with his son, Robert (Milo Ventimiglia),the disintegration of his umbilical cord to a past that radiates with unforgettable memories.
But before the movie gets mawkish, a stimulating wallop, in the form of a computer simulation that pits Rocky in his prime and the current and controversial champion, Mason “The Line” Dixon (real-life boxer Antonio Tarver), is delivered. The flashier Dixon initially pummels the Italian Stallion but he recovers and sends the present titleholder to dreamland. The programmed match ignites a wildfire of interest. Dixon's handlers see it as an opportunity to settle the legitimacy of their ward, who is undefeated against the patsies thrown at him but untested against old-school warriors like Rocky. Balboa takes it as his chance to prove that age never robs a person of his dream to fight one last time before he hangs everything. He wins over the skeptics-his son, Paulie(Burt Young), his best buddy turned brother-in-law, and boxing officials-and starts training for the exhibition bout.
Nostalgia is served in large doses as Rocky sprints on the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art and Bill Conti's Gonna Fly Now starts to play before the film reverts to the present, where an over-the-fill Rocky faces a formidable and younger foe. In the ring, Dixon literally treats him with kid gloves at first, but Rocky employs his team's blunt force trauma tactic that convinces Dixon that he is fated to be baptized by fire that day. The exhibition game turns into a bloody brawl and ends with both camps claiming victory. Rocky gets to bellow his last hurrah while Dixon gets bloodied by a real ring warrior.
Rocky Balboa fails to knock out when it means to and sweeps people off their feet when it does not intend to. Rocky's big words ring less louder than his mourning for his beloved Adrian. His grief exposes his human nature more than his bombast about handling the rotten eggs that the world throws at everyone. And you have to pity Dixon, for he is like a pretender to his throne, a king with no crown.
An old man once lamented the lost age when sports champions walked the earth, the days before megabucks deals and intense publicity elevated sports heroes to the status of demigods, the days before profit and press releases substituted for sterling achievements in the sports arena. In Rocky Balboa, we become that old man who want to see champions in the mold of Rocky and not clones of Dixon, to have a champion we can call our own.

-Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

For Whom the Big Ben Tolls by Prospero Pulma Jr.

2007-04-08T03:13:00.000-07:00

For Whom the Big Ben Tolls

After trailing the Detroit Pistons and Cleveland Cavaliers in the NBA’s Eastern Conference, the Chicago Bulls finally earned a slot in the playoffs. Okay, the Bulls seemed to roll into the playoffs this year, unlike last season when they had to huff and puff for the last 10 games just to make the trip, but they had to beat the Pistons just to play for a couple of weeks more after the regular season ends. Any NBA fan knows that the Beasts from the East, as what the Pistons are called other than that infamous tag, Bad Boys, are no pushovers, even if Ben Wallace has relocated to Chicago because they have gained Michael Finley, and proof that they were not crippled with Wallace’s resignation is their possession of the best record in the East. And in that game, Ben pulled down close to 20 rebounds (he would not be crowned Defensive Player of the Year several times if he is not a rebounding and shot-blocking demon). Now, the Bulls are chasing Cleveland for the second top spot in the East. Recruiting Big Ben has certainly helped Chicago land in its lofty spot, but the real test will come in the playoffs, especially when the Bulls clashes again with the Miami Heat which used brute force to kick Kirk Hinrich et al. out of competition . Will Big Ben’s muscles work seamlessly with the skills of his youthful teammates? Or will Chicago pirate another big man again to add more muscle?
-Prospero Pulma Jr.-

An Ode to the Bravest by Prospero Pulma Jr.

2007-03-25T07:14:00.000-07:00

An Ode to the Bravest

By Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

Separating fact, fiction, and myth is an arduous task for viewers of 300, the screen adaptation of Frank Miller’s graphic novel which is loosely based on the Battle of Thermopylae of 480 B.C. An extensive research will solve the problem of segregating the product of a writer’s fecund imagination from an ancient historian’s accurate and impartial account of what is widely recognized as one of the greatest last stand in martial annals. But watching the film leaves one in awe of the Spartans’ fighting prowess, which reaches mythic proportions, against a numerically superior but inept enemy that distinguishing history from myth is promptly forgotten.
Early on in 300, one will witness the molding of a fierce warrior by a people preoccupied with martial pursuits. Passing a close examination for any perceived physical malformation at birth is just the first test that all Spartan males undergo. There will be other battles against man and nature that only the fittest will earn the title of soldier of Sparta. One of these men is Leonidas (Gerard Butler), who becomes king after overcoming the same series of daunting challenges prescribed for all the men of Sparta. His chance to let his name live through the centuries comes when the Persians venture into Greece and demand their recognition of Xerxes (Rodrigo Santoro) as their ruler. He executes the Persian emissary, sparking war with Xerxes. Unable to muster the full force of his army because of the Carneia festival, Leonidas marches into battle with 300 warriors handpicked by his Captain (Vincent Regan) and a handful of allies.
At Thermopylae, Xerxes is forced to throw his massive army against the small Greek contingent on a piecemeal basis, accumulating a horrendous body count in several attempts to break the Spartan defense. Unsuccessful in subjugating Leonidas through force of arms, Xerxes offers him dominion over Greece if only he will be obeisant to the delusional Persian who proclaims himself god and king of kings, but Leonidas spurns this generous bribe. The bloodletting resumes with the soil watered more with the blood of the invaders that it seems that the Spartans will succeed in containing the invaders, until the Persians outflank and annihilate the defenders by passing through a goat path revealed to them by a hunchback Spartan named Ephialtes (Andrew Tiernan).
While Leonidas is under siege in Thermopylae, his wife, Queen Gorgo (Lena Headey), is waging a battle to win support for her embattled husband. She has to contend with Theron (Dominic West), a politician who maintains that Leonidas should be sanctioned for his illegal actions, and appeal to the Spartan Council to reinforce Leonidas, all the while exuding the strength and resolve that makes her king turn to her for counsel.
Although it is not touted as a historical film since its creators liberally altered historical facts in spinning a riveting tale of Leonidas and his doomed men, 300 fills the screen not only with computer-polished battle scenes, unseen in other movies and ballet‑like in their execution, but also with interesting characters. Xerxes is godlike in physique and bearing, but it is the fearless and very Spartan Leonidas who emerges as a more credible claimant to the title of god - a war god. Dilios (David Wenham), who losses an eye in Thermopylae , eloquently shares the tale of victory of his comrades, the last task given to him by Leonidas. Stilios (Michael Fassbender) has the athleticism and fighting skills to match his wit and humor in combat. The young Astinos (Tom Wisdom) embodies Spartan valor when he calmly spears a charging rhinoceros without yielding ground to the rampaging war beast. With these men under Leonidas’ command, the Persians’ strength in numbers mattered little as the 300 stood before them, doomed to die on the field but destined to be remembered through their valor.

Strangest Bedfellows by Prospero Pulma Jr.

2007-03-19T01:15:00.000-07:00

Strangest Bedfellows

Is it just me or there is something grossly wrong with the picture: Satur Ocampo and his Leftist cohorts running to Uncle Sam - yes, Uncle Sam, the same guy whose effigy they love to burn in their demonstrations, the same guy whom they christened a thousand foul names- for help when their ranks are being decimated by assassins, and Uncle Sam, being the “protective” Uncle that he is, telling the Philippine government to recall its hoodlums and leave the “peace-loving” communists in peace. Our homegrown Maos and Stalins must be rejoicing for never in their wildest dreams did they foresee the day when the imperialist Americans would save them from annihilation. Satur et al. do not seem to mind that the Americans are meddling in our affairs so long as the Yankees are working for them and not supplying the Armed Forces of the Philippines with counterinsurgency tools. You see, these self-proclaimed patriots’ are riled when Washington occupied vast tracts of Philippine territory in Subic and Clark and when it twists Manila’s arm for concessions, but a few days ago, they did not raise a tempest, they did not march to the U.S. Embassy like what they did at the height of the Subic rape case, and they did not curse Uncle Sam when members of the U.S. Senate practically spat on Philippine sovereignty when they probed the unabated slaying of activists by unknown gunmen. Excuse me, but both parties do not occupy the proverbial moral high ground. For one, the U.S. is notorious for supporting despots - Marcos was one of their puppets whom they fed until they discarded him when his hold onto power became untenable - and Abu Ghraib and Camp X-ray are proof that the Americans are not exactly humane jailers. As for Satur and his friends, leaders of the New People’s Army and the Communist Party of the Philippines have yet to face trial for the execution of hundreds, possibly thousands, of rebels in a series of purges to cleanse their ranks of agents set loose against them by Philippine security forces. By the way, the favorite excuse of Jose Maria Sison and Satur Ocampo to escape legal liability for the mass murder was that they were in jail while their supporter were torturing, hacking, stabbing, or shooting suspected deep penetration agents convicted by kangaroo courts is so lame that it insults any average intellect.
Right now, Satur and his friends are humping in bed with their newfound and unexpected allies, leaving justice and Philippine sovereignty in the lurch. Boy, they do make one very, very, ugly political couple. I hope the progeny of this very convenient mating do not infect the rest of the free, democratic, and still sane world.

-Prospero Pulma Jr.-

The Rot from Within by Prospero Pulma Jr.

2007-03-11T04:26:00.000-07:00

The Rot from Within

By Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

After reaping critical and financial success for depicting Christ’s last hours in The Passion of the Christ, Mel Gibson hoists Apocalypto, his latest foray into subtitling films in archaic tongues and his exploration of the enigmatic Mayan civilization, before the world. Set during the decline of the Mayan empire and before the colonization of America, the film revolves around Jaguar Paw (Rudy Youngblood), a young hunter captured along with other tribesmen by marauding Holcane warriors led by Zero Wolf (Raoul Trujillo).

As their captors lead them farther from their Eden-like home in the jungle and deeper into Mayan territory, Jaguar Paw is greeted by signs of a people battered by nature and by their own folly–denuded forests, parched fields, frenzied limestone quarrying, and the diseased stumbling across their path. In the decaying Mayan city, ringed by the shanties of commoners and occupied in the center by ornate temples, he is assaulted by bizarre rituals topped by human sacrifices to appease a wrathful deity. The High Priest (Fernando Hernandez) zealously presides over the gruesome ceremony while the Mayan royalty watches passively.

Jaguar Paw does not resist when he is dragged to the sacrificial altar, although he has not yet resigned to his violent end. When the door home yawns slightly, he throws it wide open and races back to his wife, Seven (Dalia Hernandez), and son, Turtles Run (Carlos Emilio Baez), whose survival hinges on the fulfillment of his pledge to return. Taught by his father, Flint Sky (Morris Birdyellowhead), that fear afflicts man like a malady-wisdom reinforced by his brush with the desperate Mayans-he learns to purge his soul of fear and defends his abode from the vengeful Zero Wolf and the sadistic Middle Eye (Gerardo Taracena).

Apocalypto is not only an account of a man’s discovery of innate courage that surfaces when he runs out of crevices to hide in. It also creates a mosaic of contrasting images. Jaguar Paw’s domestic life and his people’s harmonious coexistence with nature stand brightly against the depravity of the Mayans and their ravaged environment. Their hunt for the tapir, though unpalatable to some, is benign when compared to the Mayan practice of combing the forests for captives to be auctioned at the market or be butchered on the altar. The dialogue, delivered entirely in the Mayan dialect, is sparse. But it is liberally sprinkled with the names of Mayan deities and folk beliefs, including faith in the afterlife, and the lines are credibly uttered by the cast. Flint Sky is not the only warm patriarch in the film. Zero Wolf sheds his sinister countenance when he is with his son, Cut Rock (Ricardo Diaz Mendoza).

All of these might be forgotten when the light shifts to the gratuitous bloodletting and stereotyping of the Mayans-accomplished astronomers, farmers, and engineers of the ancient world-as bloodthirsty savages. Mel Gibson may have broken limits in bringing authenticity to his film by allowing blood to flow freely from his characters, but by depicting excessive gore, his message rings louder that a people is conquered from within, be it by fear or depravity.

Arkham Philippines By Prospero Pulma Jr.

2007-02-18T06:15:00.000-08:00

Arkham Philippines

Arkham Asylum, in Gotham lore, is where Batman keeps some of his “friends,” namely the Joker, Two-Face, Scare Crow, Riddler, etc., under lock and key. In the Philippines, the incarnations of the Dark Knight’s netherworld buddies are not found in some desolate and fortress-like cage for madmen. But they do possess similarities with their DC comics’ counterparts that the only thing lacking is a billionaire brave enough to take on these powerful entities, and we can change our country’s name to Gotham.

Take, for example, the Joker, who is best known for his literally wicked sense of humor. With the May 2007 elections just a few months away, voters are getting inundated with campaign commercials that did not require much creativity to conceptualize. The result? Political advertisements that border on the comic, with some straying on the stupid, are competing with local sitcoms for making viewers roll over in laughter. And the candidates, with their insincerity shining through, are such poor actors that they won’t even win The Razzies’ Worst Actor Award.

The next fiend is The Riddler a.k.a. Edward E. Nigma, who enjoys confounding the Caped Crusader with riddles that will drive any average-witted fellow insane, but we all know that housed in the Dark Knight’s cranium is a powerful cerebrum (That is so highfaluting medical!). In our country, deciphering the double-speak of politicians is worse than solving The Riddler’s most baffling puzzle. Did I mention that E. Nigma is also a topnotch crime boss?

Perhaps, the character that comes closest as a clone of our politicians is Two-Face. His nom de guerre is self-explanatory, so I will just delve into his background. Before he became Arkham’s celebrity inmate, he was Harvey Dent, Gotham’s District Attorney and Bruce Wayne’s, that’s Batman by day for non-Batman aficionados, friend. A legal eagle turned criminal who is so indecisive that he flips a coin just to make up his mind may not only be an apt description for Two-Face, but it can also sum up the gross traits of some politicians.

As for wishing for a homegrown Bruce Wayne, we can forget about that wish, because the Dark Knight’s methods, though effective, is too lame for our nation’s scoundrels. They will post bail pronto and raise a million-dollar bounty on anybody mad enough to challenge them. But Arkham can open up a branch in the Philippines - one in Malacanang, one in the Senate, one in Congress, etc.

-Prospero Pulma Jr.-

TO BE IN LOVE AND BE BLIND by Prospero Pulma Jr.

2007-02-11T06:29:00.000-08:00

TO BE IN LOVE AND BE BLIND

The most glaring evidence that we are not born equal is in our faces. Some can win a beauty pageant on a very bad hair day and without makeup while others will never be crowned beauty queen in an honest-to-goodness-contest despite the best efforts of Vicky Belo, Ricky Reyes, and La Funeraria Paz. And if losing in beauty tilts is not disheartening enough, there is also the prospect of living and dying without getting a date, experience a torrid smooching, receiving chocolates, even if it’s just Chocnut or Big Bang, etc., because our market value in the mating, er, dating business largely depends on a very tangible aspect of our being – the face.

In Shallow Hal, Hal Larson (Jack Black) is one such guy who is guided only by his eyes in selecting a date like a butcher ignoring wise judgment and plain common sense in picking the livestock to be slaughtered. Even if he is not cover boy material himself, Hal basks in the company of hot babes and abhors the companionship of homely gals, until he meets Tony Robbins (Anthony Robbins) who alters his definition of beauty through hypnosis.

When Hal meets Rosemary Shanahan (Gwyneth Paltrow), the picky Lothario falls for the gorgeously blond Rosemary, blissfully unaware that his affection for her is genuine, that what he is seeing is Rosemary’s inner beauty concealed beneath thick layers of adipose. It is not only the grossly obese Rosemary whom he sees differently. People who fail everyone’s aesthetics criteria are good-looking to Hal’s eyes. It took his buddy, Mauricio (Jason Alexander), who does not only possess a vestigial tail but also share Hal’s plain looks and taste in women, to break Tony’s spell. But Hal is beyond redemption. It is Rosemary for him or no one at all!

For once, the Farrelly Brothers, the tandem who created the riotous Me, Myself, and Irene, made a film that provokes deep pondering rather than hysterical laughter. In Shallow Hal, they enlivened a serious issue with the usual jokes on the obese, the average Joes and plain Janes who would never be asked on a date, and just anybody who would never be spotted by modeling scouts or even ignored by the most desperate pimp. Before the film descended into the pits of comedy that the Brothers are known for, it is saved by the very happy ending of the Very Shallow Hal Larson marrying the Very Human and Lovely Rosemary Shanahan. Alas, Shallow Hal is just a vision of a romantic utopia, one that will drive the cosmetic surgeons, dermatologists, cosmetic firms, flower shops, and dating services out of business if it will become a reality.

-Prospero Pulma Jr.-

Of Brawny Mercenaries and Blushing Brides By Prospero Pulma Jr.

2007-02-09T05:38:00.000-08:00

Of Brawny Mercenaries and Blushing Brides

Can you imagine Cinderella marrying Rambo? Unless it’s a lowbrow romantic/soft porn flick showcasing the chiseled bodies of soldiers of fortune carrying comely lasses like war booty, blushing brides - or even naïve babes like Cinderella, Snow White, etc.- and mercenaries are unlikely to mingle in the silver screen, much less date. Alright, Shrek is a different story!

But in Blood Diamond, their worlds are somehow intertwined, with one doing all the huffing and puffing (It’s not what you think, you porn-afflicted twerp!) in the field while the other blushes and gasps when a man, hypnotized by ethanol and a full moon and properly equipped with a diamond ring (the best engagement props of all time), pops the question: Will you marry me? You see, Edward Zwick somewhat manages to take all brides, at least the affluent ones, on a two-hour guilt trip with his film that depicts Leonardo DiCaprio breaking out of his pretty boy image by playing a rough mercenary, born in Sierra Leone and hardened in Africa’s battlefields, named Danny Archer. Of course, Zwick cannot make a decent movie with the camera perpetually fixed on DiCaprio’s face, so Djimon Hounsou is cast as Solomon Vandy, a fisherman and the finder of a pink diamond worth millions of dollars, and Jennifer Connelly is also taken aboard as Maddy Bowen, a newshound sniffing for leads about the illicit trade of conflict diamonds.

Blood Diamond makes its viewers believe that they are watching a General Patronage film from Walt Disney with its very serene opening scenes. Solomon Vandy, who has grand dreams for his son, Dia (Kagiyo Kuypers), rouses him from sleep before the sun has even peeked out of the horizon because the poor boy has to walk several odd kilometers to reach his school. And then hell opens and the movie immediately reclaims its R-18 rating for excessive violence when rebels swoop down on their village. His family narrowly escapes the bloodbath, but Solomon is enslaved to work in the diamond fields, where he unearths the fabled diamond.

Captain Poison (David Harewood), the rebel honcho who manages the mine, learns of Solomon’s discovery and wants the gem for himself. Naturally, the hero stands his ground and is saved by a raid by government troops. But Captain Poison makes it through the skirmish with minor injuries, and decides to get the diamond from Solomon through Dia. Little by little, the boy is poisoned with the power and authority that guns project and cool rap music. Solomon, desperate to rebuild his shattered life and family, caves in to Danny’s offer of aid if he will turn in the diamond to the mercenary who moonlights as a diamond smuggler for his boss, Colonel Coetzee (Arnold Vosloo). It turns out that all the adult males, except for Solomon, view the diamond as their ticket out of Africa, so they scramble madly for its possession, leaving the poor fisherman as the only sane man in the cast. This is where Maddy, in exchange for an exclusive scoop on how diamonds from Africa’s conflict zones somehow end up as legitimate stuff (call it “diamond laundering”), waves her press privileges like a magic wand that opens door for Danny and Solomon in their mission to recover the diamond. Then she hangs back when the men dig down to fight, resurfacing only when Danny implores her to make a final run for him: Smuggle Solomon to London and expose the illegal trade of blood diamonds.

The film, especially with its subplot on child soldiers, is largely disturbing, and might cause a lady to wonder if the glittering jewel on her finger is not literally stained with blood. DiCaprio as Danny Archer is intense, but he is eclipsed by Djimon Hounsou. As Solomon, he swings from an African obeisant to a white man to someone who trades punches with Danny. He transforms from a docile man to someone consumed by hatred for the person who wrecked his life, Captain Poison. Jennifer Connelly as Maddy Bowen is like the diamond in the title, an ornament; too bad that her mutual attraction with Danny was not sealed with a diamond ring. Otherwise, Blood Diamond would have become a very rare movie about rugged mercenaries and lovely brides.

-Prospero Pulma Jr.

The Noisy Rabble Syndrome

2007-01-19T01:06:00.000-08:00

The Noisy Rabble Syndrome

“Estrada followers remember EDSA 2 with protest at EDSA Shrine!” Forewarned with the news advisory from www.inquirer.net and expecting vehicles to be cemented in place until the assemblage dispersed or until the cops disrupted the rally the old fashioned way, i.e., with tear gas, truncheons, and water cannon, I planned to take the MRT rather than stick to my usual route home by taking the bus and be trapped in the gridlock. When I got to EDSA, there was traffic alright, but it was moving at its late afternoon pace –slow but definitely faster than the fastest snail and turtle combined. So, I gambled with my time, it was a Friday anyway, and boarded a bus.
The crowd was there, but the media has once again exercised its gift for exaggeration. The assemblage was not big enough to clog traffic and they numbered less than a thousand, a fair estimate of the 4:00 p.m. crowd would probably range from one hundred to two hundred. The throng did not even spill into the highway. It was neatly contained within the grounds of the EDSA Shrine, so you could only imagine the miniscule number of demonstrators. I could see the “mast” of an OB van, a GMA-7 service vehicle. Flanked was parked under the Ortigas flyover, and a patrol car was stationed a few meters beside it. I did not see a phalanx of riot cops, a fire truck, or other gear employed in civil disturbance management.
But the media were there. And what the world would see are the colorful, and no doubt expensive, banners of the demonstrators and hear their shrill cries, and the personages who turned a blind eye to the depravations of Marcos and Estrada would once again be seen beating their chests in indignation over immorality in the government yadda yadda yadda. Too bad that the majority who had had enough of fetid politics and would want to be left in peace would never be seen and heard while the mercenary rabble will get all the airtime. And the world will pity the Filipinos for living in a chaotic country.

-Prospero E. Pulma Jr.-

IT WILL NEVER HAPPEN HERE!

2006-12-31T01:50:00.000-08:00

IT WILL NEVER HAPPEN HERE!

The trial and execution of Saddam Hussein can be summed in two words: Swift and Incredible! As swift as Saddam who dispatched his enemies without the benefit of a trial. Never mind if the court who tried him would never dare lay a finger on the ousted Iraqi despot without hundreds of thousands of American troops around to protect them from reprisals! Incredible because Filipinos will probably never see the same phenomenon in their soil! The closest chance that we got was 20 years ago when a mammoth crowd clamoring for the heads of the Marcoses was hammering at the gates of Malacanang. And then the Americans (the same people who peddled weapons to Saddam in his brutal war against the Iranians), who propped the dictator’s rule, came and whisked them to Hawaii. If only the Americans did not play valiant cowboy to several dozen distressed criminals in Malacanang, justice would have been dispensed right then and there!

-Prospero Pulma Jr.

Underworld: Romeo and Juliet…With Fangs and Claws

2006-12-31T01:26:00.000-08:00

Underworld: Romeo and Juliet…With Fangs and Claws
Selena’s (Kate Beckinsale) life as a vampire seemed to revolve mainly around her duties as a member of the Death Dealers, an elite hunter/killer team of vampires tasked with wiping out the Lycans or werewolves, the archenemy of her race. Off duty, she is busy fending off the advances of Kraven (Shane Brolly), a vampire bureaucrat (See, even vampires are not spared from bureaucrats!) who is smitten with her. Until she intercepted a wolf pack sent to kidnap Michael Corvin (Scott Speedman), a human medical student (Yup, we poor humans are apparently unaware of the centuries-old bloodshed between the monsters.). Kraven dismissed the encounter as routine, but Selena sensed something more sinister than Lycans deciding to dine on a human. Her snooping uncovered the Lycans’ plot to create a vampire/Lycan hybrid by mixing the blood of Corvin, a descendant of the man who fathered both Lycans and werewolves, with the blood of an elder and powerful vampire, Amelia (Zita Gorog). The half-blooded creature will add more muscle to the werewolves and lead them to victory over their enemies. As she dug deeper, she discovered that Lucian (Michael Sheen), the werewolf warlord, did not die by Kraven’s hand as what the vampire claimed by flagging a piece of the werewolf’s skin as proof of his demise. She decides to take Michael under her aegis, in clear defiance of the age-old law that no vampire should fraternize with a Lycan, let alone fall for one. When the Lycans abduct Michael, she commits another grave infarction by awakening Viktor (Bill Nighy), a slumbering elder vampire and a father figure to Selena. With Viktor at her side, she defeats Kraven and Lucian, but she will only be absolved of her sin for awakening Viktor if she will kill Corvin who has mutated into the abomination that they feared. In Shakespearean fashion, Selena chooses love and damnation over redemption and kills Viktor.
By fusing Romeo and Juliet with monster lore, Underworld presents a unique world where vampires and werewolves are literally at other’s throats with man playing the stupid passerby who is unaware that two beasts are tearing each other apart until a stray claw or fang draws him into the battle. However, the film somewhat stuck to tradition by portraying the vampires as aristocratic (shades of Count Dracula) compared to their working class cousins (they have a common ancestor), the Lycans who lurk in sewers. And it also has two tales of love that crossed battle lines, the first was the tragic story of Lucian, Viktor’ servant, and his bride, his master’s daughter. It was their affair that ignited the war, and the second, of course, is Selena and Michael’s version of Romeo and Juliet. Besides its romance-laced plot and the father-daughter bond between Selena and Viktor as a subplot, Underworld also dishes out graphic combat scenes lest viewers forget that they are meant to watch vampires and werewolves slug it out and not vampires and werewolves trysting under a full moon, while the costume is reminiscent of Blade and Matrix. The attempt of Beckinsale, Sheen, and Nighy to add luster to their cardboard characters is laudable while Speedman probably realized that the effort is useless and just decided to coast along. After all, Underworld is not bound for the Oscars, so why waste time infusing life to your role? Still, it is a unconventional movie about Romeo and Juliet born not into the distinguished clans of Capulets and Montagues, but to the tribes of vampires and Lycans.
-Prospero Pulma Jr.-

2006-12-24T23:15:00.000-08:00

A Pacifist’s Christmas Carol

Scenes of weeping children, tots playing in a minefield, child warriors lugging rifles towering over them, corpses littering streets, a Vietnamese kid running from a napalm bombing in one of the most famous photos of the Vietnam War, the 9/11 attack, the liberation of Kuwait in 1991, and grieving fathers may not be images that you will find in a Christmas carol music video, but the graphic content of the music video of John Lennon’s Happy Xmas (War is Over) will suffice to convey the message that the murdered ex-Beatle penned the song not to send glad tidings of the Yuletide season but to make an anti-war protest. The result is a moving song, that when mated with graphic images of civilians trapped in a war, will cause goose bumps to rise on skins that have been sensitized to violence.

Below is the link to the Youtube video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P4-KITJIRYY
-Prospero Pulma Jr.-

What Christmas Means

2006-12-24T23:12:00.000-08:00

What Christmas Means:

To the Destitute: More hollow dreams of warm meals, soft beds, and sturdy shelter.

To the Non-Christian: Another year of observing their Christian brethren hoarding gifts, rushing to parties, shopping madly, and of course, performing obligatory religious rites.

To the Entrepreneur: The last chance to clear the warehouse of old stock, never mind if the profit margin is tottering on the negative.

To the Social Hermit: Time to reunite with civilization, strain the vocal cords at the karaoke, and break the stiffness of the two left feet.

To the Party Animal: The perfect season to overload the social calendar.

To the Spendthrift: Another wonderful opportunity to disguise your profligate spending habits.

- Prospero E. Pulma Jr.-

Selective Blindness

2006-12-24T23:06:00.000-08:00

Selective Blindness

By Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

* This essay has been rusting in my electronic baul since 2005. I decided to post it here before I completely forget that I wrote it.

What is in a man’s face and clothing that makes other people treat him differently? I have asked myself this question after I have witnessed how people are treated in inspection booths, teased over their special condition, or pampered because of their gorgeous looks. Perhaps you have witnessed how a person can be treated based on his clothing or appearance. Well, I have witnessed how security guards at railway stations and malls would raise or lower their level of vigilance depending on the individual standing in line to be frisked. On my way to work, I would just don a pair of slacks and white undershirt and put my polo shirt in my bag. I would only change into the prescribed office attire at the MRT Buendia station where I would take the bus to Ayala Avenue. The watchmen would give me the standard inspection to see if I have a grenade in my bag or a belt of explosives wrapped around my waist. When I am already garbed in my work clothes, they would just take a cursory look at me, their attention focused on the shabby guy behind me, itching to get their hands on the poor fellow. The security guards probably thought that terrorists are clones of Osama bin Laden – unkempt with a flowing beard – and they should strip-search anybody who sports a disheveled look and shoot him if he resists. I wonder what they would do if Osama would drop his classic terrorist look, get a clean shave and haircut, and strut before them in designer clothes. Would they frisk him or let him pass unmolested?

I have another experience to share, no, not with guards but with teenagers in church. Mass was about to start. I was sleepy – postprandial drowsiness to be exact - when laughter aborted my trip to dreamland. I looked around to see if the parish priest has hired a clown or a stand-up comedian to entertain his flock between masses. I did not see a jester, but I saw two adolescent boys poking fun at a special child. I have seen the object of their ridicule many times before. He and his companions, probably special children like him, were bused every Sunday to the church to hear mass. They would usually occupy the front pews near the altar. I have observed that the other churchgoers were apparently aware of their condition and I have not seen anybody laugh at the unfortunate kids before until the two imps came. Peeved with their rowdiness, I transferred to another seat and wished for a bolt of lighting to strike them and karma to turn them into stars in a freak show, whichever came first.

While waiting for the bolt of lightning to come, I remembered an article that revealed that we Filipinos love to criticize, even scoff, at somebody else’s appearance. Well, the two teenagers certainly belong to that group. It may be in our culture to scrutinize an individual’s physical appearance, but we should always remember this immortal advice: We should first take a look at ourselves in the mirror before we look down at “the least of our brethren.” Or if we think that we have earned the right to belittle others by virtue of conceit or plain meanness, why don’t we ask ourselves if the people that we ridicule remind us of our own imperfections. Perhaps, we would see that we are more flawed and bigger stars in the freak show than the ones we call freaks.

“Sa mukha pa lang ay hindi na gagawa ng mabuti!” We often say this when we see a police lineup of crime suspects, forgetting that criminals come in all shapes and sizes. In fact, it is common knowledge that a good number of them prowl the halls of power in our country. A person’s face may be perfectly fit for a rogue’s gallery or should be plastered on the cover of a fashion magazine, but it only constitutes a fraction of his body and soul. Like our tongues, our faces can be taught how to lie and deceive. Physical beauty should never be used as proof of moral uprightness because angelic looks have been repeatedly used to abuse a person’s trust.
We have been taught to never judge a book by its cover, but this wise counsel has fallen on countless deaf ears, mine included. Literally, I have been tricked into wasting hours reading a book with an attractive cover but with a dull story, in the same way that I have been wrong with my first impression of some people. It took me several erroneous initial verdicts about a person’s character before I dismissed the popular line, “First impressions last,” as pure hogwash and replaced it with “First impressions suck.”

How many times have we erred when we used only one God-given faculty when dealing with our fellowmen? Take our sight, for example. Our eyes are essential for our everyday existence; yet, we tend to forget to consign it to a secondary role when judging another person. The result is a strange malady called selective blindness; we only see our fellowmen as bodies, empty hulks of flesh and bones. This has lead many of us to treat a man by the manner of his clothing and appearance and not by his character, which is unfortunate because a man’s real beauty resides not on his face or body but it lies deep in his heart and soul- hidden from our biased and half-blind eyes.

Christmas Party Games!

2006-12-03T06:05:00.000-08:00

Stumped on what parlor games to play on your Christmas party? Fret no more! Just follow the list below for an unforgettable party! But don’t forget the helmet, elbow and knee pads, last prayers. And waivers have to be signed before everybody gets ready to rumble!

Mud wrestling: Employees with axes to grind against their colleagues are encouraged to join this game! They can get physical, press their enemies’ faces deep on the mud, throw mud at the hollering audience, pig out on mud, let their pet pigs roll on the mud, etc. As a twist, whipped cream, chocolate, cappuccino, soda, etc., can be used as substitutes for mud, but it won’t be mud wrestling without the mud.

Russian roulette: The depressed and suicidal in your payroll will love this game! But to amp the thrill, everybody will be required to take turns in pointing a Magnum .357 revolver loaded with armor-piercing cartridges on their temples. It is also the best way to retrench the workforce, that is, if somebody survives.

Tumbang Preso: The game that you used to play as a kid where you knock down tin cans with your slippers has been modified for psychopathic vigilantes. In the new version, Punisher-wannabes get to hunt convicts like game animals. And it can also be further tailor-fit to suit one’s ideological affiliations, thus, Tumba Kapitalista and Imperialista has been created for Leftists and Tumba Aktibista and Komunista for Rightists.

Kris Kringle: In the spirit of Christmas, the CEO will trade his 13th Month Pay with the Maintenance Guy and the company’s Stale Meat (employees who have been around since Prehistoric Times) will exchange their bonus with the Fresh Meat (those who have been hired on the eve of the party). Now, that’s a fine demonstration of Yuletide charity!

Trip to the HR Office: This is a modification of the well-loved Trip to Jerusalem! Truant employees will be ordered to troop to the HR Office to get their memos for chronic tardiness, absenteeism, fights, insubordination, and other infractions. The HR Manager, attired in a red suit with horns and a pitchfork, will whip the problem employees until they renounce their wicked ways.

When Saving Private Ryan Meets Hotel Rwanda by Prospero Pulma Jr.

2006-11-12T07:05:00.000-08:00

When I watched Bruce Willis’ action flick, Tears of the Sun, two movies came into my mind: Saving Private Ryan and Hotel Rwanda. Although Tears of the Sun used the same hackneyed storyline of men called to risk their lives to save others as the other two critically acclaimed films, it stood like a B-movie adaptation and looked more like a cut‑and-paste filmmaking feat. From Saving Private Ryan, the script threw in a squad of soldiers who are brave but reluctant to play hero when their mission does not call for it. And from Hotel Rwanda, the film borrowed the element of massive bloodletting, i.e., genocide that seems to be endemic in Africa.

When ethnic animosities flared up in Nigeria and bodies began piling up in the streets, Lt. A.K. Waters (Willis) and his eight-man SEAL team is sent to the bushes to extract Dr. Lena Kendricks (Monica Bellucci) and other Americans from a missionary outpost/hospital before their pretty heads are chopped off by marauding soldiers. Their mission seemed to be so humdrum that the commandos were counting to be back to catch a football game, until the lovely doctor refused to come along unless the team takes 70 refugees in the mission with them. Waters grants Kendricks’ wish, but he forces her aboard the rescue helicopter, leaving the ragtag band of Africans to the mercy of their enemies. The team is consumed by guilt when they saw the razed buildings of the mission and the butchered bodies of its occupants. They turn around to lead the refugees out of Nigeria on foot. Pursued by a larger force, Waters and his team are forced to make a stand when they discover that Kendricks’ has hidden the sole survivor of Nigeria’s first family and the last link in a long line of tribal leader in the entourage. Of course, Waters’ decision peeved his boss who is used to seeing him turn a blind eye to carnage if it does not concern his mission. The showdown, as expected, is riddled with action when the SEALS clash with a numerically superior enemy and half of their team will fall in the field. The situation turns desperate until the cavalry arrives and blasts the enemy with cluster bombs. Waters and the surviving, but barely breathing, SEALS are airlifted together with the lovely doctor, leaving the Africans in the safety of a refugee camp.

The film is dragging in the middle, and as an intermission number and to remind the viewer that Waters and his men are killing machines, they get to annihilate a platoon‑sized unit which was too busy sacking a large village that the soldiers did not notice the SEALS until their throats have been slit or they have been shot. And as a bonus, viewers are given a glimpse of some of the Navy SEALS’ tactics, like the peel left and bounding.

Some of the scenes which overemphasized the SEALS heroism should have been cut because there was absolutely no need for them. Waters and his men are heroes, period. Action buffs who expect a lot of action should stay from this film. They should settle for Willis’ Die Hard films because they are loaded with more gunfights than Tears of the Sun. At least, Willis did not play John McClane or Rambo in this film, which is its only saving grace.

-Prospero Pulma Jr.-

IT WON’T HAPPEN HERE

2006-11-06T05:53:00.000-08:00

The Iraqis may be trembling in fear of terrorists, of Iraqi security forces who are rabid members of a rival sect and sympathetic of militants, of their neighbors who will rat on them, but they can count themselves lucky because the man who robbed them of freedom, of their beloved (no, it’s not George Bush), who ran Iraq like his own private reserve, will finally be sent to the gallows. The sentencing to death by hanging of Saddam Hussein is long overdue even if critics will point out that justice was attained only because of foreign intervention and the American “persuasion” because no sane Iraqi would take on Saddam when he was still in power.
Now, I only have one question. When will the Philippines follow suit? Never! It won’t happen here! No Filipino official will be sentenced to death for plunder, much less for murder. It is not that we Filipinos are really virtuous and will only let those who have not sinned cast the first stone when we catch a politician or a bureaucrat dipping his hand into the cookie jar or moonlighting as a crime kingpin. It’s because we love to compromise. Compromise with the Marcoses, pamper Erap, spoil Ka Roger and Joma (did I hear General Palparan cock his gun?), and surrender Mindanao to the secessionists.
Perhaps, we should ask the U.S. to invade us, and then set a trial for the criminals in the government. But we have no oil, and no weapons of mass destruction. (We can ask the CIA to exaggerate our military capability, say, tell Dubya that we have nuclear-armed “kwitis”. They did that to Iraq.) With our shores teeming with GIs, we can set the trial. The Yankees will police the lines to quash dissent and opposition to the trial, like what they did to Iraq.

A Tree for Juan

2006-09-24T20:07:00.000-07:00

A Tree for Juan
By Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

A comparison between the heavily polluted but dynamic cities and relatively pristine backwaters of our country would make anybody believe that economic development is synonymous with environmental degradation. The view that wanton destruction of nature is the price of industrialization is not unfounded: a factory that employs thousands and generates revenues also sits on cleared forest, emits toxic fumes and dumps raw sewage could fit the image of progress gone awry. But the exclusion of lower social classes from partaking of the gains of development loomed as a greater tragedy than profligate utilization of natural resources or reducing the archipelago to a virtual wasteland.
To compound the inequity in wealth distribution is the glaring truth that the Philippines has profited little from the improvident exploitation of its natural resources. For stripping mountains of lush forests, the country has degenerated from a timber exporter to a wood importer. Forest denudation - approximately 18% of the original forest cover remains - has aggravated soil erosion, sedimentation, pushed many species of flora and fauna to the brink of extinction and earned the country the enviable title of an ecological hotspot. Fish catch has dwindled owing to destructive fishing methods, overfishing, pollution and poaching; most of the archipelago's coral reefs and mangrove forests are barely thriving. The unregulated extraction of groundwater has caused subsidence in some areas, particularly in Metro Manila, and stoked fears that seawater could contaminate aquifers. Those who rely on a healthy environment for their livelihood are now facing a bleak future. Despite all these, a wide gulf still divides the rich and poor. Indeed, the price for advancing the economy a few small steps has been very steep for the Filipino.
The failure to adhere to stringent conservation measures to make long-term development more sustainable is more rueful than the dismal state of the country's ecosystem or the marginalization of the common Filipino. The enactment of environmental legislation is laudable, but unabated air and water pollution that cost billions of pesos annually and logging in protected areas only serve as grim reminders of the lax enforcement of our laws. Poverty is partly responsible for the proliferation of slash-and-burn farming, cyanide/dynamite fishing and wildlife poaching. Politics smeared the granting of a logging concession straddling protected forests in Samar to a firm linked to a controversial politician. Corruption, plain shortsightedness and a miniscule government appropriation have hampered environmental protection and conservation projects. The efforts of the equally cash-strapped private sector to preserve nature are mere drops in the ocean. Arresting the deterioration of the environment without adversely affecting the economy has become a Herculean task.
Preserving what little is left is a step in the right direction. The creation of protected enclaves where wildlife could recuperate and thrive and the prohibition of the trade of endangered flora and fauna are commendable. Strict law enforcement is necessary to rectify the perception that the implementation of environmental laws only bags the “small fish” and insure the success of a conservation project. Enhancing social services and providing alternative means of living may wean the poor from destructive farming and fishing methods for sustenance. Spreading environmental awareness - manifested by the fierce opposition of the people of Samar to the opening of the Samar Island Natural Park to logging - could relegate the role of protecting nature to every Filipino. The ultimate goal of all of these should be to attain economic development without courting an ecological catastrophe or marginalizing a social class.

These Made Me Laugh

2006-09-17T06:21:00.000-07:00

Of all the articles that I have read in newspapers and news magazines, only the titles of three have been retained in my mind and these are:

Study finds food shortage in Africa

What? You mean to say that somebody went to great lengths to determine if there is indeed a food shortage in Africa and wasted money in uncovering a universal truth that food is so scarce in the Dark Continent that its people have forgotten what food is in the same way that their prosperous northern neighbors, the fair-skinned Europeans, have no idea what shortage is. You mean to say that the photos of cadaverous African children were hoaxes? I wonder if the researchers kept their jobs after the publication of their “groundbreaking” research.

Firehouse destroyed in fire.

Now, this is a classic only-in-the-Philippines story. When I read this news about a fire that gutted a provincial fire station several years ago, I read through the whole story first to make sure that nobody was hurt in the blaze before I had a hearty laugh. The poor town only a fire station and no fire truck, which puts them the Bureau of Fire Protection in the same league as the Philippine National Police that has a shortage of patrol cars and handguns. I don’t know if Ripley’s Believe It or Not picked it up, but the incident was an eye-opener about how basic rescue and firefighting equipment are in dire shortage in the country while there is a surplus of luxury vehicles that would ferry bureaucrats and politicians.

His greatest love of all.

This story tops them all. I’ve read it in Time magazine about a week ago. A woman who claimed that she once shared a bed with Osama bin Laden confessed in her book that the terrorist extraordinaire has a huge crush on Whitney Houston. He was so infatuated with the diva that he even plotted to kill Bobby Brown whom he viewed as a very bad influence on his lady love. Poor Bobby! If the plot was carried out, he could claim the distinction as being the only denizen of decadent Hollywood to be liquidated by al-Queda in an operation that should be codenamed Kill Bobby. I wonder if he ever joined her fan club.

Below is a conjectured dialogue between Osama and one of his henchmen on the eve of the US invasion of Afghanistan. The setting is in Kandahar, Afghanistan. Osama is reclining on a couch with popcorn in one hand and a box of Kleenex tissue in the other.

Al-Queda Terrorist: Boss! Boss! The B-52s are here! We count at least a dozen circling overhead.
Al-Queda Terrorist: (Glances at the DVD playing The Bodyguard). Boss! You’ve watched that movie a thousand times!
Osama: Silence! (Osama sniffles and wipes his eyes with Kleenex. The airport scene where Whitney Houston kisses Kevin Costner before she boards her private jet flashes on the screen. The first line of I Will Always Love You starts to play in the background. Osama sings along.)

The first of hundreds of dumb bombs fall a kilometer away. The ground shakes from the impact, a deep rumble resonates. The lights die, the television screen turns blank.

Osama: (Grabs his AK-47 and fires several shots into the air.) Curse the Americans! I will kill the infidels and Bobby Brown! Quick! Grab my DVDs.
Al-Queda Terrorist: Boss! You’ve watched The Bodyguard and The Preacher’s Wife a thousand times already!
Osama: You dare question me? You want me to feed you to the infidels now?
Al-Queda Terrorist: But the pick-ups are loaded with your wives and kids. There is no room for Whitney’s DVD albums and movies.
Osama: There will always be room for Whitney.

Both men run to exit as the bombs detonate closer.